#made a dissertation out of an ask

[hippo-pot]

Oklahoma! (1955) is a WILD watch. some lovely ballet though

[thepandalion]

so uh

my WALL-E essay is now also about homestuck

do I. keep the homestuck bit in

because it's just a secondary example of "bible effects on modern media". but also saying "it's not just in WALL-E, I'm also a nerd about other media" is. idk. saying something about cherubs in homestuck and how there's a guy named John who is important and you Know where that name comes from. and how the guy named john started the trend of 4 letter names on humans and how it "effected almost 10 characters across the span of 8000 pages of story"

anyways yes I'm aware neither media is even of this decade but unless someone prompts me to look I'm not touching biblical allusions in TADC (which. there definitely are. what with the episode they go to hell in and all)

[thepencilnerd]

Feels Like Trouble

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Doctor!Reader summary: You and Robby have been secretly dating for a while now. Most of the ER is clueless—except the five people who could probably write dissertations on your dynamic. Enter a frat boy med student with too much confidence and not enough self-awareness. Robby? Jealous. You? Oblivious. Everyone else? Watching the drama unfold like it's peak primetime television. warnings: cringe flirting, depiction of boundary-pushing behavior, mutual pining, protective!Robby genre: fluff, slow burn, banter, crack vibes, emotional constipation, robbie's love language is acts of service, strong!reader energy because women run the world word count: 6.3k a/n: robby in his protective, simmering, quietly feral era + men anticipating my needs without me having to ask is my roman empire. p.s. also check out my other Dr. Robby fics (Not Enough | And Through It All) if you're interested <3

It started at the nurses’ station.

You were finishing up notes from a back-to-back shift, hair a mess, sleeves rolled, running purely on caffeine and spite. You barely registered the med student who leaned in a little too close—Jackson, of course. Jackson, who everyone knew had barely scraped through med school with a transcript that looked like a cry for help and a reputation for quoting his frat days like gospel. Jackson, who thought calling women 'Doc' in a tone meant to charm was somehow endearing. So, yeah. Not a great dude, to say the absolute least.

"Hey, Dr. L/N," Jackson said with that ever-present grin, leaning just a little too close. "You, uh... ever take pity on exhausted interns and grab a drink after shift?"

You gave a polite smile. "I’m not really a spirits person, but thanks."

Jackson blinked. "Huh?"

"You said drink, right? I’m more of a coffee or tea girl. Caffeine over cocktails."

He opened his mouth like he was going to try again, but you were already turning back to your chart.

"Good luck today!" you said cheerfully, not noticing the groan from your colleagues. Just around the corner, Mateo muttered to Javadi, "That’s the fourth time this week. It’s painful, man."

Javadi sipped her carton of apple juice with focused precision, attention directed solely on your ability to brush off such obvious advances without it getting in the way of your work. "Seventh, actually. If you count the half-made attempt on Monday. She's bulletproof."

"Try Jackson-proof," Mateo scoffed.

Two beds down, King leaned over to Langdon with her gloved hands clasped and asked, "Why does Jackson keep hovering around Dr. L/N like a... rabid mosquito?"

Langdon just smiled knowingly, looking over to the nurses' station where the man of the hour sat. "Don’t worry. Robby'll take care of it. Eventually."

Unbeknownst to you, Robby had been watching the entire interaction—and every interaction before that. If any med student so much as breathed near you with less-than-pure intentions, he was up in arms, ready to intervene at a moment's notice.

There was that time Whitaker nearly took your eye out when a patient came in with a nail embedded in his femur; the force of pulling it out snapped Whitaker’s elbow backward—only for Robby's hand to catch it mid-swing before it could clock you in the face. Or when Santos nearly sliced your finger open as you gently guided her through her first incision—Robby had materialized behind her in the span of a gasp, steadying her hands with a calm correction that masked sheer panic. Or when Javadi passed out for the second time during a gnarly pelvic realignment and collapsed straight into you, nearly giving you a concussion from her deadweight—Robby had been there then, too, catching you both with lightning reflexes and barely concealed fury.

At this point, the only person in the hospital who hadn’t triggered Robby’s internal security system was Mel. And that was only because she kept a respectful three-foot radius and shared snacks with you during breaks. The two of you had a quiet little tradition—inviting her out to try the new cat café when it opened downtown, or attending weekend adoption events together like it was a team-building exercise. Langdon once joked that she was the third wheel in the most wholesome slow-burn romcom he'd ever seen. Mel's only response was two blinks and a single nod of acknowledgement.

Everyone in the ER noticed your dynamic—the way you and Robby worked together like a well-oiled machine, never needing to speak aloud to know what the other needed. It was intuitive. Rhythmic. Like watching a dance you’d been rehearsing for years.

Still, only a handful of people actually knew about your relationship. Abbot, Collins, McKay, Dana, Langdon, and Mel.

Abbot had been Robby’s sounding board from the very beginning. Back when Robby was still pacing around the break room, torn between professionalism and the undeniable, slow-burning pull he felt toward you, it was Abbot who told him to get over himself and ask you out. Life was too short for regrets.

Collins, McKay, and Dana didn’t know officially—but they knew. The meaningful glances, the subtle handoffs of coffee, the shared silences that were too loaded to be casual. They never said a word because they lived for the soap-opera-worthy drama of it all.

Langdon and Mel were on the same wavelength. They hadn’t caught you red-handed, but their spidey senses were borderline clairvoyant. They never probed, never asked. Just watched it unfold like a plotline they already knew the ending to.

Besides them, the rest of the department remained blissfully unaware—except for the way Robby’s entire demeanor shifted over a year ago. A quiet warmth started to replace his usual stoicism. People credited it to the anonymous private donation made to the ER around the same time.

But the truth was, it had nothing to do with money.

It was you. 

You, of course, were oblivious to whatever other people thought or said—unless it had something to do with your patients. Robby sometimes joked that you were pathologically unbothered, something he made a mental note to ask you about, and he wasn’t wrong. The rumors from the nurses, the looks from the interns, the knowing smirks from Dana or Langdon? All of it flew over your head like air traffic.

Maybe you just didn’t see it. Didn’t see how Robby’s entire world seemed to tilt when you entered a room. How effortlessly the two of you moved in sync like second nature—side by side in trauma bays, tossing instruments, treatment plans, and glances back and forth like muscle memory. Everyone else could see it.

You were always focused on the next decision, the next step, the next person who needed your help. You didn’t think about what you needed until the shift was over—if ever. Your well-being came last, always.

But not to Robby. Never to Robby.

He noticed everything.

The slump in your shoulders. The faint crease in your forehead when a headache was starting to set in. He knew when you were on the verge of running on empty, when your patience was thinning, when you hadn’t eaten since sunrise. He never made a show of it. He just acted.

He didn’t wait for you to ask. He didn’t expect you to remember to need anything.

Because he already knew. He just... knew.

Your coffee, brewed and sweetened exactly how you liked it, would be waiting for you at the nurses’ station first thing in the morning. A second cup at lunch—always packed, always hot, even if you never had time to drink it. He’d drop it off like it was routine, like it was no big deal, because he knew the odds of you being pulled into another case mid-sip were astronomical.

Your favorite sandwich from the cafeteria, left quietly on your desk with a sticky note that said, “Eat this or I’m calling your mother.” You'd sooner pass out from hunger than remember to eat. He knew that. So he took the thinking out of it for you.

And after the longest days—those days where you'd made a thousand decisions, answered a hundred questions, led back-to-back codes—he’d cook dinner at his place. Quietly, without fanfare, and pieced together with the same kind of intention you gave your patients. He’d hand you a glass of water—because that was one other thing that you along with 80% of the population deprived yourself of—and steer you to the couch while he handled the rest. Just so you could turn your brain off.

You never asked, never had to, yet he always knew.

You’d just been snapped back to the present by the sound of an unwelcome familiar voice—again.

"Dr. L/N," he said, sidling up to you again with that same confident grin—clearly not deterred by every failed attempt before. "I’ve got a list of mocktails that might just change your mind. Pretty creative, right? I googled it during lunch. There’s this one with lychee and—"

You blinked at him slowly, like you were buffering.

"Jackson," you said, voice firmer this time, "I don’t even have time to finish a protein bar most days, let alone entertain another pitch for drinks. You’re taking time away from my patients, my patients. I sincerely hope you don’t treat them the same way—ignoring their boundaries and refusing to take no for an answer."

You didn’t say it harshly. Just plainly. Clearly and finite. Like a diagnosis that needed no follow-up.

Across the room, Robby pulled down his glasses as his lip quirked up into a slow, private smirk. Pride bloomed across his face so fast he had to duck his head behind a chart to hide it. He knew better than to coddle you. The mutual discomfort and stifled reactions from the staff were one thing. Watching you handle yourself like that? That was something else entirely.

From across the nurses’ station, the staff collectively cringed like someone had just dropped a post-op surgical tray. Santos and Mateo physically turned away to hide their budding laughter. Javadi buried her face in her sleeve, secondhand embarrassment blooming. Mohan took off at a brisk pace to see a patient. Whitaker closed his eyes and mouthed a silent prayer to the ceiling. Meanwhile, Dana, McKay, and Collins couldn’t look away if they tried, pressing down their grins and wishing they'd brought popcorn. Langdon sipped his coffee like it was a box-office premiere. King, ever diligent, kept her focus on irrigating her patient’s wound—Langdon would fill her in later with full commentary. Before you could continue—

"Dr. L/N," your savior called, tone light but cutting through the air like a scalpel—just loud enough to interrupt whatever nonsense Jackson was about to say next.

You turned and there he was.

Dr. Robby—your chaos compass, your caffeinated partner in crime, loyal boyfriend, favorite soon-to-be roommate, and at the moment, your very composed but unmistakably irritated attending—his expression perfectly calm to the untrained eye, but you could read the tension in every line of his face.

"Got a case," he said flatly. "Now. Come on."

You blinked, confused but relieved. "Okay."

You didn’t miss the way Jackson shrank a little at Robby’s tone, nor the way Langdon grinned over his coffee like he'd just won a bet. You caught up to him by the supply closet, where he all but dragged you inside and shut the door behind you.

"What's up?" you asked, eyebrow raised.

He stared at you, a little too intently, like he wasn’t sure whether to scold you or wrap you in bubble wrap. "Are you seriously asking me that after that guy just tried to chat you up in the middle of the ER like this is Grey’s Anatomy?"

You blinked, tilting your head. "Wait… was that flirting?"

Robby blinked back. "You’re joking."

You were. "I thought he just wanted to split an energy drink or something."

He huffed a quiet laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his hands came up to ruffle his hair. "Jesus."

You poked his chest lightly. "You’re kind of cute when you’re flustered, you know that?"

His ears went red immediately. "I’m not flustered. I’m... professionally annoyed."

You blinked. "You’re jealous?"

"I’m not jealous," he said tightly. "I’m—concerned."

You grinned, stepping close. "Concerned is hot."

"He was twelve."

"He's definitely at least twenty-six."

Robby exhaled through his nose. "I’ve been very chill about this whole 'let’s not tell the hospital we’re dating' thing. But if I see him so much as come within two feet of you again, I’m submitting a formal notice that you are very much taken and a complaint with HR about his behavior. And if that doesn’t work—" he leaned in closer, voice dropping—"I’m dealing with him myself."

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching into a smirk. "What’s that going to look like—are you gonna slam your clipboard down and tag team him with Abbot? Because honestly, I wouldn’t hate that."

Your voice was teasing, but your cheeks were warm. Watching Robby get territorial from a respectful distance? Unexpectedly hot. And now, you couldn’t help but push his buttons to see how much more riled up he’d get.

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in slowly, deliberately, raising both of his arms to cage you in—palms flat against the wall on either side of your head. The move sent heat straight to your cheeks, blinking up at him as he leaned closer, so close his breath brushed your lips.

Then he kissed you—hard and fast and possessive, his hands sliding up into your hair, threading through it with the kind of reverence that made your knees go weak. You gasped softly into his mouth, one hand instinctively rising to cup his jaw, your fingers grazing the edge of his beard before curling into the softness of it. He leaned into your touch, like he’d been waiting for it all day.

Your other hand slid up into his hair, tugging gently at the strands at the nape of his neck, and you felt it—the way his pulse thrummed just beneath your fingertips, the way he shivered just slightly at your touch.

His thumbs caressed the line of your jaw, then drifted down to the curve of your neck, holding you like you might slip away if he wasn’t careful.

It was fire and softness, urgency wrapped in warmth. And you never wanted to stop.

When you finally pulled back, you were both breathless. "Is that allowed in a supply closet?" you smirked. 

"If they didn’t want people kissing in here, they wouldn’t make it this conveniently located."

You smacked his arm, giggling.

"I’m serious," he added, voice softening but maintaining a firm undertone. "I don't share."

You looped your arms around his neck. "Good. I wasn’t offering."

He grinned, still close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That thing you said back there—about boundaries, about respect." He paused, eyes scanning yours. "That was... incredible. Seriously. You handled it perfectly."

Your brows furrowed for a moment, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice.

"It was... commanding," he added a moment later, voice lower, more playful now. "Alluringly so."

You snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"Yeah," he agreed, pulling you closer to pepper your face with kisses. "Ridiculously in love with a woman who knows exactly how to shut down frat boys without breaking stride, resuscitate half the ER, deliver excellent patient care, and still make rounds on time."

His hand slid down your back, warm and steady. "You’re the whole damn package, you know that? It’s genuinely unfair."

You chuckled, burying your face briefly in his shoulder.

Somewhere down the hall, Dana's voice rang echoed through the PA, summoning you for the consult. Robby groaned, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

"This is not over," he muttered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, a smirk following soon after where your lips lingered. "Got any dinner plans?"

Robby raised an eyebrow, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "Actually, yeah. I’ve got a date—with my incredibly beautiful, breathtaking, beyond intelligent, and painfully witty girlfriend."

You blinked at him, then laughed, delighted. "Wow. Sounds like a catch."

He leaned in and bumped his nose against yours, grinning. "She really is. And I think she’s about to say yes."

You didn’t say anything at first. Just smiled, so full of affection it made your cheeks ache. Then you nodded, brushing your thumb gently along his cheekbone.

"Yeah," you whispered, "she definitely is."

[sincerelyneo]

i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to fuck you | l.mk

“you are the girl that i’ve been dreaming of”

📀now playing: i’m not gonna teach your boyfriend how to dance with you by black kids

❯ summary: Asking your best friend to take your virginity because you have a crush on someone else and want experience is totally normal, right? Mark doesn’t think so. If he’s taking your virginity, it’s not for practice—it’s for him. He’s nobody’s wingman—especially not when it comes to you.

❯ pairings: mark x virgin fem!reader

❯ genre: smut, friends to lovers

❯ words: 5.6k

❯ tags: 18+ minors dni!, corruption kink, loss of virginity, nipple play, fingering, hand jobs, praising, body worship, protected sex, back scratching, brief possessiveness, pet names, reader uses she/her pronouns, swearing, love confessions, just fluffy smut because it’s what i do best lol.

Mark swears he’s a good listener. Considering he’s been friends with Zhong Chenle for years, the world’s most dedicated yapper, he doesn’t really have a choice. He has to be a good listener. But Mark almost does a double take when he hears the words ‘my virginity’ and ‘you’ come out of your mouth.

His best friend. With the biggest, prettiest, most innocent eyes and sweet little mouth that could barely stammer through conversations about flirting—asking him about sex. No. Not just asking. Wanting him.

After nearly choking on his own spit, Mark tries to regain his composure—but fails miserably. Especially when your cheeks flush, and you start chewing on your bottom lip. It’s a crime. No, worse. It’s sin in human form. You’re sin in human form. Looking this cute, blushing like a maniac, like you didn’t just drop that question on him.

“You want me to take your virginity, Y/N?”

You cringe the second he repeats your question back to you. It sounded a lot better in your head—practical, reasonable, totally fine. But now, with his brows furrowed and that ‘are you insane?’ look on his face, you’re starting to think maybe you are insane.

But when you came up with this plan last night, none of that crossed your mind. All you knew was that Mark never says no to you. Ever. Not when you asked him to be your first kiss in middle school. Not when you made him take you to your first frat party. Not even when you guilt-tripped him into helping with your dissertation.

"Look, forget it—" you say, pushing to your feet, desperate to escape your shared living room that suddenly feels way too hot under Mark’s stare. "I totally crossed a line by asking. I’m sure I can find someone on Tinder—"

"No."

You blink. "No?"

Mark wants to curse himself for the hasty reply, but who could blame him? There’s just no way he’s letting you swipe right on some douche bag looking for a quick fuck—some guy who’ll take you to a lousy bar, probably make you pay for your own drinks, and then expect to take your virginity like it’s nothing.

It’s ridiculous. It’s not happening.

Not when you just handed him the opportunity on a silver platter.

“What I meant to say was,” Mark rubs the back of his neck, “Don’t you want to lose your virginity to someone you trust—someone you love?”

You nod without hesitation. “That’s why I asked you. There’s not a single man I trust more than you. And I love you—platonically, yeah, but it’s still love.”

Platonic. 

If Mark could rip that word out of the dictionary, set it on fire, and launch the ashes into space, he would. Anything to stop you from thinking whatever he feels towards you is platonic. Was it platonic when he kissed you when you were eleven? No. Was it platonic when he drove ten miles just for your favourite snack on your birthday? No. Was it platonic when he worked on your final thesis at the same time as his own? No.

And if he’s going to be the first one to have you, it sure as hell won’t be platonic. That’s for damn sure.

His eyes squeeze shut as he sits forward, clammy hands rubbing up and down his jeans. "Okay, so you want me, your best friend, to take your virginity? Why?"

You chew your lip. This was the part of the scenario that kept you up at night—explaining why. How the hell are you supposed to tell someone you want them to take your virginity just so you can be ready for someone else? There’s no handbook, no online forum, for this kind of thing.

So you settle for:

“It’s stupid. A dumb reason. Don’t even worry about it. Will you do it or not?”

Mark gives you a knowing look, exactly like you knew he would. He’s one of those perspective fuckers, especially when it comes to you. Normally, you love it. Right now, not so much.

“Y/N,” he draws out your name, “What happened to me being one of the most trusted men you know? Tell me.” 

You suck in a breath, trying to steady yourself. After all, it’s just Mark. Sweet, kind, nonjudgmental, Mark. 

“I have a crush on my co-worker, Xiaojun,” you blurt out. Mark just blinks, completely still, like he’s trying to process. You, on the other hand, keep rambling. “And there’s rumours that he’s amazing in bed, and he asked me out for drinks this Friday, and I just feel really…unprepared.”

Mark feels his blood pressure spike—because fuck your co-worker, fuck those rumours and fuck that little date your planning to gone on this Friday night. Look, he’s not a prude or anything. Mark knows people fuck on a first date—but not you. At least not you with some asshole making you think you need to be prepared for him.

"If that asshole makes you feel less than just because you're a virgin, Y/N, he’s not worth your time."

You narrow your eyes. "I don’t think your opinion holds any weight here, considering you don’t think any guy is worth my time."

Mark relaxes slightly and smiles at that—because it’s true. No man deserves to talk to you, touch you, kiss you—no one but him.

“Besides,” you perk up again, trying to sound more confident. “This isn’t about what Xiaojun or any other guy thinks. This is about me… being comfortable having sex with someone that isn’t myself.” You chew your lower lip. “I want to be comfortable having sex with other men.”

Mark almost growls, a caveman-like urge pounding in his chest at the thought of you wanting to be comfortable with other men. He’s changed his mind. He’d take the word platonic any day over hearing other men leave your mouth.

“Let me get this straight—you want me to teach you how to fuck, to please other men?”

Your cheeks flush, not just because the idea sounds so ridiculous when he puts it like that, but because it’s the first time you've ever heard him talk like that. Mark is always so careful, so delicate with you, keeping his foul mouth and sex life locked away. But hearing the phrase "how to fuck" leave his mouth in that deep, husky drawl,  sends a pulse right through you, straight to your clit.

You chew your lip again, hesitating. “I don’t know… I just wanna be good... at it… at sex.”

Mark’s head tilts back as he stares at the ceiling, a string of mumbled curses slipping out before his Adam’s apple starts bobbing against his throat. He pauses to think—and so do you. You can’t figure out why he’s interrogating you like this. The proposition is a lot, yes, but if you’d crossed a line and made him uncomfortable, he could’ve just said so, you wouldn’t have taken it personally. There’s no reason for him to poke and prod like this.

Just as you're about to squash this whole thing, Mark speaks again. He looks up at you from his spot on the couch, his brows furrowed like he's still deep in thought, but his eyes, dark and blown wide, pin you in place.

"I'll teach you, Y/N," he says, standing up slowly. "I'll fuck you if that's what you want and if that’s what you're asking me for," he continues, moving closer until he's right in your personal space. "But I won't fuck you just to get you ready for someone else."

"Mark—"

"No, Y/N, I’m talking," he cuts you off, his long, tantalizing finger tracing from your cheek down to your neck before he whispers, "I don’t mind teaching you how to be good at sex with me, angel, but I’m sure as fuck not teaching you how to be good at it for someone else. If I finally get to fuck you, I’m gonna teach you how to be good for me."

Your mouth parts in a soft gasp, just from his words and that innocent touch alone. Mark’s eyes track the movement, and his irises darken with something you can’t quite name—want, lust, need... you don’t know. All you know is that it’s fucking hot, and it almost makes you miss what he just said.

"Finally?" you breathe out.

The corner of Mark's mouth twitches into a smile, and a low, silky laugh slips from him. "Don't pretend like you don't know I want you." His finger slides to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re too fucking smart to be playing dumb with me, Y/N. You know you could have me on my knees if you just asked. I’d do anything if you just asked.”

You always knew you had Mark wrapped around your little finger, but you never realized it was because he wanted you the same way you’ve wanted him. Yes, you’d only asked him to help you with this plan because you know he struggles to say no to you; but a small, twisted part of you wanted Mark to be the one to take your virginity. Because he’s him—hot, lean, experienced, sweet, loyal Mark. Your Mark. 

It’s all too much. His breath is too warm on your skin, his words too heated, his proximity too hot—he’s too hot. You whimper, and you watch as his pupils soften in response.

“Y/N,” he says softly now. “I need you to use your words to tell me what you want. If you don’t want to do this anymore—because, to me, it’s more than just practice—that’s fine. But if we do... this, us, it becomes real.”

Your mind goes fuzzy. Words? He thinks you have words after just confessing that this—that you—are something he wants? Almost like he senses your hesitation, he nuzzles deeper into your neck, his lips feather-light, dusting over your skin in a way that sets your nerves alight. It’s erotic, it’s intimate, it’s so damn sexy. 

“I’m serious, Y/N.” His voice is soft, breath scorching against your skin, thumb grazing over your collarbone like he’s memorizing you. “I’ve imagined you—craved you—for years. If you want me to take your virginity, I’ll do it. Happily. But I’ll be your first and your last—not Xiaojun.”

The mention of your coworker feels irrelevant now—a distant, meaningless fantasy compared to this. The stupid office daydream you’d clung to seems laughable because the man you thought only saw you as a friend is standing right here, offering himself to you. Completely. Utterly asking to be yours. And who are you to deny him?

“I want this—”

Mark doesn’t waste another second, doesn’t let you finish your sentence—because he’s wasted too much damn time already. Too much time waiting, hoping, aching to hear you want him. Not just need him for something, but actually want him. Crave him. Desire him.

He has to kiss you. Now.

It starts slow, soft, and sweet. Both your mouths take their time exploring one another as his hand tenderly cups your face, holding you to him. But in no time at all, the heat builds, kisses stretching longer, deeper, until it’s not enough for him. Not nearly enough for you. A hum of approval slips from you the moment his tongue grazes yours, and he takes it as permission, sweeping in and taking control.

“I have fucking dreamed about this,” he pants against your lips. “About kissing you. About touching you. Tell me to stop if it’s too much, Y/N.”

Stop? He’s out of his damn mind if he thinks you want to stop. You shake your head against his lips, legs winding around his, and he takes the hint without hesitation. His hands find your waist, lifting you with ease until you’re resting around his hips. His eyes are fully dark now, black, and locked onto you. They never waver as he carries you both to his bedroom.

Mark lays you down carefully, like you’d break if he was any rougher, but his gaze tells a different story—intense, burning, desperate. You prop yourself up on your elbows to look at him, and he just stares, eyes roaming every inch of you like he’s savouring the moment before he ruins you completely. 

You’ve never been this intimate with a man before. Sure, you’re no stranger to your own fingers, to vibrators, and okay—maybe you don’t mind the occasional steamy make out session at a party. But this? In his room, under his stare, is different. You’re not even naked yet, and somehow, you already feel so bare, so exposed. 

“I want to take my time with you, Y/N,” Mark murmurs, as he climbs onto the bed, positioning himself between your legs. He gently pushes you back so you’re lying flat, his body hovering over yours. “I want to savour every inch of this pretty little body of yours... and you’re going to let me, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you pant, nodding at the same time, and Mark smiles, a slow, satisfied curve of his lips.

His hands slide up your legs, gliding over the fabric of your sweatpants, until they reach the hem. His eyes search yours, silently asking for confirmation, and you nod, breath catching in your throat. He tugs at your pants, so slow, so deliberate, and when they finally slip off, he lets out a low, groggy "fuck" at the sight of the pink lacy panties you’d chosen for this—for him.

You suddenly feel self-conscious, heat creeping up your chest.

"Knew I'd say yes, huh?" Mark coos, his hand tracing the band of your panties as he looks over your body, studying it because it's the first time he’s seeing you like this. Displayed for him.

You blush, squirming beneath him, overwhelmed by how new, how unfamiliar this all feels. Mark senses your discomfort and smiles softly.

"Don’t go shy on me now, pretty girl," he murmurs, "I’m losing my shit knowing you wore this with me."

His hands graze over your hip bone, fingers brushing gently, soothing as they explore the small hint of flesh you're revealing to him. The softness of his touch, of him, makes you ease up just a little.

“I wore the matching bra too,” you say on an exhaled breath.

Mark groans, his eyes closing as he takes in a slow, intentional breath of his own, nostrils flaring slightly. “Did you? Can I see, baby? Please?”

You nod, and those exploring hands of his glide up your stomach, fingers brush over your skin as he tugs the tight fabric of your tank top over your head. When it falls away, you're left in nothing but the matching set. The pink bralette, almost see-through, giving him a clear, vivid view of your pebbled nipples.

"So fucking beautiful, Y/N," he says, his voice strained, almost painfully. "Can you take it off for me?"

You smile, teasing, as your hands find the clasp at the back. "After I went through all this effort to put it on for you?"

He shakes his head with a small scoff of laughter, the sound easing your nerves a bit. That familiar banter, the playful back-and-forth, reminds you why you asked him—why you wanted him to do this in the first place. You trust him. 

“Is this the part where I learn that you’re a fucking brat?” he mutters, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips.

“I can be, if you want me to be.”

Something flashes in his eyes—dark, predatory—and he leans in closer, his tone dropping an octave. “Take the bra off. Now, Y/N.”

And you do, the flimsy fabric slipping from your breasts and meeting the same fate as your sweats and tank. You feel so exposed, which is ridiculous considering how little modesty the bralette was offering in the first place. Still, your hands instinctively cross over your chest. 

"Hey, don’t," Mark murmurs, his hand gently reaching up to move yours, his thumb rubbing soft, soothing circles around your wrist to reassure you. "You don’t ever have to be embarrassed with me, Y/N. If you want to stop—”

"No," you interrupt. "I mean, please... I want this... I want you, Mark. I’m just nervous."

His eyes soften at your words, and he licks his lips. "Can I touch you?"

You nod, and his hands steadily, gently travel up and down your stomach, hovering around your sternum before they rest beneath your breasts. You suck in a breath as his touch lingers. "Can I touch you here?" he asks, and again, you nod. 

Mark’s hands gently cup your chest, the softness and weight of your tits filling his palms. The pad of his thumb teases over one of your nipples (pretty peaked nipples that are practically begging for his mouth) in a steady rhythm that has you arching into him. He continues, flicking over the sensitive bud until he elicits the reaction he wants: quiet, breathless whimpers and tiny darling moans from your mouth.

“You’re so damn perfect, Y/N,” he mutters, his eyes glued to your body as he tests his touches, watching in awe as your eyes flutter, roll, or widen. “So damn perfect for me.”

You moan, and his head dips to the valley between your breasts, his tongue flicking out to trail a slow, heated path up your skin. His mouth, warm and wet, captures your pebbled nipple, sucking and licking with a hunger that makes your body shiver. It’s then that you remember why Mark is perfect for this—he’s experienced. 

“Pretty fucking tits,” he groans, “I’ll fuck these one day. Promise.”

He focuses entirely on your nipples, squeezing your breasts, and you swear you're already on the verge of coming undone for him, writhing beneath him. Terrified it’ll end too soon, your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him away from your chest to capture his lips in a desperate kiss. 

His chest hovers over you, so close to you, but still hidden beneath layers of fabric. His jeans, too tight, too impeding. You want to feel him—skin to skin. It’s not fair. You’re lying here in nothing but your underwear, exposed and vulnerable, while he’s still fully dressed—his clothes a frustrating barrier that keeps you from feeling him the way you need to. You can’t stand it anymore.

Your fingers dig into his shirt, tugging at the fabric, desperate to rip it off and close the damn distance. "Mark," you breathe. "Take it off. Please."

“You want it off, huh?” He teases. 

You’re beyond patience now, body aching for him. “Yes. I do.”

Mark’s eyes darken at the desperation in your voice. He sits up slightly, pulling away from you just enough to shed his shirt, the fabric tugging over his head and revealing the toned muscles of his chest. You can’t help but watch, your eyes glued to the way his hands move, but he’s taking his damn time. Frustrated, you reach for his belt, but he stops you, his hand brushing yours as he undoes it himself. The sound of it unbuckling makes your breath hitch. 

Finally, his jeans slip down, revealing the taut curve of his thighs before he kicks them aside, leaving him in nothing but his black boxers. His bulge is prominent, straining against the tight material, and you swear you can’t take it any longer.

But before you can pounce, before you can touch him and feel him the way you want to, he’s hovering back over you, his body pinning you down, forcing your back flat against the bed.

“So eager, pretty girl,” he muses with a teasing smirk. “But you asked me to teach you, didn’t you? I’m in charge.”

He’s so controlled, so assertive, it sends a flood of need coursing through your body. His hands are back on you, gliding over your now fully exposed body. Well, not entirely exposed—his fingers toy at the edge of your panties, tracing, testing, taunting, as if waiting for your permission. And you’d give him it immediately, only he wants to ride this out, prolong it. 

His fingers move to dip just beneath the fabric, but then he stops.

“I know you said you wanted to be good at this, Y/N,” he hums. “But I want to be good for you. Tell me what you like. Tell me how to touch this pretty pussy.”

Heat floods your cheeks and pools between your legs. From the way Mark smiles, and the fact that he’s cupping you through your underwear, you know he can feel it too.

“I-um—”

“I already told you to stop being shy with me, Y/N,” he says. “Don’t think I overlooked that comment about you getting yourself off. You wanna learn, so do I. Let me be a good boy for you.”

Your eyes lock onto his, and you can see the seriousness. He wants to know what makes you tick, what works for you, what gets you off—wants to be the one to do it. His breath hitches as he studies you, chest contracting with focus. 

“I-I start with my clit,” you instruct, and his fingers follow suit, finally dipping under the fabric he’s been teasing for the last ten minutes right to the spot. You want to feel embarrassed telling him all the dirty ways you play with yourself, but you can’t. He won’t let you feel that way, because, like you said, he’s him—sweet, loyal Mark.

“Fuck, Y/N, you’re dripping for me,” he groans, voice thick with need. “Aching for me, aren’t you, baby?” You nod pathetically. “Then tell me, what do you do to your clit? Teach me.”

“I like small circles,” you whisper, your breath shaky.

“Like this?” he asks, his voice low as he carefully follows your instructions. It’s almost too careful. Too slow. You need more—so much more.

“Faster, Mark.”

His fingers speed up, the circles on your clit growing faster, the pressure he applies intensifies with each stroke. You moan, squirming beneath him, your hips shifting in desperate need for more—more of him.

"Can I try a finger, baby?" he asks, and you nod, wanting everything he has to give right now.

Mark shifts his gaze from your face down to where his hands are stuffed inside your panties. He watches as he trails his index finger up and down your slit slowly until it’s circling around your entrance before finally easing it inside. You gasp, feeling the initial stretch, and his eyes lock back onto yours, waiting for the sting to fade and the lust to take its place again. Once it does, he begins to move, his finger sliding in and out, in and out, faster and faster until your breaths come heavier. 

“Mark,” you gasp on a moan, a thrill coursing through you as he picks up the pace. 

Mark adds his thumb back to your clit, the combination of his fingers easing in and out of your drenched pussy and the attention to your sensitive nerves send waves of pleasure crashing over you. Because cumming has never felt like this—so close, so quick, so desperately needed. Mark must sense your closeness too because his lips quirk, devilish and taunting.

“You gonna cum on my fingers, pretty girl?” he asks, but it’s clearly not a question. The cocky bastard knows you are. “Or should I say finger? Think you could handle two?”

Your mind is incoherent from the pleasure, the foreign stretch of his fingers. Any thoughts you have dissolve into a haze of need, only capable of a frantic nodding at him because you want more, need more, need to cum. He eases in his middle finger, both digits slowing down as you adjust to him. Then, the world around you blurs; all that matters is the rhythm of his fingers and the growing knot forming in your stomach as his pace picks up. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge, and you can feel the waves of your orgasms building, until it finally, deliciously, crashes over you. 

Your vision blurs, and sounds you didn't even know you could make slip from your lips. All you can hear is Mark's incoherent, muffled praise—telling you how pretty, how perfect, how good you are for him.

When you come down from your high, he’s watching you intently, his hand running through your hair as you refocus back on him with hazy eyes. You’ve never experienced an orgasm like that, and as you notice the strained bulge in his pants, a surge of eagerness wells up in you. You want to return the favour, to please him, to learn how to be good the way you asked him to twach you.

You reach for his boxers, fingers trembling as you strip them off, revealing the thick hard length of him. Your breath catches at the sight of his cock, angry and needy and desperate. Mark looks down at you with his own haze-induced eyes. 

“Please, Y/N.”

The heat radiating from him ignites a fire within you. You take a moment to admire the way he looks at you—hungry, eager. With a newfound confidence, you lean closer, your lips brushing against his skin, ready to give him the pleasure he’s so generously given you. You press soft, delicate kisses to his abdomen, watching as his stomach flexes in response.

You know you probably should suck his cock right now; that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Almost as if he can sense your hesitation, Mark’s fingers clamp around your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You don’t have to, not yet, not ever if you don’t want to,” he says softly. “But you can touch it. Touch me, Y/N, please.”

That feels more like your speed, so you wrap a firm hand around his cock, giving it a slow, steady long tug. Mark's head rolls back from where he sits on the bed. Your hands tremble with nerves, this is all so new to you, and you desperately want to please him. But before you can overthink it, Mark’s words soothe your insecurities.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “Just like that... so fucking good, Y/N.”

He's like a fucking mind reader, because that one comment, that small ounce of reassurance, has you stroking him faster. Your hand moves in a messy rhythm, feeling the weight of his cock in your palm. 

As you continue to stroke him, you start to experiment with different techniques, trying out gentler touches and firmer grips. Mark's reactions are your guide, and you watch as his face contorts in pleasure, his eyes screwing shut as he lets out low groans. He sounds so sexy, you like it, you want more of him like this. 

You feel a sense of power, knowing that you're the one bringing him to the edge. Your strokes become more insistent, your hand moving faster as Mark's breathing quickens. You can feel his cock throbbing in your hand, the veins standing out as he gets closer.  Mark's body tenses, his muscles straining and that’s when suddenly, his eyes snap open. 

“You gotta stop, Y/N,” he growls, his voice low and husky as he pulls your hands off his length. For a moment, you almost feel scorned, but then he adds, “I want to last until I’m at least inside of you...”

You both laugh, Mark's eyes crinkling at the corners as he chuckles, and you feel a flutter in your chest. He gently lies you back on his bed, grabbing a pillow and placing it underneath your hips. As he fumbles with his nightstand, he rips open a condom and slides it along his cock. You can't help but watch, mesmerized by the sight. It’s oddly sexy. Your body responds instinctively, your hips arching upwards as if seeking him out. 

As Mark positions himself between your legs, his head dips down to kiss you. It’s sweet, like the first time, and you think you could get used to them—you want to get used to them. The feeling of his lips on yours, on your cheek, the top of your head. 

When your lips finally break apart, he holds eye contact with you, aligning himself with your pussy. He teases you, brushing against your folds, occasionally grazing your clit—his eyes watching your reaction, a smirk on his lips. Sensitive, he notes. And he has to note because there will be a time for more, a time where he’ll make you work for it. But today isn’t that day. Today is about you and him—together.

“Tap my arm if it’s too much. If you want to stop—”

“Mark,” it’s your turn to be stern now. “Please, just fuck me.”

He smirks, liking this side of you—the impatience, the newfound dirty mouth of yours. Something else to note for next time, he thinks.

Rubbing himself up and down your slit for a final time, Mark presses the head of his cock to your entrance, hips shifting forward to slowly push into you. His nostrils flare, and his teeth clench because he has to be careful, he has to be in control. He cannot—he will not—hurt you any more than he has to. 

So, slowly. Torturously slowly. Mark eases into you, inch by tantalizing inch, until his tip coaxes past the small ring of resistance. You’re so tight—so impossibly tight—that he almost regrets letting you jerk him off before hand,  because he’s already teetering on the edge of cumming from merely the first few inches. He’s waited far too long for this moment; the last thing he wants is to blow his load before he’s even begun to move.

He shifts his focus from his own pleasure to your face, keenly observing for any signs of discomfort. When he catches the slight scrunch of your nose, he leans down to kiss you, wanting to distract you from the sting of you stretching around his cock for the first time.

“You’re doing so good, pretty girl. You were made for me.”

He feels your body relax into the mattress at the praise and your hands wrap around his back, pulling him closer. It’s a silent invitation, a clear signal that you’re okay with more—that you need more.

His hips finally press flush against yours, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him, all of him. Your fingers dust up and down his spine as you get used to this, how full you feel, how complete. 

“Move, Mark,” you whisper barely above a whisper. “Please.”

And he does. He rolls his hips, pulling out of you completely before sinking back in, slow and sensual. You moan—right into his ear, because he’s buried in your neck—and he nearly loses the last thread of control he’s holding onto. Mark quickens his pace, keeping his body flush against yours—like he needs to be as close as possible. Needs to consume you the same way you’ve consumed him for years.

“Yes, Mark,” you cry, your nails raking down his back, scratching, digging, marking into his skin.

“Fuck, Y/N. You feel so good. You have no idea how fucking perfect you are.”

He reaches for your hand, prying it from his back to lace his fingers with yours, pinning them to the mattress. It’s gentle, it’s sweet—it’s so Mark. He fucks you slowly, his hands holding yours as he kisses you. Intimate, tender, and so fucking hot.

You tighten around him, and the squeeze makes something flicker in Mark’s eyes—something determined, something feral.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whimper between ragged breaths.

“Fuck, yes—please,” he groans. “Cum around my cock, pretty girl. I need it. I want it.”

Hearing him just as desperate, just as needy as you, sends you over the edge. Your lip trembles, your lashes flutter, and then—your second orgasm takes over you, ripping a scream of his name from your throat.

It’s the prettiest thing Mark’s ever seen, ever heard—the best thing he’s ever felt. And he swears this moment will be etched into his memory until the day he dies. He holds you close to his chest as you ride your high, feeling every desperate breath you take, swallowing every moan with wet open mouth kisses. And when he senses you’ve finally come down, he chases his own orgasm—greedy for it, for you.

He becomes ravenous for his own release, his hips pistoning faster, harder, as he drives deeper into you. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his chest contracting as his fingertips anchor your hips in place. With every thrust his cock throbs with an almost unbearable intensity until he lets out a low, guttural groan, his body shuddering with pleasure. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispers your name, over and over again, like a mantra and he spills inside of the condom. 

The room fills with a silence, punctuated only by the sound of your mingled breaths as he comes down. Your hands are still entwined, hearts still racing, and you both can’t do anything but look at each other. Eventually, Mark leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away. He eases out of you, removes the condom, and tosses it into the nearby trash can.

You watch him as he moves, and when he turns back to you—his gaze a mix of awe and satisfaction—you can’t help but smile.

“You know when I said I loved you platonically?” you ask, and his brows knit together. He looks like he’s about to have a full-blown panic attack, so you quickly put him at ease. “I lied. I actually just love you.”

Relief washes over his face before it melts into a smile. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Good. Because, I love you too. Always have.”

[justatypicalwizard]

Bakugo who eats you out because he lost a bet, smut

It all started with a bet. It was this specific chaotic type of bet that you throw over your shoulder when agitated. The one that comes pistoling out of your lips as soon as it comes to your mind, or even earlier, a fog of war limits your common sense.

This was often the case with Katsuki Bakugo who was world widely known as the most annoying person on earth.

Okay, maybe he stood on this podium only in your world (others deemed Denki as the most insufferable) but it was enough to fire the never ending quarrels.

The two of you were similar in many senses, none of which would ever admit. Despite you being way less aggressive, you had your ways of getting under other peoples’ skin when displeased. You had this fighting spirit and competitive nature that could tune well with Katsuki’s. Unfortunately it most often sang off-key.

It was hard to tell what he thought about you. On one hand you’d say he definitely disliked you, to some point maybe? If he did dislike you he wouldn’t keep you around the small circle of his friends. Katsuki proved that he could push away anyone he wished to, no matter the circumstances. That’s what happened with Deku.

So Katsuki Bakugo disliked the fact that he liked you. Or he liked to dislike you. Either way you fought, ebbed and always surged back. Oh, and bets?

I bet you won’t even make it halfway before the time is up. He throws when he passes you down the hallway, spotting you bending your back over a book, minutes before the exam.

I bet your lovely friend will come looking for you soon. You snicker leaving him in the kitchen of the house party you’re both at. He’s currently hiding from a bimbo who really tries to ask him out and doesn’t take no for an answer.

I bet your mum dropped you when you were little.

I bet Miruko will kick your ass over this.

I bet they’ll send this essay back. It’s shit.

I bet it’ll die in this sunlight.

“Huh.” He knit his brows together, throwing you a nasty look. “Old hag didn’t say anything. It looks like it needs light.”

You were currently in his dorm room, analysing a small plant his mother left him. It was tiny, in a small ceramic pot, with three juicy green leaves poking out of the fresh soil.

“Well, I bet it’ll die if you put it in this sun.” You threw, shrugging your shoulders.

“Okay. If I win you’ll shut the fuck up for a single day around me. No words, not even a squeak.”

With the eye of your imagination you could see Katsuki pestering you for a whole day while you’d be unable to fire back. Yet, you had nothing to worry about. The little dude on the windowsill will bear three of four days before wittering. It’s the type that needs more shade.

“Fine. And if I win you can eat my ass.”

He chuckled, throwing a not happening over his shoulder before ushering you to work you both had to do.

A week later you were back in his room. It was a pleasant place to work in - clean, quiet, and always stocked with tea and coffee. Unlike you, Katsuki had the luxury of a single room which always soured your mood when he rubbed it in your face.

You were resting in his desk chair, legs crossed and organising a bunch of sources you were about to use later in your dissertation. It was the least pleasant part of writing essays. Finding academic sources in the library or browsing for them on the internet was not half bad. One could get in the swing of it after some time. And it made you feel like a real student all book heavy bags in a spacious bibliotheca.

Organising them later though? A pain in the ass.

“-by the way.” You caught only the ending of his sentence.

“Huh?” Turning around you spotten Katsuki looking at something in the far end of his room.

There was a closet there, one that didn’t quite reach the ceiling but was massive in shape. Atop of it sat the little dude in his sweet ceramic pot. Unfortunately all that was left of his three juicy leaves was one stem fighting for its life.

You clapped your hands in satisfaction, cracking a victorious laugh.

“Told you.” Fake wiping a tear from your cheek, you turned back to the desk and searched for the box you were about to tick off the long list. “Give it some more water and time. It will be fine.”

“So.” You felt him standing behind you. His shadow disrupted your writing.

“So?” Once again you turned around in his chair, cocking your brow in question.

“You won.” He crossed his arms, tapping his foot on the soft carpet in irritation.

You nodded your head with a grin but still ruffled. “Yes, and?”

“And you told me I can eat your ass.”

“Oh yeah, stuff your stupid mouth full.” You laughed but he yanked you by the arm, standing you up.

He dropped to his knees, pushing your bottom into the rim of his desk. With a shit eating grin he slipped his fingers into the sides of your trousers, grazing the bare skin of your hips underneath them.

“What the fuck dude?” You cursed, grabbing his forehead like the one of a misbehaved dog, trying to pacify him.

“Tell me to stop and I will.” The grin never left his face as he waited for your words, digging his nails into your skin.

It would be a lie to say that you never ever thought of him that way. Of course he was pretty, with his naturally fair hair that gave him a punk kind of look. With his body carved out like a marble statue. With a grin that made people both want to slap him and fawn over him.

Yes, it did cross your mind that he would be a pleasant view in the bed. Who with a sound mind wouldn’t think of that. Maybe people who weren’t attracted to-

No, it was a normal thought to have, one that may occur when you’re alone under the shower or in bed. You just often appreciate the beauty of your friends. Mina’s also cute and Kirishima is bulked as hell. It was a rational train of thoughts.

So why wasn’t your rational mind telling your hand to push him away just now? Why were you looking at his face, so close to your clothed cunt and feeling excitement bubble in your veins.

Tell me to stop and I will.

And you never did. So he pushed you to sit on the desk, pulling both your trousers and pants down at the same time. You kicked the air a few times to get rid of them but they hung from one of your ankles. It didn’t matter because his face was at its place. God bless you showered before coming here because you could have second thoughts otherwise.

“Okay, whatever the fuck you want, psycho.” You breathed as he lapped at your clit, still looking up at you.

His fingers creeped towards the inner side of your tight and you slapped him over the head.

“Uh, uh. I told you you could eat me out, not finger me. Yesterday you didn’t seem like the one to take shortcuts.” You spat, drinking up his frustration and slight… shame? Like a kid who did something wrong and got caught red handed.

“Fine.” He muttered pushing his tongue inside you. “It won’t take long anyway.” The grin was back on his face.

It indeed didn’t take long as soon, your legs were shutting tightly around his face. You weren’t even looking down anymore, the sight was a turn on but you were already overdriven. Your competitive nature was in a bliss and your head played fucking Katsuki Bakugo, on his fucking knees, between my fucking legs over and over like a broken record. You didn’t want to spoil your fun by thinking he may be having a  merrier time than you.

Not now, not when you’re so close and his palms are grabbing your tights, fingers digging into your muscles so much it would hurt if not the tension. Edging your release, you grabbed his hair in a tight fist pushing him in more, crossing your legs like it would take an “open, sesame!” to undo them.

At last, with a final short breath you came chuckling and moaning. A Katsuki may have slipped past your lips but only once.

He tore your legs open, panting like he just finished a marathon. Looking down you covered your lips to hide the laugh. His face was wet, smeared all over with what was a mixture of you both. His cheeks were heavy with blood, an intense red cutting out on his pale face. Classically, his brows were knit together.

“Did you have to make such a mess?” The blonde stood up and went to his bathroom. You caught a glimpse of the bulge in his pants.

The sound of the faucet reached your ears.

“I’m not gonna say sorry. You asked for it.” And you were pretty good at it. No. Such praise would kill your ego.

The water stopped running and you heard him stomp back. You pulled your trousers on quickly, suddenly feeling awfully naked. What would happen now? Your casual friend just ate your pussy like it was his last meal before a death sentence, and you were supposed to go back to organising the sources.

You felt a hard push to the back of your head.

“Stop thinking about it and get back out.”

Eh?!

Time went on quickly and in a weird manner. A huge something was in the air but you couldn’t find a way to bring the topic up. Why did you eat my pussy out of the blue? Was it really just about the bet? Were you feeling horny and I just so happened to be there? Are we fwb now? Do you like me?

Scratch the last one. The man gave you a headache ever since his own head left your tights. Also, he was nowhere to be found. Katsuki didn’t respond to texts, he was absent from the gym during his usual hours, and his dorm room was closed. You couldn’t just go to Kirishima and say: hey, I’m trying to figure out why Katsuki gave me head, wanna help?

The moment you run into his fleeting ass, you're gonna squeeze out the answer.

An opportunity came soon when you spotted him sneaking into the laundry room. It was a cramped space with washing machines and dryers. Fortunately, you had little thieves around dorms so people usually left their washing while it was in progress. There was a big chance you’d be alone.

Running to the door you yanked them open and rushed inside. Indeed, it was only him crouched to the lowest washing machine, putting mostly black clothes inside.

“You’re here for round two?” He smirked and you gasped.

It took you by surprise, you expected yelling or awkwardness. Nevermind. You shook off your initial stumble.

“Can you explain what the fuck do you mean by all this?” You gestured in the air as if all this was a laundry basket and an empty bottle of washing liquid scattered on the floor.

Katsuki hummed, shrugging his shoulders. He dropped the halfway loaded laundry on the floor and crawled closer to you, gripping your hips in a familiar manner. This time, you were wearing a skirt. Your back hit the door.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.” It fell from his lips as if he was asking whether you want vanilla or chocolate ice-cream.

Your mind ran in circles like a hamster in its ball. Start a fuss and possibly fight with Katsuki or let him do his thing and cum? Uhh.

He took your panties off completely, throwing them into his washing machine but left your skirt. Halfway in, when your chest was heaving and hips pushed further and further away from the door you heard a sound on the other side.

The doorknob shook and there was a mumble on the outside. You dug your feet into the ground and Katsuki put one of his hands to shut it closed. Yet, he didn’t stop what he was doing. Both of your palms also pushed into the thin wood making you unable to quiet the panting and loud gulps. You bit your lip and it would break if something wasn’t stuffed inside your mouth.

Taking a sharp breath through your nose, you smelled him. He stuffed your mouth with one of the shirts from his laundry. You threw him a dirty look from above to which he only smirked, going back down.

“It’s locked.” The muffled voice on the other side said.

“Maybe maintenance.” A different one answered.

When they were gone, you could finally cum, biting hard into Katsuki’s shirt. You steadied yourself on a drier afterwards while he wiped his mouth with a spare T-shirt before throwing all the leftover laundry inside the washing machine and starting it.

“My pants.” You breathed out, you were still coming back to earth.

“Ops.” He threw and with a single long stride, escaped the murder scene.

Your walk of shame in the short skirt, without panties on was long.

The third time you could talk to him happened only a day later.

You were studying with Kirishima, or more like tutoring him for free, in the library. Kirishima also had a single room in the dorms but his was far more trashy and you didn’t crave to spend time in that man cave. Instead you booked a private study room. It had a small round table, a few chairs and switches to plug in electric devices.

Halfway through your study Kirishima stated he needed to go to the bathroom. You nodded and the man left. Only after a minute did you hear the door open once more.

“A line in the mens’? Unbelievable.” You chuckled but upon looking up, you were met with a nasty grin.

“Kirishima told me you guys were studying.” He cornered you. “You know the deal.”

Katsuki slipped behind your chair as you whipped your head around to stop him. He placed both of his hands on your shoulders, surprisingly gentle.

“Just tell me to stop.”

Oh fuck you you pretty bastard. Is what you thought.

“Oh fuck you.” Is what you said and you wanted to add something but he pushed your upper half into the table simultaneously yanking the chair from under your butt.

It took a lick for your knees to get kinda soft and your morale to stumble between being a decent person or getting this unbelievably lucky chance for a third time.

“Can we at least do it after I finish with Kiri? I can come to your room as quickly as I am able to.” You whispered.

“Or you can call the dumbass and buy me a few minutes.” Katsuki muttered between your folds.

You cursed under your breath and grabbed your phone. Pick up, pick up, pick up, goddamn. Kirishima could be back any second. Although nothing terrible would happen if he came in on you, it would be embarrassing like hell. Finally, you heard his voice on the other side of the line.

“I’m just coming back, literally wait a second-”

“No!” You shouted into the device. “I mean.”

Katsuki seemed to slow down between your tights. Good, the bastard is not stupid and he cut you some slack this time.

“I’m sorry but I just really need a coffee, I thought you’d still be somewhere around the entrance.” You pieced together a makeshift excuse.

“I can go back. ‘Ts the least I can do for your help.” Kirishima laughed so genuinely it made you feel slightly bad for playing him like this.

“Yeah, uh, it really is boring like hell.” You laughed. The whole phone call made you unable to focus on Katsuki who was behind you and you really wanted to go back to minding him. “If I can be honest it would be lovely if you could bring me coffee from that cafe down and opposite of the library. You know which. I slept really bad and need their double espresso.” Kiri, please just say yes!

“Of course, anything for you.”

That sweetheart. Kirishima was really the perfect man, contrary to Katsuki who just now, at the very end of your call, decided to be an absolute asshole.

You felt two of his fingers push past your entrance and force your walls open. A breath got caught in your throat.

“Okay thanks, bye!” You smashed the end call button. “What the fuck are you do-”

But he was turning you around, lapping his tongue over your clit, moving his fingers in and out of your cunt all of which with closed eyes and a blissful look on his face. You gave in, because it felt so good.

After a while you finished all over his face, for the third time this week.

“I told you not to finger me.” You complained, dressing yourself in fear of Kirishima being too neat in his mission to get you coffee.

“I know and I didn’t like it. So I had to distract you.” He smirked, resting his hip on the table.

At that moment, Kirishima came inside with two paper cups, steam escaping the small opening in the lids.

“Oh, hi dude! I didn’t think you’d come here. I’d buy you coffee too.” Kirishima chirped.

“Forget about it, I was supposed to do something anyway. Just came in to say hi.” The blonde flicked his hand in the air. “Oh, and if you want-” He turned to you. “You can come to my room later and finish what we were talking about.” With that he slipped past the door leaving you with a grimace and Kirishima with a dumbfounded expression.

“What were you guys talking about?” The redhead asked.

“Nothing important, just about transplanting a small plant his mum gave him. I’ll help him later, he has already managed to nearly kill it.”

[heavenlybodies333]

Jealousy is a Hell of a Drug -S.R

Spencer Reid x jealousgf!reader

You didn’t plan on drinking tonight.

Honestly, you thought it’d just be a casual get-together—Emily had called it “team bonding,” and Rossi was buying, so who were you to say no? Spencer hadn’t been able to stop rambling about this new book he’d read, you’d teased him for talking through the appetizer menu, and everything had been perfect.

Until she walked in. Dr. Madison Keane. Nuclear physicist. MIT doctorate. His “joint dissertation partner,” whatever the fuck that meant. All you knew was she was tall, gorgeous, and practically hanging off of Spencer’s arm like she belonged there.

“Oh my God, Spencer?” she gasped, her hand finding his bicep. “I didn’t even recognize you without the curls!”The rest of the team greeted her, cordial and curious. Spencer was glowing—introducing everyone, detailing exactly how he and Madison had co-authored some impossible dissertation about nuclear subparticles. And when his eyes finally turned to you, “This is—”

You didn’t let him finish. You looped your arm through Emily’s and flashed him your sweetest, fakest smile. “We’re getting a drink.” Two absinthe shots later and you slammed the glass down and glared at the mirrored wall. “Do you like her?” you asked Emily, too loud.

She choked on her shot, laughing behind her hand. “Is this a trap?”

“She’s not even that pretty,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “And what kind of bitch doesn’t understand personal space why is she touching him like that?”

“She probably earned it,” Emily teased, nudging your shoulder. “Co-writing a dissertation’s practically marriage.”

God that made you angrier, “She talks to him like I’m not even real. Who even says 'nuclear physics' at a bar?” Emily patted your back. “The kind of girl who wants to fuck your boyfriend.”

“Exactly!” you said pissed off. You turned around. They were still talking—too close, too intimate. You saw Madison’s fingers trail down his arm again, and that was it.

You stormed back to the table with an empty smile and a new drink. “So how do you two know each other again?” you asked, cutting Spencer off mid-sentence.

He blinked at you. “She’s from MIT. We—”

“Oh, right. Nuclear physics,” you said, taking a long sip. “Because quantum entanglement just isn’t sexy enough at parties.”

Madison laughed politely. “It’s more fun than it sounds, I promise.”

“Sure,” you smiled tightly. “I’m sure you two had so much fun.”

Her voice sweet, her smile practiced. You knew girls like her. Hell, you used to be girls like her. Overly confident. Insecure in the worst way—like she needed you to know she had history with Spencer. “You must be his… coworker?” she asked, voice sugar-laced poison.

You smiled back tightly. “Girlfriend.”

Her mouth twitched. “Oh! I didn’t realize…”, eyes flicking up and down like she was scanning for weaknesses, and said sweetly, “It must be so nice dating someone so smart.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, completely ignoring her. You looked her up and down. “You still in academia?”

She smirked. “Of course. Published just last month, actually. I’m surprised Spencer hasn’t mentioned it. But then again… maybe he’s just too busy.”

You tilted your head, biting your cheek.

“I mean, I can’t imagine it’s easy to have a relationship when one person’s reading quantum mechanics before breakfast and the other’s... tagging along.” You lasted another 30 seconds before she leaned in to whisper something into Spencer’s ear, fingers still on his sleeve, and that was it. Your drink flew. Straight into her smug face.

You didn’t wait for the gasp or the splash or Spencer’s stunned voice. You just turned on your heel and walked out the front door, head held high, fury burning behind your ribs like napalm.

Behind you, you heard him—“Madison, I’m so sorry, she’s—” You heard him apologize to her—apologize to HER—and your stomach flipped with betrayal.

Fuck him.

You were halfway down the block when you heard his voice behind you. You didn’t slow down. Not until his hand caught your wrist, pulling you gently but firmly to a stop on the sidewalk. “Baby wait—”

You yanked your arm free. “Go back to her, Spencer.”

“What? No. No—fuck—don’t do that.” His voice cracked with confusion. “Why did you throw a drink at her?!” You ignored him, continuing to walk away from him, tears welling up in your eyes.

“Stop walking! Jesus—would you please talk to me?”

“Talk to your dissertation partner!” you snapped, spinning to face him. “You two can split atoms together and jerk each other off over how smart you are!”

Spencer blinked. “Are you seriously mad that I ran into a colleague?”

“You apologized to her,” you hissed. “She had her hands all over you—”

“She hugged me—”

“She touched your bicep, Spencer!”

“I didn’t ask her to!”

“But you didn’t stop her either.”

Silence.

“I don’t like her. I don’t want her. I want you,” he said, voice low, pained. “God, baby. I didn’t even notice she was touching me. I was trying to introduce you.”

You turned around and wouldn’t face him, arms crossed and as you went to sit down angrily on the curb you lost your balance falling back on the sidewalk right on your ass.

Spencer’s mouth opened and closed. “You’re drunk.”

“No.” you answered hotly.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “Let’s go home.”

“I’m not done yelling at you.”

“You can yell at me all you want. Just not in the middle of the street.” He stared at you, jaw clenched. Then he pulled out his phone and ordered the Uber without another word.

You didn’t speak again until you were inside his apartment, shoes off, arms crossed, fuming. “I hate her.”

“She’s not important.”

You turned to him. “Then why did you defend her?”

“Because she didn’t deserve to get humiliated in public.”

“What about me?” your voice cracked. “Do I deserve to feel like I’m second best?”

His expression softened instantly. “No. God, no. You’re not—”

“I can’t believe you apologized to her.”

“I had to,” he said tightly. “You threw a drink in her face.”

“She deserved it.”

“She didn’t.”

“She was all over you.”

“She was being friendly. She was an old colleague.”

You scoffed, turning away. “Right. Another genius. Maybe you’d be happier with someone like that. Someone who understands your fucking dissertations.”

Spencer didn’t reply. He came up behind you instead—his hands sliding around your waist, his voice soft in your ear. “You’re the only one I want baby, I promise. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to understand every part of you—because every time I do, I fall in love all over again.”

You let him guide you to the bed, fingers pulling your dress up as he kisses down your thighs. Gasping as he pulled your panties down, lifting one of your legs over his shoulder. When his head dipped between your thighs, he held your legs open, eyes locking with yours.

“Let me make it better,” he said. His fingers dug into your thighs to keep you in place, and he moaned against your cunt like he needed this, needed you. His mouth was heaven—soft, insistent, relentless. He licked and sucked like he had all the time in the world, humming when your thighs clenched around him, praising you between licks.

“God, you’re so good for me. So sweet when you’re not being a brat.” He grinned against your skin. “My perfect girl.”

You whimpered. “Don’t think about her,” he said, tongue circling your clit. “She’s gone. Only you now.”

“Spence,” you moaned. He flattened his tongue, slow strokes that made your head spin. Your fingers tangled in his hair as your head tipped back, heat coiling in your belly. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I was so—”

“Don’t,” he said gently, curling one finger inside you now, his mouth still relentless. “You don’t ever have to apologize for loving me like that.”

You cried out, hips twitching, the world melting into the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his praise like poetry spilling from his lips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moaned. “Give it to me, baby. Let go. That’s my good girl.”

Your hips bucked. “Spencer—oh—fuck.” legs shaking, thighs clenching around his head.

When he pulled back, lips glistening, he pressed soft kisses to your thighs and looked up at you with those impossibly kind eyes. “I don’t care how many dissertations I wrote with her,” he went on, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I love you, I love how you dont like pickles with anything and always give me your extra one, I love how your favorite things to collect are those little teacups, I love getting to cook for you, I love that you’re smart in ways that can’t be measured with letters after your name. I love you now and forever. ”

You finally exhaled. “I love you too.”

He was yours. Nuclear physics bitch be damned.

a/n: okayyy papiiiichulo

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[lizardho]

I’ve been desperately in love with my wife for a LONG time. Like. I was down SO bad before we even met in person. I wanted her to think I was SO cool so when she asked if she could come visit me in person I planned a Super Dope And Fresh Trip Itinerary for her first time visiting me. And when we got here we spent the first two days ignoring the itinerary and cuddling while we watching crappy movies and I tried not to hyperventilate while I watched her sing along to bands I’d never heard of because they weren’t Kid Rock or Oingo Boingo and those were the only two singers we listened to growing up. My highlight memory from that trip was when she told me I didn’t need to sleep on my disgusting goodwill couch because the bed was SO big and we could just share it. I spent like 15 minutes that night making a little barricade between us so she wouldn’t think I was some kind of sex pervert if we accidentally touched or something and when I woke up in the morning I was full-on spooning her and my barricade did nothing. And also she had woken up first so I couldn’t even play it cool.

After I dropped her off at the airport I asked if I could give her a kiss on the head and she said yes so I smooched her forehead and saw her off and then went home to fantasize about insanely depraved stuff like holding her hand or waking up with her hair in my mouth after we fell asleep snuggling. We video chatted a few times after that and I was playing it SO cool and she had no idea that I liked her. I was so cool and normal that she ended up inviting me to hang out with her over Fall break. I spent 3 days with her and the evening of the first day she asked if I wanted to date her and then the rest of the trip out was just one big date of sloppy gay smooching and hand holding and then I went home. I think my highlight memory from that trip was making out after eating Jet’s Pizza for the first time and it was getting towards sex stuff and she told me my ass was so thick it didn’t make sense and I had to give her like 3 minutes to catch her breath because she was so astonished by me and I felt so pretty I could have died then with no regrets.

When she dropped me off at the airport we waved goodbye to each other for so long that I walked to the wrong ticket counter and had to go back to check in for my flight. She came down for Christmas a month and a half later and met my insane and insanely huge family and still liked me after that so we stayed together. I remember my grandma flinching when she saw me for the first time since coming out, and I remember getting a hat that was SUPER cute on me in a white elephant gift exchange and wearing it on the next few dates we went on and her telling me I was adorable and GUH I was just so damn happy. I think my highlight of that trip was when she licked barbecue sauce off my cheek the night after Christmas and I almost fainted because I didn’t know what to do about someone who liked me that much.

The next trip was in February and we went camping for a weekend - it was near a pond I knew well and we hiked around and made Tinfoil Dinners and I showed her how to shoot a gun and she was super super good at it. We went to the Phoenix zoo later because we’d been craving dipping dots and there was nowhere else that sold them. I think my favorite memory from that trip was my wife walking around in the dark by the pond with a huge flashlight helping me look for frogs and repeating “I’m a big brave top, I’m a big brave top, I’m a big brave top” under her breath because she was so afraid of squishing frogs she almost cried.

We moved in together after 9 months of dating. We’ve had anniversaries to Ghost Towns and alien vortex sites, we’ve camped and hiked and gone to aquariums and even got a year’s subscription to the Phoenix Zoo because I’m a whore for Dippin Dots and my wife LOVES animals. We’ve had intense moments and quiet moments and boring times and exciting times. She’s supported me in writing my dissertation and completing grad school. She helped me organize my thoughts and experiences with internship sites and encouraged me to rank a site I thought I had no chance with but ended up matching at. She’s helped me run D&D campaigns and figure out how to install color-changing lightbulbs in our living room. She cried with me when our cat was officially adopted. She held my hand at my grandpa’s funeral. She supported me through flashbacks and comforted me through exposure therapy. She can see into the deep dark dusty cobwebby corners of my soul that nobody else can see and investigate the wretched unknowable secrets there and still love me with her whole heart. I cannot imagine anyone I want to spend my life with more. Gay love is cleansing and fortifying. It is nourishing and uplifting. It soothes wounds and heals hurts. Gay love is transformational and powerful and wonderful and life-altering and I am so SO lucky I have her in my life. She proofread my coming out letter, she helped me inject HRT when my needle phobia was weirdly intense, she moved across the country TWICE to support my studies, and now at this moment she’s learning about a new bus route getting set up locally and planning our spring-summer bucket garden and my heart is just so full I have to say something somehow or write something so powerful and earnest it captures my feelings. I’m also probably gonna smooch her.

For those of you still stuck in the closet or struggling with life, just know that it gets better. Often it gets better by being stupid and earnest and desperate, but it gets better. It may take some time and involve some risk, but imo it’s always worth a few risks to be in love.

[mediocre-writing]

Fic recs Yoongi

Some fics I read this week, and I need to make people read them too lol I'll probably do it with the other members too.

Interlude | MYG | Series Masterlist @yoongiofmine (Idol!Yoongi X Deaf!Reader)

Summary: All Yoongi wanted was to use the last few months before enlisting to work on his solo projects, prepare for his tour. When the silence left around him as his members started to go one by one got too loud, he needed to find something else to fill in the void. But Yoongi would never have guessed that it would come in the form of you… Someone he would never expect to fall in love with.

– This is simply the most beautiful Yoongi series I've ever read.

——

The Consequences of Fucking Up @borathae

“Your break up was messy and painful. All you want to do is to forget about him. His friends, who ever since you ended it with Yoongi see you as their bullying target, make sure that the memory of him stays fresh in your mind however, haunting you day by fucking day. While Yoongi makes it seem as if he gives no fuck about your situation. Until one night he is in front of your door. Drunk and fucking regretful.”

– You won't regret reading it, trust me.

——

his entire world | min yoongi x f!reader | a serendipitous life series @serendipitous-seven

summary: you and yoongi are trying to enjoy your friends' wedding with a very fussy baby

– THIS WAS ONE OF THE SOFTEST THINGS I'VE EVER READ 😭💞

——

F*ck Tradition | Yoongi @dancinglikebutterflywings ( Min Yoongi x Fiancee!Reader)

- Synopsis: Y/N takes Yoongi with her to go wedding dress shopping because her fiancées opinion is the only one that matters.

– I feel like this story and this writer deserves much more recognition, MY GOD IT'S SO BEAUTIFUL.

—

you're okay | myg (m) @taegularities

Summary: Let it hurt and burn. Let it out; and then let it fade away. Let it heal. Yoongi can't lift all your burdens, but he has taught you at least this much over the years.

– This here comforted my heart in a way 😭😭💞💞

—

ex-things - m.yg. @namfinessed

summary: over the years, everything you've owned has belonged to yoongi and everything yoongi's owned has belonged to you but when you break up, everything is your's and everything is his but none of it belongs to the two of you anymore and both of you can't stand it.

– That was adorable and made me smile like a fool.

—

impression | yg @namjoonchronicles

↳ summary many forgot that when you marry someone, you marry their family too, at least that’s how Asian family is like

– This is so cute, I love the husband!Yoongi

—

The Final - Day 02 | MYG | ONESHOT @yoongiofmine

Summary: You've been Yoongi's go-to companion for the past few years, well aware that's all you were going to be. Despite your very real, growing feelings for the rapper, you took what you could get every time. Now, you're backstage at day two of the final leg of his tour when another member takes an interest in you. Will it be enough to make Yoongi realize he's got competition?

– it made me wild and crazy

—

dissertation | yg @namjoonchronicles

↳ summary many people doubted your union, how exactly an artist with as much influence as yoongi be a husband to a wife that is still studying. 

– Yoon being the person we all need, This writer is wonderful, please give him a chance. (I'm telling you this writer is amazing)

—

Shy - Yoongi X Reader @7ndipity

Summary: You’re desperately craving your boyfriend's attention, but are too shy to ask for it outright. Luckily, Yoongi knows what you want anyway.

– This is something cute and warm.

—

YES, I WILL DO MORE BECAUSE WE HAVE MANY TALENTED WRITERS.

[stellamarielu]

ok so nobody asked for it, but here’s my take on a few of andrew “pope” cody’s kinks

content: nsfw, 18+, pope cody x female reader, breath play, choking, free use, somnophillia, edging (orgasm denial), p in v sex, oral (f receiving), handjob

authors note: someone could easily write a dissertation on this man, and the trauma he’s experienced in his life that has taken him to his very specific sexual disposition, but my job is to be horny on tumblr dot com so i thought it’d be fun to discuss a few of the kinks i think that man has if i talked about all of them this would be like 10k words. let’s get into it!

these are just the little made up thoughts in my brain, don’t come for me!

hypoxiphillia

you’re on top, riding him deep into the sheets with his hand at your chest.

The touch of his palm is heavy as he explores and gropes at your skin like it's the first time he's felt you in weeks.

The way he's holding you sends an instinctual desire bubbling through your veins as you grab his hand and pull it up to your neck.

The dip between his thumb and forefinger molds perfectly at your throat as you push his hand carefully against your jugular.

There’s something about his brute strength that you've always admired. Finding yourself in awe of the expanse of rippling muscle that forms beneath every surface of his body, you've always wondered what it would feel like to have him use his strength against you— to have you completely at his mercy.

But the sudden change in dynamic hits Andrew in a way he doesn't know how to process.

He's quickly yanking his hand from your neck, a bewildered look in his eyes as you immediately stop your movements.

He's still inside of you, your legs straddling his hips, but your body pausing above his.

"I'm sorry... that was- I was-" Your eyes are everywhere but on him as you whisper self consciously.

There's a wave of embarrassment pulsing at your chest making it nearly impossible to form a coherent sentence.

He's staring at you, brows furrowed, and his hand frozen mid way between your bodies where he'd snatched it from your grasp.

He can see you’re uncomfortable. A shade of humiliation pools in your eyes as he tries to piece together your desire for him to... choke you?

"You want that?" His tone is full of astonished curiosity, his gaze far from judgmental as you finally bring yourself to look him in the eyes.

Still feeling a twinge of self-consciousness turning in your stomach, you nod your head hesitantly.

A flash of uncertainty paints his features as he glances between your eyes and his hand, "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," your reply is quiet.

"I trust you."

He knows he won't actually hurt you, but the act alone is so threatening. He's never imagined inflicting violence on you, even in an entrusted manner. But the way you’re looking at him, with his dick still buried deep inside you, and your eyes wide with a spirited thrill of inquiry, he knows he could tap into the darkest parts of himself and you'd still be there on the other side to lure him back out.

He nods along with you, bringing his hand back to your throat, loosely gripping and rubbing his thumb along the carotid artery running down the side of your neck.

You pick up where you left off, rocking your hips against him at an even pace, causing his thumb to press harder. His hold on your throat tightens with every pass of your hips over his.

The restriction of oxygen to your brain shouldn't be causing your pussy to clench around him, yet you're trembling and desperately aching for more.

Andrew uses his hold on your neck to pull you down so you're almost face to face, his breath fanning over your parted lips while he thrusts up into you.

Your moans turn to breathless whimpers as they squeak through your throat.

He fucks you like that until you come. His grip on your throat playing with the oxygen traveling through your airway, letting up only when he needs to, and making sure you stay in the perfect state of almost sedated pleasure.

somnophillia

Having your body next to him in bed every night was a luxury Andrew never thought he'd grow used to.

The warmth of your skin absentmindedly touching his, the weight of your body sinking into your respective side of the mattress, the blissful sighs of breath that streamed from your lips in an unconscious rhythm; all reminders that you’re right there next to him— always. He'd never known a love so unconditional, so safe.

Perhaps that's why he found himself becoming aroused by your peaceful frame when you were fast asleep, limbs splayed out over the sheets late at night, your ease of relaxation a gentle declaration of your love for him.

You were always so comfortable sleeping there, it made him want to stay up all night watching you— protecting you.

And some nights he did.

His dick stirring every time you'd rustle under the comforter, your body changing positions with a content little sigh floating from your lips as your head buries deeper into the pillow.

It doesn’t help that you seldom slept fully clothed.

Most night's you'd climb into bed in nothing but one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties, making it nearly impossible for him to keep his wandering thoughts locked away in his mind as you dozed off to sleep.

He always started off tame— his hands tracing the skin underneath your shirt, or his fingers dipping into your underwear to slowly massage your clit— always a gentle request to touch you, as if you'd give him permission.

But sometimes you did.

Even half-asleep you would moan in approval or push your hips further into his touch, begging for more.

He'd venture under the covers, hungry to taste you as he buries himself between your legs. Lapping at your core, getting it nice and messy before pushing two fingers into your entrance, getting lost with his tongue at your clit when he feels your hands pull at his hair— evidence that you're awake— but he doesn't stop.

The sleepy whines tumbling past your lips only encourage him as he claims his spot between your thighs before coming up for air, and coaxing you back to sleep while he fucks you from the side, whispering about how you were made just for him as he holds you close.

orgasm control

It's important to note, that while Pope can be quite the dom, i fully believe he’s a subby man at heart.

The first time you test the limits of his control, you have him sitting at the edge of the bed, his shoulders back, posture nearly perfect as you sit behind him, your arms coming around his torso to pay nice gentle strokes to his cock that's sitting just as straight as him.

His breath is ragged and uneven the longer you make him sit like this, the same languid passes of your palm over his length, time after time, testing the discipline of his spine as he threatens to slump forward under your touch.

You know him well. You know the cadence of his nearly silent whimpers when he's about to come, so it makes it easy to keep him right on the edge. You tease his release, one, two, three times before you feel his body start to shake.

You pump his swollen tip, milking the head that’s now a deep shade of red as he falls back against your shoulder.

"Please."

He's peering up at you with a look in his eyes you'd never seen before, so vulnerable— full of total and complete desperation.

He's begging you to let him come, surrendering all of his power in hopes that you'll give him what he wants.

You smile down at him sweetly, one of your hands coming up to play in his curls as his head writhes against your shoulder.

"Ok baby."

That word. Baby. A nickname only Smurf had called him; but now, hearing it on your lips it held an entirely different connotation.

It sounded so sweet like this— so genuine.

There was no condescending manipulation lacing the word, only true protection. You really meant it. He was yours; to take care of, to hold, to please.

And with that, ropes of hot, thick release painted his chest. The uncontrollable groans ripping through him filled the room as his body melted back into yours.

honorable mentions: breeding kink, gunplay, cum play, voyeurism, body worship, mommy kink, praise duh

[ariaxco]

how to disappoint people and love it ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🌸

people-pleasing isn't cute. it's self-betrayal with a smile.

you've spent so long being who everyone else needed that you don't even know who you are when no one's watching. you've made yourself so small, so available, so agreeable that you've disappeared completely.

and the worst part? the people you're bending over backwards for don't even respect you for it. they expect it. they take it for granted. they know you'll say yes, so they keep asking.

here's your permission slip to disappoint people. use it liberally.

disappoint them by having standards

you've been accepting breadcrumbs and calling it a meal. friends who only call when they need something. romantic interests who treat you like an option. family members who guilt trip you into compliance.

stop saying yes to plans that drain you. stop accepting behavior that disrespects you. stop pretending you're okay with less than you deserve.

when you start having standards, people get confused. "you've changed," they'll say. "you used to be so chill." translation: you used to accept my trash behavior and now you don't.

good. let them be confused.

start disappointing them by:

not responding to texts immediately (or at all if they're disrespectful)

saying no to plans you don't actually want to attend

refusing to be someone's emotional dumping ground

not lending money to people who never pay you back

ending conversations that drain your energy

walking away from situations that don't serve you

they'll call you selfish. they'll say you're acting different. they'll try to guilt you back into your old patterns.

let them. their discomfort with your boundaries is not your problem to fix.

disappoint them by choosing yourself

for years, you've put everyone else's needs before your own. their convenience over your peace. their comfort over your growth. their opinions over your dreams.

now it's time to disappoint them by making yourself the priority.

cancel plans when you need rest. stop apologizing for taking care of yourself. spend money on what makes you happy, not what impresses them. pursue goals they don't understand or support.

when you start choosing yourself, people will accuse you of being selfish. here's the truth: you've been so selfless for so long that basic self-care looks selfish to them.

disappoint them by:

taking time alone without explaining why

investing in your goals instead of their approval

saying "i don't want to" without a detailed excuse

protecting your energy like it's sacred

doing what's best for you even when they disagree

putting your mental health before their convenience

you're not responsible for managing other people's feelings about your self-care.

disappoint them by outgrowing the old you

the version of you they loved was small, safe, and available 24/7. she didn't have boundaries. she didn't have big dreams. she didn't challenge anyone or anything.

the new you has standards, goals, and a backbone. she knows her worth and won't settle for less. she's not afraid to take up space or speak her mind.

they'll miss the old you. they'll try to convince you to go back to who you were. they'll reminisce about when you were "easier to deal with."

good. that version of you was easy to deal with because she dealt with everything so they didn't have to.

disappoint them by:

refusing to shrink back to their comfort level

pursuing dreams they think are "unrealistic"

setting boundaries they think are "unnecessary"

demanding respect they think you don't deserve

becoming someone they can't control or manipulate

thriving in ways that make them question their own choices

your growth will make some people uncomfortable. their comfort is not your responsibility.

disappoint them by not explaining yourself

you've been giving dissertations about your decisions since you learned to talk. ten-minute explanations for why you can't hang out. essays about why you need alone time. research papers defending your life choices.

stop.

"i can't" is a complete sentence. "that doesn't work for me" needs no justification. "no" requires no follow-up explanation.

the people who respect you will accept your answer. the people who don't will demand explanations, try to negotiate, or guilt trip you into compliance.

disappoint them by:

saying no without a detailed excuse

not justifying your boundaries

refusing to debate your decisions

ending conversations that become interrogations

not providing evidence for why you deserve basic respect

when you stop over-explaining, people get frustrated. they're used to being able to argue you out of your decisions. they're used to finding holes in your reasoning and exploiting them.

don't give them anything to work with.

disappoint them by thriving without their approval

this is the biggest disappointment of all: succeeding without their permission.

they wanted you to need them. they wanted you to seek their validation, ask for their advice, wait for their approval before making moves.

disappoint them by thriving independently. make decisions without consulting them. pursue opportunities they don't think you deserve. become someone they never thought you could be.

disappoint them by:

succeeding in areas they said you'd fail

being happy without their input

making choices they disagree with and thriving anyway

building a life they don't understand

becoming confident without their validation

proving that their opinion of you was never the truth

the best revenge against people who wanted you small? becoming everything they said you couldn't be.

why their disappointment is actually a good sign

when you start disappointing people, you'll panic. you'll think you're being mean, selfish, or wrong. you'll want to go back to being agreeable.

don't.

their disappointment means you're finally putting yourself first. it means you're no longer available for mistreatment. it means you're growing beyond their comfort zone.

people who truly love you will adjust. they'll respect your boundaries even if they don't understand them. they'll support your growth even if it makes them uncomfortable.

the people who get angry when you start choosing yourself? they were never really for you anyway. they were for the version of you that served them.

the freedom on the other side

disappointing people is terrifying at first. you've been addicted to their approval for so long that choosing yourself feels wrong.

but on the other side of disappointing people is freedom:

freedom from anxiety about what others think

freedom from resentment toward people you've enabled

freedom from exhaustion from people-pleasing

freedom from relationships that drain you

freedom to be authentically yourself

freedom to pursue what actually matters to you

you're not responsible for managing other people's emotions about your growth. you're not required to stay small so they feel comfortable. you're not obligated to set yourself on fire to keep others warm.

disappoint them proudly. your peace is worth more than their approval.

you've spent your whole life trying not to disappoint people. now try not disappointing yourself.

[mariasont]

hiii, more bimbo!assistant!reader calling hotch, daddy, pleaseeeee😁🫶🏻💖😇

ilyyy!! <3

Bought & Paid For - A.H

summary: you push hotch's buttons just to see how far you can take it, and today, you finally find out pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader warnings: suggestive content, reader calling hotch daddy, hotch blatantly staring at r's ass, established relationship, slight brat taming undertones perhaps? wc: 0.6k

You’re talking about almond milk.

Or, at least, you were talking about almond milk — now you’re on some tangent about how store-brand oat milk is never as creamy as the one from that overpriced cafe near your apartment. He has no idea how you got here. He’s not even sure you know.

Your face is full of conviction — deeply invested in a topic that no rational person should have these many feelings about. It’s… impressive. Baffling, but impressive.

Hotch should be paying better attention, filing this long-winded dairy dissertation for the next time you inevitably guilt him into fetching your morning sugar bomb like some kind of begrudging personal assistant.

He’s not oblivious to the irony.

Instead, he’s watching you slide into the passenger seat, and instead, he’s having a private moment of reflection about how you absolutely cannot wear those jeans in public. 

Because they were almost pornographic.

Because they make it very, very clear what’s beneath them which makes it very impossible to think about anything else.

Because they make him look stupid.

He had told you. Repeatedly. Jeans should not cost that much. They were jeans — denim, mass-produced, entirely unnecessary at that price point. You could buy three pairs for half the cost, and no one would know the difference. 

He looked you in the eye and declared, with absolute authority, that he would not enable this behavior.

And then you pouted. And he pulled out his wallet like an absolute disgrace to his own principles.

He was actively experiencing the consequences of his own actions in real time.

Because you’re wearing them to go grocery shopping now and he’s going to spend the next hour fighting the very real, very primal urge to knock out every man who so much as glances at what he paid for.

He hands you your purse once you’re settled, barely paying attention, already running through the mental checklist of things that need to be done before he can call this errand over.

And then you flash him a quick, unassuming smile. “Thanks, daddy.”

His fingers still on the door handle, entire body seizing, breath catching mid-inhale as his brain tries — and fails — to process whether he actually heard you correctly.

His pulse goes from stable to needing immediate medical attention in a matter of seconds.

He straightens like someone just pulled a gun on him, adjusting his watch even though it does not need adjusting. Forces himself to level you with the most unaffected look he can manage. 

“Sweetheart, that’s not appropriate.”

You blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence that he knows is fake. “Why?”

His fingers drum once against the car before curling into metal, grip bordering on savage, white-knuckled tension bleeding into every line of his body, the only outlet for something too risky to be voiced.

It doesn’t help that you look exceedingly gorgeous in daylight. That the sun — a merciless accomplice in your destruction of him — has taken it upon itself to illuminate every detail.

That you decided today was the day to try a new blush. That you had stood in front of him this morning, asking if it made you look pretty like you didn’t already know how impassioned he felt about that answer.

Like you weren’t a loaded weapon wrapped in silk and perfume, soft where you should be sharp, lethal in ways that have nothing to do with intent.

And now, here you are, stacking problems on top of problems, and he has to somehow be the one to keep himself in check.

He exhales sharply, glancing away for a second — a brief, necessary reprieve — before settling his gaze back on you. “Because you know exactly what you’re doing, and I strongly suggest you stop.”

You bat your lashes. “I really don’t know what you mean, daddy.”

He doesn’t think — there’s no room for thought, no time between your words and his reaction. One second, you’re in the passenger seat, smirking, and the next, you’re hauled up and over his shoulder, one arm locked around your waist, and the other gripping your ass, fingers digging into the denim that started this whole damn mess.

You squirm, thrashing in the most unconvincing, unserious way imaginable, laughter spilling from your lips in delighted, unrepentant little bursts, and he knows it down to his very core that you are enjoying this far more than you should. 

And despite his better judgment, so is he.

“Hey! The groceries —,”

“Groceries can wait.”

Hotch doesn’t even pretend this trip is still happening. The moment the words left your mouth, the destination changed, the entire purpose of this errand replaced by something far more immediate and deserved.

So he spins on his heel and carries you straight back to the house with the ease of a man handling something he fully intends to deal with. 

Because this is about balance, about the fundamental laws of action and reaction, about the way you tip the scales just to see what it takes to tip them back. 

And because, if nothing else, you’ll think twice before calling him that again.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[dreamwritesimagines]

Theory of Gravity

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female!Reader

Summary: Making small talk can be difficult with a crush.

Word Count: 1234

Genre: Fluff Oneshot

Content: Drinking, reader being awkward because she has a crush, flirting

Contrary to popular belief, snitching on the whereabouts of a very dangerous mobster in the bar you worked in and possibly getting killed or maimed in the process was not a good plan for a Friday night but to be completely honest, you had done worse things over a silly little crush.

Like back in college freshman year when you pretended to be into music biopics just so that the hot guy in your elective would think you two were meant to be.

So if anything, this was a pattern.

“Logan?” you said as you put his drink in front of him. “Can I ask you something?”

“Hm?”

“What was Galileo like?”

He blinked a couple of times, the familiar scowl that seemed to be etched on his handsome face getting deeper and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” he said. “I will lose all the belief I’ve never had in the first place in this country’s education system if you’re serious.”

You gave him a bright smile. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I figured it was better than asking how the public took it when Newton came up with the theory of gravity.”  

The look on his face couldn’t be described with anything but complete horror and you let out a laugh, then went to serve another customer before quickly making your way to him.

“I’m just messing with you,” you said, leaning against the bar as you stole a look at the mobster sitting by the table with his men, then to Wade who was very, very busy with Vanessa by the corner.

“You look nervous,” Logan pointed out, making your head whip up before you cleared your throat.

“Nah, not at all,” you said. “I’m just thinking that if I die tonight, I’ll die doing what I love.”

“Which is?”

Gazing at older men who couldn’t look less interested in me.

“Being surrounded by drunk people who want to give me money,” you said. “Not a bad way to go.”

He scoffed into his drink before taking a sip while you nibbled on your lip, shifting your weight.

“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he said, his voice gruff. “We’re just waiting for his partner to show up, then we will deal with them both.”

You nodded your head. “Yeah. Sure, I know.”

“Do you?”

You nodded again, absentmindedly reaching out to play with the cocktail straw on the counter, painfully aware of his gaze on you that made your face burn.

“How’s grad school?”

…He remembered.

He remembered you saying that the last time he and Wade were here.

One simple observer would’ve thought he was on his knees proclaiming his undying love for you with the way your heartbeat went insane and his eyebrows rose as if he could hear it, but you quickly casted the thought away from your mind; that was surely impossible.

“Oh it’s going well!” you said, your voice going high-pitched for a moment. “Came for the hot professors, stayed for the education—I’m joking,” you added in a haste, waving a hand in the air. “I’m a very…very deep and intellectual individual.”

“Uh huh.”

“And none of my professors are hot,” you muttered and wiped at the damp spot on the counter with a napkin. “They should put that on the brochure if you ask me, it’s important information.”

“So you’ll be a doctor?”

“If by some miracle my dissertation goes through the jury,” you pointed out. “How about you? How’s your roommate situation with Wade going?”

He only grumbled something under his breath and you bit back a smile, then topped his drink.

“Thanks sweetheart.”

If there was one thing you hated the idea of more than dying was proving Freud right but it looked like you were going two for two tonight.

“So uh,” you said, trying to ignore the goosebumps rising on your arms because of his deep voice. “Hey, at least you have the place to yourself sometimes, no? When Wade is with Vanessa? Should give you some time to…bring someone home.”

And I volunteer as tribute.

He raised his brows, his unwavering gaze pinning you to your spot and you cleared your throat.

“Or—or someones,” you stammered. “Sky is the limit if you’re into that sort of thing. Now that it came up by the way, are…are you?”

“Am I bringing people home?” he asked as if he wanted to make sure that was what you were asking and you shrugged your shoulders, your face on fire.

“I’m just asking because, you know,” you began the sentence without having a clue on how you would finish it as usual. “I’m great at giving relationship advice, so if you were in a relationship I could be your own personal relationship coach.”

He pulled his brows together in confusion and you reached out to get the bowl full of peanut shells from his right just so that you could keep yourself busy, then turned the bowl over the garbage can.

“I’m not,” he said and you swallowed thickly.

“Who has the time for that these days, am I right?”

“Do you have—”

“Yes I have the time!” you cut him off, nodding your head in enthusiasm, your heart beating in your ears but he had already finished his sentence;

“…ice?”

You hoped to God tonight was the night you’d die because if that mobster in the corner didn’t shoot you, you were going to have to ask Wade to do it just to save you from this embarrassment.

“Oh,” you said after a beat as he stared at you. “Yeah—yeah I have ice, sorry.”

You rushed to get some ice and put it into his whiskey, biting inside your cheek and he cleared his throat.

“You don’t want to go out with me sweetheart.”

Well good news was that you had already made a fool of yourself so one could think the bar for your self-respect couldn’t get any lower, but boy oh boy you had already brought your metaphorical shovel.  

“I disagree,” you said, taking a deep breath. “I would very much love to if you were interested.”

“You think I’m not interested?”

“I feel like I’d have a better chance at proving you’re not interested with dates and references than my own thesis,” you pointed out. “And that’s saying something—”

“I am interested,” he cut you off, making your eyes widen and you gawked at him, frozen in your spot. “Trust me, that’s not the problem here.”

“Am I getting the I’m too dangerous for you speech?” you heard yourself ask through disbelief. “Because screw that speech. Honestly, the only thing I’m focused on in here is if you—fuck!”

He pulled his brows together. “If I—?”

“No no!” you said as you pointed at the back door where two men were dragging Wade through. “Wade!”

Logan cussed under his breath as he shot up from his stool.

“Don’t go anywhere, we’ll talk about this later,” he told you and made his way to the back door while you heaved a sigh, leaning back to the counter as he stepped outside and you caught the sight of him grabbing a man by the neck before the door slammed shut. You pressed a hand over your chest, then tilted your head back with a groan.

“Alright,” you muttered to yourself. “That was smooth.”

[hellsquills]

Most people think that Ford had to teach Stan everything at school, all the time. Well, yes, if you're talking about whatever's on the book, chances are Ford has at some point explained to his brother whatever lesson they did that day, because one single class wasn't enough to retain all the information.

However, there's one thing about school that Stan taught Ford. And as he stands alone in his college dorm, he curses himself for having to do it again.

Ford can write a mean dissertation. Truly, one that could make a linguistics major cry tears of joy. He knows the words, he knows how to speak properly, he knows how to speak, dammit! So why won't the words come out the way he wants them to?!

Sure, when he was a kid he was shy and didn't like being the center of attention. Not like he wanted their classmates' attention anyways: if he looked at them, they would surely be laughing at him for the way he spoke, the topic he chose or -of course- his hands. He tried to keep them hidden behind his back, but he couldn't help but using them when he explained something he was passionate about. Ford wishes he could go back in time just to sit in that class and give all of his attention and support to that little kid.

Of course, he can't do that, and he doesn't really need to. There was already someone there doing just that.

In every presentation, Stan had been there to listen to him. His twin wasn't one for concentrating much, and he would spend most classes either drawing, whispering dumb jokes to him and looking out the window in silence, staring at the ocean. But when the time came and Ford had to give a presentation in front of the class, Stan's focus was solely on him. He wouldn't look away, no matter how boring he knows his brother found whatever topic he was talking about. He was there, observing, listening, smiling, giving him a thumbs up and a reassuring nod every time he stuttered.

Stan never needed to memorize his presentations. He would ask him to explain the topic one more time, understand what he was supposed to talk about and come up with a presentation on the spot. Every time he practiced in front of Ford, his wording would be different, but no less cohesive and enthralling than the last. It was something Ford was admittedly jealous of, and they had tried to work on it together, to no avail: the oldest couldn't just improvise, no matter how well he knew his subject, because every skipped word on his script made him lose track. Therefore, Stan had settled for teaching him how to stand, how to speak louder and how to control his focus. He had tried to encourage him to use his hands while speaking, saying it would help him greatly, but Ford refused.

But, most importantly, he taught him where to look. They had both learned that eye contact was important when speaking in public, and you should look at each person individually while speaking, so the audience is engaged. But why on earth would Stanford want to look at those eyes, belonging to faces that ridiculed him every single day? What he saw in them was nothing but mockery, and it would throw him off every time he tried.

When he brought this up to Stanley for the first time, he didn't expect him to understand. After all, Stan was amazing at speeches, and he would look at every single person when he did a presentation, just like they were taught. However, it turns out his brother also hated eye contact, and would never look at someone for long if he could help it.

"Why are you looking at me in the eyes, then?"

"Well, you're looking at me too, right? So there's that."

That's when Stanford learned the trick: look at the back of the class, left to right, don't stare at a point for too long, and when you've been doing that for a while, look at everyone's foreheads, their hairlines, one at a time, but never their eyes.

"You have to make each of them believe that you're looking at someone else! That way, it seems like you're looking at everyone in the audience, just not at them specifically. It works every time. The art of deceit, my friend."

And sure, maybe it was hard at first, but to Stan's credit, it worked! Without any unwanted eye distractions, his mind was free to focus on his speech only, and he was able to finish every presentation with little trouble. However, there was one detail that his brother didn't mention, but he found incredibly helpful: whenever he was talking for a while and couldn't tell whether he was following all the rules, he would look at Stan. The younger would then give him a sign to let him know he should raise or lower his tone, speed up or slow down, straighten his posture... all the little details that he would forget while he was talking. Sometimes, Stanley would just smile and give him a thumbs up, to let them know he was on the right track.

As he stands in his room, his notecards in hand and staring at the wall, he curses himself for reliving those memories. He knows he shouldn't give them a second thought, but he has yet to convince his mind of that fact. It infuriates him, really, because now that he's in his twenties he should be able to speak in public properly! He's an adult, damn it! And his audience always listens, because they chose to attend his lecture. So why wasn't he able to make eye contact with people who actually wanted to listen?

He doesn't know, and he hates it. Clearly, he must be wired wrong. But then again, so was his brother. Part of him wants to maybe blame it on Stan, for making him dependent on his directions to finish a speech, but he never does. As much as he betrayed him, the kid he grew up with before the catastrophe was good. His biggest support.

That's how he came up with supplying that loss with the next best thing: his best friend, Fiddleford. Ford explained that he would have to attend his lectures and sit between the audience, and let him know how he was doing as he spoke. Fidds agreed, and Ford felt the greatest relieve at his friend's readiness to help.

Sadly, that didn't work for long. Sure, the short lectures were easier, and Fiddleford would silently assure him that he was on the right path. However, when his presentation was done, people would compliment his topic or his research, but never his performance. In fact, one of his teachers pointed out that he should work on his staging, otherwise he could lose some grants if the committees weren't interested. When he brought this up to his friend, he replied that sure, he looked a bit nervous, but the topic was interesting enough to make up for it.

Now back in his room, he goes to his desk and all but falls onto his chair, tired and angry. His eyes drift to the letter on top of a book, congratulating him for his great presentation last week and the not-so-subtle promise of a grant on the way. He's happy about it, of course, but that joy is overshadowed by a feeling of hopelessness and defeat. He didn't do it alone, now did he?

That depends how you'd define imagining your estranged brother sitting between the crowd, giving you tips and smiling reassuringly.

[vivwritesfics]

Sports Romance

Lando's girl loves reading. She loves those sports romance books. But she wants an F1 book she can relate to as a WAG. So, she writes one herself.

Warnings: 18+ smut, p in v

a/n: I HAVE NOT READ THIS BOOK BY HANNAH LILY BUT I BET IT'S AWESOME! IT LOOKS SIIIIIICK AND THAT'S WHY I'M USING IT HERE

Every sports romance book she'd read since the beginning of her relationship with Lando Norris had been fine, but inaccurate. They'd been a bit of fun, something to read on her travels.

But they were so fucking inaccurate.

She was the girlfriend of a driver. Nobody understood that better than her (well, except the other WAGS. She loved the other WAGS).

Every time she posted a book on her Instagram, it had a glowing review. It had to have a glowing review, especially when she had such a big audience.

She read the comments, too. People who were enjoying the books she recommended always brought her joy. She had pictures of herself, reading with Lando. Pictures friends had taken of her with her head in his lap, reading while he gamed.

They always did good on her Instagram. On his Instagram, too. But Lando always posted the pictures that came after hers, the one where he stopped gaming, pushed her book out of her way and kissed her.

But the sports romance books. Too many times she had stopped Lando to read out a part of the book and ask, "Does this sound right?"

And Lando, because he was obsessed with his girlfriend, asked her to read it out again. Just to hear her voice. He wasn't a man that enjoyed reading, but he would have listened to audiobooks if she voiced them.

"Nearly," he would answer, his arms around her, chin on her shoulder as he tried to read.

The WAG groupchat got to read parts of it as well, got to give their opinions on what she was reading.

It wasn't bad, the books. It was just inaccurate.

"I'm gonna try and write one."

"Huh?" Lando looked up from his phone.

"One of those sports romance books. I'm gonna try and write one for F1."

He watched as she stood up and walked over to her little desk in the corner of the room. Where she had had written her dissertation and finished her degree. Now, it just held empty notebooks.

She grabbed one, grabbed a pen.

And she wrote.

Just writing. No planning, no creating characters, just writing.

It was pretty easy to write a love story when it was basically your life. Some parts of it was exaggerated, the enemies to lovers style meeting especially. But the Formula One parts, the they were accurate, checked over by Lando (as long as she read them out to him).

For months, she worked on a first draft. It wasn't easy, with days, sometimes weeks of her getting nothing done. But she worked hard, didn't let the writers block get her down.

Lando was her biggest supporter. Reading what she sent him, sending back his feedback (which was always just a million heart emojis).

When her first draft was done, Lando insisted on celebrating. Dinner and drinks which normally ended with her on her cheeks, his hands on her hips as he fucked her, pushing his cock through her folds. His grip was usually tight enough to bruise, a mark she would wear with pride.

She read the first draft out to him, for his reaction of the entire story and to catch any silly mistakes. Any time Lando asked 'huh?', she made a note, worked around it.

And then, she sent it to her friend. Someone she trusted, someone she knew would tell her if it was shit, would tell her what she loved and hated. Someone who would circle her mistakes, tell her what she needed to fix before sending it to the publisher.

The second draft took a year. A year of trying to edit before giving up. A year of spending a week doing an entire chapter, a month doing the next. A year of getting loads done in a short space of time, only to do nothing for the next few weeks. Those weeks of nothing were so demotivating, but Lando was her rock, kept her going.

After the second draft, she contacted a publisher. And then another publisher. And then another publisher.

Eventually, one took interest in her story.

It wasn't perfect, but the publisher took a chance on her. She made the necessary changes and sent it back.

She kept the rest of the process under wraps. Nobody was allowed to see the cover, not until the book was announced. Nobody was allowed to know anything, not until the book was announced. Not even Lando.

No matter how much he begged and pleaded with those puppy dog eyes, she wouldn't let him know. Just like everybody else, he had to wait.

Five minutes before her post announcing her book on Instagram, she revealed the cover to him.

"That's me."

It was him. Dark hair, green eyes (she had to pick between green and blue while keeping the main male character looking like her boyfriend. It wasn't easy), and orange race overalls, it was obviously him.

"That's me," he said again and strode towards her. "That's really me."

"That's you, baby," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck as he picked her up. "Had to make my F1 romance about you, didn't I?" She said, like it was obvious.

He took another look at the cover. "But the girl doesn't look like you," he said, as if it was a personal insult towards him.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Didn't want to make it too obvious that I was in love with you," she said, but her laugh gave her joke away. "Didn't want to write some self insert shit," she mumbled and wrapped her arms around him again.

Lando kissed her. It was the kind of kiss that left her breathless and dizzying. The kind of kiss that had him sitting down and her climbing into his lap. The kind of kiss that had him chanting I love you, while she bounced on his cock.

When the book came out, the reception was phenomenal. Her own social media audience bought her books, as well as Lando's fans. Girls that wanted to know what it was like to date him, girls that spent their evenings on tumblr, that now had a view of a life they so desperately wanted.

They left her favourite reviews, most of them finishing the book within the day they bought it.

Maybe this was her calling, being an author. Writing books that had her boyfriend as the main character. No, she couldn't think of anything better.

[slut4thebroken]

Idol

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x reader

Summary | Request: “Milking fic with Crane on his hands and knees gasping and whining as his semen is harvested by an obsessed grad student who idolizes his work and wants his kid”

Warnings | Smut, non con, sedation, prostate massage, milking machine, semen collection, light bondage, noncon drugging, forced breeding??, anal fingering, forced orgasm.

Words | 1.6 k

Notes | yeah.

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Kinktober | day 29: ???

Dr. Crane was by far your favorite professor at Gotham University. He was intriguing and alluring, but also really fucking hot. For a while, he worked at GU and Arkham Asylum, but right before you got your bachelors, he quit his teaching job to take over as the head psychiatrist at Arkham, much to your disappointment. 

You tried to get an internship at Arkham, but you were rejected. It was hard to contain your anger, but you just focused on the endgame, rather than this temporary setback. 

Once Dr. Crane was outed as being the Scarecrow and thrown into the very institution he used to run, things made a lot more sense— like his fascination with fear, the students that would sometimes go missing or randomly drop out with no explanation… The new discovery of his alter ego only deepened your obsession. 

After someone replaced him, you applied for the internship again, but you were accepted this time because, along with Jonathan, a lot of other staff had been arrested for being involved, so they needed the help. 

Then you bided your time. You weren’t actually allowed to see any patients alone as an intern, so you had to work around that…

After hatching a plan, you spent the next few weeks gaining the trust of your superiors and saving up money to buy the right “equipment.” Since this was Arkham, everyone was already far too lax about the rules… So it was no surprise when your plan progressed smoothly. 

“Doctor, I was wondering if I might be able to see Jonathan Crane? I’m writing my dissertation on ethical violations in psychiatric treatment— An interview with him would be invaluable to my research.” She still looked unsure, so you added, “I know it’s unorthodox… Maybe you would feel more comfortable with the idea if you accompanied me?”

“No, I don’t have time for that. Just…” she let out a quiet breath, seemingly coming to a decision, “I’ll set up a private interview for you, but don’t be surprised if he doesn’t talk.”

You weren’t completely lying— an interview with him would be invaluable to your dissertation… just not about that specific topic… Honestly, you didn’t even really need to interview him for your real topic, this was just the cover story you used to get alone time with him. 

Two weeks later, you were walking to the private room to meet with him. 

“Professor.” You smiled, sitting down across from him, setting your bag on the floor and the disposable coffee cup on the table. 

“I’m not a professor.” He said coldly, but you weren’t deterred. 

“Sorry… Old habits die hard.” Your smile turned sheepish and you couldn’t help but blush under his intense gaze. “I can’t believe I’m finally here right now.”

“Are you here to interview me or swoon like a teenage girl?” He asked rhetorically. Instead of frowning, his quip actually made your smile widen. 

“I wish I could’ve worked under you. That was my real dream.” You confessed, getting a little lost in thought before snapping out of it. “Oh! I brought you some coffee. Black— I wasn’t sure what you liked, but I figured that was a safe guess.” You smiled, sliding the cup over to him. “As a thank you for meeting with me.”

“It’s not like I really had a choice.” He muttered, grabbing the cup and taking a tentative sip, making you practically grin— Your plan was going perfectly.  

“I promise I won’t take up too much of your time— Though I can’t imagine you really have a lot going on lately...”

“Perceptive.” He said dryly, focusing on the coffee that he probably hasn’t been able to drink since before he was admitted. 

Soon enough, his movements grew sluggish, his eyes struggling to stay open as he fought the sedative. Once he was pliant enough, you got up and lifted him to his feet with some difficulty, then laid him down on his stomach on the table with his feet still touching the floor. You grabbed the restraints from your bag and extended his arms forward, attaching his wrists to two legs of the table just in case, before doing the same with his ankles. He was grumbling something, but it was mostly unintelligible, so you ignored it.  

When you pulled his pants down to his ankles, he barely reacted and you moaned quietly at the sight of him. His cock was soft, but it was still just so pretty… You ached to taste it, touch it, feel it— but you knew you couldn’t this time.

Because of money and what you’d be able to sneak in here, you were only able to get the milking machine for his cock. So you attached that and made sure the tube and collection jar were secured to it, then grabbed some lube and put it on your fingers. He was already whimpering at the feeling of the automatic pump stroking his cock, but he let out a choked sound when you pushed a finger in his asshole, immediately searching for his prostate. As soon as you found it, you started applying steady pressure in small, circular movements. 

Honestly, you thought it would take a lot longer, but after a few minutes— probably because he’s been stuck in an asylum for months— come was already starting to dribble out of his cock, landing in the pump and trailing down to the collection jar. 

His sounds were making your clit throb, but you ignored it, knowing you had to focus on extracting his seed. Once you managed to knock yourself up with his kid, then you could have some fun with him. 

He was gasping and whining, his hips squirming as the pump relentlessly milked his poor cock while you massaged his prostate. He let out a guttural moan when you pushed a second finger inside, scissoring them a little bit, but mostly focusing on rubbing his prostate to get him to release more come. 

You almost couldn’t believe how easy this was. However, you kept looking over your shoulder at the door just in case, feeling like you should’ve been caught by now or something. But no one came in. You were left completely alone with your favorite professor and future baby daddy. 

The jar was filling up with his seed quickly, but you didn’t stop— how could you when he sounded so hot all drugged out like this, moaning wantonly while you collected his sperm? 

Unable to resist the temptation to taste any part of him, you angled your arm up to give yourself more room, then leaned forward to start lapping at his balls, sucking them into your mouth. They were pulsing with each stream of come that gushed out of his cock, being drained properly and fully. You moaned around him, laving at his balls like they were your favorite dessert, making his cock leak even more.  

A sudden knock on the door made you pull back and freeze, your blood running cold. “Five minutes.” Someone said from the other side of the metal, making you relax slightly. 

“O-Okay.” You replied, then breathed a silent sigh of relief before getting back to business. 

You intensified your efforts, zeroing in on his prostate with your fingers while you sucked and licked at his balls greedily. The pump was still stroking his cock and Jonathan was all but trembling as he laid on the table, spread out for you. His sounds were almost pained, but you knew he was feeling incredible— he wouldn’t be coming so much if he weren’t. 

You couldn’t help it when you slipped a hand between your legs, but you could barely even focus on rubbing your clit so you resorted to humping your fingers. You knew you wouldn’t have enough time to come today, but you could come as much as you wanted while you inseminated yourself at home. 

He was whining even louder and started squirming a little more, so you reluctantly pulled back, now able to see that the trickle of come from his cock had slowed down significantly. So you carefully pulled your fingers out of his ass, forcing a choked sound out of him, then you reluctantly turned off the pump, making him sag onto the table in a limp heap. His cock was still dripping a little, so you leaned forward before you could stop yourself and suckled on the red, swollen tip, moaning at the taste. It was hard to make yourself pull back, already so addicted to his come.

After putting the lid on the collection jar and putting the milking machine back in your bag, you pulled his pants up and removed the restraints, then struggled to get him back in his chair. 

Knowing you didn’t have a lot of time, you quickly grabbed the syringe from your bag— a counteragent for the sedative that was in the coffee— and injected it into his arm, then stood up on shaky legs just as the warden knocked again. Jonathan’s eyes were slowly blinking open, struggling to regain focus. You made sure nothing was out of place, then grabbed the half empty coffee cup and walked over to the door. 

“I’m all done.” You called out, prompting the warden to open the door. You walked through the threshold and he looked you up and down, searching for anything wrong. 

“He give you any trouble?” He asked gruffly, making you smile. 

“He was a little reluctant to talk at first, but he gave me so much to work with eventually.” You said with a knowing smile, your eyes glinting. 

[goddamnitmahtin]

Seabreeze or Amaretto Sour

And so the plot continues as we dissect my weird ass dream. This post is the sequel of the post called Damian’s Babysitter and part 3 of the Fuck You Tim (Not Really) AU.

Danny heard a voice he recognized coming from Wes’ laptop. It was his dashing boyfriend across the country doing smart people things. It had been a while since he had heard his voice since Danny had gotten totally swamped with his final dissertation for his astrophysics major and his final project for his aerospace engineering major. It was around finals every semester that he cried himself to sleep for deciding to double major. Even now at this gala, Danny really should have been working on his dissertation. It was a miracle Wes had been able to pull him away from his computer for game night with Sam.

“Oh hey Tucker!” Danny said excitedly. He wasn’t looking at the computer but he still said hi. Danny was trying to mentally figure out where the platter Damian got his in the head with came from. All he could really see was a room full of children so he couldn’t tell which one could have thrown it.

“Oh hey Danny! You two are both at the gala then? Sam told me about the bet,” Danny heard Tucker say. He turned his attention to the discord call, hoping Tuck’s cam was on. It wasn’t.

“Oh uh- yeah. We are both here,” Wes said in a sheepish tone that Danny had never heard before. It made him look at his cousin a bit closer. He was blushing. Oh. OHHHH- Of course Tucker would not only seduce him but also his own cousin. Massive respect.

“Who is that?” Damian asked, almost as if he were trying to gather intel rather than make conversation.

“That’s my boyfriend Tucker. He’s in school at Harvard,” Danny said, smiling. Wes continued talking to Tuck with a dreamy look in his eye. It was hilarious.

The child huffed with a nod, “I see. I would like to speak with him.”

Danny chuckled, “Okay but let’s give Wes a minute to wrap his conversation first okay? I’m gonna go get a drink from the bar.” He then got up off the sofa to make his way to the bar he saw in the main room. It was really fancy. Way fancier than any dive bar he and Wes would go to on the weekends. It was like a legit setup and all the barstools were fully intact.

“Could I get a seabreeze?” Danny asked, already ruffling his pockets for his wallet.

“No,” the bartender said curtly.

“Hold on I have my id. And you’re right I should probably do something lighter. How about an amaretto sour,” Danny found his wallet and got his id out to show the bartender.

The bartender didn’t even look at it, “I will not be fooled by your forgeries again Mister Drake-Wayne.”

Danny was confused, “No- my name is Danny Fenton, look at my id. I’m 21.”

The bartender let out a very pompous sigh and proceeded to look at his id very dramatically, “You did very well forging it this time. Unfortunately for you, I recognize your face sir. I know that you are Tim Drake and not-” the bartend read the id card, “Daniel Fenton. Now run along. I do not wish to be on the bad side of your brother, Mister Grayson.”

Danny couldn’t fucking believe it. What did he mean that he recognized his face?! Danny had never even been here before! What the fuck?! Apparently some Tim guy was trying to get drinks? Did this bartender REALLY mistake him for some fucking kid? Whoever this Tim guy was just ruined Danny’s chances of getting a drink for the rest of the entire night which meant he had to be SOBER for an ENTIRE GALA. Honestly? Fuck you Tim (not really).