#Someone asked Ash a question

[unknownhomosapien]

"Something wrong is happening in Morrowind. The Great Houses became more fragile in their political relationship, the Tribunal went wild in censoring and arresting, in fear of new arising ordinators cult, that occupied Red Mountain, and endless strikes of nature disasters.

Something wrong with him too. Only one dream since arriving in Vvanderfell of masked man in long blue robes calling him his friend, asking to help. Stranger is promising to open a truth about his true heritage, but only in exchange for one thing.

And he convinsed one thing is the reason why all these events are happening right now"

[yeonban]

Possibly the funniest ramification (for me at least) of Tobias having a crush nowadays is that one of his most widely used tactics is making people fall in love with him in order to use them for various schemes w/o having to worry about their loyalty swaying long-term, which means that's his first thought half of the time when someone takes an interest in him. And now his second thought which follows 0.2 seconds after is a suddenly lifeless "ah." as he remembers that he can't exactly do that without giving his crush the impression that he's taken and fucking himself over on That front. Fuck his stupid baka life he's shooting himself in the foot NO MATTER what decision he opts for 😭

[unearthedheart]

showed up to get my testosterone dose after being turned away twice (once because it was too early and once because they didnt fucking have any) and they closed 15 minutes before i got here. at 2pm. ive never been this close to crashing out in my fucking life.

[apileofashandember]

im so bored at work right now

[ashtreehollow]

Was dealing with horrible anxiety all day leading up to rehearsal, but I didn't cry at all so everything's okay 👍🏼

[felucians]

white people using AAVE to attack woc, have the day you deserve

[acourtofquestions]

🚨MAJOR SPOILERS in the QUOTE BELOW for the THRONE of GLASS SERIES: including, EMPIRE OF STORMS, TOWER OF DAWN, & KINGDOM OF ASH etc.🚨

🚨🚨🚨

"Could Yrene heal them? Erawan and Maeve? I don't know why I didn't think of it."

"Is Erawan's body made by him, or stolen?

"Is Maeve's?" Rowan shook his head. "They might be wholly different."

🚨🚨🚨

[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.”

[pathologicalreid]

twenty questions | s.r.

in which spencer has all of the answers for stoned!reader's questions

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: fluff content warnings: drug consumption in the form of edibles! they're emily's (canon compliant), snot, pavlov word count: 504 a/n: we are going to pretend this isn't a request from last summer and that this isn't something i originally wrote for margotober. i was peer pressured into posting this i want that immortalized.

“Exactly how much did you have?” Spencer asked, placing his hands on your shoulders when you started to sway.

You frowned at him, “Two Cheetos worth,” you answer him honestly.

Peering up at you, Spencer studied your expression curiously, “Do you know the milligram amount of cannabinoids in a Cheeto?”

Shaking your head dramatically, you leaned back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, “Nope, they were Emily’s,” you told him honestly, recalling the fact that JJ had been the one to drop you off at home.

Spencer muttered something about not being surprised, sitting down next to you on the couch, “Why does Emily have edibles in the form of Cheetos?”

“Now that is a question for the masses! I haven’t the slightest idea,” you answered, carefully picking at the skin around your nails before leaning over until your head was resting in his lap. “Hi, Spence,” you whispered, looking up at him.

He smiled down at you, “Hi, pretty girl. How are you feeling?”

You sighed in his lap, “I’m high.” In your defense, you didn’t know what the Cheetos were until you had already eaten them. “Why is everything funnier when we’re tired?” You asked, leaning into his touch when he started smoothing your hair back with his fingertips.

“When you’re tired, your body is going through a state of stress. Your body is fighting the onset of sleep by changing the usual mix of adrenaline, endorphins, epinephrine, serotonin, and dopamine in the body and brain,” he continued his ministrations, gently keeping your hair out of your face. “Endorphins are the particular culprit when you feel slap happy.”

Squinting up at him, you nodded in response, “Right, endorphins.” You paused for a moment, “How are boogers made?”

He faltered for a moment, clearly unable to see how you got from point A to point B. “The lining in your nose has the mucous membrane. That’s what makes mucus, or snot. When air hits the mucus and starts to dry out, it becomes a booger.”

You shifted on the couch, “I’m so glad you know everything, it makes my life so much easier.”

“I definitely don’t know everything,” he laughed softly, tapping the tip of your nose with his index finger, “Come on, give me a question that I wouldn’t know.”

Groaning, you pursed your lips, “If someone ate a ton of popcorn kernels before they died, would the kernels pop in the cremation chamber?”

“No,” he answered, laughing at your attempt, “Cremation chambers reach up to 1800 degrees Fahrenheit. The kernels would turn to ash before they've had the chance to pop.”

You furrowed your brows, “Bummer,” you responded. “Hey,” you tried again, “Do you think Pavlov thought about feeding his dogs every time he heard a bell ring?”

A bright smile bloomed on your boyfriend’s face, “You know what, I’m not sure. I think it’s a definite possibility.”

Proud of yourself, you settle your head back into his lap, refocusing your attention on your fingers, “Cool,” you muttered.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Anchor

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Bucky is there for you when no-one else is.

Disclaimer: Hurt/comfort fic, little angst, little fluff, Bucky is there for the reader, mentions of missions going wrong and agents getting hurt, quiet comfort. Not Proof Read.

The waiting room was completely empty. Down the hallway, a nurse was signing something on a chart, a doctor was walking to another wing and in the other direction was the Shield agent you’d been assigned to rescue. 

The mission had been tough. Tougher than you’d had in a long time. But you survived. You both did. You got both you and the agent out. 

You’d been checked over three hours ago. Muddy, covered in ash, some dried blood. But no damage. Physically, at least. Meanwhile, the agent was still in surgery for internal bleeding. 

You were trying your best to take some deep breaths. Trying to keep your nerves calm and controlled. But the longer time went on, the harder it was getting. 

That was when he showed up. Bucky Barnes. The one man you’d barely spoken to despite working together for the last six years. It was like he had some kind of special ability to know when you needed someone and…you were always more than grateful that he was the one to show up. 

He didn’t say anything. He was still in his tactical gear so you could only guess he’d finished up mentoring the training module for the day. He just walked down the hallway quietly before sitting beside you. He looked at you. He’d known you for so long, he didn’t need to study you anymore. He didn’t need to read into the microexpressions you couldn’t hide. 

He just knew. 

You barely even looked at him before the tears started falling. 

If it had been anyone else, you would have been able to hold your nerve. You would have forced yourself to talk through it, to tell them what the doctors told you and hold onto the hope they’d tell you to have. 

But not with Bucky. 

With Bucky you were safe. Safe enough to let the walls come crashing down without panicking over how quickly you’d have to pick the bricks back up again. 

His arm wrapped around your back as he held you close to his chest, his hand in your hair. This thumb rubbed at your temple, like it usually would when he laid his cheek on the top of your head. 

He didn’t whisper comforting words. He didn’t tell you that you’d be okay or that you did a good job. He could tell you that later. Right then, you just needed to be held. To be shown you were safe. The world wasn’t ending…not in the hospital waiting room, at least. You’d held your own without even a small break for a long, long time. You didn’t need to hold it anymore. 

Bucky didn’t keep track of time or how long he held you. He would have held you till the end of time if it meant you’d be ten percent better than when he first walked in. 

He could remember the first time he’d held you. 

One of the agents you were close to in your division had been helping the team out for six months. On one of the missions, they’d gotten hurt. Their family had met you at the hospital with the rest of the team. 

Bucky had stayed in the back, watching as everything unfolded. How their mother asked the doctors ten different questions, waited for their answers and five minutes later asked you the same questions, along with, “Why didn’t you help them?”. 

Sam had stepped in, answering that particular question for you. You didn’t know how to answer it. But Bucky could see your mind answering it for you. But it was all a lie. They knew what they were getting themselves in for, and though Bucky hadn’t said too much to them, he knew they wouldn’t want you to be asked something like that; it wasn’t up to you to keep them safe. 

Bucky watched as nurses pulled you aside and told you things before they let everyone else know. He watched as you were asked to sign different sheets of paper and fill in far too much information. 

Eventually, all the questions and voices and tears got to be too much. Whilst everyone talked, you took an opportunity to step away for a moment. Bucky had followed after you. He wasn’t going to let you be alone when what you needed in that moment was the complete opposite. 

He’d found you down an empty corridor trying to force the overwhelming tears and sobs back into your body. 

Even then he didn’t say anything. He just walked towards you and held out his hand, touching your shoulder to turn you. You hugged him without thinking about it and he held you tight. His hand held the back of your head, his thumb gently rubbing back and forth. 

He could feel your fingers digging tightly into his skin, but it didn’t hurt. You were holding onto him like an anchor. 

It was still the same. 

With his arm around your back, your fingers held onto his bicep. Maybe you hadn’t talked much in the last six years. No more than standard co-workers who saw each other maybe once or twice a week. Maybe he wasn’t your best friend. 

But he was your Anchor. 

He was your safe space. 

He was the one person you could turn to and know…you didn’t need to be okay. You didn’t need to be strong and unemotional. 

With him, you could let your walls down. And he never judged. Not for a moment. 

A few hours passed before he eventually spoke. 

“Stay here. I’ll be back.”

He’d wiped away your tears and kissed the side of your head before standing, not letting go of your hand until he had to. He’d walked over to the nurses station and asked for a couple supplies before pulling out his phone as they walked away. They’d brought them almost instantly. He thanked them before walking back to you. 

That was when he crouched in front of you, his hand on your thigh. “I’m gonna clean you up a little. Is that okay?”

You nodded and he opened up the kit before wiping the tear, mud and blood stains away from your skin. He dabbed carefully as some smaller grazes that had been missed. 

“I’m gonna take you home.” He continued talking before you could speak after shaking your head. “I’ve already texted Sam. He’s gonna send one of Barton’s team down here. If anything happens, they can deal with it. You need to rest and get some decent sleep.”

When he’d finished up, he handed the spare supplies back, thanking the nurses once more before returning to you. He’d opened up the passenger side door to help you in. And by the time he got you home, you were already asleep. 

You only woke when you felt your head hit something soft. 

“Bucky?”

“I’m here,” he whispered, softly.

“Stay?”

“Okay.”

Taking off his boots, he climbed on top of the bed and laid beside you. You were asleep instantly. 

Neither of you talked about it in the morning. But Bucky stayed with you all day. When you went back to the hospital, when you handed your report back in and when you came back home. 

After dinner, you sat beside him and he lifted his arm, letting you settle beside him as he continued reading. Neither of you really had to talk. But you knew something for certain. 

For as much as you and Bucky rarely talked, you’d shared more conversations than you could count. 

He was your Anchor. And nothing would ever change that. 

[unconventional-lawnchair]

Jealousy, Jealousy

Where the boys get jealous... (Feat. Barty, Regulus, Sirius, Remus, and James)

WC: ~3.5k

CW: Fem!Reader, a few cusses, obsessive and possessive boys, Remus and Moony are written as different characters.

Barty gets asked if you're single…

Barty leaned against the stone wall of the corridor, arms crossed and a lazy smirk playing on his lips as the boy in front of him tried to find his footing in the conversation. It was late enough in the evening that most of the students had cleared out, leaving the space quiet except for the faint echo of distant footsteps. The boy- what was his name? Probably irrelevant- was shifting his weight nervously, though he tried to mask it with a forced bravado.

“So,” The boy began again, licking his lips as though trying to sound casual. “You’re close with her, right? I mean, you two are always together.”

Barty raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening just a touch as he tilted his head- pulling the smoke from between his lips. “We’re friends,” Barty replied easily, though the word friends came out slow and deliberate, almost like a challenge.

The boy took a deep breath, seemingly bolstered by Barty’s nonchalant tone. “Right, yeah. I figured.” He hesitated, then plunged forward, clearly emboldened by the silence. “I was just wondering, you know… do you think she’d go for someone like me?”

Barty blinked. For the briefest moment, his expression was unreadable- like he hadn’t quite heard the question correctly. Then, like a switch being flipped, he grinned widely, his whole face lighting up as though the very idea had amused him to no end.

“You?” He repeated, laughter edging his voice as he uncrossed his arms and pushed off the wall. He took a deep breath of his smoke and let the ash slip onto the boy's shoe, who quickly shook it off. Barty gestured at the boy vaguely, as though considering his entire existence. “You’re asking if you would have a shot?”

The boy’s bravado faltered slightly at Barty’s tone, but he straightened his shoulders, forcing a confident nod. “Yeah. I mean, she’s nice to everyone, right? So I thought- ”

“Oh, that’s precious,” Barty interrupted smoothly, his voice warm but condescending. He stepped closer, his free hand sliding into his pocket, his green eyes glinting as he looked the boy over. “She is nice to everyone, isn’t she? That’s what makes her so…” He paused, pretending to search for the right word. “Enchanting, I suppose.”

The boy relaxed just a fraction at Barty’s seemingly complimentary tone, but Barty’s smile sharpened as he took another step forward.

“Here’s the thing,” Barty continued, his voice softening into something dangerously close to friendly. “You’re not a bad bloke, are you?” He flicked his robes, letting the smoke from his cigarette fill the boys senses. “Clean enough robes, decent enough grades- probably someone your mum’s very proud of. Real cookie cutter, yeah?”

The boy blinked, caught off guard. “Uh… I guess?”

Barty grinned wider. “See? Nothing wrong with you at all. And yet…” He trailed off, taking another hit before he blatantly blew the smoke into his face. Even then he still found himself leaning in slightly, his voice dropping lower. “She’s not for you.”

The boy coughed, shooing away the smoke, confused. “What do you mean? She’s not- ”

“Let me save you some time, mate,” Barty cut in smoothly, stepping around him as though they were taking a casual stroll together. “Do you know what she wants to be after she graduates? How she wrinkles her nose when she laughs too hard- how much she hates when someone brings it up? Or how she’ll hum to herself when she thinks no one’s listening? How to make her smile on her worst days?” He glanced back over his shoulder, his smile full of sharp teeth. “You don’t, do you?”

The boy shifted uncomfortably under the weight of Barty’s words. “No, but- ”

Barty whirled back to face him, the sudden movement causing the boy to flinch. “That’s the problem though, innit?” He said softly, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “You don’t know her. Not really. And she deserves someone who does.”

The boy looked frustrated now, his confidence cracking under Barty’s pointed gaze. “You’re just saying that because you think you’re better for her!”

Barty’s smirk vanished. The shift was subtle but immediate, the playfulness draining from his face as his eyes turned icy, pinning the boy where he stood. “Better for her?” Barty echoed softly, his tone devoid of its earlier amusement. “I’d destroy myself for her. I’d burn the whole bloody world down if it so much as thought about hurting her. I've spent years of my life making sure she'd never know fear when I'm around.”

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. Barty stepped closer, forcing him to back up until his shoulders hit the cold stone wall. Flicking out his cig and tossing it at his chest.

“You don’t understand devotion, mate,” Barty continued, his voice low, almost a whisper. “Not the kind that keeps you awake at night, wondering if she’s happy. Not the kind that has you ready to rip apart anyone who so much as looks at her the wrong way. That kind of love… it’s not for people like you.”

The boy swallowed hard, his eyes darting away as though trying to escape Barty’s unrelenting stare.

Barty tilted his head, the hint of a smile returning to his lips, though it held none of its earlier warmth. “But don’t worry,” he said lightly, taking a small step back. “I’m not angry. You’re harmless, really. Like a moth buzzing too close to something far too bright for you to touch. Happens to everyone who meets her.”

The boy shifted uneasily, his face pale as he tried to muster some shred of dignity. “You’re crazy,” He muttered under his breath.

Barty grinned at that, his eyes glinting with something almost feral. “Probably,” He admitted cheerfully, shrugging. “Just trust me mate. You wouldn't survive the competition.”

~~~

Regulus sees a guy trying to ask you out…

You were standing just outside the courtyard, the stone archways sheltering you and a nervous-looking Gryffindor boy from the cool autumn breeze. He’d stopped you after class, clearly trying to build up the courage to ask something. You were being polite, as always, listening with a soft smile while he stumbled over his words.

Regulus hadn’t been far, of course. He never was, though you hadn’t noticed him watching you from across the courtyard, his keen gray eyes narrowing slightly at the boy’s sudden presence.

“So, um,” the Gryffindor started, shifting on his feet and running a hand through his hair. “I was wondering if- uh- well, maybe you’d like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend? Just us?”

You blinked, surprised by the question. “Oh- ”

Before you could finish, Regulus moved in like a shadow, silent and swift. Without a word, he appeared at your side and leaned down, resting his chin casually on your shoulder. The gesture startled you, your breath hitching as his weight settled comfortably there, familiar but intrusive all the same.

“Are you busy, ma moitié?” Regulus asked smoothly, his tone soft, casual, and laced with just a hint of amusement. He ignored the Gryffindor completely, acting as if he didn’t exist.

Your face turned slightly to the side, startled by his sudden proximity. “Regulus? What are you- ”

“We have that thing to do, remember?” Regulus murmured, his voice low but perfectly clear. He tilted his head, the movement brushing his hair softly against your cheek.

The Gryffindor frowned, his nerves quickly shifting to irritation. “What thing? I was just asking her something- ”

Regulus finally glanced at him, his gaze lazy and unbothered but chilling nonetheless. “How generous of you to interrupt,” he said coolly, his chin still perched on your shoulder as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

The boy bristled. “I didn’t interrupt- ”

Regulus cut him off with a small, sardonic smile, as though he were correcting a child. “You didn’t mean to, I’m sure,” he drawled. “But, you see, we have plans. So unless you’re particularly fond of wasting her time…”

You frowned slightly, your hand moving to nudge Regulus’s shoulder as if to make him move. “Reg, that’s not- ”

“Isn’t it?” Regulus replied smoothly, tilting his head ever so slightly, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

The Gryffindor’s face flushed, clearly caught off guard by Regulus’s presence and tone. He looked at you, frustration in his voice. “Look, I just wanted to- ”

“I think you should go,” Regulus said, his voice as light and polite as ever, though there was no mistaking the ice beneath it.

The Gryffindor hesitated, but Regulus’s unwavering stare pinned him in place. It wasn’t a glare- Regulus didn’t need to glare to be intimidating. His calm, unwavering confidence was sharp enough. After another awkward pause, the boy muttered, “Maybe another time.”

He turned and walked off, shoulders tense and ears red.

Regulus finally lifted his chin from your shoulder, straightening up with a look of faint satisfaction. You turned on him immediately, pouting a bit with your bottom lip jotted out- eyebrows furrowing and your arms crossed. “That wasn't very nice, Black.”

Regulus shrugged and wrapped his arm around your waist as he turned you away from the courtyard. “He’ll live.”

~~~

Sirius seeing someone flirt with you…

It was a lovely spring afternoon by the Black Lake. The sunlight filtered through the branches of the nearby trees, dancing over the rippling water. A cool breeze swept through the air, ruffling your hair as you sat cross-legged on a blanket, deep in conversation with a Slytherin boy.

The boy- someone vaguely familiar, you thought his name was Marcus- had approached you earlier in the day, something about needing help with Potions. He was pleasant enough, a bit shy, though you couldn’t help but notice how often he looked away or scratched the back of his neck when you smiled.

“…and, you know, it’s just the stirring,” Marcus was saying, his voice faltering slightly as his eyes darted to yours. “I keep- well, messing it up. Slughorn says I’m overthinking it.”

You offered a gentle smile, always patient. “It’s probably just nerves,” you reassured him kindly. “You’re better at it than you think, I’m sure. Do you want me to walk you through it?”

Marcus blinked, visibly perking up. “Oh- yeah, that’d be great, I mean- ”

“Ah, there you are,” Sirius Black’s unmistakable drawl cut through the serene afternoon like a thunderclap.

Both of you turned toward the voice, and there he was. Sirius stood at the edge of the blanket with his hands shoved lazily in the pockets of his trousers, the sunlight making his dark hair shine like ink. There was an unmistakable mischief in his gray eyes as he looked from you to Marcus and back again.

“Sirius,” You said with a mix of surprise and mild annoyance, straightening where you sat. “What are you doing here?”

“What, can’t a man visit his favorite girl?” He replied with a grin, though his gaze sharpened ever so slightly as it flicked toward Marcus. “You know, it’s dangerous out here by the lake. Giant squids, rouge bludgers, snakes- all that. Best you’re not left alone with someone… inexperienced.”

Marcus’s face flushed, clearly thrown off. “I think she’s doing fine, thanks,” he muttered, trying to sound confident but failing miserably.

Sirius smirked, as though that was the response he’d been hoping for. Without any preamble, he dropped onto the blanket beside you- practically on top of you- his long legs stretching out as he sprawled back against the grass like he owned the entire lakeshore.

“Merlin’s beard, it’s exhausting being me,” he said dramatically, folding his arms behind his head. “You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart? Just needed to rest my bones for a bit.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sirius, I’m kind of busy- ”

“Oh, don’t let me interrupt,” he said innocently, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth was anything but. “Go on, Marcus. You were talking about… stirring, was it?”

Marcus shot Sirius a pointed glare. “We were in the middle of something.”

“Were you?” Sirius replied, eyes gleaming with barely contained amusement. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You frowned, nudging him with your elbow. “Sirius, stop being difficult.”

“I’m not being difficult.” He purred smoothly, shifting just enough to rest his head against your shoulder, his hair brushing your neck as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “Just keeping an eye on you. Someone has to.”

Your face burned at the unexpected affection, though you tried your best to seem unbothered. Marcus, however, looked positively livid, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” Marcus accused, glaring at Sirius.

Sirius blinked up at him, all mock innocence. “Me? What on earth would I be doing on purpose?”

“You know what- ”

“Marcus,” you interrupted, sighing as you tried to salvage the conversation. “Maybe we can pick this up later. It’s… getting a bit distracting.”

Marcus glanced at you, frustrated but resigned, his gaze lingering a moment longer before he nodded stiffly. “Sure. Later.”

He stalked off without another word, leaving you alone with Sirius, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“You’re an ass.” You huffed, finally shoving him off your shoulder.

Sirius sat up with a dramatic groan, smirking as he stretched out his arms. “Merlin, that was exhausting.”

You glared at him, exasperated. “What was that?”

“That, my dear,” Sirius said, grinning cheekily, “was me doing you a favor. You don’t honestly want to spend your afternoon discussing stirring, do you?”

“That’s not the point!” You argued, narrowing your eyes. “He was just being nice, and you scared him off!”

“Good,” Sirius replied smugly, lying back down with his hands behind his head. “Couldn’t risk losing you to someone boring.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I could be practical- real practical. We can talk about stirring.”

You huffed, trying to hide the small smile tugging at your lips.

Sirius turned his head to look at you, his grin softening ever so slightly as his stormy eyes held yours. “Besides,” he added, voice quieter now, “it’s much better when it’s just us, don’t you think?”

~~~

Remus finds you asleep on someone he doesn't know…

The Gryffindor common room was dimly lit, the fire burning low, its golden light casting lazy shadows across the walls. Most students had gone to bed, and silence blanketed the space, save for the occasional pop of burning wood.

Remus hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d lain awake for what felt like hours, restlessness gnawing at him as Moony clawed at the edges of his mind, pacing.

She’s not where she's supposed to be, Moony murmured, insistent and low, like a growl rumbling through his chest. Go to her. Find her.

It was nonsense, of course. You were probably curled up in your dormitory, safe and warm, and yet Moony’s unease bled into Remus, like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He sighed, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and padding barefoot to the staircase. Just to be sure. Just to calm Moony.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the fire caught his eye first. Then he saw you.

You were curled up in a worn armchair by the fire, your head tilted to rest softly against the shoulder of a fifth-year boy Remus barely recognized. The boy sat stiffly, afraid to move, his expression somewhere between frozen panic and misplaced pride.

Moony stilled.

And then he snarled.

Get her up. She’s vulnerable.

Remus stopped in place, his breath catching as an instinct he couldn’t quite name surged through him. Moony’s anger wasn’t a loud roar this time- it was quiet, simmering like an ember. What’s he doing there? She’s asleep. He shouldn’t be near her. She's vulnerable.

Remus swallowed hard, his fingers twitching as he tried to steady himself. He didn’t want to startle you, and he didn’t want to scare the boy. He wasn’t angry- not really. But Moony… Moony didn’t understand manners.

Before he fully realized what he was doing, Remus moved forward. Quiet as a shadow, he stopped in front of the chair, his amber-tinged eyes fixed on the boy.

The younger Gryffindor glanced up nervously. “Oh. Uh- Lupin- she fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake her.”

Remus didn’t say anything at first, his gaze shifting to you. Your breathing was soft and steady, one arm curled loosely under your head. Moony quieted just a little at the sight, though the wolf’s presence still pressed against Remus’s ribs, heavy and protective.

“She’ll be more comfortable in her own bed,” Remus said finally, his voice low and calm. “I’ll take her.”

The boy blinked, confused. “I- what?”

Remus lifted his chin slightly, his tone firm despite the gentleness in it. “You can go. I’ll make sure she gets to her dorm.”

The boy hesitated, but something in Remus’s steady gaze seemed to settle the matter. “Right. Yeah. Sure,” he mumbled awkwardly, carefully shifting out from under you. He moved to stand, glancing one last time at you before hurrying up the stairs, his footsteps fading into the quiet.

Remus let out a slow breath, crouching down next to you. Moony settled just a little further, content now that the boy was gone, but still restless, still protective.

She’s too exposed, Moony murmured. Wake her. Take her where she’s safe.

Remus hesitated, watching the way your lashes fluttered faintly against your cheeks as you stirred, your lips parting slightly as though searching for the warmth that had left. His heart tugged in his chest, guilt biting at him.

“Dovie,” He called softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out, his hand hovering over your arm for just a moment before gently brushing against your shoulder. “Up you get, lovely girl.”

You shifted with a quiet murmur, blinking blearily as your eyes fluttered open. “Mmm… Remus?”

“Hey.” He cooed, his lips curving into a small, careful smile. “You fell asleep down here.”

“Oh.” You blinked again, sitting up slowly and rubbing at your eyes. You looked around in confusion before your gaze landed back on him. “What time is it?”

“Late,” He chuckled, standing to his full height as he offered you a hand. “Come on. I’ll walk you to your dorm.”

You frowned sleepily, tilting your head. “You don’t have to do that.”

Remus’s jaw tightened faintly, and for a moment, he swore he could feel Moony’s growl rumbling deep inside him. She needs protecting. Don’t leave her here.

“I insist,” He said gently, his voice soft but brooking no argument. “You’ll sleep better in your own bed.”

You yawned, smiling at him as you took his hand. “If you say so.”

~~~

James steals the show from your newest admirer…

The Gryffindor common room was alive with its usual evening bustle- cards flying in midair from a game of Exploding Snap, the fire crackling merrily, and the low hum of chatter filling every corner. You were perched on the arm of one of the chairs, laughing softly as a chaser- Finn regaled you with a story from practice, his easy-going charm and dramatic hand gestures keeping you engaged.

Finn’s voice was lively, something about a Bludger mishap and the newest Beater, and you couldn’t help the bright smile it pulled from you.

James, sitting across the room with Sirius and Remus, had been halfway through a halfhearted game of Wizard’s Chess when he noticed.

“Prongs,” Sirius said, nudging him when his knight didn’t move. “Your move, mate.”

James didn’t hear him. His hazel eyes were fixed on the sight of you leaning just a little closer to Finn, laughing at something he’d said.

James sat up straighter, his jaw tightening.

“Earth to Prongs?” Sirius waved a hand in front of James’s face, earning himself a scowl.

“Do you lot know,” James said suddenly, his voice pitched loud enough to carry across the room, “about the time I stole Filch’s keys and locked him in his own office? Poor guy thought Peeves was after him.”

All at once, a ripple of laughter swept through the room. Students turned toward James with wide smiles and bright eyes, a chorus of, “No way!” and “You’ve got to tell us!” filling the air.

Finn faltered mid-sentence, glancing toward the growing crowd around James.

You shot Finn an apologetic smile, clearly torn between listening to the end of his story and the infectious energy that always followed your best friend. James’s grin was wide and charming as ever, his eyes twinkling mischievously- but when his gaze flicked to yours, something sharper lingered beneath the warmth.

He hadn’t stopped looking at Finn once.

“What happened?” One of the younger students urged eagerly, completely captivated by James’s easy charisma.

“Ah, you wouldn’t believe it,” James replied, leaning back in his seat as though he had all the time in the world. His voice was smooth, his confidence magnetic. “I’d hidden behind that big grandfather clock, you know the one? Filch swore up and down he’d heard a ghost- but he couldn’t figure out how the door locked from the outside. Poor bloke works at Hogwarts and still doesn't grasp magic!”

More laughter erupted, and James winked at you as if to say, See? Isn’t this better?

Finn glanced at you, clearly realizing he’d lost your attention entirely. “I, um… I guess I’ll finish the story later,” He muttered sheepishly.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” You said, genuinely apologetic, but Finn was already waving you off.

“It’s fine. James has a habit of stealing the spotlight anyway,” he joked, though his tone wasn’t without a hint of frustration. He wandered off toward his dorm room, leaving you to turn toward James and his growing group of admirers.

Later, Sirius confronted James about his little stunt. Calling him jealous, James scoffs dramatically. “Jealous? Me? Please. I’m just looking out for her.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Looking out for her, or making sure no one else looks at her?”

James shrugs, a smug little grin tugging at his lips. “Same thing, really.”

[reiding-writing]

Cold!reader who defends Spencer when’s someone’s making fun of his autistic traits, and the teams like “what?????”

STAGNANT — SPENCER REID!

why would someone ask spencer a question if they didn’t want to hear the answer?

late s8!spencer x cold!reader 1.2k fluff? cold!reader masterlist.

main masterlist.

a/n — the cold!reader roster i have atm has me kicking my feet and twirling my hair, stay tuned

You step into the cramped precinct in a town that barely makes the map, the smell of stale coffee and old paper immediately hitting you.

The air hums with tension—murder cases tend to have that effect on a room. Your team disperses, each member diving into their respective tasks like clockwork.

You stay near Spencer, keeping an eye on the board he’s already scouring, his sharp mind undoubtedly miles ahead of everyone else’s.

It doesn’t take long for the local officers to start asking questions. You’ve seen it before: their curiosity morphing into disbelief as they’re confronted with Spencer Reid in full form.

This particular case involves a peculiar type of soil found on the victim’s shoes, and when one officer, a grizzled man named Officer Moore, offhandedly asks about its significance, Spencer lights up.

“It’s fascinating, actually,” he begins, his voice picking up with enthusiasm. “The soil contains traces of montmorillonite clay, which is common in areas with volcanic ash deposits. This specific type is unique to the western side of the county, and based on the composition—” He gestures to the samples bagged on the table, oblivious to the officer’s quickly fading interest.

Spencer continues, lost in his explanation, his words flowing like water over smooth stones. You watch the officer shift uncomfortably, his expression hardening into impatience. The moment Spencer pauses to breathe, Moore cuts in, looking at you with a smirk.

“Is he like this all the time? Never shuts up, huh?”

You freeze. The room, bustling moments ago, seems quieter now. Your team is too far off to hear, but you’re right here. Close enough to feel the sting of the comment.

Spencer doesn’t notice. Or maybe he pretends not to. Either way, it doesn’t sit right with you. The dismissive tone, the condescension dripping from the officer’s words—it sparks a heat under your skin that you don’t bother to hide.

“Are you stupid?” Your voice is sharp, like a knife scraping metal. Moore’s smug expression falters.

“Excuse me-?”

“You heard me,” you continue, stepping closer, your gaze fixed on him. “If you can’t keep up with what Dr. Reid is saying, that’s your problem. He’s giving you answers—solutions—that you clearly wouldn’t find on your own. So maybe try listening instead of running your mouth.”

Moore blinks, taken aback. His hand hovers near the cup of coffee on the table, forgotten. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” you interrupt, crossing your arms. “And for the record, if he’s too much for you to handle, then stay out of his way, you’ll murk his IQ into single digits.”

The room is quiet now, the subtle hum of computers and distant voices the only sound. Spencer finally looks up, his expression unreadable. There’s a hint of surprise in his eyes, but mostly he just seems... confused.

Moore mutters something under his breath and stalks off, clearly not willing to press the issue further. Good. You watch him go, your blood still simmering.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Spencer says softly, his voice carrying a note of uncertainty.

“Yes, I did,” you reply without hesitation. “He was being a jerk.”

Spencer tilts his head, studying you. “People say things like that all the time.”

“Well, they shouldn’t,” you counter, your tone firm. “And if you wont put your foot down about it then I will.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, as if trying to decipher some hidden code in your words. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles—small and fleeting, but genuine. It feels like a victory, however minor.

—

Later, when the team regroups, the tension in the precinct has eased, though you can still feel a few lingering stares from the local officers.

Hotch gives you all the rundown of the next steps, his voice steady and commanding as always. You nod along, but your focus drifts to Spencer, who’s scribbling something in his notebook, seemingly unbothered by the earlier incident.

As the team breaks off to get to work, Emily sidles up beside you, her dark eyes alight with curiosity. “So,” she begins, drawing out the word. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” you reply, feigning ignorance.

“That little showdown with Officer Grumpy Pants earlier,” she says, smirking. “Word has it you tore him a new one,”

You shrug. “He was being disrespectful.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “To Reid?”

“To all of us, honestly,” you say. “But yeah, mostly Reid. He didn’t deserve that.”

Emily studies you for a moment, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “Awe how sweet,”

“Don’t start,” you warn, but there’s no real bite to your words. Emily laughs, raising her hands in mock surrender.

“Hey, no judgment,” she says. “It’s just... very human of you.”

“I’m not a robot.”

She gestures vaguely toward you. “Oh hush you know what I mean,”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother arguing. Instead, you glance across the room at Spencer, who’s now deep in conversation with JJ and Rossi. The earlier exchange seems to have rolled off him, as if it never happened.

But you know better. You’ve seen the way comments like that stick, the way they fester in that moment f hesitation before he speaks. You’re not sure why it matters so much to you—why he matters so much—but you don’t dwell on it.

—

The case drags on into the evening, the pieces of the puzzle slowly falling into place. By the time the unsub is in custody and the team is preparing to head back to the jet, exhaustion hangs heavy in the air.

As you gather your things, Morgan claps a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, Ice Queen,” he says, his tone teasing. “You did good.”

“Thank you? I was doing my job.” you reply, shooting him a bemused look.

He chuckles. “Not with the case, sweetness. Word is you went full gladiator on one of the locals earlier.”

“Word travels way too fast in this team,” you mutter.

Morgan grins. “What can I say? We’re a nosy bunch. But it’s nice to know you haven’t lost your bite now you’re saddled up to boy wonder.”

He gestures with his head towards where Spencer was sleeping on the jet’s couch, wrapped in a cheap blanket like baby.

You fight back the urge to smile.

“I never changed,” you say dryly.

Morgan laughs, but there’s a glimmer of respect in his eyes. “Sure you did,”

“No I didn’t,”

He nudges your shoulder, a whisper of “You’ll admit it one day,” before he walks off.

[velvetsserenity]

they call me firecracker

client!sevika x brothelworker!reader

✎ word count: 2k

꩜ content warnings: nsfw, rough strap-on sex, overstimulation, choking, hair pulling, degradation, humiliation, possessive behavior, objectification, power imbalance, client x sex worker dynamic, biting, bruising, smoking, dubious consent themes, lack of aftercare

The hallway hushes the moment her boots hit the floor.

Not fast—just slow, deliberate steps on the creaking wood. Heavy enough to feel through the soles of your shoes. You don't need to look. You know it's her. Everyone does. Her shadow hits the velvet wall just seconds before she rounds the corner, and every other girl either looks away or pretends not to notice.

She doesn’t stop for anyone. She never does.

The madam gives a barely visible nod, already stepping aside, and then Sevika’s eyes find yours through the half-curtained doorframe.

She doesn’t knock. She never has. Just presses a gloved hand to the doorframe, pushes it open like she owns the place, and steps in with a drag of smoke trailing behind her.

You’re on your knees, arranging your just washed lingerie, your back arched just enough to make a point—and her gaze catches. Lingers.

“Didn’t expect you tonight,” you say, without turning.

“You should’ve,” she replies. Her voice is rough. Cigarette low in her mouth, hand already unfastening the top clasp of her coat.

“I was scheduled with someone else.”

She takes a long drag, then flicks the ash onto your floor. “Not anymore.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Did you pay for that?”

Her coat hits the armchair. She doesn’t answer. She never does.

She steps behind you, boots slow, measured, as you stay on your knees. You should get up. You should say something sharp. But the energy shifts the moment she’s behind you, thick and warm and sharp around the edges. Her gloved hand grabs the back of your neck, as she leans over your frame, and tilts your head to the side.

“That tone,” she mutters, fingers flexing, “you only use it with me.”

You hum, lips parted. “Maybe I only need it with you.” you sigh loudly.

You shouldn’t tease her. Not when she’s like this—coiled and quiet and dark around the edges. But you like the consequences. You like the way she handles you when she’s had a bad day. You like knowing the others can hear your breath hitch when she bites your ear just hard enough to leave a mark.

She presses her feetbetween your thighs from behind, boot pushing you open on the soft carpet. "Still pretending you're not waiting for me every night?"

“Still pretending I’m just a hole for hire?”

You feel her smile before you hear it. A low, dangerous sound against your jaw. Both knowing you literally are.

“Take your clothes off.”

You go slow on purpose. Pull your robe open one inch at a time. She watches. You feel her eyes drag across every inch of exposed skin like a burn. By the time you’re fully bare, she’s behind you again, bare hand now at your throat, lifting you up, pulling your back to her chest, her mechanical fingers cold on your waist.

“You think about me?” she asks, voice low, teeth grazing your neck.

You don’t answer.

Wrong move.

Her fingers close just enough around your throat to make your breath pause.

“I asked you a question.”

You tilt your head back, daring her. “Not feeding your ego, Sevika.”

She doesn’t kiss you. Sevika doesn’t do soft. She bites. Her mouth is on your collarbone before the words are cold in the air, and you gasp, digging your nails into her arm just to stay upright. She growls, pushes you forward onto the mattress, chest down, ass up.

“Need you to remember something,” she says, positioning herself behind you, voice almost too calm. “You’re not paid to want me.”

She shrugs out of her harness vest with a practiced roll of her shoulders, letting it fall with a dull thunk to the floor. You hear the unbuckle of her belt next—real this time, heavy, metal sliding through loops. But instead of dropping it, she opens her coat wider and pulls the strap-on from inside, worn leather and dark silicone already slick with lube.

You go still, throat dry.

She straps it on without a word, slow and precise. Tightens the buckles across her hips. Adjusts the fit like she’s done it a hundred times in the dark. She probably has.

Her gaze flicks up to find you watching.

“Don’t look so surprised,” she mutters, gloved hand gripping the base. “You knew what you were begging for.”

You bury your face in the sheets, groaning. She always brings it. You just forget how big it looks when she straps it on. How heavy her presence becomes the second she has it between her legs.

“Look at you,” she mutters, voice dark with something between amusement and hunger. “Back arched like a fucking pet. You wait like this for everyone?”

You groan, breath shaky. “If they pay right.”

“Tch.”

She steps in close, metal hand gripping your hip, thumb digging into the curve of your ass. Her other hand slips down between your thighs, bare fingers grazing your folds like it’s nothing—just a test. You jerk at the contact, slick already clinging to her skin.

She hums low. “Dripping.”

You whimper, shifting, but her grip tightens.

“Stay still.”

You breathe through your teeth. Her fingers slide up, unhurried, and rub circles into your clit, slow and mean. You whimper. The sensation burns—it’s teasing and humiliating and hot. Her other hand grabs a fistful of your ass, holding you wide open for her.

“You know what happens when you act like a brat?” she asks, slipping one thick finger inside without warning.

You moan into the mattress.

She adds a second, rough and deep. Your hips jerk forward. She pulls you back.

“Answer me.”

“Y-you make me beg,” you choke out.

She curls her fingers slow, angling just right.

“And you’re gonna,” she breathes.

Her hand fucks you lazily, fingers thick, knuckles grinding against your slick heat. She doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t let you chase it. Just holds you there, trembling and stuffed full, using your body like it belongs to her.

Your knees shake.

“You close already?” she murmurs, sounding almost bored. “Fucking pathetic.”

She slips her fingers out with a wet sound and wipes them on the inside of your thigh.

Then she reaches for the strap-on—worn leather and slick black silicone, her hand fitting around it, navigating it.

“You ready to take it?”

“Yes,” you whisper, wrecked.

She palms your ass, leans in close.

“Too bad.”

The cock presses between your folds, not entering yet—just dragging through your wetness, thick and heavy and deliberate. She lets it rest there, makes you feel it. Makes you ache for it.

She continues the movement for a bit, teasing both of you. Watching the strap-on disappear and reappear betwen your clenched thighs.

And then—

She thrusts in. Deep. Unforgiving. You cry out, the sound muffled by the mattress, legs trembling under the weight of her hips slamming into you.

“Too quiet,” Sevika growls, grabbing your hair and yanking your head up just enough to hear you better. “I said let them hear.”

You moan louder, and she rewards you with another thrust, harder this time. Deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

“Good girl.”

The words shouldn’t make you clench the way they do. But they do.

She sets a pace that’s brutal from the start, hips slamming into your ass, the sound of flesh on flesh sharp and wet and endless. Her cock drags against that sensitive spot inside you over and over, your thighs shaking, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as you cling to the sheets for something, anything, to hold you together.

Your body aches, slick dripping down your thighs, heart pounding like it’s trying to run from her—like you could. You can’t. You don’t even want to.

She leans down, her weight pressing against your back, one hand on your throat again not choking, just holding. Just reminding you.

“I could fuck you like this all night,” she growls. “Don’t need breaks. Don’t need softness. Just need to hear you cry.”

You go limp, arms sliding out from under you.

That’s when she grabs your hips and lifts them back into place.

“Don’t drop,” she growls. “We’re not done.”

You whine. It’s all you can manage. But you let her reposition you. You let her keep going.

She’s panting now. Not from exhaustion—she never fucks like she’s tired—but from focus. Like she’s working something out of herself. Like the only way to feel right is to break you.

And fuck—you're breaking.

She digs her fingers into your hips, thrusting deep, rhythm precise. Not frantic. Not desperate. Just relentless. Her control is terrifying. There’s no slip in her pace, no mercy in her grip.

“You feel that?” she rasps, cock buried to the hilt inside you. “No one else makes you feel this full. No one else fucks you this deep.”

You nod against the mattress, half-conscious, mouth open.

She slaps your ass again, harder than before. “Use your words.”

“Only you,” you cry out, body trembling. “Fuck—only you.”

She exhales sharp through her nose like that does something to her. Her hand slides under you now, rough fingers working your clit in fast, cruel circles while she keeps pounding into you from behind.

Her voice is dark now, strained, like she’s fighting something in her own chest. Like this is no longer just about making you fall apart but about proving something. To you. To herself.

She rubs harder, faster, until your legs buckle completely and your scream rips through the room.

You don’t even feel your body collapse. You just hear her breathing—heavy, steady, satisfied.

She finally slows. Pulls out slow, the strap slick and soaked with you, shining in the low light. You’re twitching under her, legs still spread, cunt pulsing with aftershocks.

And for a second—you think she might stay.

You think she might press a hand to your back and whisper something. Something that means something.

But no.

She steps back. Unbuckles the strap. Wipes it off with a cloth from her coat. Buckles her belt again with that same practiced efficiency.

You don’t turn to look. You couldn’t if you tried. Your body’s still face-down, barely functioning, and she doesn’t help you up.

She lights a cigarette like nothing happened. Walks to the corner chair. Sits.

Watches you.

“Same time next week?” she asks flatly.

You want to spit. You want to say no. You want to say something that matters.

But your body says yes before your mouth does. Because you know it. And she knows it.

You’ll be on your knees again the moment her boots hit the hallway.

a/n: 'hole for hire'' haha, get it? ok..

★ plagarism not authorized ★

[moody-alcoholic]

Part 2 as promised.

Part 1

CW: Dead dove don’t eat, assault, mentions of SA, torture, suicidal thoughts, hurt/comfort.

_____________________

Ghost flicks the ash off his cigarette. 

“Do we know who we’re looking for?" Gaz asks. It's a pointless question. They know who they’re looking for. You’ve been mentioning a guy at work who has been getting a little too handsy. 

You were going to confront him in the new year with your boss. You didn’t want to ruin anyone's Christmas, now yours is ruined. 

People are starting to leave the office building now, it’s just past midnight. They watch in silence concealed in the darkness down an alleyway a few buildings from your workplace. Maybe this was the alley you were found down. It’s dark and cold, the businesses are all closed, it would have been easy to coerce you down, it makes his stomach drop. Someone hurt you, he hurt you. 

“Should have taken care of this sooner.” Gaz says. Ghost just hums watching as the lights in the buildings go off. The last few people are filtering out the building. Ghost straightens up flicking his cigarette but to the floor. 

“That’s him.” Ghost says, blowing out the smoke before reaching up to pull the familiar balaclava down over his face. 

_____________________

When the police arrive you feel somewhat sober. Your body is sore, your head throbbing. Seeing them walk in with all their gear makes you nervous. All of a sudden you feel like you’ve done something wrong. 

Johnny never leaves your side, he holds your hand stroking it with his thumb while the female officer asks you questions you don’t know how to answer. You still can’t remember what happened. You can piece it together though, you can tell by the hushed voices and the somber looks from people. 

The worst is the pain, the ache in your body every time you move, the bruises hurt the most.  Sometimes Johnny runs his fingers over them, his eyes going dark and he lets out a sigh. John stands at the end of the bed still, his gaze never leaves you unless someone enters the room. You just want to go home. 

The most embarrassing part is when they have to take pictures of your injuries. Your swollen eye is now turning black and blue. There’s bruises around your neck, talking hurts, swallowing’s worse. The nurse gives you more painkillers but it just makes you feel sick. 

John talks with the officers and the nurse after they’re done. Johnny tries to keep your attention on him. You feel embarrassed, the nurse said they did a rape kit, you don’t even remember that, the police need to take it for evidence. That makes silent tears come, you can’t stop them. 

“C’mon, none of that love.” Johnny says reaching up to brush them away. 

“I want to go home,” you sob. 

“We’ll be home soon, promise,” he smiles. You want a shower, you want to scrub your body clean. You feel dirty, your stomach is turning as your mind wanders to the unthinkable. You hope you never remember what happened, you fear you won’t be so lucky.

_____________________

Ghost’s fist meets his cheek, his nose is broken, his jaw will be next. Not now though, now they need him to talk. 

“Price says he’s on his way.” Gaz says as he walks back over to him. “Asked you not to kill him.” Ghost just grunts. 

Ryan, that's his name. You never mentioned that to them, you didn’t mention much just that he was making you uncomfortable. Gaz was right they should have dealt with this sooner. They shouldn’t have let you go to the party alone. Even before you left you had reservations. 

Ryan hasn’t said much. He was very drunk when they picked him up. He seems pretty sober now, he’s scared. 

Good, he should be.

Ghost wonders if you were scared, when you were assaulted. It doesn’t seem like you remember much, for your sake he hopes it stays that way. 

The door to the secluded warehouse opens, the sound of slamming metal echoes in the space. John bought this place a few months ago, used to store scrap metal. The place still smells of rust, but it’s outside the city center, it’s quiet and that's all they need. 

Price walks over coming out of the darkness. He doesn’t say a word, just takes in the scene. Ryan looks up, his eyes glued on the new person walking up to him. Price grabs the back of a chair and places it in front of him before sitting down. 

“Ryan, right?” He asks. The man nods. “Had a good night? He doesn’t move. 

“Do you like your job?” He nods again. Price leans forward. “So, let's have a chat about what happened tonight.” 

“Nothing happened tonight,” he says, swallowing hard. Price smiles at him for a second before sitting back up.

“Let’s try that again. What happened at the party?” Ryan looks confused for a second. Blood is still dripping from his nose, Price sighs this is going to be a long night. 

“Wait, is this all about her?” He asks looking up past Price at Ghost. “Look I don’t know what you think happened but she came onto me.” 

Price hums his hands gripping his thighs before getting up and moving the chair away. “Thing is, I just don’t believe you.” Ghost steps back over to him. 

“I’m telling the truth.” He pleads. 

“Nope, try again.” Price says. Ghost’s fist crashes into Ryans face. His head snaps uncomfortably, he spits blood coughing. 

“So what happened at the party?” Price asks again. 

“Who the fuck even are you!?” He shouts looking round at the 3 men standing in front of him.  

“That doesn’t matter.” Price says, Ryan scoffs spitting again. 

“Why do you care?” He asks, looking around at everyone. 

“It’s a simple question.” Price says bending down so his head is level with his face. “We can be here all night. Or you can be honest with us.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He says, there’s a shake in his voice. The adrenaline and alcohol pumping through his system is filling him with confidence. They have to break that first. Price sighs moving back to stand with Gaz. 

This time Ghost’s fist slams into his stomach. He buckles over in pain, crying out as he pants. Price doesn’t wait, striding over to him grabbing his hair, pulling his head back. 

“Okay, okay. But she was drunk!” He shouts, trying to fight Price’s grip. His arms and legs are tied to the chair. Price doesn’t let go of his head holding it back as far as it will go. 

“No. Try again.” Price says through gritted teeth. 

“I didn't do anything!” He says between breaths. Price looks up at Ghost and nods, Ghost unfolds his arms going back over to the car. 

“We can make this very uncomfortable for you. All we need is the truth.” Price says, pulling his head again. 

“I don’t know anything.” There’s a whimper in his voice, a crack in his confidence. They're getting there. Price forces his head straight as Ghost comes back over to them twirling the knife in his hand. Ryans eyes go wide, his arms and legs pulling on the restraints. Price keeps his grip firm on his head forcing him to look at Ghost’s hulking figure moving towards him. 

“Last chance.” Price says. Ryan doesn’t say anything, his eyes still locked onto Ghost. 

“I-I didn't-” He sucks in a breath of air swallowing. “She was drunk!” 

Price sighs, shaking his head. He looks up at Ghost, he can see the disgust behind his lieutenants eyes. 

Ghost plunges the knife into his thigh. Price lets go of Rhyn’s head as he screams.

_____________________

John left almost an hour ago. Johnny recommended a bath instead of a shower, so you could soak and warm up. He gets in the bath with you pulling your back up against his chest as you sit between his legs. The bath was a good idea, the water is almost too hot but you don’t mind. 

It feels good to be in Johnny’s arms. He helps you rub soap over your body. He’s gentle, pressing kisses on your shoulders avoiding your neck. You sigh, relaxing back into him. Your head is still stuffy, it feels like you’ve been run over by a truck. 

“Where is everyone?” You ask. 

“Out, they’ll be back soon don’t worry.” He says his voice is warm in your ear. His arms squeeze you closer to him. The memories of the night seem to be just out of reach, you remember a face though. 

“I know who it was,” you say your voice catches in your throat. 

“Shh, we don’t have to talk about it.” His hand comes to push hair behind your ear. You smile, you don’t want to talk about it but maybe it will help. 

“I have work tomorrow.” Your stomach sinks. The thought of going back to that place with him there. Having to spend the days avoiding him, brushing off his hands as they squeeze your ass or his fingers press against your breasts. You were going to talk to your boss about him in the new year. 

“No you don’t, don’t worry about anything.” He says kissing your shoulder again. You shiver, the water has lost its heat. Johnny shifts pushing you forward. 

“C’mon let’s get you into bed. You’ll feel better after a good sleep.” You don’t know if you believe him but he gets out the bath leaving you alone and cold. You feel dirty, used. You feel panic rising in your chest. As soon as you hear the door to the room open you lay down in the tub closing your eyes and holding your breath. 

Your mind goes back to the alley, it’s like flashes in your vision, the dump trash bin you’re uncomfortably bent over. A hand over your mouth then round your neck. The pain, the pain is unbelievable. You don’t remember how it happened, how you ended up there, the next thing you remember is a party of drunk women finding you. Then the paramedics showed up. 

Your lungs burn but you don’t care. You deserve the pain. Hands grip your arms pulling you up out of the water. 

“Christ love,” Johnny says, holding you against him as you pant sucking in breaths of air. The panting turns to sobbing. He reaches, pulling the plug out the bath and picking you up in his arms. 

“I know, love I know.” He takes you into the bedroom putting you down on the bed. You pull your legs up to your chest. Johnny dries you, rubbing you down while you sob. He brings pyjamas over, he helps you change, pulling the fresh clothes on you. You still feel dirty, maybe it will always be like this. You don’t want it to be like this.

“It hurts.” You say as he climbs into bed behind you. His arms wrap around you pulling your back against his chest. 

“You’re okay lass, you’re safe.” He kisses the top of your head. It’s not, it's not going to be okay. You just hope whatever the others are doing they’re safe. You miss them, you want to see them again. You want everything to go back to normal 

…

Simon crawls into the bed with you and Johnny. You’re asleep on Johnny’s chest. He shuffles up against your back wrapping his arm around you both. His hair is still wet from the shower. He kisses the top of your head. Johnny stirs feeling a hand grip his hip. 

“Did you get him?” Johnny asks, his voice still sleepy. 

“Yeah, we got him.” 

_____________________

[kxsagi]

hihi i LOVE LOVE LOVE your writing sm i’ve read basically all of them 😭🩷

i saw a video of a wife asking her husband “if i die and you remarry, when you die will you be buried next to me or your new wife?”

if you can, can you do this w the bllk guys??

if you can’t, just ignore this 🫶

“𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐝𝐨 𝐮𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭… 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞”

a/n: THANK YOUUUUU

I LOVE YOUR IDEAS, THIS ATE ❤️

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi sae, kaiser michael, itoshi rin, nagi seishiro, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma, karasu tabito, hiori yo, shidou ryusei, ness alexis, bachira meguru

isagi yoichi

“... why are you asking me this at 3 AM while i’m brushing my teeth?” 

poor guy was not prepared. he’s literally got a toothbrush in his mouth and you drop this philosophical bomb on him like it’s nothing. 

he spits out the toothpaste mid-choke. 

“first of all, why are you dead?! second of all, who the hell is this imaginary wife?! i’m gonna die alone, crying at your grave like a loser–” 

gets way too emotional way too fast. now you’re trying to comfort him 😭 

“you think i’m gonna love anyone enough to be buried next to them? no. i’ll be buried next to you or not at all. plot twist, i fake my death and move in next to your grave in a tent.” 

now you’re crying. he’s crying. the dog is crying. you guys are unwell. 

itoshi sae

“wtf kind of question is that.” 

stares at you like you just asked him if he’d eat his next wife’s toenails. 

“i’m not getting married again. why would i? you’re the only one i liked enough to commit to. anyone else is annoying.” 

you’re on the verge of tears. 

“also, my ghost will haunt anyone who tries to touch my corpse. you think i’d share a burial plot? nah. i’m getting cremated and mixed into your ashes. now we’re both in the same damn urn. problem solved.” 

so specific. so dramatic. so him. 

kaiser michael

“babe, why are you asking me questions like this when i’m literally shirtless and vulnerable.” 

immediately panics because he knows it’s a lose-lose question. 

tries to joke it off: “i’ll get buried between you and my new wife like a sexy grave sandwich.” 

silence. 

“... i was kidding. obviously.” 

starts overthinking and imagining fake future scenarios where you’re not there and he’s an old man crying into a photo of you. 

“actually, scratch that. if you die, i die, too. dramatic romantic death pact. like romeo and juliet. except with no poison because that sounds horrible.” 

writes a will that says: “bury me with my first wife or don’t bury me at all.” 

adds a dramatic drawing of him weeping at your grave. 

itoshi rin

stops. mid-bite. mid-breath. mid-thought. 

blinks slowly. 

“why would i remarry.” 

says it like it’s the dumbest thing he’s ever heard. 

“you think i’m going through the agony of dating again? of being emotionally vulnerable again? of pretending to like someone’s jokes again? “i’d rather get hit by a truck and be buried face down in a ditch.” 

you’re like “you wouldn’t even consider it?” 

he scoffs. “you don’t get it. if you die, that’s it. i’m done. there’s no part two.” 

and then – 

“also if they try to bury me next to someone else, i’m coming back to life out of pure spite. i will haunt the graveyard. i will throw dirt at people.” 

writes in his will: “bury me next to her or i will make hell your problem.” 

nagi seishiro

“mm… can i just respawn and be buried next to you in my next life? “i don’t wanna do all that extra marriage stuff again. sounds tiring.” 

he literally says he’ll just build a house in the afterlife and wait for you to show up like it’s minecraft. 

also casually mentions he’ll put a “no girls allowed” sign if anyone else tries to flirt with him in heaven 😭 

“besides, you’re the only one who puts up with me. no one else deserves to be my ghost neighbor.” 

he’d get cremated and request his ashes be sprinkled on top of your coffin like parmesan cheese. romantic. 

mikage reo

“what kind of scenario is this?? are we in a soap opera??” 

pulls out powerpoint. 

“as you can see from slide three, i will never remarry. slide four shows the customized gravestone that already has our names on it. and slide five is just a meme, but it felt relevant.” 

has already purchased side-by-side burial plots “just in case.” 

“i don’t care how old i get, you’re it for me. if you die first, i’m still sending you memes from the afterlife.” 

you’re like this was supposed to be a joke – 

“it’s not a joke. i planned the playlist for our funeral already.” 

chigiri hyoma

“buried next to my new wife? i’d rather be buried next to my shampoo collection.” 

looks offended you even implied he’d remarry. 

“you think i’m letting someone else call me ‘babe’? disgusting.” 

he’s genuinely more upset about the idea of someone else trying to take your spot than his own death. 

“if you go first, i’m turning into an emotionally unavailable old man who only wears black and listens to sad playlists.” 

“actually, i’ll just haunt you and wait till you die, too. make it quick.” 

karasu tabito

“wait so in this AU, you’re dead, i’m alive, i remarry, and then i die? what kinda fanfiction timeline are we on rn.” 

immediately starts teasing. 

“so you're saying you're gonna let another woman have me? wow. fake.” “ANSWER THE QUESTION.” “obviously i’d be buried next to you. but now i’m wondering if my new wife would be hot–” 

you throw a pillow at him. 

“OKAY OKAY IT’S YOU. IT’S ALWAYS YOU. i’d get a second grave next to you just in case mine filled up with too many dramatic sobs.” 

writes his own tombstone message: “don’t worry babe, i got buried next to you.” 

hiori yo

visibly stressed by the moral dilemma. 

“wait. would you want me buried next to you if i remarried? would that be disrespectful?? would it hurt your ghost feelings??” 

bro thinks this is an ethics class discussion. 

you’re like “hiori, i just wanted to hear you say it’s me 😭” 

“oh. then yes. obviously you. i’d get a whole graveyard if i had to. you get the nicest spot. she gets the ditch.” 

writes it in his will just to be sure: “under no circumstances will i be buried next to anyone but her.” 

draws a little heart in the margins and everything. 

shidou ryusei

“ohhh we’re doing hypothetical trauma bonding? i’m in.” 

you ask the question. he goes quiet. 

“babe. i will punch my way out of the coffin if they try to bury me next to anyone else. you think this is a joke? i will haunt the mortician.” 

“bury me next to you or yeet me into a volcano. your choice.” 

gets weirdly romantic and intense about it. 

“also i’m not remarrying. no one else is mentally unwell enough to match my energy anyway.” 

shidou’s ghost would 100% be floating around your grave with sunglasses like “still hotter than your average corpse.” 

ness alexis

gasps. like full dramatic GASP, hand on chest, almost drops his skincare bottle. 

“YOU DIED?! AND I WAS STUPID ENOUGH TO REMARRY?” 

looks personally betrayed by this made-up scenario. 

“why would you even say that?! my whole aesthetic would be RUINED without you!” 

paces around like he’s in a soap opera. 

“no offense to future imaginary wife, but i’d pay extra to be buried next to you, in the prettier coffin, with a better outfit. she can be buried in the clearance section for all i care.” 

already has funeral outfits picked out for the two of you. matching. with pearls. 

“if i die first, i’m gonna request a full gothic candlelit shrine next to your side of the bed so you never forget who the original wife was.” 

will be so passive-aggressive in the afterlife. 

bachira meguru

“ooooh spooky question ~ i like it!” 

he thrives on unhinged hypotheticals. 

“hmm okay okay… if i die, and you die, and i remarry, and then i die again– wait no, i’m confusing myself.” 

10 minutes later: “okay, i figured it out! i’m getting buried next to you AND the new wife. but the twist is: you rise from the grave and fight her for graveyard dominance.” 

you’re just staring at him like ??? 

“jk jk jk 😚 obviously i’m getting buried next to you! in a cute grave with smiley face carvings and sunflowers.” 

“also i’m gonna build a little ghost house on your grave and throw ghost parties there until you show up again.” 

“do you think ghosts can cuddle?” 

bro turns your emotional trap question into a horror-comedy date night. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[matchlatt]

OPPOSITE ATTRACT (SECRETLY OF COURSE)

synopsis — you and bakugo’s personality are the total opposite and no one would expect you guys to ever be friends until…

word count — 1.1k

a/n — BAKUGO IS SO FINE LIKE I WAS DYING WRITING THIS. I LOVE HIM SM LIKECJEJFJJS. anyways

The common room of Class 1-A was filled with energy, as it often was after a long day of classes. The girls had claimed one corner of the room, lounging on the couches and chatting away as they were talking about boys and their types.

“I think Kirishima is cute,” Mina mused, swinging her legs over the couch armrest. “He’s got that golden retriever personality, you know?”

“He’s definitely charming,” Hagakure giggled.

Ochacco tilted her head. “What about you y/n? Any crushes?”

y/n, the kind-hearted sweetheart of the class, smiled softly. “I don’t really know.. I guess I like someone strong but caring deep down.”

Asui blinked. “Ribbit. That’s a pretty broad answer.”

Before y/n could elaborate, the boy’s voices echoed from the other side of the living room. They were being their usual loud selves, Kirishima, Kaminari, Tokoyami, and of course, Bakugo.

Kirishima heard the girl’s conversation before suddenly turned to Bakugo with a sly grin. “Hey, Bakugo, what’s your type?”

The room fell silent. Everyone knew Bakugo was not the type to entertain such conversations, which is exactly who Kirishima had asked, just to get a rise out of him.

“Oi! What kinda dumbass question is that!?” Bakugo’s voice immediately exploded through the air.

Kaminari snickered. “C’mon, man, we’re just curious.”

“Tch. As if I’d waste my time thinking about crap like that,” Bakugo scoffed, folding his arms, His face had taken on the slightest tinge of red, but he masked it with an aggressive scowl.

From the girls’ corner, y/n giggled. She wasn’t even trying to hide it. Bakugo’s annoyed reactions was just too funny.

That did not go unnoticed. Bakugo’s crimson eyes snapped to her, narrowing suspiciously.

“The hell are you laughing at?” he growled.

y/n shocked her head, still smiling. “Nothing, nothing!”

But the damage had already been done. Mina and Kirishima immediately locked eyes with each other, their expressions screaming, suspicious.

-

Later that night, Mina and Kirishima crouched behind the corner of the hallway, whispering excitedly.

“Okay, tell me you saw that,” Mina said. “y/n laughed at Bakugo’s reaction. That’s weird.”

Kirishima grinned. “And Bakugo actually reacted to her. That’s even weirder.”

They had been low-key theorizing about Bakugo and y/n for weeks. Sure, they never interacted much in public, but there was something off about how Bakugo didn’t seem to direct his usual rage at y/n. And that giggle? That was their confirmation.

So, when they saw y/n quietly slipping out of her dorm room and tiptoeing toward Bakugo’s, they had to investigate.

“Okay, let’s wait a few minutes, then bam! We barge in,” Mina whispered.

Kirishima nodded. “If we die, it was an honor.”

Mina smirked. “We’re heroes in training, we’ll be fine.”

-

The Class 1-A dorms had settled into a quiet hum for the night. Most of the students were relaxing in their rooms, some playing games, other studying, and a few, like Mina and Kirishima, engaging in questionable activities.

y/n on the other hand, had other plans.

She tiptoed down the hallway, hand gripping the hem of her hoodie as she scanned the area. The last thing she needed was for someone to see her sneaking in his room. Though, knowing her luck, someone — Mina and Kirishima most likely was already watching.

Reaching Bakugo’s door, she raised a delicate fist and knocked twice. No answer. Not unusual.

Rolling her eyes with a soft smile, she carefully turned the knob, it was never locked for her. The door creaked open just enough for her to slip inside before closing it behind her.

The moment she entered, the atmosphere shifted.

Katsuki Bakugo lay sprawled across his bed, one arm lazily tucked behind his head while the other draped over his stomach. His ash-blond hair was messier than usual, and his uniform jacket was discarded on his desk chair, leaving him in his black t-shirt and black sweats.

At the sound of the door shutting, his crimson eyes lazily flickered open.

“You took forever,” he grumbled.

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, walking over to his bed. “You didn’t even answer the door.”

“Didn’t feel like moving.”

She shook her head fondly before settling onto the bed beside him. The second she did, Bakugo wasted no time. With a low grunt, he shifted closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her down onto the mattress with him.

“You’re clingy tonight,” Y/N mused, her fingers instinctively threading through his messy hair.

He only grumbled, nuzzling into the warmth of her shoulder. “Tch. Shut up.”

She giggled, the vibration of her laughter making him hum in satisfaction. They stayed like that for a while. Bakugo was completely relaxed, his breathing steady, his grip firm but comforting. This was a side of him no one else saw.

During school hours, he acted as if she barely existed. But in moments like these, when it was just the two of them, he couldn’t keep his hands off her.

“You laughed at me today,” he muttered suddenly, voice muffled against her hoodie.

Y/N blinked, then smiled. “Because you were funny.”

He huffed, pulling her even closer. “Dumbass.”

She rolled her eyes playfully but made no move to push him away. She liked this side of him, this soft, vulnerable, needy side. And no matter how gruff he tried to sound, she could hear the underlying plea in his voice when he mumbled.

“Shut up and stay here.”

Y/N hummed, running her fingers soothingly along his scalp. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

-

Outside the door, Mina and Kirishima crouched low, exchanging glances at each other with excitement.

“Okay,” Mina whispered. “This confirms it.”

Kirishima nodded. “They have to be dating.”

“Or at least something.” Mina’s grin widened. “Now, we need proof.”

The two waited a few more moments, letting the suspense build. Then

BAM!

The door slammed open.

“OH. MY. GOD,” Mina screeched, her phone already raised.

Click! Click!

Kirishima doubled over in wheezing laughter. “DUDE! YOU’RE SO CLINGY!”

Bakugo shot up immediately, his entire face exploding into a furious shade of red.

“YOU DAMN EXTRAS!!!”

Mina howled with laughter, waving her phone like a trophy. “I GOT PICTURES! THIS IS GOLD!”

“DELETE THEM, YOU PINK HAIRED GREMLIN!” Bakugo roared, lunging off the bed.

Mina screamed, scrambling out of the room at lightning speed, Kirishima hot on her heels.

“RUN, RUN, RUN!” Kirishima yelled between bouts of laughter.

Bakugo exploded after them, quite literally, his hands sparking as he chased them down the hall. The dorms erupted into chaos, doors creaked open as confused classmates peered out, blinking at the spectacle of Bakugo launching himself after Mina and Kirishima, his furious shouts echoing through the building.

y/n, who walked out of the room, covered her mouth as she burst into laughter.

So much for their little secret.