#Professional Lecture Series

[river-taxbird]

There is no such thing as AI.

How to help the non technical and less online people in your life navigate the latest techbro grift.

I've seen other people say stuff to this effect but it's worth reiterating. Today in class, my professor was talking about a news article where a celebrity's likeness was used in an ai image without their permission. Then she mentioned a guest lecture about how AI is going to help finance professionals. Then I pointed out, those two things aren't really related.

The term AI is being used to obfuscate details about multiple semi-related technologies.

Traditionally in sci-fi, AI means artificial general intelligence like Data from star trek, or the terminator. This, I shouldn't need to say, doesn't exist. Techbros use the term AI to trick investors into funding their projects. It's largely a grift.

What is the term AI being used to obfuscate?

If you want to help the less online and less tech literate people in your life navigate the hype around AI, the best way to do it is to encourage them to change their language around AI topics.

By calling these technologies what they really are, and encouraging the people around us to know the real names, we can help lift the veil, kill the hype, and keep people safe from scams. Here are some starting points, which I am just pulling from Wikipedia. I'd highly encourage you to do your own research.

Machine learning (ML): is an umbrella term for solving problems for which development of algorithms by human programmers would be cost-prohibitive, and instead the problems are solved by helping machines "discover" their "own" algorithms, without needing to be explicitly told what to do by any human-developed algorithms. (This is the basis of most technologically people call AI)

Language model: (LM or LLM) is a probabilistic model of a natural language that can generate probabilities of a series of words, based on text corpora in one or multiple languages it was trained on. (This would be your ChatGPT.)

Generative adversarial network (GAN): is a class of machine learning framework and a prominent framework for approaching generative AI. In a GAN, two neural networks contest with each other in the form of a zero-sum game, where one agent's gain is another agent's loss. (This is the source of some AI images and deepfakes.)

Diffusion Models: Models that generate the probability distribution of a given dataset. In image generation, a neural network is trained to denoise images with added gaussian noise by learning to remove the noise. After the training is complete, it can then be used for image generation by starting with a random noise image and denoise that. (This is the more common technology behind AI images, including Dall-E and Stable Diffusion. I added this one to the post after as it was brought to my attention it is now more common than GANs.)

I know these terms are more technical, but they are also more accurate, and they can easily be explained in a way non-technical people can understand. The grifters are using language to give this technology its power, so we can use language to take it's power away and let people see it for what it really is.

[skzdarlings]

Chan with ❛ that really does make you hard. i can feel you pulsing inside me. ❜

summary: your husband is a university professor. when you sit in on one of his lectures, it gives both of you an idea...

pairing: bang chan/reader content info: husband!chan, kinky professor/student roleplay, though reader is his wife and not actually a student. dom!chan, sub!reader, degrading language (stupid, dumb, slut). corruption kink, power dynamics kink. explicit sexual content. word count: 2380 words.

part of the valentine's day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

-

Chan is giving a lecture when you reach the university.   You kill some time and grab a coffee, ambling around campus and idling in corridors until your wandering leads you to his hall.  The main doors are propped open, likely for air circulation with the spring heat, and you smile at his voice spilling into the hallway. 

It is a big lecture hall.  He is teaching a beginner level so the class is substantially large, a couple hundred freshman packed inside.  No one will notice an extra presence.  There are a few empty seats scattered across the back row so you slip inside and quietly take one. 

You like seeing Chan in his element.  Your husband is something of a chameleon, spending his down time in hoodies and baseball caps, listening to music and giggling at his own goofy jokes.  You almost forget his professional side, his prestigious and academic character.  He loves his research and his work and his students and it shows in every remark and gesticulation.  

You adore him.  His passion and intelligence never cease to amaze you.

Though right now your loving attention strays to his appearance.  You must admit: your husband is a hottie.  You suspect the tittering co-eds in the first few rows are not as interested in statistical analysis as their rapt attention might suggest.

Professor Bang Chan stands at the front of the hall, dressed down to his shirtsleeves.  His suit jacket has been tossed over the desk.  His pants are pressed, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, but his neat black hair is just this side of dishevelled, like he has been running his fingers through it. 

You slouch in your seat and smile a cheesy smile as you watch him work. 

He looks around the hall as he lectures, attentive to every student.   In his perusal, his eyes skim the back row.  They stop on you.   

“And that’s why we, uh, ah…” He stumbles so noticeably that a few heads turn to see what caught his eye.   He laughs and waves, drawing their attention again.  “Sorry, sorry, as I was saying…”    

Your smile only widens.  There is a little flutter in your heart as your husband looks at you with a glimmer in his eye.  You rest your head on your fist and watch the rest of the lecture without any interruption.  

You stay seated when it ends and the students file out.  Chan lingers by his desk to sort his papers.  You just admire him for a moment, then you make your way down the aisle.  He lifts his head, smiling at you.

“Hey, stranger,” he says, shrugging on his jacket.  “You’re early.” 

“Yeah, I thought traffic would be worse.”  

“Hungry?”

“Definitely, Professor,” you say.  Your original plans were dinner, but you lift an eyebrow while smirking, suggesting a different kind of hunger entirely. 

It makes him laugh, a nervous sort of laugh.  You are charmed by the tips of his ears turning red, a testament to your ability to fluster your man well into your marriage. 

“What’s wrong, Professor?” you ask, reaching up to touch his face.   “Aren’t you hungry too?”

He stares back at you for a moment.  His gaze is resolute despite his faint blush.  You cannot help your delight. 

“Ooh,” you say.  “Do you like it when I call you Professor, Professor?”

He finally takes your hand and lowers it. 

“I’m a professional,” is what he says, which is definitely not an answer to the question you asked.  He kisses your cheek before you can protest his reply, then he winks and grabs his bag.  “Come on,” he says, “I just have to put some stuff in my office.  Then we’ll go grab dinner.” 

You suspend your teasing for the time being, talking about your day as you cross campus in the sunshine.  You take the stairs up to the office floor, winding around the labyrinthine assembly of empty offices.  It is quite late in the afternoon, plenty of people seemingly packed up and gone for the day. 

He unlocks his office and lets you both in.  While he goes to his desk to sort his stuff, you close and lock the door.  He does not notice your deliberate movements, still talking about mundane nothings.  You do love your endless conversations, whether casual or important, but right now you are less preoccupied with Channie than Professor Chan.  There is something about seeing your husband like this, smart, competent, confident, and so in charge of his space. 

“Baby girl?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow at your slow, slinky approach.  “What’s up?” 

You circle the desk and lay a hand on his chest, smoothing your palm down his lapel.  You swear his eyes somehow darken, narrowing in focus, his whole expression coloured differently than before. 

“What are you doing?” he asks. 

“I know you’re married, Professor,” you say, blinking oh-so innocently at him.  “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable… it’s just that I… I need…”

He lets you nudge him back onto the desk chair behind him.  He gazes up as you lean over him. 

“Baby,” he says, warningly, but does not move or push your hands away. 

“We’re all alone, Professor,” you say.  “The door is locked.  No one will ever find out.” 

“Ah. Is that right?” he asks, looking like he is on the verge of giggles.  He sighs instead, dropping his chin and shaking his head, playfully disappointed.  With another breath, he lifts his head, and your sweet husband dons a more predatory air.   

He does not even have to say anything, does not even have to touch you.  He just has to look at you with all that desire in his eyes, turning your insides molten.  Every dirty thought is plain in how he checks you out.

“I saw you looking at me in class today,” you say, breathless already.  “Did you think I looked pretty, Professor?”                                         

“I think,” he says, “I was impressed you were sitting there, actually listening for once.”

You open your mouth to retort, but he touches a shushing finger to your lips.  He shakes his head. 

“Nuh-uh,” he says.  “Tell me what you want before I throw you out of my office.”  He cups your jaw, his gaze so clearly centred on your lips. 

“Oh, please, don’t do that,” you say.  “I need you, Professor.  I mean, I need your help.”

“I think you’re beyond help, baby girl,” he says.  He momentarily breaks character to glance at the wall, then he looks at you with a quirked brow.  “We are at my work, maybe we should—”

“I know you,” you reply.  

Because you do.  You and your husband are no strangers to roleplay or kinky fun, your desires and boundaries and safewords known.  Your backside is still tender from a good spanking the night before, just enough to leave you squirming today.  You were pent-up before you even saw Professor Chan administering his lecture.  But now that you have, now that you are here, you cannot let it go.  And given the way he is looking at you, he feels the same way.

“You’ve been hard since I called you Professor in the lecture hall,” you say. 

“Since I saw you sitting in my classroom, actually,” he corrects.  “I could fill in the rest with my own imagination.  Just… looking at you…”  He takes another breath and looks you over.  His gaze is heady.  “God, you just get me going every time, you know that?” 

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” you say with another smirk.  Then you pout, batting your eyelashes, as you sink to your knees in front of him.  “Please, Professor,” you say.  “I’m begging you.  I need a good grade or else.  I’ll do anything.” 

“Anything,” he says.  “That’s, ah… that’s a bold statement.  Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I am,” you say.  You clasp your hands.  “Anything at all.” 

“You know, a man who is not as nice me could do bad things to you, baby.   A pretty girl like you.  It’s like you want someone to take advantage of you, yeah?”  He cups your jaw and tilts your face up, looking at your mouth thoughtfully, smiling as he circles his thumb over your lips.  “They could be really mean to you,” he says.  “Make you do things you don’t like.  Maybe even hurt you, baby.”

“But you wouldn’t do those things,” you say with a watery sniffle.  “You’re a good professor. I can trust you.”

“Of course you can,” he says.  With his thumb, he tugs your bottom lip down.  It flips back up with a bounce.  “I’ll help you then, if you do what I say.”

“Oh yes, of course, Professor, anything,” you say. You start to stand when he puts a hand on your shoulder. 

“Naw, naw,” he says.  “You stay there for me.”

“On my knees?”  You blink up at him.  “What for?” 

“Tsk.  Baby.  You know what for.”  He pats your head like he would an especially dumb puppy.  “You’re just a pretty face,” he says, “but you’re not that stupid.  You know what you’re good for at least, don’t you?”   

He cups your chin.  Before you can reply, his thumb is forcing its way into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. You wrap your lips around it, staring up at him while sucking diligently. 

“That’s it,” he says, and slides free with a wet little pop.  “Good job.  See?”  He speaks with saccharine sweetness, completely condescending as he pats your cheek.  “You are good at something.”  He unbuttons your shirt with deft swiftness, your breasts already heaving in your low-cut bra when he pushes the material off your shoulders.  He laughs to himself as he says, “It’s just the only thing you’re good at is being a dumb slut, but that’s okay, yeah?” 

“I… I guess…”

“Shh, it’s okay.”  He covers you whole mouth with his hand, tugging you close while he undoes his belt with the other.  “You don’t need to talk,” he says.  “No one needs to hear what you think.  Open your mouth for me.   That’s a good girl.  Come on.  You can take it.” 

With a shuffle, he gets his pants open and partially down, enough to get himself out.  He is already rock hard as he guides you forward, sliding into your waiting mouth.  He grunts with deep, obvious pleasure. 

He lets you take over, sitting back while you suck his cock with expert knowledge of exactly what he likes, when to take him deep, when to lick and suck and swallow.  You stop for a breath and his cock smacks your cheek.  Then suddenly he is standing and taking you with him, wasting no time bending you over his desk. 

“Professor!” you say, pushing your ass out with your theatrically scandalized cry.  “Oh no, sir, I’ve never done this before, please, ahh—”   

He lifts your skirt and tugs your panties to the side, sliding his fingers through all the wet arousal there.  He slides two fingers into you easily, with no resistance at all.  He leans down and laughs against the nape of your neck.

“I find that hard to believe,” he says, fucking you steadily with his hand.  “I think I’m not the only professor you’ve done this for, am I, baby?” 

“Ohh,” is all you manage, out of character and genuinely moaning as he works you towards a quick orgasm.  “Channie, you’re gonna make me come,” you warn, wriggling. 

Your moans turn to pathetic little whimpers when he wraps a strong arm around you, locking you in place as he lines up behind you. 

“What’s that?” he asks, holding you tight.  It stops you from writhing while he pushes his wet dick inside you, inch by slow inch.  “I’m not Channie, am I?” he says.  “What do you call me?  Huh?  Dumb little girl.”  He swats your ass and you yelp, clenching around him.  “Try again,” he says. 

“Oh, Professor,” you say.  Then you cannot help but giggle, recalling his evasion when you teased him in the lecture hall.  The evidence of his desire says it all.  “That really does make you hard,” you laugh, breathlessly, “I can feel you pulsing inside me.”

You squeak when he pushes you down onto the desk, holding your hips as he thrusts into you with more vigour.  Then you are not saying anything, just moaning and riding out every quick snap of his hips.  You are not sure how he manages to find the softest, squishiest, more sensitive place inside you, every time, no matter the place or position, sending you hurtling towards to an orgasm at breakneck speed. 

“Oh, help, Professor, I’m gonna—”

“Me too, baby,” he says.  “All inside you.”

“Ohh, fuck—”  You come with a shuddering convulsion, twitching and clenching, your eyes closed as you pant into the wooden surface of his desk.  Your orgasm ends and he is still fucking you, drawing it out.  Your voice is guttural, low and breathy as you say, “Professor, be careful, we have no protection…”

He lifts you up, arches your back, and covers your mouth.

“I… told… you…”  He punctuates each sound with a hard thrust.  “To… be… quiet…” 

Then he drives into you and stays there, groaning into your neck as he comes and comes.   When his hand drops, you take in a gulp of air, shivering from the aftershocks of pleasure.  You are spilling out of your bra from all the jostling, your skirt in disarray.  You whimper when he pulls out of you, then again when he just covers you back up with your panties.  They are soaked in a second. 

“Maybe, uh,” he says with one of his funny, embarrassed, little giggles.  “Maybe we should stop by home and clean up before we go for dinner.” 

You giggle too, turning around to face him.  You fix your shirt while he tucks himself back into his pants.  He is already blushing and smiling that dimpled smile, looking all sweet and goofy as if he didn’t just fuck your brains out on his desk. 

“Good idea,” you say.  “That’s why you’re the professor.” 

He laughs.  Looking at you fondly, he cups your cheek and pulls you in for a long, tender kiss.    

[roosterforme]

Aim for the Sky Part 37 | Rooster x Reader

Summary: Bradley delivers some news that has him smiling. While you're exhausted from your pregnancy hormones, you can't seem to get enough of your husband. And he can't get enough of Rose's first Halloween.

Warnings: Angst, adult language, body image, DILF Roo, pregnancy, smut, lactation kink

Length: 3300 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader

Aim for the Sky masterlist. This was written to accompany my series Is It Working For You? along with a bunch of my one-shots and other series, but it can be read on its own! Check my masterlist for the reading order.

Bradley didn't want to admit why he couldn't stop smiling on his way to work early the next day. Part of the reason was you, of course. And Rose. And the upcoming Nugget. But a major reason for the grin on his face was the fact that Indigo was about to be grounded for the foreseeable future.

Unsure whether or not he should be the one to inform her about it, Bradley had texted Maverick while you were curled up in bed with him last night. But Mav was detained longer than expected in Lemoore, so it was up to Bradley. And he kind of couldn't wait to break the news to Indigo. When he told you that, you gave him one hell of a blowjob and then fell asleep with your cheek on his shoulder.

For some reason, Indigo's aircraft was about to undergo an inspection along with a communications update. Bradley knew inspections were time consuming. He'd been put through one back in Virginia with the Atlantic Fleet. They weren't for the weak of heart, because all your peers took to the air every day while you waited. And waited. And fucking waited until it felt like your spirit would break. There was nothing quite like missing out on the thrill of flying while everyone else got to do it.

This was why Bradley had to wipe the grin from his face as he strolled down the hallway toward his office. Indigo would not only be grounded, she wouldn't even be allowed to attend any lectures as part of the process. He wouldn't have to constantly see her while the harassment report was being handled. Bradley knew you were responsible for this, at least in part, and he couldn't stop kissing you for it. 

"God, I love my wife," he murmured, adjusting the wedding photo on his desk and sitting down to print his lecture notes. Once he had everything in order, he clipped his pages together, grabbed a cup of coffee, and went to his classroom.

As he waited outside the door, Bradley got the chance to greet every officer arriving for class. While he gave Spice a bit of a wide berth, the others were always courteous and respectful on the ground and in the air. The last few aviators trickled into the room, and now Bradley had to watch Indigo strut down the hallway, her black hair pulled into a tight bun, blue eyes flashing. She never took her eyes off him, and she didn't stop until she was just a little too close for comfort.

"Sir," she greeted with a smug smile. He wanted to roll his eyes, but he needed to remain professional. Hadn't he made it clear she wasn't going to get anywhere with him? He was still fighting a grin of his own, ready to deliver the news that would ruin her day, but she licked her lips and laughed. "How's your perfect wife doing? Think she'd believe you over me?"

The urge to smile vanished. Bradley's heart beat an angry rhythm as something precariously close to rage filled his veins. Indigo was threatening him and you, because she had no idea you'd been tucked behind his office door the other day. There was no reason to take the bait. He wanted to blow up again, but he tamped it down.

When she turned on her heel to enter the classroom, Bradley shook his head. "Not today, Lieutenant Jeffries. You and your aircraft have officially been grounded."

The look on her face was reward enough, but listening to her sputtering was also fun for him. "What? What are you talking about? This is ridiculous." She pointed angrily at him, eyes narrowed. "You can't do this. Why do you think you can just do this to me?"

"You'll address me as Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw," he snapped, trying not to smile. "And instead of pointing at me, perhaps next time you'll remember to salute instead." She stood completely still before him, all traces of her anger gone.

"I want to know why."

Bradley backed into the classroom, his hand on the doorknob as he shrugged at her. "You'd have to ask someone a lot smarter than me that question." The door slammed in her face, and Bradley turned to the remaining officers with a bright smile. "Good morning, aviators. Let's get started."

----------------------------

You were exhausted, and your jaw was kind of sore from last night's vigorous blowjob as you walked into your lab after dropping Rose off at daycare. "Ow," you whispered, rubbing your chin as you took a seat. Any minute now, Bradley would be breaking the wonderful news to Indigo that she was currently obsolete. You giggled. You ruined her day, and you got to suck Bradley off. It was a win/win.

"You know better than to grin like that," Cat said, walking past you to her workspace. "Not when I'm the one pulling all the weight around here."

You wanted to insist that you were pulling plenty of weight as the baby thumped on your bladder, but you decided against it. "Should I start addressing you as Queen Cat?"

She laughed and turned on her computer. "Lieutenant Commander will suffice. Now let me get everything in order to start my investigation of aircraft number 156682 200. I can't wait to interview the pilot."

"Oh," you gasped. "You're interviewing her today?"

"I'm starting everything today. Including the actual Super Hornet code update. When we get some results, we can analyze the data together."

"Yeah," you replied, still caught up on Cat meeting up with Indigo at some point today. "I hope she doesn't give you a hard time. I still feel guilty, like this is going to eat up all your time. I don't mind carrying more weight in the lab. You know that, right? Like I can take some of your work-"

"First of all," Cat said, cutting you off, "she will not give me a hard time. I'll do everything by the book, but I can guarantee she'll hate me more than I hate her. And that's saying something. I can't wait to see this little piece of shit who thinks she's entitled to your husband."

"But-"

"And second, I'll let you know if I need help staying afloat, but for now, just concentrate on your forty hours while the baby grows."

"I still feel bad!" you finally said.

Cat didn't answer you for a while as she typed away and printed what she needed. You thought the conversation was over until she stood and started for the door. "You could always name the baby Catherine," she said with a wink before disappearing into the hallway.

You tried to focus on your computer screen, but you were a bit shaken by the sudden realization that unlike last time with Rose, you and Bradley hadn't discussed baby names. There were several you were fond of, and you opened a new document to type them out. All of them sounded good with Bradshaw, and you sighed.

"Maybe he should just pick again." 

You read through the list, ranking them in your approximate preferred order before adding more. You'd messed around with it so much, you were shocked when you realized it was lunchtime. "Let's go see Daddy," you told your belly.

You were ravenous, but if you gained another pound, you'd be in the maternity tent for sure. But it was unavoidable. Especially with how good the burrito bowls smelled. You were just reaching for a tray in the cafeteria when a moan escaped your lips the same time Bradley wrapped his arm around you.

"Oh, I know that sound," he whispered. "Here? Right now?" You turned to look at his excited smirk. "I mean, I guess we could go up to your office as long as we make it quick."

"Bradley," you laughed. "I was moaning for the burrito bowls."

Now he looked less thrilled. "Oh. Well, they do smell good."

Your stomach was growling uncontrollably now as you handed him a tray. "You know I'd usually pick a quickie," you whispered, gathering your lunch, "but the baby really, really wants this."

"Feed the Nugget," he replied, sticking close by your side as you looked for a table. "I just don't want to run into Indigo," he muttered, head on a swivel. "She is pissed at me, and I'm sick of looking at her."

When you sat down, you asked, "So you broke the news of the grounding?" You felt giddy inside knowing she was having a bad day after she'd given you so many.

"Yeah," Bradley grunted, taking a huge bite of his lunch. "She didn't take it well."

You clapped your hands quietly. "I doubt she's even going to have time to eat lunch. Cat's interviewing her and beginning her aircraft inspection."

"So you're giving me details now?"

You froze as you coated your food with hot sauce. "The less you know the better."

He shook his head and inhaled more food. "I'm just looking forward to taking Rosie trick-or-treating tomorrow. Should I stop and get candy on my way home?"

"Tomorrow's Halloween!" you gasped. "I completely lost track of time. Usually I plan a party and have everyone over!"

Bradley waved you off. "I just want it to be us this time. Rose's costume should arrive today or tomorrow morning. We can show her off to the neighbors and walk down to your parents' new house."

You squealed softly. In a few short weeks, your mom and dad would be moving from Maryland into the cutest coastal cottage in your neighborhood. "Okay, you're right. That sounds perfect. Stop for candy on the way home. And don't open it! You always get into it early and eat half."

Bradley stacked your empty tray with his. "So... about that quickie. I've got like thirty-five minutes until I need to be in the classroom..." His pupils were wide, and his leg was restless under the table. Knowing he wanted you made everything easier.

"I have a meeting with Bickel," you whispered, wrapping your legs around his. "Let's wait until tonight when it doesn't have to be quick."

"Jesus," he grunted, gaze sinking to your chest, knowing you'd make it worth the wait. "Yeah, okay. A little milk to go with the Halloween candy sounds good."

"I told you not to open it early!"

He scoffed as he stood. "I'm never not going to open the Halloween candy early. That's just a fact, Baby Girl." 

After he walked you to the elevators, he kissed you and then knelt to kiss your belly before disappearing into the sunlight. Even after your meeting and emptying out your email inbox, Cat still wasn't back. You didn't see her again until nearly the end of the day when she strolled back into the lab.

"What's up?" you asked, endlessly curious about what was going on with Indigo. Cat was giving you a look that left you feeling unsettled. "What? Tell me."

She sighed and sank into her seat. "First of all, Jeffries is a piece of work. She thinks she's hot shit, and I don't understand how you haven't run her over with Bradley's fancy Bronco by now. But..."

"What?!"

"Well, as I finished up my preliminary checks, she looked me right in the eye and asked if I work with you."

Your stomach lurched. "She did?"

Cat nodded. "Yes. She asked me if I work with Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw's wife."

You felt uneasy. "What did you say?"

"I ignored her. But I'd already been ignoring plenty of her mouthing off, so whatever. It doesn't matter."

But it did matter to you. In all of your scheming, you'd almost forgotten that Indigo was still going to be lurking around North Island, ready to try to make your life harder. Ready to corner Bradley again. The fucking Navy needed to sort out his complaints against her faster. But at least you were under Indigo's skin. The thought almost felt good.

When you got home with Rose, you saw a text from Bradley.

Bradley Rooster Bradshaw <3<3<3: don't make dinner, i'll bring food home

"Daddy's giving us more time to play," you whispered to your daughter who clearly wanted to be fed by the way she was clinging to you. "Let's go sit on the swing."

You nursed her on the enormous playset in your yard that Bradley just had to have, then you swung with her. When you started to burp her, your husband showed up, still in his uniform, looking hot as hell with his hands full of bags of candy.

His aviators were low on his nose, and he peered over them when he said, "I bought more than enough, Sweetheart. Now you can't complain when I start eating it after dinner." He dropped the candy on the patio table and made a beeline for you. "Let me burp the Nugget."

He alternated between kissing your forehead and Rose's as you slowly swung back and forth while he burped her. Somehow he just kept looking sexier as he bounced her in his arms, making her giggle.

"Keep your uniform on," you told him, letting your eyes slip to his bicep where his tattoos peeked out. "I want you in your uniform later."

"Yes, ma'am," he grunted, kissing your lips, making you gasp.

"You taste like chocolate! You already got into the candy!"

He winced, nudging his sunglasses all the way up his nose. "In my defense, there were Reese's Cups!" When he changed the subject, you didn't stop him. "Come inside and look at the Halloween costumes before we eat dinner."

Bradley outdid himself in every way. There were costumes for all three of you, and yours was stretchy enough to fit over your belly. The dinner he picked up was delicious, and after he read the book about the Silly Goose, he got Rose ready for bed.

But just the sound of his voice was turning you on. And you weren't even mad that he kept eating the candy. Your brain and your body felt fuzzy as you realized your hormones were completely out of control. When he walked into the bedroom, still in his khaki uniform, you squeezed your thighs together and whimpered.

"Am I allowed to get excited now, or are you still vibing with the burrito bowl?" he rasped with a smile.

"I am horny as hell," you whispered, quickly undressing as his eyes went wide. Maybe a quickie at lunchtime would have taken the edge off, because this was wild. You swore you could smell your husband from across the room, and when his big hand rested on his thick cock through his pants, you ran to him.

You were completely naked while he was fully dressed, and he cupped your breasts in his hands with an appreciative sound. "You were so right about the quickie. Now I can take my time." One hand ended up on your butt, guiding you to face the wall where you braced your hands. Bradley nudged your legs apart, his uniform scratching along your skin deliciously.

"Keep talking," you begged as the sound of him unzipping his pants met your ears. "Keep talking to me, Roo."

His insignia pins rubbed the back of your shoulder and his mustache found your ear. "Oh, you really need this, huh?" 

You jerked your head in a nod as his cock throbbed against your lower back. "I really do. Keep talking."

He guided himself to your entrance, pushing just the tip where you wanted him most before his hands slid around to your belly. "You want me to keep talking?" he murmured, going deeper and deeper, lips teasing your ear. "I could talk about how much I love you all night."

"Bradley," you whined, arching your back as he bottomed out.

"I love the way you say my name. And I love the way you can't get enough of my cock."

It was like listening to sweet and depraved poetry as his thighs slapped against yours. He kept going with his thrusts and his words, stroking your breasts which began to leak milk. But then he crooned about how much he loved that, too. Nothing was off limits as your head tipped back against his shoulder, kissing his tattoos.

His gruff breaths and shortening strokes let you know he was close, and when his fingers, wet with your milk, met your clit, you closed your eyes and focused on the pleasure as he said, "I love you, Sweetheart. I love you so fucking much."

--------------------------------

Bradley cradled Rose in his arms, making a fuss over her. "My little Nugget," he chuckled, kissing her face around her fuzzy costume. Everything was set. What was left of the candy he hadn't eaten was in a bowl on the porch, and he had squeezed into his own costume.

"What about Tramp?" you called from the bedroom. "Should we leave him here so he thinks he's guarding the house from the trick-or-treaters?"

"Yeah," laughed Bradley. "Let him howl all night. He'll sleep all day tomorrow." You appeared in your costume which made Bradley smile. "You look cute as a pregnant bottle of hot sauce."

When you rubbed your belly, he wished he could feel the baby himself. After hours cradling you against him in bed last night, trying every position, he still couldn't feel her.

"I feel cute," you replied, doing a little wiggle dance around the kitchen, tossing a treat to Tramp. "And together we make the perfect meal."

"A meal you can't have right now," Bradley interjected, adjusting his beer bottle costume while the dinosaur chicken nugget squirmed against him.

"I can have dinosaur chicken nuggets and hot sauce, just not the beer," you replied, kissing Rose. "She looks so cute in this thing. I still can't believe you found it online."

"My little Dino Nugget," Bradley whispered. "Can you help me put the carrier on so we can go?"

"The carrier?" you repeated, brow creased. "Why don't we just take the stroller?"

Bradley rolled his eyes dramatically. "For the hundredth time, I don't like the stroller when I can just carry her instead. The stroller is bulky, and I don't even get to play with her when I'm pushing it. I don't know why they exist."

You bit your lip. "You're adorable, Roo."

When you turned to get the carrier, the image of Indigo randomly flashed through his mind. Things had been so nice the past few days, it was like he'd forgotten about the terrible weeks before this. Which he couldn't do. He knew he had to remember how much you were hurting so he didn't fuck up again. But right now, he wanted to enjoy Rose's first Halloween to its fullest.

"Can you still tell what her costume is?" Bradley asked as he fastened his daughter in place against his chest. "Shit. If we have to use the stroller, I'll be so pissed."

"Stop swearing in front of the baby," you scolded, feeding Tramp another treat. "I can very clearly tell she's a dinosaur chicken nugget. And a cute one at that."

"Excellent." Bradley fluffed up her costume and turned to the door. "Don't knock over the candy bowl."

You and he both stepped over it. "I'm shocked there was any candy left to put in the bowl," you told him with a playful glare.

"Listen, Baby Girl," he said, reaching for your hand. "You play your cards right, and you'll be my sweet treat later."

"It's annoying to me that I like the way that sounds."

-------------------------------

We've got plenty more of Indigo coming in the next chapter. Want to know the names BG saved for the baby? Should I just go ahead and put up a baby names poll? Thanks for reading.

PART 38

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@solacestyles

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@heli991113

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@shanimallina87

@ccbb2222

@xoxabs88xox

@thedroneranger

@cherrycola27

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@xomrsalliej4787xo

@desert-fern

@horseslovers2016

@mattyskies

@hookslove1592

@blahehblah

@sadpetalsstuff

@local-spidey

@schoollover

@lex-winchester

@nicole01-23

@jessicab1991

@happyrebelruins

@samsgoddess

@bellaireland1981

@sagittarius-flowerchild

@mygyn

@yuckosworld

@daggerspare-standingby

@nessjo

@trickphotography2

@lyn-js

@furiousladyking

@godsfavoritebabe

@bethabear12

@halo-mystic

@sherlockstrangewolf

@theamuz

@khaylin27

@glenpowellluver

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 1

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 1.5k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension

summary: you never expected your literature professor to be young, sharp-tongued, and devastatingly captivating - but professor eilish is all that and more. between tense lectures, stolen glances, and secrets that linger after class, you find yourself tangled in a dangerous game of curiosity and control. how long can you keep it professional when the air between you burns with something more?

masterlist

————————————————————————————

the hallway smelled like coffee and printer ink. lockers lined the walls even though no one really used them, and the sound of someone's sneakers squeaking across the linoleum echoed faintly. it was too early for anything to feel real, and liora was still half-dreaming when she pushed open the classroom door.

the light was soft inside, filtered through high windows that caught the morning haze. students filled the back rows first—classic. liora drifted somewhere near the middle, dropped her canvas bag beside the chair, and sank into the seat like she'd been holding her breath all morning.

she barely glanced at the front of the room at first, too busy unzipping her hoodie and smoothing out her notebook. then a voice—low, even, and almost too smooth—cut through the sleepy chatter.

"morning, everyone."

liora looked up.

and froze.

the woman at the front of the class wasn't what she expected. not even close.

tall, loose-fitted shirt hanging just right, her dark hair pulled back under a knit beanie like she hadn't tried at all and still managed to look—cool. cool in a way that made your chest tighten. her eyes, pale and unreadable, swept the room with a kind of calm confidence that didn't ask for attention but got it anyway.

professor o'connell.

liora didn't breathe until billie looked away.

billie set her laptop down on the desk and clicked something open on the screen. the soft tap of keys echoed, then stopped. she glanced up.

"so," she said, voice light but clear, "i'm professor o'connell. billie's fine, too, if that's more comfortable. i teach this course in creative composition and lyrical analysis—basically, it's english lit, but with more music and fewer essays you'll want to set on fire."

a few people chuckled, sleep still hanging off their voices. liora's stomach twisted. she didn't laugh, but her mouth tugged at the corner like it wanted to.

billie's eyes drifted back to the roster on her screen.

"let me just get a sense of who's here," she murmured, then started reading names.

"elliot abram?"

"here."

"cassidy baines?"

"present."

"liora... rai?"

"i'm here"

billie nodded slowly, her gaze lingering just a moment too long. "beautiful name," she said, like it meant something. "thank you."

liora stared down at her notebook. the top of the page blurred slightly before she forced herself to breathe again.

billie continued reading names, but the heat in liora's cheeks didn't go away. her full name never rolled off anyone's tongue like that—never without hesitation, never with intention.

when roll was done, billie leaned against the desk, her arms folded. "okay. i don't like icebreakers. they're awkward and fake and you all secretly hate them."

a few students laughed—this time, liora included.

"but i do want to know who you are. not in the cheesy way. in the why-are-you-here way."

she pushed her hair behind one ear and nodded toward the board.

"your first assignment's simple. it's not graded. i just want you to write a page about this question—what does music say that words can't?"

the room quieted.

billie continued, soft and serious now. "i don't care if you've never written anything in your life. this isn't about being good. it's about being honest."

someone raised their hand in the back. "can we write lyrics?"

"you can write in blood, for all i care," billie said, and a few students laughed again. "just don't be boring. if you're boring, i'll know."

her eyes flicked back to liora—quick, but unmistakable.

liora swallowed.

the lecture started slow.

not boring, just... soft. like billie was setting a mood more than teaching. she talked about metaphor, about musical phrasing as narrative structure, about the way a repeated lyric could punch harder than a paragraph. her voice never rushed, never cracked. she didn't fidget, didn't pace. she just leaned her hip against the desk, fingers tracing the edge of her water bottle like she was thinking out loud to a room full of ghosts.

liora watched her the way someone might watch a fire—entranced without realizing it.

she was used to professors being either stiff or overcompensating. too many tried too hard to prove they had authority. billie didn't do that. she just was. and it did something to the room. made everyone quieter. made the air feel heavier.

"there's something music can do," billie said, tapping the board with a dry erase marker, "that essays can't. it cuts through memory. not around it. through it. the right song doesn't remind you of a moment—it puts you in it. like time travel, but with better lighting."

liora didn't write that down, but she knew she'd remember it anyway.

the girl next to her had started doodling in the margins of her notebook. someone behind her was chewing gum too loudly. the boy by the window kept checking his phone. but liora didn't move. her pencil rested against the page, unmoving.

billie walked to the board and wrote:

"when language fails, music answers."

the chalk squeaked slightly. her handwriting was slanted, imperfect. under the lights, the ink on her exposed wrist caught liora's eye—lyrics tattooed in a fine line script she couldn't read from this far away.

"that's the quote we'll work from next week," billie said. "write it down. argue with it. prove it wrong if you want. just don't ignore it."

liora lowered her gaze. her fingers gripped the pencil. write it down, billie said. like it was just another sentence. like it didn't already live inside her ribs.

billie glanced toward the back row where a group of boys had started whispering. one of them smirked and said something too low for liora to hear, but she caught enough—something about billie's age, the word hot, the phrase bet she's not even a real professor.

billie didn't flinch. she let the silence stretch. then she walked slowly back to her desk, closed her laptop, and looked out across the room.

"if anyone's confused about whether i belong here," she said evenly, "you're welcome to drop this class. i promise your refund window is still open."

quiet.

no one moved.

liora felt something tighten in her chest. not pity. not admiration, either. something in between. like respect, but more personal. she hated the way billie had to defend herself for being young. for being her.

billie's gaze swept the room again, slower this time.

when it landed on liora, it didn't move away.

chairs scraped against tile as the clock hit the hour. papers rustled, bags zipped. the usual chaos of everyone rushing to leave—except for liora.

she moved slower. not on purpose, but something in her refused to follow the current. she tucked her notebook carefully into her bag, slung it over one shoulder, then pretended to fumble with the zipper a second longer than necessary.

billie was still at her desk, sliding her laptop into a worn leather sleeve, fingers moving with practiced ease. her head was tilted slightly, earbuds resting around her neck, a lazy kind of calm on her face that made it impossible to look away.

most of the room had cleared when billie glanced up—and caught her.

"you good?"

liora blinked. "oh—yeah. i just..." she hesitated, then stepped forward. "i had a question. about the assignment."

billie nodded once and leaned her elbow on the desk, fully facing her. "shoot."

liora hated how loud her heart sounded. she tried to ignore it.

"when you said we could write in any form... did you mean, like, lyrics? or poetry? or just... freewriting?"

"any form," billie said. "i meant it."

her voice was gentler now. less classroom, more personal. and now that they were this close—no rows of desks, no audience—liora could see the pale freckles scattered across her cheeks, the faint smudge of eyeliner just barely under her lashes. her eyes weren't just blue. they were gray, soft and stormy, with something behind them liora couldn't name.

"so if it's a poem that doesn't really make sense," liora said slowly, "that's still okay?"

billie tilted her head. "does it make you feel something?"

liora nodded before she could stop herself. "yeah."

"then it makes sense."

the words settled between them like warmth. not cheesy, not condescending—just simple. true.

liora looked down, letting her fingers curl around the strap of her bag.

"what do you usually write?" billie asked.

liora hesitated, then answered honestly. "stuff i never show anyone."

billie smiled—just barely. "those are usually the best kind."

she stepped around the desk then, close enough that liora caught the faint scent of something warm and clean—like sandalwood and fresh laundry. she reached for a printed syllabus on the edge of the table and handed it to her.

their fingers touched. just for a second. but it was enough to send a pulse through liora's spine.

"just in case you didn't grab one," billie said, casual again, but her voice had dipped lower. "i keep forgetting people actually read these."

liora took it with both hands, as if it were heavier than paper.

"thanks," she murmured.

billie gave a nod, slow and deliberate. "see you thursday, rai."

the way she said her name made liora's stomach flip. it wasn't just the pronunciation. it was the intention. like she wanted to say it again. like she liked saying it.

liora turned and walked out, heart pounding behind her ribs like it was trying to outrun her.

————————————————————————————

[beargyu313]

Blurred lines 𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

۶ৎ Summary: You’ve always gotten along really really with Jake during uni, so it only made sense to share a flat with him post-grad. Now you’re roommates who have a playfully physical friendship but it’s starting to mean something.

˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚Word Count: 10.9k, lowkey not my best work but, oh well

۶ৎ Tags: angst, smut, lawyer apprentice Jake, slice of life, shared domesticity,, smut tags: munch!Jake, jealousy, angry sex, heavy petting, pussy slapping, edging + denial,, soft dominance, possessiveness, use of blindfold, sex on the balcony

౨ৎ Content Warning: mdni, smut Extra: masterlist, taglist: @mrsjjongstby

ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

You and Jake weren’t best friends exactly, you were more like orbiters who kept getting pulled into each other’s gravity. Same friend groups. Late-night library hangs. Group project partners who accidentally became each other’s go-to plus-one. You’d pass each other snacks during lectures and you might’ve "jokingly" sat on his lap a few times.

By the end of final year, it was just… normal to be around each other.

Fast forward to post-grad life looming. Your friend group start spiraling with “where is everyone living next year” stress.

You say “Ugh, I don’t want a random roommate. I just want someone chill.” Jake, half-asleep on the couch, goes “So… live with me then.” You blink. “You’re serious?” He shrugs. Casual, like always, “Yeah. We already practically do.”

And that’s it.

You both tour two flats, pick the one with huge windows, two bedrooms and a couch that sinks too deep, and sign a lease. It’s not even dramatic. It just makes sense.

You fight over rugs. He insists on a “muted navy palette.” You want color. He ends up secretly buying the yellow throw you liked.

On your first night together in the flat, you’re both sitting on the floor eating noodles out of the box.

“You nervous?”

“Only about what your snoring sounds like.”

He throws a pillow at you.

And after weeks of living together, you two fall into a rhythm. Jake leaves early in the morning for his part-time internship at a law firm. He was prepping to become a lawyer, so seeing him in suits, shirts and ties quickly became a regular occurrence. The first time you saw him all professional was when you had to help him with his tie.

It was kind of cute. He quietly shuffled into your room and gently woke you up. You remember how shy he was, a slight blush covering his cheeks. Still remember the way his hand rested on your waist as you worked on knotting his tie properly.

Since you’re a screenwriter, your mornings on the other hand are much slower. You shuffle to the kitchen in socks and a hoodie that might be his. Most days, you talk to yourself more than you talk to anyone else. Except Jake. Always Jake.

He’s usually gone by the time you fully wake up, but his presence lingers. A mug left in the sink. Cologne in the hallway. A post-it on the fridge that says, "Eat something real today. Instant noodles don’t count. – J"

Days you two spend apart, but evenings unanimously become a time just for you two. Sometimes you would go out for a walk, other days a party, but most evening would end with a shared dinner and watching series.

But not tonight. You had been looking forward to tonight for way too long. You had been eyeing one of your coworkers for months and finally he asked you out on a date. Sunghoon was the same age as you and Jake and while you didn’t really know him that well, there was something about him...

Which is why you spend over an hour picking your outfit, and then another hour doing your makeup. You’re just putting on your perfume when you hear a soft knock at the door.

Jake leans in, fresh from a shower — hair damp, grey tee hanging loose, one hand braced against the wood. His eyes catch your reflection in the mirror. He doesn’t smile.

“You going out with that guy tonight?”

Your mascara wand pauses. You glance at him through the mirror. “You mean Sunghoon?”

Jake shrugs. "Whatever his name is."

You turn slightly, narrowing your eyes. “Why?”

“Just asking,” he says casually.

There’s a beat of silence. The room smells like your perfume and the faint mint of his body wash. You go back to your lashes, but he doesn’t move.

Then, he steps closer, so close you can smell his body wash, and reaches past you like he’s fixing something on the counter. Instead, his fingers brush along your temple, then tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingers a second longer than it needs to.

“You look prettier with your hair like this,” he murmurs, voice low.

You freeze. It’s nothing. It’s always nothing.

Except it isn’t.

You stare at him in the mirror. His eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, a challenge tucked behind his calm demeanor. Your pulse stutters.

Then your phone buzzes on the counter.

You glance at it. A message from Sunghoon. hey… sorry. can’t make it tonight. something came up. rain check?

You deflate before you can stop yourself. Jake notices immediately.

“Let me guess,” he says. “Date’s off?”

You try to sound breezy. “Work emergency or something.”

Jake doesn’t gloat, but there’s something smug in the way he shifts back, arms folding across his chest.

“Guess that means movie night’s back on,” he says, already turning toward the living room. “Your pick. But nothing depressing.”

You don’t answer right away. You just watch him go.

It takes you a moment to move, and then you’re changing into shorts and a loose shirt. It would lowkey be a waste to take your makeup off after you just applied it, so you leave it on. No other reason.

When you reach the living room, Jake’s already half-sprawled on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest like he owns the place (he kind of does). The blinds are drawn, the fan hums softly in the corner, and Netflix’s horror menu flashes onscreen.

He looks up when he sees you, and his gaze lingers for a second longer than usual. On your legs. Your lips. Your eyes — still done up like you’re going somewhere better than this.

“Didn’t change much,” he says, smirking.

You throw a pillow at him. “Shut up.”

He catches it, laughing. “I meant that as a compliment. You look…” He gestures vaguely. “Fancy. For a movie about bloodsucking sadists.”

You shrug, climbing onto the couch and tucking your feet under you. “Might as well let the vampires appreciate the effort.”

Jake’s eyes flick to your lips again, just for a beat. Then he’s clearing his throat, shifting to grab the remote. “Alright. No crying if it’s gory.”

You nudge his leg with your toe. “Please. I’ll protect you.”

Jake grins, all smug. “Oh yeah? Gonna fight off the undead for me?”

You nod solemnly. “With style.”

“Great,” he says, tossing the blanket over both of you. “Then I’m officially off-duty.”

You shift to get comfortable, letting your legs stretch across the couch. The blanket settles over you both. His thigh brushes yours. Your foot nudges his again, not quite by accident. He doesn’t move.

The movie starts — all flickering shadows and eerie violins — but your focus wavers. Jake smells like laundry detergent and that citrusy cologne he always wears. You feel the rise and fall of his chest beside you, calm and steady.

A few minutes in, another jump scare hits. You jolt. He snorts.

“Still feeling brave?” he teases.

You scowl at him, then shift closer, just to prove a point. Your knee nudges his hip. Your arm slides across his stomach.

“Shut up,” you mumble. Jake doesn’t say anything, but he lifts his arm and lets you curl against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Before long, you’re draped half across his chest, cheek against the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The room is dark except for the flicker of the screen. His fingers find your hair, brushing through it slowly, over and over.

It feels good. Too good. You let yourself sink into it for a few long breaths. Then you start to shift back. But Jake doesn’t let you. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers resting gently. “You always run when I touch you,” he murmurs.

You give a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Do not.”

But your voice is too soft to sound convincing. The movie drones on in the background  but your mind's gone quiet. Jake’s still stroking your hair. Your eyes flicker to the muted blue light of your phone on the coffee table.

Sunghoon’s text still sits there. You don’t say anything, but your body gives you away, in the way your shoulders curve in, the weight of your breath.

Jake notices.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb grazing your jaw. “You okay?”

You nod. Pause. Then shake your head.

“I feel stupid,” you admit.

Jake shifts to face you more fully. “Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s not like I even liked him that much.” You press your cheek against his chest, voice muffled. “I just wanted someone to like me that much.”

There’s a long pause. Jake doesn’t say anything right away, he just holds you tighter, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You know,” he says eventually, a teasing lilt creeping back into his tone, “I bet I’m a better kisser than that guy anyway.”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling back to look at him. “Oh yeah? So confident.”

Jake shrugs, mouth twitching. “I have a good resume.”

“Oh, do you?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

You don’t even know what makes you say it.

Maybe it’s the leftover sadness. Maybe it’s the way his thumb is brushing your cheek. Or the way he’s looking at you. Like you’re not just his roommate. Like you’re his everything.

But suddenly you’re leaning in, still half-laughing.

The kiss starts soft. Just lips. Barely moving. Just a pause. Just a breath. Then Jake tilts his head. His hand slides up to cup your jaw. His thumb grazes the corner of your mouth and—

He kisses you like he means it.

No teasing. No jokes.

You whimper. A quiet, involuntary sound you don’t even recognize as your own. And he pulls you closer in response.

You don’t even realize spreading your legs, straddling him from where he still lays down on the couch. Jake’s hands rest on your hip and when his tongue traces your lower lip. When you open your mouth in submission his grip on your hips tightens.  You shudder, and then Jake starts guiding your hips. Back and forth, slowly. You let him.

But then, just as suddenly, you both pull back.

You’re both breathing hard. Your thighs are still locked around his hips. His hands still resting on your waist. The air between you feels charged but no one’s saying it.

So you clear your throat and go, voice light, “Okay. Yeah. You’ve… definitely got a good resume.”

Jake huffs a laugh, chest rising under your palms. “Told you.”

“But,” you add, trying to keep your voice teasing, even though your pulse is still sprinting, “I’d need references before hiring full-time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “References? Babe, I am the reference.”

You laugh, it’s shaky, breathless and slowly climb off his lap, adjusting the hem of your shirt like that’ll somehow undo the grinding you just did.

Jake shifts too, leaning back on the couch like nothing happened. Except for the pillow hat he places in his lap. And the way his gaze drops to your lips again, just for a second.

“So,” you say, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. “Still wanna finish the movie, or was that your idea of a plot twist?”

Jake grins, low and slow. “Let’s see how it ends.”

You press play. But your body’s still humming. He throws his arm across the back of the couch, unbothered.

Neither of you says anything else.

But something’s changed.

And you both know it.

The next morning is weird. It’s one of those days where you can’t work from home so you wake up at the same time as Jake does. And when you step out of your room, wearing only an oversized shirt – that’s probably Jake’s – you pause.

Jake is at the kitchen table, coffee half-drunk and Kindle in hand. His hair is still damp from his shower. He’s wearing that crisp white shirt that always fits a little too well, sleeves already rolled to the elbows.

His eyes lift when he hears your bedroom door creak open, and then they drop, slowly tracing the length of your legs like they have every right to.

“Morning,” you mumble, throat suddenly dry. You don’t wait for him to answer before disappearing into the bathroom.

When you return, you’ve changed into something semi-professional and pulled your hair back. Jake’s putting on his watch by the door. His cologne hits you before his voice does.

“You good?” he asks casually, like you didn’t ride him on the couch fourteen hours ago.

“Peachy,” you say, grabbing your tote bag. Your voice is light. Neutral. A little too neutral.

The car ride is… quieter than usual. There’s no playlist. Just the sound of traffic and turn signals. Until Jake breaks the silence.

“So, Sunoo texted. He wants to do something this weekend,” Jake says, eyes still on the road.

“Oh?” you ask, eyes flicking toward him.

“Haunted house. The one near the old train station.” He glances at you. “You in?”

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Yeah, sure. Who else is coming?”

“Me, Sunoo, Jay, Heeseung. I think Yujin and Liz are joining, too.”

“Great,” you say. “Perfect for Yujin to scream into Jay’s arms.”

Jake chuckles at that. “Better than Sunoo clinging to my hoodie again.”

“You’re the designated safety blanket. You knew what you signed up for.”

Jake glances at you again. His voice drops just a touch, teasing. “You gonna cling to me too this time?”

You don’t answer right away. You let the question hang there, feel the weight of it settle between the bucket seats.

Then you say, “Only if the ghosts get handsy.”

Jake snorts, but you catch the faint smile tugging at his mouth. He taps the steering wheel lightly with his thumb.

“That’s my favorite shirt, by the way,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“This morning. You wore it last week too.” He pauses. “Looks better on you.”

You stare out the window, ears burning, pretending you don’t hear him. But your heart is a little too loud.

And suddenly, the idea of getting scared on purpose this weekend… doesn’t seem so bad.

Except when the weekend rolls around and the seven of you near the abandoned train station you don’t think you will have to pretend to be scared.

The air is colder here, even though it’s the middle of summer. Not even a breeze breaks through the stillness. Like the atmosphere has forgotten how to move. Everything is quiet in that unnatural, pressurized way that makes your ears buzz. Even the sky feels different. Dusky, despite the fact that it’s barely past sunset.

The old train depot looms ahead. All rusted beams and broken windows, the paint long since peeled away to reveal something grey and rotting underneath. Ivy curls up the corners like fingers trying to hold it shut or maybe hold something in.

Jake whistles low under his breath beside you. “Charming.”

“Nope,” Sunoo says immediately. “Absolutely not. This place is cursed. There’s, like… ghost laws being broken right now.”

Liz snorts. “What the hell are ‘ghost laws’?”

Sunoo ignores her. “Why is it so quiet? Why is the sky pink? Why does it smell like iron and regret—?”

“Stop reading Wattpad,” Jay mutters, though his own grip on the back of Yujin’s shirt is noticeably tight.

“I’m just saying,” Sunoo huffs, edging closer to Liz, “if we go missing, check the attic first. It’s always the attic.”

Heeseung says nothing, but he’s clearly uncomfortable, his hands are in his pockets, shoulders hunched. He gives the place one slow look and mutters, “Why do I feel like something’s watching us?”

Jake laughs under his breath. “Because something is watching us. The actors are probably already inside.”

You glance at him. He looks calm. Relaxed, even. But when you brush his hand with yours, he squeezes it lightly. Just once.

You don’t let go.

By the time you reach inside, you’re glued to his side. He lets you, fingers interlocked together and your other arm gripping his bicep. You think he flexes his muscle when you touch him, but don’t comment on it.

 The haunted house (train?) is all black walls and red lighting, with old train sounds whistling through hidden speakers. The air smells like dry metal and artificial fog. Each hallway is tighter than the last, cramped and dark and full of sharp turns.

It doesn’t take long before you’re pressed against Jake, your face buried in his chest after a vampire-jumpscare pops out of a hidden wall.

“Jesus,” you whisper, trying to breathe.

He chuckles and holds you tighter. “They got you good, huh?”

“You flinched too!”

“Only because you screamed in my ear.”

Up ahead, Liz and Sunoo are doing a running commentary about which horror tropes they’re about to fulfill.

“Oh my god, we split up!” Liz shrieks. “This is how I die! I’m the comic relief!”

“I’m the comic relief!” Sunoo counters. “You’re the hot one who survives ‘cause of fan demand!”

Meanwhile, Jay is trying to walk calmly while Yujin clings to his arm with a suspiciously delighted smile. Heeseung’s behind them, dead silent, bambi eyes scanning every corner like he’s prepping for actual war.

But you and Jake… are in your own little bubble. Somewhere between adrenaline and instinct, you’re not thinking anymore. You’re just holding onto him. Sometimes his arm is around your shoulders. Sometimes your hand is in his hoodie pocket. You’re never apart.

At one point, someone turns around and says, “Wait… are you guys, like, together?”

You don’t have time to respond. A vampire lunges from the shadows just then, and you shriek again, arms looping around Jake’s waist.

Behind you, Sunoo gasps, “It’s giving main couple energy!”

You feel Jake’s chest rumble against yours with laughter. You don’t look up.

But later, when the group finally exits through the heavy fire door and spills into fresh night air — breathless, laughing, buzzing — you catch Jake looking at you.

He doesn’t say anything. Just raises an eyebrow like he’s in on a joke you haven’t caught yet. You should roll your eyes. You should brush it off. Instead, you stare back. For just a beat too long. Your pulse is still racing and you know it’s not just because of the fake blood or flashing lights.

The group piles into a tucked-away corner booth at a 24-hour Korean BBQ joint, still riding the adrenaline of half-screams and nervous laughter.

Sunoo is loudly recounting how a jump-scare made him nearly cry. Liz keeps teasing Heeseung for “flinching like a grandma.” Yujin’s arm is looped through Jay’s, who’s clearly enjoying the attention.

You squeeze into the bench between Jake and Heeseung, feeling the warmth of Jake’s thigh pressed casually against yours like it belongs there.

You’re halfway through wrapping some pork belly in lettuce when Heeseung nudges you lightly with his shoulder. “You held it together better than I thought,” he says, mouth tugging into a crooked grin.

You look up, surprised. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You just… seemed like the type to scream.”

“You’re the one who kept swallowing his own scream,” Liz chimes in with a laugh. “Like, Heeseung, be honest. You were dying in there.”

The table erupts in laughter. Heeseung doesn’t even deny it, just grins, eyes sliding back to you. “Still. You were pretty cool.”

Jake goes quiet beside you. You don’t notice. But his hand rests heavier on the bench now, a fraction behind your back.

The table shifts into smaller conversations. You sip your drink, unaware of Jake’s eyes watching the way Heeseung leans in when you laugh. Or how Heeseung always seems to address you when telling a story.

Jake says nothing. But the ice cubes in his water clink sharp under his grip.

You both get home after dinner. You're still laughing a little, still a bit tipsy from the soju and beer. Jake tosses his hoodie on the back of the couch, stretches. “You good?” he asks, glancing at you.

You nod, toeing off your shoes. “You were kind of a human shield back there.”

Jake smirks. “What can I say. Built different.”

You swat at him as you pass, and when you pause in the hallway, he follows. In the kitchen, you're pouring water, and he steps behind you. He’s too close, not quite touching you but you can feel his breath flutter over your neck. Goosebumps appear on your skin.

You turn around to say something and — bump into him. You both freeze.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

You laugh. He smiles. Then he tugs you into a hug, arms wrapping low around your waist. You don’t even question it anymore. Your arms slide around his shoulders. His face buries into your neck. You hold there. A few beats too long.

Then his hands start to move. Thumbs brushing over the hem of your shirt. Fingertips ghosting up your spine. You should say something, but instead you start leaning. Hips shifting closer. Your fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his neck.

You whisper, “You’re touchy tonight.”

Jake laughs, but it’s quieter now. “You didn’t mind seem to mind it in the train.”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t, still don’t.”

When you pull back, it’s just enough to see his face. His eyes flick to your mouth. Then away. Then back again. He doesn’t let go of your waist. If anything his grip feels firmer, grounding you in this kitchen into his arms. Like you belong in them.

You tilt your head. “What?”

Jake hesitates. Then shrugs, too casual. “Nothing.”

You narrow your eyes. “No, what is it?”

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Just… you and Heeseung were talking a lot tonight.”

You blink. “So?”

He shrugs again, but it’s tighter this time. Like he regrets saying anything. “Didn’t realize you were into that.”

You stare at him, utterly confused. “Into what?”

Jake’s gaze finally meets yours head-on. “Guys who flirt like they’re trying not to get caught.”

Your lips part, startled. “What? He wasn’t— Jake. Are you jealous?”

“No,” he says immediately. Too fast. Then, quietly “Maybe.”

It’s quiet. So quiet you can hear the tick of the fridge behind you. Your fingers flex where they still rest on the back of his neck. You step in all the way now chest to chest.

And you say, softly “There’s nothing going on with me and Heeseung, we’re just friends.”

Jake’s jaw clenches. “Good.”

His hands slide up your sides. “Are we also just friends?”

You tilt your head. “I’m not sure what you mean, but you’re acting like you want to prove something.”

“I do,” he says. Then leans in. His lips find yours and it’s like a fuse short-circuits. The kiss starts hard. His hands gripping your waist, your thighs pressing closer, the edge of the counter digging into your back. Jake doesn’t ease into it this time. He kisses like he means it, like he's been waiting all night.

You gasp into his mouth. His tongue sweeps past your lips, and you moan before you can stop it.

His hands drop to your thighs, squeezing, and then he’s lifting you effortlessly onto the counter. You spread your legs and he steps between them without breaking the kiss.

One of his hands slides up your bare thigh under your shirt. His touch slow, teasing, stopping just below where you want him. The other cups your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

You tug at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, chasing his mouth. Jake growls softly into the kiss low and pleased and murmurs against your lips “Still just friends?”

You shake your head, breathless. “Stop talking.”

But the specialness of the moment was ruined. As soon the words leave your lips Jake pulls back. He looks like a kicked puppy. A hot kicked puppy, with swollen lips and hair a mess. And it’d be hot if it weren’t for the look in his eyes.

Hurt.

Jake steps back completely. His hands fall from your waist like you burned him. “Right,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “Just… talking too much again.”

You blink. “Jake—”

But he’s already turning away, moving down the hallway. Your chest tightens, but you don’t follow. What would you even say? That it didn’t mean anything? That it did? Instead, you stare at the counter where he just stood. Your thighs are still spread. The air still tastes like his kiss.

The silence stretches between your two rooms that night like a canyon.

And it continues into the next day. You hear the door shut closed after he leaves for work. He’d usually come and say bye, sometimes even kissing the top of your head.

You’re not sure what you’re feeling when he just leaves. A strange hollowness seems to follow you throughout the day. Like a dark shadow you can’t quite shake.

You sit on the pleather couch, just staring at your screen as if the script would write itself. But no matter how much you push, no words get typed out. Or even worse, they do, but suck.

Whenever you try to concentrate your thoughts betray you. The kiss replaying like a music video over and over again. You force yourself reread your script for the fifth time.

It sucks. You have a writers block.

You want to scream, deadline fast approaching but you just can’t write today. You slam the laptop closed just as the front door opens.

Jake comes home after work, loosening his tie. Looks at you — slumped on the couch, laptop closed, a half-eaten granola bar on the table.

“You’re still in the same spot as this morning.” He notes, but you don’t register the concern in his voice.

“Congrats. You can see.” You flatly deadpan at end with your nerves. It was everything, the kiss, your confusing feelings, the writer’s block. Nothing seems to be going your way today.

He sets his bag down carefully, steps over to the couch, and lowers himself beside you. His knee touches yours.

“Is this… because of what happened yesterday?” he asks, voice softer now. Cautious. Like he’s not sure if he’s stepping on a landmine or something delicate.

You blink at him. Then scoff quietly. “No.”

His eyes flicker.

“I mean—” You sigh, finally looking at him. “Maybe. I don’t know. Everything’s just… loud right now. In my head.”

He stays quiet. He hates not being sure of you. Hates the idea that maybe you regret it. Jake’s fingers twitch, but he doesn’t reach for you yet. “Did I do something wrong?”

The question makes you soften. Just a little.

“No,” you say. “It’s not you. It’s this.” You gesture at the couch. The mess. The day. Your laptop. “I have a deadline tomorrow and I’ve written nothing. I’ve been sitting here for hours and everything I type feels like garbage.”

Jake breathes out. A small sound. His shoulders relax.

“Oh,” he says, almost relieved. Then he glances at you again — closer this time — eyes flickering to your mouth. “So it’s work.”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “Just work.”

A beat passes.

“You should’ve texted me,” he says, voice casual. “I could’ve picked up something sweet on the way home.”

“I didn’t know you were taking care of me now,” you say, teasing, tired.

Jake’s expression softens in that unreadable, dangerous way he has. “Someone has to.”

Then he moves closer.

You don’t stop him. His arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. Your cheek finds the soft place between his jaw and collarbone. He smells like cologne and fabric softener and something warmer underneath, something like home.

“You’re so tense,” he murmurs, thumb brushing lightly over your arm.

You sigh again, melting without meaning to. The hug isn’t just comforting it’s grounding. Familiar. He rubs your back, and something in your chest eases. You sit like that for a while, your limbs tangled loosely.

Then Jake leans back just a little, just enough to see your face. His hand slides down your arm, brushes over your bare knee, thumb pressing into your thigh.

You glance at him, blinking.

He tilts his head. “Want me to distract you?”

You go still. “What?”

Jake’s hand doesn’t move, but his eyes are darker now. Slower. Studying you. Like he’s weighing your silence, like he’s making sure you understand him.

You do. All too well. And the worst part is you want to be distracted. You want to forget everything.

You swallow. “Jake…”

But you don’t say no.

Not when his hand slides higher. Not when he shifts to face you fully, his knee pressing between yours, lips brushing your cheek. Not when he whispers, “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

And when you breathe out, shaky and slow, that’s the only yes he needs. You allow him to guide you, lay flatly on the couch. And watch him.

You pupils are blown. His hands are slow at first, deliberate, almost reverent as they slide beneath the hem of your shorts. Jake swallows hard when you lift your hips for him, helping him pull them down your legs. His fingers tremble slightly as he sets them aside.

Your eyes are wide. Blown.

He hovers above you for a moment, one hand pressed against the couch cushion by your head. His eyes meet yours — and it’s not teasing, not smug. Just watchful. There’s a storm brewing beneath his gaze. A question, unspoken.

Still okay?

You nod, and your breath stutters. "Jake."

He leans in, brushes a kiss against your inner thigh, then another, higher. You flinch slightly at how tender it is. How intimate.

“Relax,” he murmurs again, voice low. His hands slide beneath your thighs and he shifts you forward. Closer to him. “Let me take care of you.”

You’re not sure if he’s talking about your stress, your block, your loneliness or himself. But when his mouth meets your lower lips he’s slow and devastating and you forget the question altogether.

He’s not rushed. Not greedy. He moves like someone making up for something, like this is a confession more than an act. A worship. Each flick of his tongue purposeful, his grip tightening when your thighs threaten to close around his head. He wants to be here. He needs to be here.

You gasp when Jake licks a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. He reaches for your thighs, setting them on his shoulders and then he digs in again.

He’s rougher this time, suckling on your clit. He moans, sucking with more passion when you grab his hair.

He let’s you rock his face on your pussy, squeezing your thighs.

And you… fall apart too easily. The slow build of pressure has been sitting inside your body all day, maybe longer. Weeks. The almost-kisses, the confusing touches, the way he looks at you like he wants to ruin you gently.

It all crests as his fingers dig into your hips and he murmurs against you, low and coaxing, “That’s it. Just like that.”

It’s almost too much. Not from stimulation but from the intimacy. From how seen you feel. You hear how wet you are, can feel Jake’s jaw work. And then – he adds fingers.

He slips his middle finger into you and your mind literally melts. Pleasure is all you can focus on right now, not caring about how loud you’re being or the way your hips keep humping his fingers deeper into you.

You tangle your fingers into his hair, back arching. “Jake—fuck—why are you—”

“Shh.” He hums into you, sending another wave through your body. “You needed this. That’s all.”

And when you finally come apart — shoulders tense, mouth parted, breath catching in your throat — Jake doesn’t stop. Lapping your juices up as if he’s a starving man. But it’s too much. You’re twitching, trying to pull back – but Jake has you locked in place.

He doesn’t let you go until you’re a whimpering and squirming mess, too sensitive, gasping his name like it’s a question.

He looks up at you from between your thighs, lips slick, eyes dark and unreadable.

You blink. “What the hell was that?”

Jake just wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and shifts forward so he’s hovering over you again, his eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back.

“You needed it,” he repeats, soft and serious. “That’s all.”

But you both know that’s not all. It’s not sex. But it’s not not, either. And neither of you have a single word for what this is now.

Instead of answering him, instead of letting yourself ruminate over what just happened, you pull him down into a kiss.

Jake seems surprised, gasping when your lips meet. But you don’t mind taking lead. You cup his face, legs wrapping around his waist as you kiss him as if your life depended on it.

He kisses you back, matching your urgency, your need. You can taste yourself on his tongue, the saltiness of it making you moan as you grind down against his thigh, chasing more.

He groans into your mouth, hands gripping your waist tighter.

“You’re—” a breathless peck to his lips, “such—” another kiss, “a good friend.”

The words slip out, stupid and soft, the kind of thing you didn’t really mean — or maybe meant differently in your head.

Jake freezes.

His mouth is still on yours, but he doesn’t kiss back this time. His brow creases, and after a beat, he pulls away. Resting his forehead against yours, his eyes flutter shut like he’s trying to hold something in. His body is still hard against you, unmistakably turned on — but that fire dims as he slowly leans back.

“I need to shower,” he says quietly, voice low and clipped. “Watch a movie when I come back?”

You nod, feeling his absence instantly as he pulls away. Your chest aches not just from arousal but something else now. Regret? Confusion? You’re not sure. You didn’t mean it like that. Not like just a friend.

But the damage is done.

When he returns, fresh from the shower, his hair damp and curling at the ends, he wraps you in a blanket before joining you on the couch.

You expect warmth. Closeness.

Instead, the blanket settles like a barrier that’s soft, but solid. His arm curls around you from behind, sure, but there’s distance in the way he holds you now. A subtle restraint, like he’s afraid of touching too much.

Your chest twists.

You almost say something about earlier, about the kiss, about what you meant, but the words sit thick in your throat.

Because the truth is, you didn’t mean to call him a friend like that. Not in that moment. Not when you were half out of breath, high off his touch. But it was easier to label it safe than admit how much you were spiraling inside. How close you felt. How badly you wanted him to stay.

You fidget under the blanket. Jake doesn’t speak.

Your hand twitches like it wants to reach for his. It doesn’t.

And maybe this is what hurts more than anything — not the silence, not even the awkwardness. But the knowing. That one wrong word was enough to push you back behind this invisible line neither of you knows how to cross again.

So you let him hold you. Quiet. Still.

Not because you're fine with it, but because you're scared if you speak, the rest will tumble out. Everything you don’t know how to ask for. Everything you're afraid he doesn't want.

And maybe… just maybe, if you wait, this will pass. If you keep the quiet gentle, maybe you can find a way to fix it later. To talk when the air doesn’t feel so fragile. When it won’t sound like a confession.

So you press your face into the pillow, trying not to breathe too loud. Trying not to need too much.

Behind you, Jake shifts a little closer, just barely. His arm tightens for a second, like he almost forgets the wall between you.

But then it loosens again.

And neither of you says a word.

The next morning, Jake comes into your room just before leaving for work. He leans down. Presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Like it's nothing. Then he straightens, gives you a small smile that’s polite and distant and he disappears.

You lie there, frozen.

At first, you try to brush it off. Tell yourself this is what you wanted, right? Just friends. No pressure. No awkwardness. But that kiss stings in a way you weren’t prepared for. So you do the only thing that makes sense in the moment.

You start ignoring him back.

When he texts, you leave him on read. When he walks into the room, you don’t look up. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. But beneath the chill, the silence, the shoulder-turning — your heart aches. You’re not mad. Not really. You just don’t know how to say I didn’t mean it like that.

You miss him. And worse — you want him. Not just the way he touched you, but the way he looked at you. Like you weren’t just some girl, but someone he couldn’t stop wanting.

You crave that again.

So by the time Thursday rolls around, your pride is fraying, your patience thinning. You need a reaction. Any reaction.

Which is why you’re sitting on the couch in shorts that toe the line between indecent and illegal, a tank top clinging to you like it’s been shrunk in the wash — waiting.

Not because you think this’ll fix it. Not because you're confident. But because it's the only language you know how to speak right now.

The door clicks open.

Jake walks in.

You don’t turn your head. Not right away. You hear the jingle of keys. The sound of shoes being kicked off. A pause.

Then, finally, his voice — calm, clipped, guarded.

“Didn’t realize this was a lingerie party.”

You glance up slowly, eyes wide with innocence. “Oh?” you murmur. “This? Just comfy.”

And even though you smile, your heart's pounding in your chest. Because you're not teasing — you're reaching.

Jake drops his bag by the door, loosens his tie, and walks past you — like it’s nothing. But his eyes… his eyes say something else entirely.Lingering. Burning.

You push further.

“I was feeling a little hot,” you say casually, stretching your arms overhead. The hem of your tank rises with you.

He opens the fridge. Grabs water. Doesn’t look at you.

“You don’t say.”

You blink. So he’s going to act like he doesn’t care?

You rise. Pad toward the kitchen on bare feet. “You’ve been quiet,” you say, voice light. “Everything okay?”

Jake shrugs, drinks. “Busy week.”

He won’t meet your eyes.

You step closer. “Or is it the fact that you had your mouth on me, and now you’re acting like we’re just roommates again?”

That gets his attention.

Jake finally turns — cool gaze sweeping over you, lingering a second too long on the slope of your chest, the bare skin of your thighs. Then his mouth quirks. Not a smile — more like a warning.

“We are just roommates,” he says. “Friends. You said so yourself.”

You blink. “Right,” you say tightly. “So friends can do that? Friends can—”

You don’t finish. You’re flustered now, and Jake sees it. Smirks.

You move closer, fast, needing the upper hand. Bold. You press a hand to his chest, slide your fingers down to his waistband. Your other hand rests on his shoulder. You glance up at him, lashes low.

“You’re hard.”

Jake doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. “So are we taking turns stating the obvious now?”

Your breath catches.

His voice is calm. Controlled. Cold.

“You’re the one who wanted no label,” he continues, tone light but jaw tight. “So this? It doesn’t count. Just a reaction, right?”

You falter.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear.

“But you’re not really looking for just reactions, are you?”

And then he walks past you. And now you’re confused.

You tried not letting it get to you, but insecurity starts to seep in. Was something wrong with you? You’re chilling in your room when your phone pings. It’s the groupchat.

🌞noo:

PARTY THIS FRIDAYYYY BY THE RIVER. pls someone else bring the aux tho. jake’s taste in music makes me want to bite drywall

Jake:

you’ve literally danced to my shit before????

🌞noo:

yeah because i’m hot and adaptable not bcs it was good

💋 Liz:

sunoo let jake have one win this week 😭

Jay:

where is this exactly?

Yujin:

next to the trail behind the docks. we used to go there for bonfires remember?

You respond, half-joking:

cute. will there be skinny-dipping or should i bring a towel

🦌 Hee:

you can borrow mine 👀

You do a double look as you read his reply. Your stomach swoops but before you can reply Jake’s responding.

Jake:

relax.

🦌 Hee:

lmao. you relax. what, scared she’ll get cold?

🦊 you:

i love it when the groupchat turns into a pissing contest <3

Jay:

anyway i’m bringing tequila. yujin said she’s making jello shots.

Yujin:

no i didn’t

 Jay:

you will tho 😇

💋 Liz:

can we all agree on one thing?

🌞noo:

no drama

💋 Liz:

no hookups between friends

🦊 you:

girl be serious

Is what you type, but your mind is already wandering traitorously to a boy with black fluffy hair and a puppy persona.

It’s Friday. Jay picked you and Jake up and now here you were. Golden hour is kissing the riverbank. Music drifts lazily through bluetooth speakers. There's a cooler full of drinks half-submerged in the water. People are arriving in waves — towels, sandals, skin on display.

You're in a two-piece with a light cover-up that’s definitely more "slip" than "dress." You clock Jake the second he gets in Jay’s car. Black swim trunks. Messy hair. Oversized tee hanging off his shoulder. He meets your gaze once and looks away.

Heeseung’s the one who whistles when he sees you.

“You always gotta show up looking like a vacation?”

You snort. “And you always gotta flirt like it’s your job?”

He grins. “Not a job if I enjoy it.”

Jake’s nearby. Not close. Not far. Just watching with a drink in hand, jaw tight. Sunoo and Liz are already loudly arguing over who makes better playlists. Jay and Yunjin are sitting side by side but not touching, throwing little glances every few minutes.

But Jake?

He’s not talking much. Not laughing. He hasn’t really been spending any time with you over the past week. Not texting as much. And suddenly it matters more than it should.

You pretend you’re not flirting with Heeseung. Yes, you lean in when he jokes. Yes you laugh too loudly at something stupid he says. And maybe you’re watching Jake’s reactions when you do so.  

And he sees it. He sees the way you touch Heeeung’s shoulder when he makes you laugh. Sees the way Heeseung’s eyes seem to linger too long on your top. And something in him snaps.

Just then you lean into Heeseung, Jake sees you saying something to him and then you’re leaving.

He follows you before Heeseung can.

The bass from outside the bathroom thumps through the tiled walls. You’re alone, fixing your lip gloss in the mirror, but your hands are shaking from nerves. You had a feeling  he followed you.

The door creaks open. Jake steps in. Locks it.

You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“Bathroom’s taken,” you say, tone flat.

He doesn’t leave. Just watches you. “You and Heeseung having fun?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Why?”

Jake shrugs. “You’ve been laughing at all his jokes. Hanging off him like he’s your boyfriend.”

You spin around slowly, still leaning against the sink. “So what? You jealous?”

He doesn't answer right away. Just stares at you, jaw tight, chest rising a little faster than normal.

“Should I be?”

You swallow. “I don’t know. Should you?”

Jake takes one step closer. Then another. He’s toe-to-toe with you now, his hand brushing your hip.

You don’t back down. “We’re just friends, remember? Isn’t that what we are?”

He exhales through his nose. The corner of his mouth twitches.

Then, without warning, he steps between you and the sink, arms braced on either side of you, caging you in.

You’re breathless.

“I was doing just fine,” he murmurs, voice low, eyes scanning your face, “telling myself we’re just friends.”

Your heart stutters. “What changed?”

Jake leans in, nose brushing yours. “You.”

You blink. “Because I flirted?”

“Because you know exactly what you’re doing.” His voice sharpens, heated now. “Wearing that dress. Touching his arm. Laughing like that.”

“I was just being nice—”

“No, you were provoking me. And you wanted me to see it.”

Your stomach flips.

Jake’s hand slides to your hip, pulls you flush against him. You can feel him. Hard and restrained. His voice stays low and even, but it cuts through you.

“You wanted a reaction?” His hand slips under your cover-up, skims bare skin. “Now you’re going to deal with it.”

He presses you harder against the sink. His other hand wraps around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, claiming. You half whimper half gasp, chest rising and falling deeply as you let him do with you whatever he pleases. After all, this was what you wanted.

“I’m not gonna say it,” he whispers, mouth brushing your ear. “Not yet. But I’ll show you.”

You gasp as he hooks your leg up on the sink, exposing you. You dress hikes up, bunching by your waist as your panties are put on display.

His hand slides between your thighs, brushes over the fabric clinging to you, wet and sticky.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, amused. “And you’re trying to act like you don’t care.”

You clench around nothing, lips parted.

He pulls your panties to the side but doesn’t give you what you want. Just strokes you slow, maddening. Teasing. Fingers never quite brushing over your clit. He plays with you like that until you react.

You whimper.

“Use your words,” he murmurs, fingers circling your hole.

“Jake…”

“Say it louder.” He commands, stopping his movement.

“Please—”

He gives your pussy a sharp slap. The sting oddly pleasurable. But the unexpectedness of it, makes you flinch.

Your eyes fly open. “What—?”

“You like begging?” he says, tone cool, eyes half-lidded. “I think you do.”

He sinks to his knees, pulls your hips forward on the counter. You scramble for grip. His mouth is hot and unrelenting — but he keeps you right on the edge. Tongue circling your clit, tugging, sucking on it but never in the way he knows you like.

Eventually he gives in, circling your clit with his tongue, before working with his jaw. Loud suckling sound can be heard mixed with your loud whimpers.

But every time you start to fall apart, he backs off.

By the third time you’re panting. Desperate. “Jake—!”

He looks up at you, lips wet. “Say you want me.”

“I want you.” You cry out, rocking your hips (or trying to) against any surface. You’re practically buzzing with the need to release, shaking in want.

“No. Say you want to be mine.”

You falter. The words feel too big.

He doesn’t push. Just pulls back slightly — and the emptiness is unbearable.

“Say it,” he says again, softer now. “Or I’ll stop.”

Your hands fist in his hair.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes flash with something akin to victory and hunger.

“That’s better.”

He stands, yanks your panties down, and pushes into you in one smooth thrust. You want to curse, the stretch almost too much. You feel too full and at the same time you want more.

 Your moan is caught halfway in your throat. He kisses you like it’s punishment, like it’s worship. One hand on your throat. The other cradling the back of your head like you’re glass.

“You make me fucking insane,” he groans, hips snapping up into you, rougher now. “You want danger? You want someone to claim you?”

“Yes,” you choke out. “Yes.”

He fucks you like it’s a message. Like he’s carving his name into you. Hips relentlessly pushing into you.

You whimper, the rough pace Jake set making you cock drunk.

Jake notices, the hand around your throat sinks lower, covering youe tit as Jake leans down.

He kisses your neck softly, his hips snapping into you. He’s so close to you that he’s almost humping into you. Your body moving with his whenever he thrusts into you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling harshly and Jake bites you. Literally bites you. And then, he’s sucking a love bite on your skin. Right below your throat. For everyone to see.

After, when you’re trembling and dazed and the mirror’s fogged with heat, he doesn’t say a word. Just adjusts your cover-up gently, tucks your hair behind your ear, and kisses your forehead like you didn’t just break each other in a public bathroom.

The morning after the party you’re tired. Hungover. Emotionally tapped. You fumble through your kitchen, making tea like your body doesn’t ache with memory — like Jake didn’t fuck you in a bathroom last night so hard you still feel him in you.

He’s already sat behind the kitchen table, almost as if he was waiting for you to wake up. At first neither of you say anything.

Until you can’t take it anymore.

“What?” you ask with more bite than you intended.

Jake’s jaw is tight. “We need to talk.”

You cross your arms. “There’s nothing to—”

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Don’t do that again.”

You blink. “Do what?”

“Pretend it didn’t matter.”

Silence.

“You always do this,” Jake says, voice low. “Something happens, and you brush it off. You act like I’m imagining it.”

You open your mouth — and he shakes his head.

“You’re not confused. You’re scared.”

Your breath catches. You hate how right he is. He always sees you. Even when you don't want to be seen.

You try again. “Jake, we were drunk. The party—”

“I wasn’t drunk,” he says. “You know I wasn’t.”

His eyes are sharp, unreadable. “Were you?”

You hesitate. Shake your head once.

He exhales, jaw flexing — then takes a step forward. “So just say it.”

You take a shaky step back. “Say what?”

“That you want me.”

Your back hits the wall. “Jake—”

He pins you with his eyes, chest rising and falling. “Say it.”

You can’t look at him. “Why? So you can say I told you so?”

“No,” he says quietly. “So I can finally touch you without wondering if you’ll run the second we’re done.”

You grab his shirt, fisting it near his stomach, and pull him in until your breath fans his lips. “I want you,” you whisper. “All of you.”

His hands lift slow, intentional, and cup your face like you're something breakable. His thumbs brush your cheeks. He tilts your chin up, studies you.

"Okay," he says, like a vow.

When he kisses you, it’s not hurried or hungry. It’s deep. His mouth moves over yours like he’s memorizing, reclaiming. And when he finally pulls back, you're breathless.

“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. “How you sound. How you taste. How you fall apart.”

His hand slides under your shirt, resting over your stomach not rushing, just feeling.

“And I’m not gonna stop this time,” he says. “Not until you forget anyone else ever looked at you.”

You gasp when his fingers dip lower, but he still doesn’t move fast. He lingers. Draws circles on your thigh like he’s playing with patience, watching you twitch.

He likes it. The way you can’t stay still. The way your breath comes shorter now, even though he’s barely touched you.

“You’re squirmy,” he murmurs, amused. “Already?”

“Jake,” you whisper, nails digging into his arms.

His gaze flicks up, sharp and dark. “Use your words.”

“You want me?” Jake asks, voice quiet but laced with heat.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes wide.

He studies you, gaze steady. “Then prove it.”

Your heart skips. “I will. Jake—” you reach for him, desperate now, “I swear, anything.”

A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face.

“Yeah? Then let me try something,” he murmurs.

He produces a silk tie. The same one he wore this week. The same one that still smells faintly like cologne and heat and him. You hum in anticipation, you think he’s probably going to tell you to turn around and tie your wrists together. But you’re caught off guard when he speaks.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

You do. The tie ghosts across your cheek, a featherlight tease, before he slips it around your eyes and knots it behind your head — tight enough to hold, loose enough to keep you comfortable. Your breath catches as darkness wraps around you. It heightens everything. And everything is laced with Jake. It’s like you’re in a personal Jake-terrarium, his scent all around you, his hands ghosting over your arms, shoulders and back. He laces your fingers when you feel him against your ear, warm and close.

“You’re not gonna run this time?” His voice is low, close, threading against the shell of your ear.

“No,” you whisper. “I want this.”

“You want me,” he corrects. His fingers brush your jaw, tracing down your neck. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you repeat, voice needy.

Jake hums — satisfied, not smug. Then his hands take yours, and he guides you. Carefully. Silently. Every step feels electric. You don’t know where he’s taking you — until the air shifts, cooler now, tinged with the crisp morning air.

You’re on the balcony.

The city hums below. Too far to hear, close enough to feel. You’re hidden from view — probably. Not completely. It doesn’t matter.

Your hands rest on the railing, and Jake’s voice returns, low and calm behind you.

“Stay still.”

You do.

He steps in close, chest against your back, fingers slipping under your shirt, sliding it up, baring you to the sky.

“This okay?” he asks.

You nod, but it’s not enough.

“Words,” he reminds you, breath warm on your shoulder.

“Yes, Jake.”

The tie around your eyes tightens with your inhale. The air is cool, but Jake’s hands are fire.

He kneels behind you.

You feel his mouth first — soft, reverent — trailing kisses along the backs of your thighs, then up higher. You slightly bend over, hands gripping the balcony railing as if it’ your lifeline. And in a way it was. Because just one slip ad it could end badly – but you trust Jake. Trust him to take care of you.

His hands grip your hips. Gently at first. Then firmer. Possessive. And he holds you in place, watching as you try to rub your thighs together, but when his grip is too tight you switch to rocking your hips back and forward. it doesn’t give you any friction and that’s when Jake’s hands slide towards your butt, then under your butt, before he’s slippin one hand to your inner thighs.

But he doesn’t touch you there yet. He simply pushes his face into your clothed butt, nose pressing right where you need him. And then he says,

“You smell like you’ve been thinking about this all day.”

You whimper. He chuckles — low, pleased.

Then his fingertips glide up inside of you and you gasp. He was gentle, yet powerful. You spread your legs further, bending down even more so your chest presses against the cold railing.

“You’re soaked,” he says as he keeps pushing two digits in and out of you in a scissoring motion.  Your hips twitch. He presses you still with one hand, the other pulling at your lacy panties.

“Did you wear these for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe, wiggling your cunt over his hand.

“Did you want me to find you like this? Desperate. Squirming.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your pretty hole practically vibrating with the way you keep doing kegles.

His finger circles your clit — barely there. And you moan, knuckles white from how hard you’re holding onto the railing.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

You try. You fail.

He tsks under his breath and let’s go of the panties. They snap. The touch stinging. You immediately still completely. “Didn’t I say still?”

You gasp. “I’m sorry—”

Jake strokes deeper once, then pulls away. You whine at the loss.

He loves this. You can feel it in the way he exhales — slow, in control. You’re on fire. He’s the one holding the match. He stands up then, hugging you from behind. He presses his hips against you and you moan, rocking yourself back into him. Jake kisses your neck, and it’s all you can focus on.

But his hands are already pulling your panties down, he lightly pats you on your butt and you step aside a bit, letting them fully fall down. You don’t worry about someone seeing you two, you were too high up for pedestrians to see and your neighbors had the view obstructed by the railing. But still, you shiver once he bares you to the outside world.

But Jake doesn’t worry, he’s back on his knees as soon as your panties hit the ground. Then one finger slips back in. Then another. He keeps them deep as he pushes them in, and out. In a hook motion, reaching the most pleasurable spot inside of you.  His whole palm is on your cunt, with his thumb teasing your clit in light, endless circles.

“You feel that?” he whispers, mouth against your ear now. “How perfect you are like this? Bare. Open. Mine.”

You whimper. “Jake—”

“Not yet.”

He pulls his fingers out. You nearly sob.

Then he brings them to your lips. “Open.”

You do. He pushes them past your mouth, slow and steady, watching as you suck him clean.

“Good girl,” he says.

You nearly come from those two words alone.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod frantically, tie still in place, heart pounding out of your ribs. Jake pushes and hold you into his desired position. Now you’re standing straight, looking as if you’re just looking over the city (if only it weren’t for the tie still tied around your head), and Jake is holding you from behind – as if he’s just hugging you.

Your head cocks to the side, and Jake nuzzles into it. His right hand disappears behind you and you can hear him shuffling behind you.

Then you feel it — his cock, thick and warm against your entrance.

“You sure you’re not gonna run again?” he murmurs, teasing the tip against you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper. “Just—please.”

“Please what?”

“Please fuck me,” you plead, grinding yourself against his dick. And Jake finally pushes his hard dick into you. You don’t think you’ve ever been stretched by a dick this good and you kind of stop breathing. The lack of oxygen and vision made the feeling of his dick ten times better.

And you know Jake feels it too. He groans as soon as his cockhead stuffs you, hips stilling and stuttering for a moment.

You whine, squeezing him in a silent command to give you more, more, more.

“More Jakey, please,” you whine, he tsks but complies. Slowly stuffing you full.

He doesn’t give either of you time to move before he’s thrusting into you. Slowly. So slowly you think you know how every vein looks, how every ridge looks and you still want more.

Jake fucks you with intent. Deep, deliberate strokes that claim you inch by inch. You’re crying out, gripping the railing, blindfolded and desperate. He fucks you like he’s memorizing every sound you make. Like this isn’t just sex it’s proof.

That you’re not going anywhere.

That you’re his.

And when he finally lets you fall apart, it’s to the sound of his voice behind you, whispering like a spell

“That’s it. Good girl. Let them hear how mine you are.”

Your body’s still trembling, silk tie slipping down your nose, the air cooling your skin. Jake doesn’t speak right away. He just holds you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder — then another, higher this time, near your neck.

You feel his heartbeat against your back. Fast. Just like yours.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.

You start to laugh, just a little. Maybe from adrenaline. Maybe because you don’t know what else to do.

Jake gently unties the blindfold, letting it fall away. He cups your jaw, turns you to face him, and really looks at you.

“Too much?” he asks softly.

“No,” you say too quickly. Then realizing that might sound dismissive you add, “It was… good. Intense. But good.”

He studies you for a beat, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. You think he might tease you, say something cocky but instead, he kisses your forehead.

Then your temple.

Then your lips.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to protest.

Carries you in, literally. Like you weigh nothing. Like you’re something precious.

He runs a warm bath and adds eucalyptus salt like it’s routine. His hands are all over you — not sexually now, just present. Stroking your back as you sink into the water. Brushing damp hair from your face. Letting you lean into his chest when you finally relax.

You close your eyes. Not because you're tired. Because it’s easier than letting him see how much this is affecting you.

He still sees it.

“You okay?” he asks again, quieter now, as if he knows you’re trying not to feel anything too real.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. But your fingers are clinging to his forearm.

Jake notices. Smiles a little.

“I always kiss your temple after,” he says casually, like it’s a fact. “Even before tonight.”

Your eyes snap open. “You do?”

He nods. “It’s where you melt the most.”

You scoff. “That’s not—” But you trail off. Because yeah. You probably do.

Once you’re dry, wrapped in a soft towel and oversized shirt that smells like him, he pulls you into bed. Doesn’t let go.

You lie there together, limbs tangled, and it should be awkward, but it’s not. Not until the words slip out of your mouth — too fast, like everything else with you lately.

“So… what now?”

Jake shifts to look at you. “Now I take you on a real date.”

You blink. “Even if we’re already fucking?”

“Especially if we’re already fucking.”

That makes you laugh. So does he. Your noses bump as you kiss again, slower this time. Lazy. Sweet.

Afterwards you head to a late lunch — the usual post-party ritual. Sunoo picked the spot: some cozy place with overpriced eggs and bottomless mimosas. Everyone’s a little sluggish, mildly hungover, and deeply curious.

You and Jake walk in together.

At first, no one clocks it.

But then you slide into the booth next to Jake. And his hand is still resting on the small of your back when you sit. You’re glowing. He looks way too pleased.

Sunoo is the first to notice.

His eyes narrow. “Wait…”

Jake doesn’t say anything. Just leans back, throws his arm casually behind you like it’s nothing like it’s normal and smirks.

Sunoo gasps.

“WAIT.”

Jay lifts an eyebrow over his coffee. “Here we go.”

“Is this—are you two—” Sunoo points between you like he’s solving a murder. “Did you finally do it?”

Liz drops her fork. “Finally?”

Yujin gasps, slapping Jay’s arm. “I told you something was up after the haunted house.”

Jay just sips his drink. “Yeah, but I figured we’d all be grandparents before they figured it out.”

Heeseung doesn’t say anything at first. He just tilts his head, eyes flicking between the two of you. There’s a little smile tugging at his mouth — you think it’s fond, but you also see the tiniest flicker of something else. Surprise, maybe. Something more complicated. Still, he raises his glass like a toast.

“Well,” he says smoothly. “I guess Jake finally manned up.”

You look at him, curious, but Jake doesn’t flinch. “Someone had to,” he replies, calm and steady.

Sunoo clutches his chest. “So it’s real? Like real real?”

Jake nods. And then like it’s not a big deal at all he laces your fingers with his under the table.

You don’t pull away.

“Wait,” Liz says, eyes darting around. “Have you guys, like… had the talk?”

Jake looks at you. “Have we?”

You smile at him, that private kind of smile only he seems to get. “I think last night counted.”

Sunoo practically combusts.

“OH MY GOD THEY TOTALLY FUCKED.”

You slap your palm over your face. Jake just laughs, entirely unbothered. “Thanks for keeping it classy, Sunoo.”

Heeseung raises his brows. “Bathroom?”

Jay chokes on his drink.

“Not confirming or denying,” Jake says but he’s grinning now, actually grinning like he just won the lottery and isn’t even trying to hide it.

“You’re disgusting,” Yujin says through a laugh, but she’s clearly happy for you. “But like, in a cute way. I guess.”

“Disgustingly overdue,” Liz mutters. “Seriously, this has been months of tension. I deserve a gift basket.”

Sunoo nods, dead serious. “With candles. And at least one thank-you note.”

You roll your eyes but you’re still smiling.

And underneath the noise, the teasing, the laughter, Jake leans closer to your ear. Low enough that no one else hears.

“Mine,” he murmurs.

You look at him. “Yours.”

And for once, saying it feels easy.

[hevvxx2]

Title: "Loud Thoughts, Hot Coffee"

characters: Joaquin Torres x reader

(Sam and Bucky mentioned)

warnings: Dirty thoughts, fluff... and coffee spitting.....?

If you enjoyed part 1 here’s part 2 for ya! 🤍

PART 2

Summary: Poor Joaquin.. oh poor him.. anyways.. Reader has abilities similar to Wanda's, she can mind read and has telekinesis. HOWEVER Sam and Bucky ABSOLUTELY never told him she has these abilities

The kitchen of the Avengers’ safehouse was buzzing — not with conversation, but with the low hum of the coffee maker, the quiet rustle of paper, and the steady tapping of Sam’s fingers against his tablet as he prepared for the morning debrief.

You sat at the island with your mug, half-full of scalding black coffee, eyes slightly glazed as you tried to ignore the inner monologue screaming just a few feet away.

Joaquin Torres was sitting opposite you, looking deceptively innocent with bedhead curls and a Falcons hoodie slightly too big for his frame.

He didn’t know.

No one had told him — not Sam, not Bucky — that you could hear thoughts. And not just sometimes. Always.

Especially his. Crystal clear. No static, no fuzz. Just 100% unfiltered Joaquin Torres, like his brain had a Bluetooth connection straight to yours.

It was… fine. Most of the time. He thought about missions, Sam’s lectures, memes, and what he was going to eat for lunch. Easy enough to tune out.

But this morning?

This morning was different.

"She’s wearing those leggings again."

Your hand froze around your mug.

"God help me, I am trying to be professional, but—what is she made of? Coffee and chaos? Is this what actual angels look like? I bet she smells like cinnamon. Or vanilla. Or sin."

You took a cautious sip, trying not to react.

"…North sector’s cleared out." Sam was saying, not looking up from the tablet. "But I want Torres and Y/N sweeping it again by noon."

You nodded, sipping again.

"Focus, Joaquin. FOCUS. Por Dios... Don’t think about her mouth. Or what she looked like in that damn training outfit yesterday. Or how she—OH MY GOD—STOP. Stop stop stop—"

You choked.

Like, violently.

Coffee sprayed across the table. You slapped a hand to your chest, coughing uncontrollably, eyes watering. Sam immediately looked up, startled. Bucky, leaning against the fridge with a protein bar, choked back a laugh.

"Damn girl.." Sam said. "You alright?"

You waved a hand, coughing. "Yeah. Fine. Just—hot. Too hot."

Joaquin was out of his chair in a second, eyes wide. "Shit, are you okay? Do you need water?"

"Oh god, I broke her. Was I thinking too loud? She didn’t hear that, right? She couldn’t have. That’s not a thing....... Right?"

You locked eyes with him, face burning. He looked so genuinely concerned, you couldn’t even blame him.

But also… really?

Sam gave you a look. The kind that said, do not kill him with your brain. You gave him a look right back: he deserves it.

Bucky just muttered under his breath. "Told you he’d crack eventually."

Joaquin helped mop up the mess, totally oblivious.

"She’s so cute when she blushes. Ugh, why is she always looking at me like she can hear me thinking?"

You snorted out a laugh you couldn’t stop, grabbed your jacket, and stood abruptly.

"Recon. Now. You’re with me." you said, already heading for the door.

Joaquin looked at Sam and Bucky. "Did I… miss something?"

Sam sighed. "Nope."

Bucky shrugged. "Just watch your thoughts around her, Torres."

Joaquin blinked. "Why?"

Both of them, in unison:

"Don’t worry about it."

Like my work? Here is my Masterlist!

A/N: I hope you guys are doing well! make sure to eat and stay hydrated! I'm watching you.. (not.... in a creepy way.. LOL) I was laughing so hard as I wrote this... ANYWAYS before I get sidetracked I'm thinking of making this a series! What do you guys think?

[ssa-dado]

1 - Orchids & Knots

Aaron Hotchner x bau!reader

Genre: fluff

Summary: A young profiler, recently recruited by Jason Gideon, joins the BAU and works with experienced agents, including Hotch and Rossi, on a challenging case involving a methodical killer. Despite initial nervousness, you start to bond with Hotch through wit and shared work ethic, revealing unexpected personal sides along the intense investigation.

Warnings: Usual CM case described in detail, hideous use of one bedroom trope, Gissi implied as a joke

Word Count: 4.1k

Dado's Corner: first part of the upcoming series! Still have no clue of how many parts it could have, just expect a very slow burn. My other fic - Symposium (definitely not platonic love) - is part of the same universe, hence why reader is still a philosophy enthusiast. You can enjoy this pilot as its own or read it before or after Symposium. You do you. Again, I'm aware there might be some mistakes as English isn't my first language so bear with me.

part zero - reading optional, but strongly advised ; part two

Everyone who knew you had assumed you'd take an academic route in your professional life, perhaps becoming a professor or researcher, but something you couldn’t explain had always pulled you toward the darker corners of human behavior.

You weren't satisfied with just understanding the human mind, you wanted to see what happened when it broke.

Now, you were standing still on the elevator on your way to meet Jason Gideon, the legend who had recruited you after being impressed by your sharp mind during a lecture he held at the academy.

Maybe it was because of your passion to philosophy that made you a natural curious person, always asking – sometimes asking way too many – questions, never taking anything for granted.

After that lecture you understood that profiling was a subject that rewarded what many considered to be one of your most annoying flaws. Hence why another reason you probably decide to follow that specific path, out of all the others: you wanted to prove everyone wrong.

What many didn’t see though - and most of the times you didn’t even realise yourself - is that you questioned yourself and your decisions more than anything else. Although for once, trusting more your instincts rather than your reasoning to decide to work at the Bureau, somehow sweetly felt right.

“Y/N, right?” A deep voice cut through your thoughts. You turned to see Gideon standing beside a tall man, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit. His expression appeared stoic, yet his eyes - sharp and calculated - were the most striking feature about him, even more than the smoke coming from his ears as he was focusing all of his energies on you to read through your façade.

As you entered the barely lit bullpen, the weight of the moment hit you. The room was filled with agents, all seasoned professionals busy with their work, pouring over case files, dissecting behavioral patterns, and speaking in hushed tones about suspects and profiles. Their years of experience were palpable, but instead of shrinking, you felt a quiet resolve. You were aware you had something unique to offer - not to be cocky about it - and Gideon clearly thought so too, otherwise you wouldn’t be there.

You were trying your best to be as neutral as possible but you couldn’t deny you immediately felt a wave of adrenaline coursing through you. Knowing you were standing before one most formidable profilers the FBI had ever known and next to him the one you hypothesised to be the Bureau’s next rising star. There wouldn’t be any other plausible reasons for him to stand so close to Gideon otherwise, you thought.

“Yes, sir,” you responded, willing yourself to keep calm. Gideon had introduced you to the mystery man next to him – SSA Aaron Hotchner – or you-can-call-me-Hotch; For a moment you felt so uncool for not having a nickname yourself.

Hotch studied you further for a moment, his face unreadable, but you could tell he was intrigued. His nod was brief, but it felt like a form of acknowledgment.

Gideon smiled warmly. “Good to see you again, Y/N. I’ve been just telling Hotch here about your academic work, very impressive stuff. I’m sure the mix of philosophy, linguistics and psychology will give you quite of a unique lens for profiling.”

“Welcome to the team,” Hotch said simply, though his tone carried weight. With just a sentence he made sure to remind you that you weren’t just another recruit, you were expected to contribute. You hoped his remark would just point out at the overall high expectations everyone had of you, instead of him questioning your presence here due to your young age, less than a week passed from your 21st birthday.

"Thank you," you said, trying to balance out with professionalism. "I’m eager to get started."

Gideon gestured for you to follow him. "Come on, there’s someone else I want you to meet. David Rossi."

Your heart raced. David Rossi, the legend who had co-founded the BAU with the man standing next to you. The picture of you working with him felt surreal. As you, Hotch, and Gideon made your way to Rossi’s office, you could feel Hotch’s eyes still occasionally flicking toward you, still assessing, still quiet. His silence felt deliberate, as though he wanted to see how you carried yourself before making any judgments.

When you entered Rossi’s office, he looked up from his desk, his dark eyes locking onto yours. His presence was formidable, the kind of aura that came from decades of experience. For a brief moment, you felt like he was already profiling you, dissecting every nuance of your appearance and demeanor. Then, his face broke into a bright grin, and he stood, extending his hand.

"So, you’re the philosophy kid," Rossi said, his voice gruff but warm. "Gideon’s been talking your ear off about you."

Philosophy kid, as if you didn’t feel odd enough.

You shook his hand. "That’s me. Nice to meet you, Agent Rossi."

You smiled at that, already feeling some of the tension ebbing away in his presence. There was something about Rossi’s bluntness that was oddly reassuring. He was a man who spoke his mind, no pretense, no games.

"Dave," he corrected, flashing a grin. "‘Agent Rossi’ makes me sound like I could be your nonno. You can call me Dave."

"So, Gideon tells me you speak sixteen languages?" Rossi asked, raising an eyebrow. "How come? Ever consider becoming a spy?"

"Bisnonno" He quickly grinned, you had just entered his office and already flexing your Italian, he teased you first though. "Got it, Dave.". If there would have been one thing you had learnt throughout the brief 2 minutes you’ve been working at the BAU, is that profilers were no joke about their nicknames.

You laughed softly. "I was raised in a bilingual household, I have a thing for languages"

Hotch, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. "It’ll definitely come in handy in the field. We deal with a lot of international cases."

His voice was calm, measured. Although you had read his file; Hotch wasn’t just any profiler - he was methodical, relentless, and someone who had climbed the ranks through sheer dedication. His seriousness wasn’t arrogance, but a reflection of his deep commitment to the job.

Rossi leaned back slightly, his eyes now flicking over your outfit, your well-fitted total black three-piece suit. “I’ll say, I didn’t expect someone at 21 to show up looking more polished than half of the bureau. You sure you’re not here to give a lecture?”

You chuckled, feeling some of the tension melt away. "This is just my definition of business casual”

Gideon smiled but quickly shifted back to business. “I brought the two of you here in Dave’s office because we just got a tough case” He says gesturing towards you and Hotch “And I want all of us to be working together in on it”.

Rossi laughed, clearly enjoying your response. "Gideon, I think you found someone who might out-dress me."

Normally at the BAU they would either work solo or in pairs, sometimes they would even assest the case from the comfort of their own desk there in Quantico, if travelling was not deemed crucial to build the profile. Only when crime would be particularly complex, they would quicky assemble a team, a small task-force of sorts, take their go-bag with them and travel all across the country struggling more with the train connections rather than with the criminals themselves.

You ironically told yourself that there wouldn’t be a much better start on your new job, your heart raced with anticipation. "What’s the case?" You asked trying to mask the slight feeling of anxiety rushing through your veins.

In a matter of seconds, Gideon quicky exited the office and had already came back firmy holding a bunch of manila folders. He handed you a thick case file, and as you flipped through it, your stomach slightly churned, reminding you this wasn’t these weren’t just pictures on your textbooks.

The unsub had left seven bodies in three states, all bound with intricate knots, posed in ritualistic displays. Each victim had an orchid placed delicately on their chest, and despite the grotesque nature of the crimes, you found there was an eerie beauty in how the unsub treated his victims.

"The knots," Gideon explained, pointing to a photograph. "They’re not random. Each one is different, and each one requires a high level of skill. The unsub is precise, organized, and deliberate. He’s treating these murders like a performance."

These killings to you were manifest of the deeply rooted paradox in human experience - beauty and pain - where both often coexist or follow each other closely. You always found amusing how beauty, whether in art, nature, or human life, often emergeed through struggle or suffering.

You looked closely at the images, analyzing the intricacies of the knots, you feel the need to add something else. "It’s not just performance - it’s communication. The knots are sending a message. He’s not killing out of anger. There’s patience here. He wants control, and the orchids, those suggest he sees the victims as fragile, beautiful objects to be perfected, but ultimately destroyed."

Even historically, humankind tended to these opposites because they reflect the full range of life’s complexities, as joy often emerges from pain, and suffering can heighten the appreciation of beauty. You kept the philosophical monologue to yourself, you definitely didn’t want to reinforce even more the prejudice your teammates could already have on you, the lack of field expertise overly compensated by the knowledge of human nature.

Hotch leaned forward, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "He’s someone with discipline, military or maybe maritime experience. The variety of knots points to a deeper knowledge of how they work. He’s not just tying them for show. He’s someone who understands the function of every twist and turn."

Rossi smiled at your analysis, clearly impressed. "Not bad. Not bad at all, philosopher. " You now started to suspect Gideon had overly gushed about this particular part of your background as it seemed to be the only thing your new co-workers remembered about you.

You nodded, your mind racing. "And the orchids, they aren’t just decorative. He’s choosing them for a reason. Orchids are notoriously difficult to grow. They’re delicate but require meticulous care, which suggests he sees himself as a cultivator. He picks his victims carefully, like someone choosing a rare flower, and when they don’t live up to his standards, he... prunes them."

The team continued to build the profile, each member adding layers of complexity. The unsub’s background became clearer: someone with a need for control, a perfectionist likely with some connection to floristry or horticulture. You felt a growing sense of camaraderie as you offered ideas and bounced theories off Hotch, who slowly began engaging with you more directly.

“They do act like an old married couple” Hotch hums in a low voice while pointing at Rossi and Gideon vividly arguing far away from the two of you about something you couldn’t grasp yet. You immediately chuckle at the sight, appreciating Hotch’s efforts to bond with you yet still being very reserved and shielding himself through his rare jokes.

A few days into the investigation, you found yourself paired with Hotch all the times, a tactic you knew Gideon pulled just to make you feel the most at ease, despite the overly reserved nature of your partner.

He continued, “See, they might made you think the fraternization rules exist because of Dave, what they didn’t tell you is that he’s probably secretly married with Gideon and apparently the latter today forgot about their anniversary”. You tried your best not to burst into laughing as the Italian man furiously walked towards the two of you, Gideon quick on his feet following him with an apologetic look on his face. Damn, Hotch might have been right, the similarities in the physical language to the scenario he previously mentioned was uncanny.

“The Bureau changed our accommodation, again.” Gideon sighed “They’ll soon send us the address, we have two rooms, two twin beds each, private bathroom” He ironically emphasised the last part, as if he was offering all of you the deal of your life.

“Budget cut again kiddos” Dave announced, oblivious of the reason why both of yours and Hotch's eyes were almost tearing up trying to hold in the laughters.

“Hood rats.” Rossi flamboyantly replied “So here’s another reason to end this case as soon as possible. Figli di puttana, There's no way I'm sleeping more with Jason rather than with my own wife”. Both you and Hotch gave each other a quick mischievous side-eye that could speak more than a thousand words. As the two of them moved away from you and Hotch enough so they wouldn’t hear your next words, you turned towards him. “Dave didn’t even offer us to sleep with him in his room, you actually might have been right all along”.

“I’m always right” He replied showing the dimples on his face.

“Typical lawyer behaviour, gaslighting their way just to be right in their own distorted reality.” You poke fun at him as you reminded he told you he used to work as a persecutor before landing into the Bureau.

Hotch definitely didn’t expect such a quick-witted comeback from you. “I wasn’t aware philosophers knew humor” he teased you.

“We patented it” you smirk.

You and Hotch later surveyed a potential crime scene—a floral shop the unsub had likely visited. As you both examined the area, you could feel Hotch's eyes on you, observing how you worked, how you processed information.

"You’re picking up on a lot for your first case," Hotch said, breaking the silence. "Most people miss the smaller details."

You looked over at him, surprised by the sudden compliment. "Thanks. I guess looking at things in an unorthodox way helps, all the hours spent on Plato apparently paid off"

Hotch nodded. "It shows. Keep it up."

Together, you reviewed the evidence, each of you adding to the emerging profile. You and Hotch began to form a pattern: he’d focus on the precision of the unsub’s actions, while you offered a more abstract perspective, thinking about the emotional motivations behind the crimes.

Later that evening, after a long day of chasing leads and trying to make sense of the tangled web the unsub had woven, you all finally were set into the new accommodation.

Despite Rossi’s earlier complaints about the budget cuts, the place wasn’t that bad - it was modest but clean, with enough space to spread out the case files and work. You and Hotch were indeed been paired up to share a room, as he previously predicted, with two twin beds crammed into a space that would feel much smaller once your notes and case materials were scattered all across the floor.

As soon as you entered the room, Hotch moved with military precision, setting down his go-bag and immediately pulling out a file. He glanced around briefly, as if taking in every detail of the room in a split second, then sat down at the small desk, already deep in thought.

You, on the other hand, sat on the edge of your bed for a moment, looking around and trying to shake off the fatigue that was creeping in. It was only your first case, and yet you felt the pressure building already - both from the weight of the crimes and from wanting to prove yourself in front of someone as formidable as Hotch. Despite the intensity of the case, you couldn’t help but be amused at the situation.

“So, do you believe their honeymoon suite is just as romantic as ours?” You asked with a smirk, hoping to lighten the mood.

Hotch didn’t look up immediately, as if puzzled on how to choose his next words, though you caught the slight twitch of his lips. “Yeah, nothing says romance like crime scene photos and case files scattered everywhere.”

You chuckled and tossed your jacket onto the back of a chair. “I always knew the FBI had a weird way of doing things, but I have to admit this is next level.”

As you pulled out the case file, flipping through the pages and studying the photos, you found it hard to concentrate, mostly because of how quiet the room turned out to become. Hotch was the kind of person whose silence seemed louder than most people’s conversations, and though you could tell he was intensely focused on the case, you sensed that he was also observing you – amazed at how it was the first time he ever saw someone overworking themselves as much as he did.

Breaking the silence, you threw a glance at him. “You ever wonder what makes someone do this? I mean, it’s one thing to read about it in a textbook, but seeing it in person…”

Hotch set his pen down and leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze fixed on you. “Every time. You get used to it, but it never really stops affecting you.”

You nodded, taking that in. “It’s just so… deliberate. Every little detail, like the knots, the orchids, it’s like he’s creating something, not just destroying.”

Hotch’s eyes narrowed in thought, clearly impressed by your analysis. “That’s an interesting perspective. Most people would only see the destruction.”

“You know,” you said, leaning back on the bed, wanting to return the subtle compliment “when I first joined the academy, I never thought I’d end up here, sitting in a hotel room with one of the newest best profilers in the country.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow. “Flattery, huh? Didn’t think philosophers believed in that.”

You grinned. “We don’t, but I make exceptions.”

He gave you another small smile, his guard dropping just a little. “Well, I didn’t expect to be working with a 21-year-old who can hold their own on a case like this.”

“I’ve got to keep up with all of you somehow.”

Hotch shook his head slightly, still smiling. “You’re doing more than keeping up, but I’ve already told you this.”

The next morning, while poring over the case, both you and Hotch hit on the idea that the unsub might escalate soon. "He’s been meticulous so far, but there’s a growing desperation in the pattern," you observed. "He’s becoming bolder with each kill, taking greater risks. If he feels like he’s not getting the recognition he craves, he might go after a more high-profile victim."

Hotch considered this, his brow furrowing. "Someone in the public eye. He’d want an audience for his ‘art.’ We should look into upcoming events where he might strike."

Later, Gideon walked into the room with a look that told you something big had just clicked into place. "We’ve got a break," he said, laying down a new set of photographs. They were taken at a local orchid show, a high-profile event that had been held recently. "We missed it before because the show was a private event, members only. But one of the attendees matched the profile. His name is Matthew Carson, a former Navy sailor turned horticulturist."

You leaned over the photos, seeing the man for the first time. Carson was in his mid-thirties, tall, with an air of quiet control about him. "That explains the knots," you said. "He would’ve learned that skill in the Navy. And the flowers - he’s obsessed with perfection, cultivating these delicate orchids. It fits with how he views his victims."

Hotch nodded, already processing the next steps. "We need to move fast. He’s going to escalate, and the orchid show gives him an audience: a high-profile victim pool. He’ll want to make his statement soon."

The team sprang into action, coordinating with local authorities to track Carson down. You, Hotch, Rossi, and Gideon prepared to approach his house, a sprawling property on the outskirts of town, where Carson ran his own private orchid nursery.

As the team closed in, your heart pounded with anticipation. Carson’s house was an eerie reflection of his mind: immaculate, but with an unsettling coldness, orchids lined the windowsills and filled every room with their fragile beauty. It was a place of quiet obsession.

Rossi was the first to spot Carson. The man was in the greenhouse, meticulously pruning an orchid, completely unaware of the FBI’s presence. Hotch signaled for you to stay back as he and Rossi approached cautiously.

"Matthew Carson," Hotch called, his voice steady but firm.

Carson didn’t flinch. He continued trimming the orchid as though nothing out of the ordinary was happening. "You don’t understand," he said quietly, his voice calm but laced with underlying madness. "It’s about perfection. I’m creating something beautiful."

Hotch took a step closer. "You’re hurting people, Matthew. This isn’t beauty, it’s destruction."

Carson finally looked up, his eyes hollow yet intense. "They weren’t good enough. The flowers... they have to be perfect."

You could feel the tension in the air while Hotch was doing what he did best, calmly, methodically drawing Carson out, understanding his twisted mind.

"They’re not flowers, Matthew. They’re people," You said as Hotch took another step closer. You continued "You’re not creating beauty. You’re trying to control what you can’t, but perfection doesn’t exist."

Carson’s grip tightened on the shears in his hand, his knuckles turning white. "I can make it exist," he whispered.

Before he could act, Rossi moved swiftly, disarming Carson and pinning him to the ground, he struggled briefly but then went limp, as if the fight had left him entirely. The unsub’s calm shattered, and in that moment, you saw the deep fragility that had driven his madness.

"You think you understand, but you don’t," Carson muttered as he was handcuffed. "I was so close."

As Gideon secured Carson, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The case was over, but the weight of it still lingered but before you could start overthinking, you felt a hand on top of your left shoulder. Your heart skips a beat and you quickly turn around to what revealed to be Hotch “Good job on the case, partner” You shyly smile “Not so bad as your first case at all”

“I could say the same about you, especially on the way you handled Carson, but I bet someone like you is used to the myriad of compliments at this point.”

He rolled his eyes, then quickly moved towards Rossi before you could notice the smile tugged on his face - too late – you could see his dimples still showing even when he was far away from you.

Later, on the train ride back to Quantico, you and Hotch found yourselves sitting across from each other. The case had drained everyone, you glanced at Hotch, who was staring out the window, lost in thought.

"So," you said, breaking the silence, curious to know something real about the man you shared a room with for the past two days "now that the case is over, are you going to admit that you do something other than work? Or is profiling literally your only hobby?"

Hotch turned to you, raising an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," you said with a grin, "You must have to do something outside of this. You can't just spend all your downtime preparing for the next criminal mastermind, or developing conspiracy theories" His eyes went to his side, inviting you to glance at the older profilers. Rossi was conveniently standing up from his seat and leaning in front of Gideon, showing him something on a case file while simultaneously tracing small circles with the back of his pen on the papers the other was holding.

He gave you small smirk, his eyes twinkling with just a hint of mischief, then out of the blue he blurts out “I play the guitar."

You blinked, caught off guard. "You play the guitar?! Seriously?"

Hotch nodded, his expression casual, though you could tell he was enjoying your surprise. "Yeah. It’s something I picked up in college. Helps me unwind."

"Wait, wait, wait," you said, holding up a hand. "Aaron Hotchner, stoic, no-nonsense FBI agent extraordinaire, plays the guitar? I need proof. This sounds like a bluff."

He chuckled, the sound rare but genuine. "I don’t think I need to prove anything to you."

You leaned back in your seat, resting one hand on your forehead. "Unbelievable. I was so sure you didn’t have a hobby. I mean, by the way you work, I was starting to think someone else in the Bureau was keeping another big secret from us, C3-PO"

The unexpected Star Wars reference earned you a genuine laugh from him, then shook his head, a small smile still playing on his lips. "Just because I’m focused on the job doesn’t mean I don’t have other interests."

"Okay, fair enough," you admitted. "But now I’m really curious. What kind of music do you play? Classical? Rock? Please tell me it’s something totally unexpected, like heavy metal."

He laughed again, a sound you were quickly becoming fond of. "Mostly blues, actually."

You stared at him, wide-eyed. "Blues? Wow, that’s... I don’t know, I guess I expected you to say something like jazz or folk, but blues? That’s kind of badass."

Hotch gave a modest shrug. "It’s calming. Helps me think."

"I’m still wrapping my head around this," you said with a smirk. "I’m going to need to hear you play one day. Otherwise, I’m sticking with my theory that you’re secretly a robot who plays FBI agent."

He gave you a side-eye but couldn’t suppress his smile. "I’ll think about it, maybe after the next case if you’re still around"

You pretended to be offended by his words "Is this a threat?!”

“I was just trying to be encouraging”

Maybe working at the BAU wouldn’t be as intimidating as you first thought after all.

As the train rumbled on, you felt a sense of camaraderie with Hotch, a shared respect that had grown over the course of the case. You had proven yourself, and in return, he had let you see a side of him that few people probably ever did.

[lecsainz]

hey!!!! so a Londo x gf!reader where Lando is a super loving but at the same time suuper annoying and sassy boyfriend 😂

DATING WITH LANDO NORRIS

summary: that's how it would be like dating lando.

authors note: While writing this, I almost died cause I went to grab coffee, and it was SO SO SO HOT 😭 I got inspired by the messages I found on Pinterest 💅

✩. . . masterlist !

You didn't know that dating Lando would be a test of patience. Not that you were a boring person, but Lando had a knack for teasing you just for fun, and it drove you crazy...

You're in college, juggling lectures and assignments, and Lando takes every opportunity to distract you with playful text messages and surprise visits to your campus.

Living in London together means endless opportunities for exploration, but also endless debates about whether to take the Tube or an Uber, and Lando always insists on walking, even in the rain.

Lando's idea of a romantic date involves taking you to a go-kart track and pretending to lose so that he can see you competitive and fired up.

He's super loving, and when you're stressed with exams, he'll make you tea and give you back massages, but not without adding a cheeky comment about how you should study less and cuddle more.

Whenever you're watching a Formula 1 race, he'll point at the screen and say, "That's gonna be me winning for you one day, babe."

Lando can't resist poking fun at your accent, even though he's the one with the strong British one. "Say 'water' again, love."

He insists on cooking together, but be prepared for a chaotic kitchen and lots of flour fights.

Lando loves surprising you with impromptu road trips, and while you appreciate the spontaneity, you secretly wish he'd let you pack a bag first.

He's a night owl, and you're not. He'll playfully nag you to stay up late and binge-watch Netflix series with him.

On your birthdays, Lando goes all out with surprises. One year, he arranged for you to take a ride in an actual Formula 1 car (with a professional driver, him, of course).

Lando can't help but show off his driving skills when you're in the car together, even if it means a few hair-raising moments.

He leaves sticky notes with cheesy love messages all over your apartment, which you find for days, even in the most unexpected places.

Sometimes, he intentionally loses bets just to owe you a favor he can cash in later for cuddles.

Lando's sense of humor is a mix of charming wit and cheeky sarcasm, which makes every conversation an entertaining challenge.

Lando's cooking skills are... questionable, but he'll proudly present you with his latest culinary creation, and you'll pretend it's the best thing you've ever tasted.

He loves to bug you, especially when he's jetlagged, sending all sorts of messages like:

[zarameraki]

♡₊˚✒️₊✧ 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗶'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘁 ♡₊˚📓₊✧

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 unprotected sex 𖥔 professor x student 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw 𖥔 smut

: ̗̀➛ words: 1.7k

: ̗̀➛ notes: contemplating if i should do a full series on professor nanami. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

Professor Nanami was captivated by you from the moment you walked into the classroom on the first day. Among the sea of students, you were the only one who chose to sit right at the front, directly in the middle, with a radiant smile that caught his attention instantly.

He always seemed to lose his train of thought during lectures whenever he directed even a brief glance in your direction. 

When he found out your name during one of the online quizzes, he shamelessly delved into researching your social media accounts. Every image he came across painted a picture of sunshine and rainbows, but it was that one image of you in a bikini that sent shockwaves to his cock.

His obsession grew to the point he intentionally gave you a lower grade on an exam you clearly excelled in, just so you would have a reason to schedule office hours and discuss it with him.

As you sat across from him, he found himself struggling to catch his breath. You passionately argued why you deserved a chance for a retake. Tears welled up in your eyes, tracing the delicate edge of your waterline. He didn’t realize it would go this far and he was a fucking idiot for it.  

Nanami rushed over to your side. He quickly crouched down, gently cupping your flushed face in his hands. His thumbs wiped over your wet lashes as he whispered, “I apologize, sweetheart. I purposely gave you a failing grade just to have this chance to speak with you. It was not my intention to cause you distress.”

He held his breath, eagerly awaiting your response, your face still cradled in his hands, only for you to ask, “So, did I pass?” And with a chuckle, he nodded affirmatively, replying, “From the very start.” Because you were a smart girl. The smartest out of everyone he’s ever met. 

His chuckle abruptly ended when you leaned in and kissed him, causing him to freeze with wide-open eyes as yours remained tightly shut in anxious anticipation.

Then like a pliable putty responding to heat, he melted into the kiss, responding with fervor and intensity, while you stood there, arms encircling his neck, both of you lost in the moment. He awkwardly fumbled with locking his office door in a desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of professionalism amidst the escalating moment.

You were perched comfortably on his lap, your lips moving in perfect harmony with his, your body undulating against his erection, fulfilling the dirty fantasies you've harbored for your professor since you first enrolled in his class.

He showered your face and neck with kisses, quickly removing your sweater to unveil your breasts. He teasingly latched onto your perky, sweet nipples, all while he struggled to contain his own orgasm, barely held back by the fabric of his boxers.

In a matter of minutes, he had you bent over his desk, pants and boxers dangling carelessly, his thick, veiny cock buried within you, thrusting vigorously, the force causing his stationary and name plaque to crash to the ground. You gripped the edges tightly, cheek pressed against the smooth mahogany surface, your ass arching to meet his every powerful thrust.

Finishing his heavy load inside of you, he marveled at the sight of his release dripping down your legs, mirroring the tears streaming down your flushed cheeks. Your asscheeks showed signs of discoloration from his relentless spanking; and your legs trembled with the aftermath. He helped you stand, but you sagged into his embrace, causing him to lift you in a bridal-style carry.

Settling into his chair, he gently stroked your face, showering you with praises for being such a good girl for him.

Relentless since the moment he first fucked you, Nanami couldn’t seem to get enough, whether it's after his lectures in his cluttered office, or shooting you a text asking you meet him in some deserted storage space, or inviting you to his place for a cozy evening of dinner and drinks.

And sometimes, it's not even about the sex but just cuddling on the couch, binging movies until you both fall asleep wrapped in each other's arms. It's like time stood still in those moments, suspended in a bubble of warmth that you both never want to burst.

Nanami had become your boyfriend months into your relationship. He surprised you on your graduation day by proposing to you in the lecture hall where you first met four years ago, and as an extra reward for being his good girl, he also asked you to move in with him.

He cried when you said yes.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Mouth to Meat

Cannibal Yakuza Sukuna X [Retracted] F!Reader

Summary: Dr. Y/N L/N is tasked with profiling Ryomen Sukuna, a feared yakuza boss known for his violent tendencies and taste for human flesh. Through a series of therapy sessions, she gains his trust—or so it seems. But Sukuna isn’t the only predator in the room. Behind Y/N’s professional demeanor hides a secret far darker than even Sukuna’s sins. When the masks drop, it’s clear: monsters don’t always look like him.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, Implied cannibalism, Moral ambiguity (everyone’s awful), Mentions of child endangerment.

A/N: This is inspired by an amazing fic idea shared by @sukuna-ryo. Thank you so much for letting me explore this concept! Your creativity brought this to life, and I hope I did it justice. 💕

Chapter 1 - The Price of Curiosity

The room smelled faintly of metal and antiseptic, overpowered by the stink of Sukuna’s restraints. He leaned back in his chair, chains rattling against the bolted-down table, lips curved into an irritated smirk. Another day, another self-important idiot thinking they could peel back the layers of Ryomen Sukuna like some common criminal.

When the door opened, his curiosity barely flickered. Until she walked in.

Unlike the usual parade of interrogators or officials, she carried herself with a casual confidence. No clipboard. No body armor. Just a slim file in her hand and eyes sharp enough to cut glass.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sukuna,” she said as she sat across from him, her tone light, unbothered.

His gaze dragged over her like a predator sizing up prey. “And you are?”

“Dr. Y/N L/N. Forensic psychologist. I’m here to evaluate you.”

He chuckled, low and mocking. “Oh, they sent another one. Let me guess—you’re going to crack open my head and figure out what makes me tick?”

Her lips twitched, almost a smile. “Something like that.”

Leaning forward, Sukuna rested his chin on his palm, the chains clinking with the movement. “Tell me, Doc, what’s the diagnosis so far?”

“You’re impatient,” she said easily. “And maybe a little bored.”

For the first time in years, Sukuna’s smirk faltered—just a hair. “Keep talking.”

She set the file down, not even opening it. “You’re not here because of some uncontrollable bloodlust, are you? You’re not a mindless killer. Every choice you make has purpose. Even your cannibalistic tendencies—they’re calculated.”

His grin widened, shark-like. “You’ve done your homework.”

“I have,” she replied, leaning forward slightly. Her voice dropped, just enough to draw him in. “I know you don’t just eat to survive or for power. You do it to send a message. To dehumanize your victims.”

“Or to elevate myself,” he shot back, amused. “It’s not about dehumanization, Doctor. It’s about taking what others won’t. What they can’t.”

She tilted her head, intrigued. “And what does that give you?”

“Dominance.” His tone was smug, matter-of-fact. “In every way that matters.”

There was a pause, the kind that should have made anyone squirm. But Y/N met his gaze without flinching.

“Does it ever get old?” she asked softly.

The question caught him off guard, though he didn’t let it show. “You’d be surprised, Doc. The taste of fear? That never gets old.”

She leaned back, as if satisfied, and tapped a finger on the edge of the table. “You fascinate me, Sukuna. You don’t just kill—you savor it. I’ve seen your records. You’re… meticulous.”

“You sound impressed,” he teased, voice low and dangerous.

“Maybe I am.” Her smile was small but sharp. “Or maybe I see potential.”

His laughter echoed through the room, rich and feral. “Potential for what? Rehabilitation?”

“Something like that,” she said cryptically. .

---

The sessions continued daily. Y/N’s approach was unorthodox—no lectures, no moralistic speeches. She asked questions that dug deep, steering the conversations toward his cannibalistic acts. Why this victim, why that moment? What did he feel when he consumed them?

Sukuna, for once, played along, curious to see how far she’d go. She didn’t flinch at his answers, no matter how grotesque. If anything, she seemed intrigued, even... amused.

“You’re not like the others,” he said one day, eyes narrowing as she scribbled something in her notes.

“Is that a compliment?”

“An observation.”

Her smile was polite, but her eyes betrayed something darker. “Maybe we’re not so different.” .

The room was quiet after Y/N left for the day. Sukuna leaned back, replaying their conversation. She was digging for something, and he wasn’t sure what. Not fear. Not control. Something deeper.

His tongue clicked against his teeth as he mulled it over.

---

Meanwhile, Y/N stepped into her dimly lit apartment, setting her bag down by the door. She pulled off her coat, revealing the faintest smear of something dark—something red—on the cuff of her sleeve.

In the kitchen, she opened her fridge. Rows of vacuum-sealed packages lined the shelves, each labeled with dates and initials. She reached for one, her fingers brushing the plastic before pulling it out.

“Meticulous,” she murmured, her smile stretching wide as she placed the package on the counter. A butcher’s knife gleamed under the fluorescent light.

As she sliced into the flesh, her mind wandered to the child she had rescued from an alley once, its tiny body trembling with gratitude. The memory turned deliciously dark as she savored the look of dawning horror on its face when it realized not every woman was as kind as its mother. Y/N reveled in the bitter taste of fear—fear that lingered, even after the flesh was cooked.

She set the knife down, adjusting the heat on the stove to a low simmer. A small smile tugged at her lips, wicked and sharp. “He thinks he’s a monster,” she murmured, almost lovingly. “He has no idea.”

---

Back in the cell, Sukuna’s smirk returned. His instincts screamed that Y/N L/N was far more dangerous than she appeared.

And for the first time in years, he wasn’t bored.

A/N: Thank you for reading! 💀✨ I had way too much fun diving into the twisted dynamic between Sukuna and Y/N. What did you think of their little “therapy session”? Who do you think is the real monster here? 👀 I’d love to hear your thoughts, theories, or even just your favorite line! Drop a comment and let me know if you’d like more stories like this—or if you think Sukuna ever stood a chance. 😉

Chapter 2 - Flesh and Stone (Tumblr/AO3)

All Works Masterlist

[akairawrites]

Burgers With Bruce | Bruce Wayne x Reader mini series

Updates everyday!

When sharp, unrelenting reporter Y/n L/n is sent to Gotham to shadow billionaire Bruce Wayne for a profile piece, she expects a few days of stiff interviews and polished soundbites. What she doesn’t expect is to be invited into his world—his manor, his orbit, and something far more complicated than charm. Bruce Wayne is no stranger to hiding the truth, but Y/n sees through more than he’s used to. As the two grow closer, tension simmers between their professional boundaries and undeniable chemistry. But when Bruce disappears in the middle of a high-profile gala and a front-page photo threatens to turn everything public, Y/n is left with more questions than answers. He’s hiding something. She’s determined to uncover it. But the deeper she digs, the more tangled their connection becomes.

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The scent of coffee drifted up the staircase before Y/n was even halfway down. She padded softly along the upstairs hallway, barefoot, muggy sleep still clinging to her skin and flannel draped loosely over her tank top. Her hair was damp from a quick shower. She hadn’t expected to wake early, but something about the Manor made sleep feel optional—like the walls breathed differently at night.

As she rounded the landing, she paused.

Voices.

A low, familiar male voice emanated from the kitchen just off the main hall. She hesitated at the last step, her instincts sharpening. Her body froze.

“I’ll handle it,” Bruce said.

“You always say that,” Alfred replied, dry as stone. “And yet somehow, I end up mopping blood off antique floors and stitching your ribs back together.”

Bruce’s tone dropped lower. “She’s sharp. Observant. But she’s not looking for Batman.”

Her eyes widened.

Batman?

A pause.

Alfred’s voice came softer, heavier.

“Not yet. But she will. And when she does, I hope you remember—some secrets don’t stay buried. No matter how deep the cave.”

Y/n stepped back quietly.

She didn’t need to hear the rest, or rather, she didn’t want to.

She made her presence known just upon entering the room.

The morning sun filtered lazily through tall windows, spilling golden light across the long dining table. The smell of eggs, toast, and strong Gotham-roast coffee filled the room—comforting, normal, disarmingly domestic.

Y/n stepped in like she hadn’t heard a thing.

“Morning,” she said casually, brushing her fingers through her still-damp hair.

Bruce looked up from the paper he wasn’t really reading. His smile was soft, automatic. “Sleep well?”

“Like a corpse,” she said, pouring herself a cup of coffee. “This place is so quiet, it feels unreal.”

Alfred, standing nearby in a crisp dark vest, gave a polite smile. “I do my best to avoid disturbances.”

She took a seat across from Bruce, buttered a slice of toast with deliberate calm. Her tone stayed light, but her eyes were studying him now—not the playboy billionaire, but the man beneath it. The stillness in his shoulders. The faint shadow under his collarbone. The kind of control that doesn’t come from charm, but training.

“You always start your mornings with a secret meeting?” she asked, eyes flicking up just enough.

Bruce barely missed a beat. “Only when they involve tea and lectures.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Y/n smiled faintly, like it was a joke, but she let the silence hang for a second longer than necessary.

“I heard voices,” she added lightly. “Didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

Bruce’s gaze met hers—measured, unreadable. “You didn’t.”

That was a lie. A small one. Practiced.

But it was the first one she’d caught.

Alfred moved quietly between them, refilling coffee, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. Y/n glanced at Bruce over the rim of her mug.

“So,” she said, “what’s the agenda for today? Or do I just follow you around like a billionaire groupie?”

Bruce leaned back slightly in his chair, the smallest hint of amusement playing at the edge of his mouth.

“You’ll be shadowing me, remember?” he said. “Wayne Enterprises has a board meeting mid-morning, then I’m visiting the Wayne Foundation’s trauma center. After that, we’ll check on the green energy initiative site.”

“Full schedule,” she noted, tilting her head.

“You wanted the whole picture,” he said. “This is it. Boardrooms, handshakes, and the occasional PR smile.”

She met his eyes, holding them a second longer than she should have.

“And nothing off the floor plan, right?”

A flicker—barely there—crossed his face. But he covered it well.

“Exactly,” he said smoothly. “No secret rooms. Just quarterly reports and polite applause.”

Alfred cleared his throat softly, which Bruce ignored.

Y/n smiled, biting into her toast. “Guess I better put on my best ‘objective observer’ face.”

After breakfast, Bruce had disappeared to take a call, and Alfred had excused himself to “tend to the library inventory”—whatever that meant.

Y/n stood in the hallway just outside her guest room, now dressed in slate-gray slacks, a cream blouse, and boots soft enough to walk quietly in. A notepad was tucked under her arm, more for the look of professionalism than actual use. Her press pass still hung on a lanyard from her neck, as if that gave her permission to snoop.

The Manor stretched out before her—silent, sprawling, and far too clean for a place this old.

She glanced toward the main staircase… then turned in the opposite direction.

‘Five minutes,’ she told herself. ‘Just a quick look around.’

The hallways were wide and heavy with history. Framed portraits of long-dead Waynes lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow her as she walked. The carpet muffled her steps. The air smelled like old books and something older beneath it—stone, maybe. Earth.

She passed a sitting room. Then a study she hadn’t seen before. Then—

A grandfather clock.

She slowed.

It was beautiful—black walnut, polished to a mirror sheen, its pendulum ticking in a calm, rhythmic arc. But something about it felt… off. Not dusty. No fingerprints. No scratches. Like it had been handled carefully and recently.

Y/n stepped closer, pretending to glance at her watch as she leaned in.

The clock was set to 10:47.

She frowned.

It’s an odd time. It’s too precise and too intentional.

She reached out and touched the rim of the glass door, just gently.

It didn’t open.

But it shifted.

Barely—just enough for her trained eye to see the misalignment in the molding behind it. Like it wasn’t flush with the wall at all.

Before she could test it further, footsteps echoed softly from the main corridor.

She quickly stepped back, smoothing her blouse, adjusting the press badge.

Bruce’s voice called out, calm and distant.

“Car’s out front, Y/n. Ready when you are.”

She turned toward the sound.

But her eyes lingered on the clock a moment longer.

10:47, she thought again.

And then she walked away—like she hadn’t seen a thing.

The city blurred past in streaks of gray and gold as the black town car wove through Gotham’s mid-morning traffic. Y/n sat across from Bruce in the back seat, her notepad resting in her lap, untouched.

The interior was quiet, insulated from the outside world by tinted windows and smooth engineering. But the silence between them wasn’t mechanical—it was tactical.

Y/n glanced out the window, then back at him. “So… board meeting first. What’s the mood? Cutthroat? Complacent? Passive-aggressive in a three-piece suit?”

Bruce didn’t look up from the tablet in his hand. “All of the above. Wayne Enterprises runs like a machine, but it’s made of people. People want control. Influence. A line in the press release.”

“You ever get tired of the dance?”

He glanced at her, eyes flicking with something unreadable. “I’m not dancing. I’m steering.”

Y/n made a note, though she didn’t write it down. “And where exactly are you steering it?”

“Toward relevance. Toward something that outlives me.”

The answer came easily—but she didn’t buy it.

“Funny,” she said. “Most people who talk about legacy don’t spend their nights in half-lit studies, drinking untouched scotch and avoiding eye contact.”

Bruce actually smiled at that, faint and fleeting.

“You’ve been watching me closely,” he said.

“I’m a reporter,” she replied. “It’s literally my job.”

The driver took a turn, and the skyline began to shift—the sharp lines of Old Gotham giving way to the sleek towers of the financial district. Wayne Tower rose into view ahead, its glass exterior catching the light like a blade.

Y/n leaned slightly toward the window. “You know, it’s strange.”

“What is?”

“This car. This suit. The money. The power. All of it fits you perfectly… but it never really feels like you.”

Bruce said nothing. Just looked out the window beside him.

“Whoever you are beneath all this,” she added quietly, “that’s the story I want.”

He met her eyes once more. His gaze was calm, even, yet not cold. It made her feel small.

“You’re not going to find it in the boardroom.”

“Maybe not,” she said. “But I think the cracks are starting to show.”

The car eased to a stop at the front of Wayne Tower. The door unlocked with a soft click.

Bruce looked at her one last time before stepping out. “Then I’ll try not to trip over them.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving her to catch up.

She quickly exited the car and made her way up the stairs behind Bruce.

From her seat near the back of the boardroom, Y/n had the perfect vantage point—not just of Bruce Wayne, but of how the room reacted to him.

The space itself was all glass, steel, and sleek intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the room in pale morning light, casting long reflections across the polished table. Gotham’s skyline stood watch in the distance, silent and sprawling.

Bruce sat at the head, suit sharp, demeanor sharper. He didn’t dominate the meeting by force. He didn’t have to. His power lived in the way others deferred before they even realized it.

She watched as he listened more than he spoke, fingers steepled under his chin. When he did speak, it was measured and clear—never overcomplicated, never oversold. The room adjusted around his words like gravity.

“Renewable tech investment is non-negotiable,” he said calmly as one of the older board members raised concerns. “We’re not just pivoting for image. We’re building infrastructure for the next century. Let competitors follow. Or fall behind.”

Every so often, she caught him glancing her way—not long, not obvious, but enough to remind her he knew she was watching.

She made a point of looking down every time he did. Just to keep the balance.

Y/n noted the shift in the room—the discomfort, the reluctant nods. Bruce had just shut it down without raising his voice.

She scribbled something in her notebook:

Doesn’t posture. Doesn’t ask permission.

From time to time, someone would glance in her direction—curious, maybe a bit wary. A journalist in a boardroom always unsettled people. But Bruce never introduced her. Never explained. He let her presence speak for itself.

‘Interesting,’ she thought.

He wasn’t performing for her. He wasn’t curating soundbites or offering golden quotes for a flattering piece. He didn’t seem to care what she wrote.

Which made him even more interesting.

She studied the way he carried silence—how it didn’t feel empty with him, just… loaded. Like every word he didn’t say was another layer she hadn’t reached yet.

She didn’t know if this version of Bruce was real, or just another projection.

The meeting wrapped with efficient goodbyes, the board members filtering out with handshakes and murmured side conversations. Bruce stood last, buttoning his jacket, glancing briefly in Y/n’s direction.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the elevator. “We’ll talk over lunch.”

Y/n followed him, falling into step beside him as they entered the private lift. The doors slid shut with a smooth, mechanical hush.

Immediately, the noise of the city, the boardroom, the world outside—vanished.

Just the two of them.

The air in the elevator was still, humming with the faint scent of expensive cologne and something cooler, deeper, like rain on stone. The panel above glowed softly as they descended.

Y/n leaned against the rail, arms crossed. “So, what’s the post-boardroom ritual? Whiskey at noon? Buying out a competitor just for fun?”

Bruce huffed a quiet breath of amusement, adjusting his cuff. “Lunch.”

She gave a slow nod. “Right. Even billionaires need to be occasionally seen eating food, or else the tabloids begin whispering ‘vampire.’

He glanced at her, eyes unreadable. “Wouldn’t be the worst rumor.”

The response was dry, smooth, unshakable. But she caught it—that fractional delay, like he was gauging how much she was actually joking.

Interesting.

The floors ticked down in smooth succession.

“So,” she said, tilting her head. “I’ve been shadowing you for less than a day, and I’ve already seen three different Bruce Waynes. The public face. The boardroom strategist. The one in the study last night, drinking scotch like it was some kind of armor.”

He didn’t react. Just listened.

She lifted a brow. “How many more are there?”

A quiet beat.

Bruce turned to her fully now, hands in his pockets, studying her like she was just as much of a puzzle to him as he was to her.

“How many do you think there are?”

Y/n held his gaze, considering her answer.

But before she could give one, the elevator chimed, the doors sliding open with a soft, impeccable grace.

“Where would you like to dine?”

Y/n blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question.

But playful smirk tugged at the corners of her lips.

They ended up at a tucked-away burger spot Greasy’s, a hole-in-the-wall kind of place with a hand-painted sign, cracked concrete patio, and food that didn’t pretend to be anything other than what it was.

Bruce hadn’t argued. He’d ordered his burger medium rare, no lettuce, no tomatoes. Y/n raised an eyebrow and ordered the opposite. They ate their food on a bench outside the restaurant. They were tucked just far enough from the bustle that the city felt like background noise.

He bit into his burger—simple and messy. No custom orders or bodyguards breathing down his neck.

Y/n watched him out of the corner of her eye as she unwrapped hers. “So you do eat like a real person.”

“I had a childhood,” he said. “It wasn’t all caviar and boardrooms.”

“I don’t know,” she said, grinning. “You strike me as the kind of guy who skipped straight from formula to vintage scotch.”

He gave a soft, surprised laugh—and not the polite, filtered kind. It was real, warm in a way she hadn’t heard before. He leaned back, his jacket folded beside him, sleeves rolled just past his forearms.

She glanced at his hands—strong, scarred in places. Not hands that belonged to someone who lived only in corner offices and press releases.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like this,” she said, quieter now. “No spotlight. No press. Just…” She waved a fry between them. “You.”

Bruce looked over at her, really looked this time. “And what do you see?”

The question settled between them. Not a challenge. Just curiosity—genuine and a little vulnerable in a way she didn’t expect.

She hesitated, eyes on his, then let out a breath. “Someone who doesn’t get this often.”

“This?” he echoed.

“This,” she repeated, gesturing to the street, the bench, the little bubble of stillness they’d carved out. “Time. Quiet. A minute where no one’s asking you to be anything.”

Bruce didn’t answer right away.

Then, “You’re right. I don’t.”

A breeze stirred the napkins beside them. Y/n didn’t speak. She just watched him—his eyes distant, then slowly turning back to her. And when they met hers, the moment shifted.

Something softened.

“I forgot what it was like,” he said after a pause, “to just… be with someone. Without the mask.”

Y/n didn’t move away.

She didn’t flirt. Didn’t fill the silence with questions or banter.

She just sat there, in front of him, shoes almost brushing. And for a moment, neither of them said anything. No one watching. Just quiet.

Then her phone buzzed in her pocket. A faint vibration—barely there, but it cut through the stillness like a ripple.

She didn’t check it. But the moment broke anyway.

She pulled back slightly, clearing her throat. “I should probably—”

Bruce nodded, already picking up on the shift,

Back to the world.

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[avatar-anna]

Pale Green Stripes

The Professor Masterlist

this takes place during The Professor Series!

"Did you know you're the only person who never tries to interrupt me?"

"What do you mean?"

Harry and Y/n lay on the carpeted floor of her townhouse. Their shoulders touched, but that was about it. Even so, Harry could feel that tiny bit of contact throughout his entire body. The professor probably had a word for that, a scientific term to explain why just the slightest graze—not even skin against skin—sent him into a tailspin that made him have to focus extra hard on what she said.

Y/n's hands knotted together on her lap, a thing she did when she held herself back. It was as if she had to physically restrain herself some way to keep her from speaking out of turn. Harry personally never thought she did, from their first meeting at the bookstore, he'd been fascinated by her, by the things she said.

"I don't mean to...impart information on people the way that I do. It just happens sometimes," she said, her eyes gazing up at the ceiling.

Harry knew he probably should've too, but he couldn't help but look at the professor instead. Her hair fanned out around her shoulders, she wore a string of pearls around her neck and earrings made to look like Salvador Dalí's melting clocks in her ears. Her jewelry was always a mix of something professional and a little quirky, Harry came to realize, as if even at work as a professor at Cambridge University she couldn't help but have a little fun.

Her wardrobe consisted of patterned socks and cherry red Adidas shoes and fun knitted sweaters and vests. Today she merely wore a cozy navy blue sweater and a flowy white skirt, her red shoes were on a rack by the door, but she still wore her ruffled socks with embroidered roses on them.

"I don't mind it at all," he replied honestly.

Y/n blinked a couple times, then said, "I know. I was surprised at first because everyone usually cuts me off. Or walks away."

Harry frowned. He couldn't help but notice how clinically the professor spoke about the hurtful things that had been done to her. By her family, so-called colleagues, the few friends she had at work. He couldn't fathom anyone finding Y/n anything less than wonderful. She was brilliant, yes, but funny, and charismatic, and had a knack for storytelling. Harry never wanted her to stop talking. Ever.

"I like listening to you," he told her, shrugging as best he could given his current prone position.

"That's probably because you never finished school and are trying to make up for lost time."

From anyone else, that would've been a joke, a jab, but Y/n took education seriously, had mentioned it numerous times since they met.

Still, Harry chuckled. "Maybe I just like the sound of your voice. Maybe I just like hearing what you have to say. Maybe I find your lectures highly arousing."

"Edward!"

Even as he laughed with her, Harry couldn't help but feel guilty. He knew he should tell her, he should've told her months ago. His middle name fired out of his mouth before he could think the first time Y/n asked him for his name. A desire for anonymity, that was all it was. He didn't think he'd see her again outside the one time, so he thought it would be harmless. Then they did keep meeting, and he didn't have the guts to tell her, and now he was too deep in the lie to find a way out.

"What?"

Harry had never been shy about his attraction to the professor, even if he'd only seen half of her face due to the mask she wore. There was so much to appreciate about her, so much to admire, and he let his own imagination do the rest. He could've, of course, looked her up online. Y/n had mentioned something about posting educational videos online, but he thought it was only fair that if she didn't know what his entire face looked like that he didn't either.

"Why do you say stuff like that?" she asked, and even without the mask, Harry could tell she was blushing.

"Like what?"

"About me. About—about your attraction to me and how you find me—or think I'm a—"

"Yes?" Harry encouraged. He could tell there was a word or phrase she had in mind but was too embarrassed to use.

"In the 16th Century, the word bellibone was first used. It's derived from French etymology using the words belle and bonne to describe a woman who excels in both beauty and goodness. There's really only one known use in the late 1500s. A poet named Edmund Spenser, though he was from Ireland. It's fascinating how a word can be used once then ceases to exist, don't you think?"

Harry blinked, not totally prepared for the tangent, though perhaps he should've been. Grinning beneath his mask, he said, "I think it describes you perfectly."

"Edward," Y/n said, now her neck was flushed too.

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" he asked. "The compliments? The—" He might as well call it what it was—"flirting?"

"N—No."

"Because I'll stop if it does," he promised. "I just think you should know how devastating you are."

One of the professor's eyebrows quirked up in confusion. "That was an interesting choice in adjective."

But it was the perfect one. Harry knew he couldn't be with Y/n the way he wanted when she didn't know the truth about who he was, and he couldn't risk losing her if he finally told her. Perhaps it was unfair to play at something he knew he couldn't have, but part of him wanted Y/n to know that she was desirable, that she was more than what her intellect offered. Sure, Harry found her intelligence sexy as all get out, but she was also beautiful, and funny, and kind, and he didn't think anyone had ever complimented more than just her brain.

He would spend an entire day complimenting her if he had the time, or if she let him.

But while Y/n was confident in many things, romantic feelings weren't one of them. Despite the obstacles he put in his own way, Harry didn't think the professor was quite ready to hear how much he really liked her.

"Tell me something."

"Like what?" Y/n asked.

"Anything," Harry said, facing her and propping his head in his hand. "A book you read, something that fascinates you, your least favorite student, anything."

She narrowed her eyes at him as she positioned her body to face his. "I don't have a least favorite student."

"I don't believe you," he replied, narrowing his eyes back playfully.

Y/n scanned his face, then up and down his body. It was casual, though Harry noticed that her gaze lingered in places—his arms, his shoulders, his face. He wore a mask, but he tried to suppress his grin anyway. Then, before he could tease her more, her eyes lit up.

"Did you know the stripe pattern originated in the Middle Ages?"

He never knew, but she always prefaced her information the same way. "Did it?"

Nodding to the green striped shirt Harry wore, she said, "Stripes were used to identify social outcasts. Prostitutes, criminals, hangmen, clowns and jugglers; they all had to wear stripes so they were easily recognizable in regular society."

"Clowns?"

"Outcasts and people who were...not society's favorites, like court jesters and such. European governments even legalized the requirement of certain citizens to wear stripes. Though now, of course, stripes are popular due to Coco Chanel wearing a striped shirt similar to French sailor uniforms, which, you know, sailors were also usually the lowest rank of the French navy. Then stripes began appearing in women's activewear in the 1920s, Al Capone began wearing pinstriped suits, and the rest is history. A long, brutal history, obviously, seeing as prisoners were later forced to wear striped uniforms, and prisoners in concentration camps during World War Two, but—there you have it. A brief, slightly detailed history of the stripe."

Harry looked down at his long sleeved shirt, the thin pale green and white striped that lined his arms and torso. "Not sure if I'll be able to wear stripes again, but... that's really fascinating."

"Thought you might like that," Y/n said with a shrug.

Harry tilted his head questioningly. "Why do you say that?"

"You like clothes."

He didn't question how she knew that. With her background, Y/n seemed to know things about him that she just happened to observe. It was a little disconcerting at first, but he came to appreciate that he didn't have to pretend around her. No airs, no personas, none of the things he'd become so accustomed to in recent years. The professor might not have known about Harry's career, but she knew him in ways no one else did.

"Well," he said, playfully sighing at his shirt. "Guess I'm never wearing stripes again."

Y/n's eyes squinted and her mask scrunched a little, the way they always did when she smiled. With an unmistakable glint in her eye, the adorable one she always got when Harry indulged in her. "Wait until you hear about polka dots!"

Harry sighed, a mix of exasperation and amusement making him chuckle a little. "Tell me more, love."

[epicbuddieficrecs]

Weekly Recap | January 27th-February 2nd 2025

Had the audacity to go on a daytrip over the border to the US and all I got was spending way too much money at Target and a cold :(

Complete

the sincerest form of flattery by canadadry (S8E3: Final Approach, Brad POV | 1,7K | Teen): “Your boy—Buck,” Brad says. “First marriage?” “Pardon?” “Well, your wife is—” Brad starts, stops. Remembers at least a third of the lecture he’s been given at least a dozen times by his publicist on the danger of making assumptions. “He calls your wife by her given name—I mean, does the same to you, but I’d reckon that has more to do with professionalism than personal grievances, given the fact that you clearly get on.” — in which Brad Torrence only almost passes out, and observes the aftermath.

The couch is a lawless place by paleredheadinascifi (Getting Together | 1,8K | Teen): Eddie had kissed him. He knows it happened, because the smudge of chocolate on his pants is still there, courtesy of the peanut butter cup he’d dropped when Eddie lent over and kissed him.

Call Ended (beep beep beep) by paleredheadinascifi (Wine Nights, Getting Together | 2K | Teen): Or, Buck wakes up to a series of increasingly horrifying calls from Eddie. He gets to the bottom of it.

Who you gonna call? by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S8A, Buck&Ravi | 1,7K | General): Buck has his first bad leg day since Eddie moved to Texas (Part 1 of The Chainsaw Gang)

Avoidance or Denial by scarmaddiewrites (Post-S8A, Getting Together | 4K | Not Rated): Eddie is back from texas and has some theories about Buck and Ravi....he's never been good at theories (Part 2 of The Chainsaw Gang)

and i'd do it over and over again by playinginthunderstorms/ @playinginthunderstorms (PWP, S8E6: Confessions | 4K | Explicit): Gun to his head, Buck honestly doesn't think he could say which one of them made the first move, but somewhere in between the six-pack he'd brought over and whatever was left of a dusty bottle of tequila in the back of a kitchen cupboard, Eddie—beautiful, radiant Eddie, with his pink shirt and tiny underwear—had ended up in his lap, thighs bracketing Buck's, gasping and grinding helplessly into Buck's hips, the most delicious whines spilling out of his mouth and straight onto Buck's tongue, white-hot pleasure spiking through him as potent as the lightning bolt, so he figures he'll at least die happy.

We’re Looking For Something Dumb To Do by scarmaddiewrites (Bachelor Party, Secret Marriage | 5K | Not Rated): “We should get married.” “What?” Buck chokes, his heart doing some weird fluttering thing in his chest. “Really?” “Yeah, I mean… I’m not a redhead or double your age, but maybe I still have a chance?” In the background, Buck hears someone chuckling—probably Ravi, whose drunk giggles have turned into full-on cackles. “Please, Eddie,” Buck says, his voice a mix of exasperation and something warmer, something fond. “Have you seen your ass? To hell with all the other requirements.” Or Buck and Eddie get married during the bachelor party and Ravi encourages it.

Your Life Was My Life's Best Part by saveyourblood/ @saveyourblood (S6E10: In A Flash | 5K | Mature): A neglected child. A soldier who saw people die. A veteran with PTSD. A first responder. A single father. A widower. Eddie Diaz became everything that was supposed to break him. What is he supposed to call this? What does he call the thing that may actually destroy him? - The one where Buck dies, then he doesn't, and their life flashes before Eddie's eyes.

lights will guide you. by dylaesthetics (Social Media, Eddie Sexuality Crisis | 6K | Mature): Am I (M33) comphet or an impostor???!!! For the record, I am straight. I think so, anyway. Or I did, all of six hours ago, before my coworkers introduced me to the term ‘comphet’. And now my entire world has kind of spun on its axis and I’m wondering if I’ve been secretly craving dick this whole time. - OR after breaking up with Tommy, Buck goes on a deep-dive on sexuality. He needs to tell someone about all he learns, of course, and Eddie seems like the best option.

Golden Morning Sunbeams by Buddiesmutslut (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Getting Together | 10K | General): Or: As Eddie is debating his move to Texas, a few texts from his son in the middle of the day set him on a course to getting everything he's been wanting.

🔥 An Angry Blade by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-8x05: Masks, Cursed Buck | 43K | Mature): Buck finds out that the curse of Billy Boils is VERY real, and far more complicated and dangerous than he could have expected.

🔥 oh brother, I see (you burn like me) by canadadry (Adriana & Maddie POV, Post-S7E10: All Fall Down | 47K | Mature): Adriana doesn’t tell their parents that she’s going to LA. She doesn’t tell Eddie, either—or ask, for that matter. She does ask Chris, and he thinks it’s a good idea—says as much, on the phone, and doesn’t say much else. “Buck will probably be hovering,” is what Chris does volunteer. It still surprises her when the man who opens the door is not Eddie. It’s—Captain America, is the thing that actually comes to mind—a man close to a foot taller than she is, if not more than that, with blond curls and broad shoulders, and he’s got a question in his very blue eyes that’s probably less friendly than the one he actually asks her. “Uh,” he says. “Can I help you?” — Or: Adriana arrives in LA. Maddie has been here the whole time.

🔥 Things We're All Too Young to Know by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon S1-S6, Divergent Post-S6 | 472K | Mature): This is a love story. Even if it doesn’t always look like it. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it. A look back on Eddie and Buck's lives up to now, and what led them to each other, interpreted from the current 9-1-1 canon.

WIP

🔥 Doe & a Drop of Golden Sun by ohstars/ @oh-stars (Canon Divergent, Dad Buck | 10/? | 45K | Teen): Buck doesn't mean to keep secrets from everyone, but he also can't talk about the pain he experiences on a day to day basis. With his nine-year-old living across the country and his custody limited to one monthly visit, Buck doesn't know how to share this part of himself. How does he tell his team of six years that he's had a kid this whole time? How does he tell his sister? How does he tell his Edd-- best friend? It's fine. The universe isn't going to give him a choice in the matter when the worst thing imaginable becomes his reality.

🔥[Podfic] Promising Light by cottagepodfics @cottagepodfics / fic by @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S8E8: Wannabes, Time Travel | 80min | 2/3 | Mature): Buck and Eddie fall asleep drunk and in separate rooms after the night of Buck and Tommy's breakup. They wake up seven years later, in an unfamiliar future, only to find out that they're married.

[curiouspupsicle]

Good Omens Fan Fiction Friday (6/13/25) - Queer Guardians

Isn't the Good Omens fandom in itself a protective space for queer people? At its best, yes. But some fics specifically highlight characters who become queer guardians--human (or angelic or demonic) safe spaces for others. Today's theme highlights a few I've read and appreciated.

Let's start with the fic that inspired this week's theme, So Much to be Consoled as to Console (T) by Arokel. In this through-the-ages fic, Aziraphale answers the prayers of queer young people. It happens enough that Crowley speculates that he's become the patron saint of queer kids.

I love this depiction of Aziraphale.

In Guardian Angel: The Hot-line (T) by @itsscottiesstark, a mischievous Crowley sees an ad on the door of a toilet in a pub and assumes it's a sex line. He decides to take the piss out of whoever answers on the other end. Instead, it's a help line. And the person who answers the call is a real angel.

Pages About You; Pages About Me (M) by @dcocca depicts Aziraphale as a bookseller who actually sells books and takes a lot of pride in recommending the perfect choice for a customer. In chapter 22, he makes a big difference in a young man's life by recommending the perfect books. It's a charming moment in a very tender and sweet fic--one of the best I've read.

Vampire Tony feels drawn to Angel Azra for more reasons than his need to feed on angel blood in Partaking of the Divine (T) by @joyandotherstories. In particular, he's smitten by the angel's guardian tendencies. Not only does he provide a safe harbor for the vampire, Azra's bookshop becomes a safe space for queer young people. It's a surprisingly charming story given its sanguinary nature.

In Their Loving Called A Sin No More (E) by ElysiumLeo (The_Nerd_Alert), Heaven assigns Aziraphale to thwart the wiles of demonic influence in Greenwich Village in 1969. At first, the angel wonders if Crowley is causing trouble in response to their fraught meeting in 1967. But he finds much more is at stake. And the ravishing Lady G is on hand to educate Aziraphale and lend support to the queer demonstrations at the Stonewall Inn. Consider this a history lesson with a healthy side of smut.

The Stylings of Madame Glena (T) by @altsernative has Crowley starting a gay bar in the 1970s. It offers a safe space and serves almost as a "front" for the demon to look out for queer young people. His need for an outlet has absolutely nothing to do with a certain angel he hasn't seen since that certain night with a tartan thermos. Then, a mysterious drag queen catches his eye.

This is one of my favorite fics. I'll never tire of finding ways to include it in a theme--The Angel I Knew (M) by @captainblou. How does it fit the "queer guardians" theme? When Aziraphale and Crowley visit the grave of their child who died twenty years earlier, they are accosted by the vicar and Crowley's parents who deny his transition. Retired schoolteacher Tracy (who taught our ineffable pair as well as their parents) sweeps in and delivers the kind of "I'm so disappointed in you" lecture that Crowley's parents would be wise to heed before inviting our couple to her home. Just loved her matter-of-fact vibe; as if caring for her students was not only a vocation but her life.

If you can handle the tags, Survival, Hope and Something More (M) by @raxacoricofallapatoriusrulez tells the story of teenager Aziraphale who ends up living on the streets before he finds sanctuary at a queer youth shelter run by Anathema and Newt and funded by tech mogul Anthony Crowley. This is one of those fics whose tags would normally keep me from reading it but I trust the writer enough to give it a try anyway. I promise you that no matter how bleak it starts, it does fulfill the title's promise. Of course, the Demon and Angel Professors (G) by ghostinthehouse are practically professional queer guardians. It's such a major theme, it runs as a thread throughout the series.

This list is a taste of the many Good Omens fics featuring queer guardians. I'm sure I'm missing plenty of others. Please reblog and share your fave Queer Guardians Good Omens tales. You never know who might need the comfort and inspiration of these stories.

'll be back next Friday with more great Good Omens fan fics on a new theme. In the meantime, check out my other favorite fics on this pinned post of weekly Good Omens fan fiction recommendations. And if my faves appear to be your faves, check out my bookmarks on AO3--all the fics I rate in my top 10% of everything I've read.

Don't forget to nurture the fan fic community. Share kudos and comments to show the many wonderful creators how much we appreciate them.

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the series - masterlist

summary: you never expected your literature professor to be young, sharp-tongued, and devastatingly captivating - but professor o'connell is all that and more. between tense lectures, stolen glances, and secrets that linger after class, you find yourself tangled in a dangerous game of curiosity and control. how long can you keep it professional when the air between you burns with something more?

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twenty-one - coming soon!

twenty-two - coming soon!

twenty-three - coming soon!

twenty-four - coming soon!

twenty-five - coming soon!

twenty-six - coming soon!

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twenety-eight - coming soon!

twenty-nine - coming soon!

thirty - coming soon!

[restlessmaknae]

our beginning together // enhypen 02z series

Jay, Jake and Sunghoon-focused stories set in the same college where all the boys are members of the college rugby team.

NOTES:

➳ The stories can be read on their own, but if you want to read all of them, the timeline is how you can find them below

➳ As always, these stories are a work of fiction, places/dates/family backgrounds etc. are fictitious

➳ You can sign up for my taglist for future stories

➳ Series' title comes from 'Highway 1009'

You would think that Jake, the star player of the college rugby team, has nothing in common with you, but then, one lecture together makes you think otherwise.

➳ Characters: college rugby player!Jake x college student!reader/you

➳ Genre: fluff, college au, sports au

➳ Words: 4.7k

➳ Story link: how to cross the line?

After summer break and your break-up, it seems that things finally go back to normal. At least, until the first after-match party when in an attempt to save you from your ex, Sunghoon blurts out that you’re his girlfriend now, and so, your fake dating begins.

➳ Characters: college rugby player!Sunghoon x cheerleader!female reader/you

➳ Genre: fake dating au, college au, sports au, angst, fluff

➳ Words: 6.2k

➳ Story link: red light, green light // sunghoon

The last thing Jay expected when striking a fake dating deal with you was to get jealous (and ultimately, to fall head over heels for you).

➳ Characters: rich business student!Jay x professional archer!female reader/you

➳ Genre: fake dating au, high society au, olympics au, fluff, comedy

➳ Words: 5.5k

➳ Story link: your heart is the target // jay