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ch0llies · 23 hours ago

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YOU ARE IN LOVE | MATTHEW STURNIOLO.

oneshot - matt x reader

It’s the night before you leave for college, and like always, you’re spending it with Matt- your best friend since preschool, the boy who has been by your side through everything. With only hours left before everything changes, the unspoken bond between you two presses against the surface, begging to be acknowledged. Will you fight it like you always have, pretending it’s nothing? Or will you finally say the three words that have been sitting on your tongue for years?

story warnings: fluffy as fuck, smut, oral (fem receiving), angst (if u squint), love confession, both characters are 18, and i think that’s it tbh. If any of these topics upset you… don’t read!

word count: 8k

for @mattsobvimyfav 💙

The room is bathed in the soft glow of fairy lights, their golden hue flickering against the ceiling. The hum of quiet music plays from your record player, the familiar melody of You Are In Love by Taylor Swift threading through the air like a whisper. The night feels heavy, thick with the weight of time slipping away, with the things left unsaid.

You pull the blanket up to your chin, sinking further into your pillows as a shiver runs down your spine. Your head is pounding, your body aching, and your throat burns every time you swallow. It’s just your luck- you’re leaving tomorrow, and instead of spending this night making memories, you’re curled up in bed, feverish and miserable.

And yet, you don’t feel alone. Matt is here.

He’s been here all night, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside your bed, flipping through one of your cliche romance books on your nightstand absentmindedly. His messy brown hair falls into his eyes, and every now and then, he pushes it back with an exasperated little sigh. You wonder if he realizes how much he does that.

“You should sleep,” he murmurs, not looking up from the page he isn’t actually reading.

“I don’t want to,” you mumble, voice hoarse.

He finally glances up, blue eyes soft with something unreadable. He sets the book down and leans his elbows on the mattress, close enough that you can see the worry creased in his brows. “You’re sick. You need rest.”

You shake your head, the movement making you dizzy. “If I sleep, I’ll wake up, and it’ll be tomorrow.”

And tomorrow, you’re leaving. The words aren’t spoken, but Matt hears them anyway. He swallows, his throat bobbing, and you watch as he wrestles with something in his head.

Instead of answering, he reaches forward, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. His skin is cool against your warmth, and the simple touch sends a shiver through you- not from fever, but from him.

“Still hot,” he murmurs. “Let me get you some water.”

He moves to stand, but you grab his wrist weakly, stopping him.

“Stay,” you whisper.

He exhales, settling down beside you in bed, his fingers ghosting over your knuckles. It’s nothing- just the softest brush of skin against skin but your breath catches anyway.

The song plays on loop in the background. Your record player is older than the both of you combined and will sometimes repeat a certain track over and over and over.

It just happens that it’s this song.

Your eyelids feel heavy, but you fight against it, desperate to hold onto this moment, to him.

“Are you scared?” you ask suddenly, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, his fingers curling slightly against yours, like he’s debating whether to hold your hand. “Of what?” he asks.

“Of everything changing.”

Silence stretches between you, and then- so quiet you almost don’t hear it- he says, “Yeah.”

Your chest aches, and it has nothing to do with your fever. You turn your head toward him, blinking drowsily. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?” you murmur.

He looks at you, brows knitting together. “What is?”

“How you can be around someone for so long and never really say the things you want to say.”

Matt stills. For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t even breathe. His eyes search yours, something unreadable flickering behind them- something fragile, something breaking.

His fingers twitch against yours. You wait, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

Then, so quietly it’s almost lost in the music, he asks, “What do you want to say?”

Your heart stumbles over itself. You open your mouth, but no words come out. Maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you don’t know how to say it- how to put into words what’s been building inside you for so long.

So instead, you just whisper, “I don’t want this night to end.”

And Matt…Matt, who always finds the words, who never stumbles over what he wants to say, just looks at you, like he understands everything you mean without you having to say it.

Like maybe, just maybe, he feels it too.

He shifts closer. Your hands brush, and he doesn’t pull away this time.

The silence between you is thick, filled with everything neither of you are saying, everything you want to say but can’t. The fever weighs heavy on your body, making your limbs feel like they’re sinking into the mattress, but the warmth of Matt beside you keeps you tethered.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow, still close, still there. His fingers brush absently against the blanket draped over you, like he wants to hold your hand but isn’t sure if he should.

“You’re gonna love college,” he says after a while, his voice gentle, careful. “You’re gonna meet so many new people, take cool classes, do all that independent adult stuff.”

You let out a weak, dry laugh. “That’s a nice way of saying you’ll be drowning in assignments and have an existential crisis once a week.”

Matt snorts. “Yeah, well. You’ve been preparing for that your whole life.”

You shake your head, staring up at the ceiling, watching the fairy lights blur as your exhaustion deepens. “I don’t feel ready.”

Matt is quiet for a moment, like he’s letting your words settle between you. Then, he exhales and says, “I’ll visit you. You know that, right? It’s not like I’m just gonna disappear off the face of the earth.”

You turn your head to look at him, your tired eyes searching his. “It’s not the same, Matt.”

Something flickers in his expression, something vulnerable, something he doesn’t want you to see. He quickly masks it with a small smile, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I know,” he murmurs. “But I’ll still be there. However you need me to be.”

Your throat tightens, and not just from the sickness. Because Matt has always been there.

Ever since the first day of preschool, when you found him crying behind the jungle gym at recess, small and overwhelmed and anxious. His triplet brothers had rushed off ahead, caught up in their own excitement, leaving him behind, and he didn’t know what to do.

So you had just… sat down next to him. Quiet, patient. You didn’t ask what was wrong, didn’t try to fix it. You just stayed, let him feel what he was feeling.

And then, after a moment, you had whispered the words that changed everything.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Matt sniffled, blinking up at you with wide, watery eyes. “Really?”

You nodded, swinging your little legs beneath you. “Yeah. We can play together.”

And from that moment on, you were inseparable.

Years passed, and things changed- new schools, new friends, different phases of life- but Matt was always the one thing that stayed constant. The one person you could always turn to, the one person who knew you, even when you didn’t know yourself.

And now you’re supposed to leave him behind?

Matt must sense the thoughts racing through your mind because he suddenly clears his throat and murmurs, “You know, if you wake up with a fever, your mom won’t let you go.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’ll have to wait,” he continues, voice light, teasing, but his eyes say something else.

Your lips part slightly, chest tightening.

“I really hope I wake up with a fever,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt lets out a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in it. He looks down at his hands, playing with the hem of his hoodie. “You don’t mean that,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything.

“I do,” you insist, turning toward him fully now. “I don’t want to leave you, Matt.”

He presses his lips together, his jaw tightening, his fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie.

For the first time since you’ve known him, Matt looks lost for words.

Then, all at once the weight of everything crashes down all at once. It starts as a small, creeping thought- what if things change? But then it spirals, tangling and twisting until it’s too big to contain. Your chest tightens, your throat constricts, and suddenly, you can’t just lie here.

You sit up too fast, the dizziness from your fever making your head spin, but you don’t care.

“What if you forget about me?” The words tumble out, breathless, desperate. “What if you go to community college and meet cooler people? What if you realize you don’t even want to visit me? What if-” Your voice wavers, and suddenly, there’s a lump in your throat so big it hurts.

Matt’s eyes widen slightly, and he sits up immediately, his hands hovering near you, unsure if he should touch you or give you space.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he says, voice gentle but firm, like he’s trying to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever storm is brewing inside your head. “Slow down.”

But you can’t.

You shake your head, chest rising and falling too fast. “What if everything changes and we don’t talk as much and then it turns into barely talking at all and one day we just become strangers who used to be best friends-”

Your breath stutters. You’re trying not to cry, but your eyes are burning, your hands are shaking, and your body feels too hot, too overwhelmed, too everything.

Matt moves before you can spiral any further.

He grabs your hands, his touch steady, warm, real. “Y/N.”

You look up at him, your vision blurry, your breaths uneven.

And then so soft and so certain, he says the same thing you said to him all those years ago, when he was just a scared little kid on the playground, left behind, lost.

“I’ll wait for you.”

Something inside you cracks.

The words settle deep in your chest, in the place where all the fear and doubt have been building, and suddenly, you’re eight years old again, sitting next to a crying Matt, holding his hand, telling him the same thing.

You had meant it then.

And he means it now.

A shaky breath escapes you, and Matt squeezes your hands tighter, like he’s anchoring you here, keeping you from slipping away into your own thoughts.

“You hear me?” he murmurs. “No matter where you go, no matter how much time passes- Im not going anywhere.”

Your chin trembles, and this time, you can’t stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks.

Matt doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you might slip away if he lets go.

You grip his hoodie, pressing your face against him, breathing in the familiar scent of home. Of him. The warmth of it against your cheek is grounding, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear calming your own. His arms stay wrapped around you, strong and unwavering, even as your breathing slowly evens out.

Neither of you move for a long time. The same song hums softly in the background for the millionth time, the fairy lights flickering against the walls, casting shadows that feel softer now, less suffocating.

Matt is the first to break the silence.

“Feeling better?” he murmurs, his chin lightly resting against the top of your head.

You sniffle. “No.”

A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest. “Liar.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him, though he doesn’t let go of you entirely. His face is inches from yours, his eyes searching, like he’s making sure you’re okay before he lets himself relax.

For a second, you just stare at each other, the weight of the moment pressing down on you again.

You exhale, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Is there anything you’ve never told me before?”

Matt stills. “…What?”

You shrug, your voice light but a little shaky. “I don’t know. Just… before I go, I wanna get things off my chest. Feels like the right time, you know?”

His expression shifts, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Like what?”

You purse your lips, suddenly feeling nervous, but you push through.

“Well,” you start, biting the inside of your cheek, “one time I cheated at Wii Bowling and blamed Chris.”

Matt blinks at you, his body frozen.

You don’t notice.

“And another time, that girl in tenth grade- the one I hated- she wrote you a Valentine and left it in your locker, and I threw it out before you could see it.”

Matt doesn’t move.

You keep going.

“Oh, and once, you let me borrow your hoodie, and I got a stain on it, so I shoved it under my bed and told you I lost it. And I only found it, like, six months later, but at that point, it was too late to tell you, so- ”

“I think I’ve been in love with you since we met.”

Your breath catches.

The words hit you like a sudden drop, like the floor has disappeared from beneath you and suddenly everything feels way too real.

You blink at him, your lips parting slightly. “You’re…What?”

Matt exhales, his grip tightening around your hands, his expression so open, so vulnerable, you almost can’t breathe.

“I-” he murmurs, shaking his head, his voice rough with something you can’t quite name. “I- I thought you were gonna say it. I thought you were finally gonna say it, and when you didn’t, I just-” He cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I can’t let you leave without knowing.”

Your heart stumbles over itself, racing, tripping, trying to catch up.

Matt doesn’t blink, doesn’t waver. “I’ve been in love with you since the moment you sat next to me on that playground and told me you’d wait for me.”

The memory rushes back in full force. The small, anxious boy, the way his brothers ran ahead without him, the way you had just sat there, patient and quiet, letting him know he wasn’t alone.

Matt lets out a breath, shaking his head. “I didn’t say anything because I was scared I’d lose you. I didn’t want to ruin this.” His voice drops, softer now, raw. “But you’re leaving, and if I don’t say it now…” He exhales. “I can’t risk you leaving without knowing how I feel.”

Your chest is tight, your mind spinning, but the only thing you can focus on is him.

Your mouth parts slightly, but no words come out. Your mind feels like it’s moving too fast and too slow all at once, trying to grasp onto the reality of what’s happening- of what he just said.

You blink at him, your breath unsteady.

“…Matt, why-” your voice is barely above a whisper, trembling, “why didn’t you say anything?”

Matt exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, like he’s been holding this in for years- because he has.

��Because I was terrified,” he admits, his voice rushed, like now that the words have started, he can’t stop them. “I was terrified of losing you, of ruining everything, of making things weird-” He shakes his head, laughing almost bitterly. “I thought maybe it was better to just have you, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted.”

You don’t even know how to breathe, don’t know how to make sense of the fact that Matt has been carrying this inside him all this time.

And then he just keeps going, like all the love he’s held back is pouring out now, raw and unfiltered.

“I-” He swallows, his hands gripping yours tighter, like he’s afraid you might slip away. “I’ve memorized you. Every little thing about you.” His voice turns softer, more certain. “I could pick out your laugh in a room of ten thousand people.”

“The way your eyes twinkle when you’re really, really happy,” he continues, almost breathless. “And how you get that tiny dimple in your left cheek, but only when you smile a certain way. How you furrow your brows when you’re confused, and you don’t even realize you do it.”

He’s looking at you like he’s seeing everything- like you are everything.

“When you’re scared, you always cover your ears first, like the noise is the worst part,” he murmurs. “And when you’re nervous, you play with the hem of your sleeve, and when you’re thinking really hard about saying something, you chew on your bottom lip like you’re debating whether or not to say it out loud.”

Matt doesn’t stop. It’s like now that he’s started, he can’t stop, like every single thing he’s been holding back is tumbling out all at once, raw and unfiltered. His grip tightens on your hands like he needs you to hear him, understand him, feel everything he’s saying.

“I know the way your voice sounds when you’re tired,” he continues, his voice softer now, like a confession. “That quiet, raspy little hum you get when you’re about to fall asleep.”

His eyes flicker over your face, memorizing you even though he already knows every single detail.

“I know the exact way your nose scrunches up when something annoys you,” he murmurs, his lips twitching slightly. “And the way you roll your eyes when you pretend to be mad but you’re not really mad, because if you were, you’d get quiet instead.”

Your throat feels tight, your chest aching with something too big to hold.

Matt exhales, shaking his head. “I know you hate the sound of ticking clocks because it makes you anxious. And I know you never finish your drinks because you get distracted halfway through and forget they exist.”

He laughs a little, but it’s breathless, almost disbelieving, like he can’t believe he’s actually saying all of this out loud.

“I know you love thunderstorms, but only when you’re inside and wrapped in a blanket,” he continues. “And that you get weirdly emotional when you see old couples holding hands because you think love like that is rare.”

Your vision blurs, tears threatening to spill because how… how has he always known?

“I know you like your fries extra crispy, but your cookies extra soft,” he says, shaking his head with a fond little smile. “And you always order the same thing at restaurants, even when you say you’re gonna try something new.”

Your breath is shaky, your hands trembling in his. Matt’s eyes darken, his voice turning softer, more careful.

“I know the way you look when you’re sad,” he whispers. “And the way you look when you’re sad but you don’t want anyone to know.”

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, gentle, reverent.

“And I know that every single time you smile,” he murmurs, his voice almost breaking, “I fall a little more in love with you.”

You suck in a breath.

Matt just looks at you, his heart in his eyes, his love written in every single thing he’s ever noticed, ever memorized, ever felt.

And for the first time in your life, you realize he hasn’t just loved you for a while.

He’s loved you forever.

Your breath is shaky, your chest so full it feels like you might burst.

You stare at Matt, his words still ringing in your ears, sinking into your skin, wrapping around your heart like they were always meant to be there.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

He’s loved you forever.

And he never told you.

A new kind of emotion surges through you- one you can’t quite name, something between heartbreak and frustration, something that feels like God, why did we waste so much time?

Your hands tighten in his.

“Matt,” you whisper, your voice trembling, “why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

He blinks, thrown off by the shift in your tone. “I- I told you, I was scared-”

You shake your head, your eyes burning, your heart pounding. “Matt, I would’ve spent my whole life with you.”

His lips part slightly, his breath catching, but you don’t stop.

“You’ve had me, Matt,” you whisper, voice breaking. “Since the day you met me. You just didn’t know.”

Matt’s grip on your hands tightens, like he’s trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. “I-”

“I wouldn’t have looked at anyone else,” you continue, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I wouldn’t have wanted to. Because it was always you.”

Matt swallows hard, his throat bobbing, his entire body frozen as he watches you- like he can’t believe the words coming out of your mouth.

Your voice is barely above a whisper now, raw and aching. “I thought I was crazy. I thought I was the only one who felt it, and I was so scared of losing you that I never said anything, either. I’m sorry.”

A small, choked sound escapes Matt’s lips_ somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes, running a hand through his hair like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

You shake your head, your hands still gripping his. “We could’ve had so much more time-”

Matt doesn’t let you finish.

Before you can even process it, his hands cup your face, and suddenly his lips crash into yours and it’s like everything in the universe shifts into place.

For a moment, you freeze, too overwhelmed, too shocked, too full of everything you’ve ever wanted but never thought you’d have. But then your body reacts before your mind can catch up, your hands gripping onto his hoodie, pulling him closer, your lips moving against his like they were meant to.

It’s desperate and soft all at once, like he’s trying to make up for years in a single kiss. Like he’s trying to prove to you that you were never crazy, never alone in this- that it’s always been him, and it’s always been you.

But then you remember your fever.

You gasp, breaking the kiss, hands pressing lightly against his chest to put just enough space between you. “Wait- Matt, I don’t want to get you sick.”

His eyes are dark, his breath uneven, and for a second, he just stares at you- like he’s been starving for this, for you, for so long, and he just got a taste, and he can’t bear to stop now.

Then, he exhales a shaky laugh, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “I’ve been sick for the past eighteen years because I haven’t been able to do this.”

And then he kisses you again.

Slower this time, but somehow deeper, more intense. Like he’s pouring every unspoken word, every what if, every year of love he kept locked away into you.

Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him impossibly close, and he groans softly against your lips, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

Then, without breaking the kiss, Matt shifts- his hands finding your waist, his body moving over yours until you’re beneath him, his weight pressing into you in the most perfect way.

You barely have time to react before he’s kissing you harder, like he wants to memorize every inch of you like this, like he wants to ruin the space between you so it never exists again.

His hands move slowly- tracing the curves of your body like he’s worshiping you, like he can’t believe you’re real. His thumb brushes over your cheek, then down your jaw, then to the side of your neck, where his fingers press just slightly, feeling your pulse race under his touch.

“God,” he breathes against your lips, “you have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

You whimper softly, and that’s all it takes. Matt’s lips move to your jaw, then to your neck, kissing you so slowly, so intimately, like he wants to take his time, like he’s savoring the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against your skin, his lips brushing over the spot just below your ear.

Your fingers dig into his back, your breath coming faster, and Matt groans at the feeling, his hands gripping your waist tighter, pressing you further into the mattress.

He moves with a kind of reverence you’ve never felt before, like he’s worshiping every inch of you, like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life.

His lips leave a slow, burning trail along your jaw, down the curve of your neck, lingering just enough to make you shiver beneath him. His hands stay steady on your waist, his grip firm but careful, like he’s afraid to rush this- like he needs to savor it.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because the way Matt is touching you, the way he’s looking at you, says more than words ever could.

His fingers brush against the hem of your shirt, hesitating for just a second, his breathing uneven. Then, he glances up at you, his eyes dark, filled with something so raw, so intense, it makes your whole body warm.

“Can I?” he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle.

You nod, barely able to breathe, and that’s all he needs.

With deliberate, careful hands, he lifts your shirt up and over your head, letting it drop somewhere on the floor.

His gaze flickers over you, his chest rising and falling faster now, his hands ghosting over your sides, your stomach, like he’s committing every detail of you to memory.

“God,” he breathes, his voice almost broken. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

His lips are on your collarbone, slow and warm, his mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest.

Your body trembles beneath him, and he feels it, his hands gripping your waist tighter as he moves lower.

His lips trace along the curves of your ribs, your stomach, his pace agonizingly slow, so intimate, like he wants to worship every inch of you.

Every press of his lips sends heat pooling through you, makes your breath hitch, makes your fingers instinctively reach for him- except he doesn’t let you take control.

This is his moment. His chance to show you exactly what he’s felt for years.

Matt’s lips return to your chest, his mouth brushing over your peaked nipple, his tongue flicking just barely before his lips close around you, sucking gently, teasing, making you arch into him.

A soft whimper escapes your lips, and Matt groans at the sound, his grip on you tightening, his body pressing closer.

“Fuck,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with something desperate, something needy.

And then, slowly, so slowly, his lips continue their path downward, kissing, teasing, taking his time.

Because for Matt this isn’t just a moment.

This is everything.

Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every suppressed urge finally unraveling all at once.

His hands trace the curves of your body with reverence, memorizing, savoring. His lips ghost over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, mapping you like you’re something sacred-because to him, you are.

“Tell me you want this,” he breathes, his voice almost a plea, his forehead pressing against your stomach as his fingers flex against your hips. He needs to hear it, needs to know that this isn’t just his own longing finally overflowing, but yours too.

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently until he looks up at you, his blue eyes dark with need, with something deeper than want.

“I want this. I want you,” you whisper, and it’s all the permission he needs.

A shaky breath leaves his lips before he resumes his path downward, kissing, tasting, worshiping every inch of you like he’s been starving for this, for you, for longer than he even wants to admit.

Matt’s fingers hook into the waistband of your sweatpants, his movements slow as he tugs them down inch by inch. His lips never leave your skin, pressing soft, lingering kisses down your stomach, his breath warm and uneven against you.

His eyes flicker up, meeting yours through the dim light, and the look in them is nothing short of worship.

“You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen,” he murmurs..

He slides your underwear down your legs, his fingertips barely grazing your skin, but it sends a shiver through you. His hands are firm yet gentle, grounding you in the weight of his touch. And then, once you’re bare beneath him, he just looks. Drinks you in like you’re something sacred.

His breath hitches as he presses his lips to the inside of your thigh, his grip tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. And he isn’t.

Because the way he wants you- it’s all-consuming.

His hips rut against the mattress, seeking friction, unable to help himself. His need for you, for this, is so intense it borders on unbearable.

His breath fans over your skin, warm and uneven, as he lingers there, lips hovering just shy of where you need him most. His fingers press into your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, mindless patterns, like he’s trying to ground himself- but it isn’t working.

“God,” Matt exhales, his voice wrecked, half a whisper, half a plea. His forehead briefly drops against your inner thigh, like he’s trying to steady himself, trying to hold back, but the restraint is slipping.

He presses another kiss there, softer this time. Then another. His nose brushes against your skin, and you can feel the way his breath shakes, the way his hands flex like he’s fighting every urge to lose himself completely.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs.

His lips part against your skin, warm and soft as he drags them over the sensitive flesh, barely there, just a ghost of a touch. He presses another kiss, firmer this time, his breath spilling hot against you before his tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your thigh. He lingers, mouth pressing open-mouthed kisses, his tongue flattening against your skin before he pulls away just enough to let the cool air chase the warmth he leaves behind.

His fingers flex, thumbs smoothing up and down the insides of your thighs in lazy, absentminded strokes, like he’s savoring the way your body reacts to him. He kisses higher, a little closer, but still teasing, still holding back, his nose brushing against you as he exhales another shaky breath. His lips part again, and this time, his tongue drags in a slow, unhurried line, tasting, testing, his grip tightening when your body tenses beneath him.

“Mmph- yeah baby that feels good,” you moan softly.

A quiet, broken sound escapes him as he finally gets a taste of you. One that sends a sharp jolt of heat through you, because it’s not just about what he’s doing- it’s about what this is doing to him. The restraint, the desperation, the way he’s been holding himself back only to finally give in, to finally let himself fall.

He tilts his head and licks you again, slower this time, dragging it out. His pace is torturous, every movement deliberate, like he has all the time in the world, like he wants to unravel you inch by inch. He sucks gently, his lips sealing over sensitive skin, his tongue flicking in short, teasing strokes before he pulls back just enough to let his breath fan over the damp heat he’s left behind.

His hands move, one sliding up to press firmly against your lower stomach, holding you in place, keeping you right where he wants you. The other ghosts higher, fingers brushing, tracing, exploring without urgency. He presses another kiss, softer this time, then another, his tongue flicking between them, lazy and unhurried.

He groans again like he’s savoring every second, like the taste of you is something he wants to commit to memory. His mouth opens wider, his tongue pressing flat and slow, dragging, circling, before he pulls away just enough to murmur against your skin, his lips brushing with every syllable.

“So damn sweet.”

Matt shifts slightly, settling in like he has no intention of rushing this, no desire to do anything but take his time and savor every second. His breath is warm, steadying, as he nudges his nose against you before his lips part once more. He starts with another slow, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue flicking out just enough to tease, to taste, before he pulls back and does it again.

“Oh my- fuck.” you cry out, hands flying down to tangle into his brown locks.

Then he presses in deeper, his tongue flattening against you, warm and wet as he drags it through your folds again with an unhurried precision. He hums low in his throat, the vibrations sending a shiver straight through you as he licks again, savoring the way you react beneath him as he explores, his tongue slipping between your folds, swirling, tracing, tasting.

Then he latches on, his lips sealing over you as he sucks, slow and deep, his tongue flicking in teasing strokes before he pulls back just enough to let his breath spill hot over your leaking cunt. He groans, a deep, needy sound, before he leans back in, sucking again, harder this time, his mouth working against you in slow, deliberate pulls.

“Yeah baby- Matt-” you moan, pulling his dark hair between your fingers as he hits your sweet spot again.

His tongue flicks out between each pull, circling, teasing, slipping lower before he sucks again, his lips wrapping around your folds as he draws them into his mouth, slurping softly, unashamed, like he’s lost in this, in you. He lingers, his tongue pressing and swirling, tasting every inch, every drop, before he shifts slightly and does it again, his pace slow, torturous, precise.

Every movement is deliberate, every pull of his lips, every flick of his tongue, every slow, wet slurp as he drinks you in like he can’t get enough. His fingers flex against your thighs, his grip tightening as he tilts his head, angling himself just right as his tongue moves with purpose, slow and deep, before he latches on again, sucking, savoring, swallowing every sound, every reaction you give him.

His eyes flutter as he shifts, pressing himself closer like he physically can’t stand the distance. His mouth is soft, wet, and devastatingly slow as he licks through your folds, savoring every inch, every taste. His tongue flattens against you before he pushes it deeper, slipping inside you with a slow, deliberate stroke. His groan is muffled, vibrating against you as he thrusts his tongue in again, slick and hot, his hands gripping you tighter to hold you steady.

“Fuck baby yeah- mmph- right there, yeah-” you blab underneath him.

He pulls back just enough to drag his tongue through your slickness, circling your clit in slow, teasing strokes before dipping back down, pushing his tongue inside you again, fucking you with it in steady, deliberate motions.

His hips stutter against the mattress, barely restrained, and when he groans against you again, it’s deep, needy, and frustrated. He grinds down, seeking friction, his body reacting instinctively to the way you arch beneath him, the way your hands tangle in his hair, tugging, guiding him deeper.

His tongue keeps working in slow, steady thrusts, in and out, pushing deeper each time before he pulls back to flick and circle your clit again. His lips wrap around it, sucking softly, then harder, before he licks back down, slipping his tongue inside you again, dragging out the sensation, stretching it, making sure you feel every inch of him.

He hums against you, his pleasure evident in the way his hips roll into the mattress, the way his breath stutters between each stroke of his tongue. His pace never falters, never rushes. Just deep, slow, purposeful movements, his mouth working you over as he grinds down, chasing his own relief against the bed.

His fingers dig into your thighs as he pushes in again, tongue pressing deep before pulling out in a slick, slow drag. Then his mouth is back on your clit, sucking, teasing, worshipping, while his hips rut into the mattress, desperate, uncontrolled, his body reacting to yours like he’s just as lost in this as you are.

The tension between you coils tighter and tighter, pleasure building with every slow, unhurried touch as he continues that same pattern.

Matt can feel it. The way your body starts to tense beneath him, the way your thighs tremble in his grip, the way your breath turns ragged and uneven. He knows you’re close, knows you’re teetering right on the edge, and fuck, it does something to him. His hips jerk harder against the mattress, grinding down in slow, desperate rolls as he groans into you, his mouth sealing over your clit with renewed urgency.

His tongue flicks over your sensitive bundle of nerves in steady, deliberate strokes, dragging slow before wrapping his plump lips around it and sucking it into his mouth, pulling whimpers from you that only make him push himself harder against the bed. His hands tighten even more on your thighs, fingers pressing deep, holding you open for him as he devours you.

The way you react- the way your body arches into him, the way your hands tighten in his hair, pulling, guiding, needing- drives him insane. He groans, a desperate, muffled sound, before sucking harder, his tongue swirling, flicking, stroking. His hips rut into the mattress with growing urgency, each movement perfectly timed with the way his mouth moves against you, like he’s losing himself in the rhythm, in the way you tremble, in the way your breath hitches each time he flicks his tongue just right.

“You’re so close,” he murmurs against you, his voice wrecked, vibrating through every nerve in your body. He licks again, slow but firm, dragging his tongue over your clit in long, wet strokes before sucking it back into his mouth, rolling his hips into the bed with a deep, needy groan.

His movements grow messier, more desperate, his hips grinding down harder, the friction barely enough but still too much. His breath is ragged, his groans coming more frequently now, broken, needy sounds muffled against your slick skin as he buries himself deeper, tongue and lips and hands working you over like he’s determined to pull you apart.

“Come on, baby,” he rasps, barely pulling away, his breath hot against you. “Give it to me.”

And then he’s back on you, tongue flicking, lips sucking, hips rolling into the mattress with frantic, helpless need, completely lost in you, in this, in the way you’re about to fall apart for him.

You’re right there- so close it’s almost unbearable, your thighs trembling beneath his grip, your body arching into his mouth, seeking more, needing more. And Matt knows. He can feel it. He’s so in tune with you that he can tell the exact second you’re about to go under, can tell by the way your breath catches, by the way your fingers tighten in his hair, by the way your body goes tense and ready to break.

You moan, a soft, wrecked sound, and in the midst of it, the words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unfiltered and real.

“I love you, Matt.”

The second they leave your lips, Matt falls apart. A choked, wrecked noise rips from his throat as his whole body tenses, his hips jerking into the mattress with a desperate, uncontrollable need. His groan is deep and guttural, vibrating against your clit as his entire body shudders, his grip on your thighs tightening almost painfully as pleasure crashes over him in waves.

And at the same time, he pulls you with him.

His mouth doesn’t stop, his tongue flicking, sucking, lapping at you with frantic, desperate movements, completely consumed by the feeling of you, by your words, by the way you moan his name as you shatter beneath him. The vibrations of his groans send shockwaves through you, tipping you over the edge with him, your body trembling as you crash into your orgasm, every nerve igniting under his touch.

Matt’s hips stutter against the mattress, rolling through the aftershocks as he whimpers against you, his body wrecked, spent, completely undone. His grip on you doesn’t loosen, his mouth still moving lazily against you, tasting, savoring, dragging out every last bit of your pleasure even as his own leaves him shaking.

Finally, he stills, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. His forehead drops onto your thigh, his hands smoothing over your legs as he presses soft, lingering kisses against you, like he’s grounding himself, like he’s trying to process what just happened.

And then, barely above a whisper, he breathes, “Fuck, I love you too.”

His breath is still uneven, his body still trembling slightly as he presses soft, open-mouthed kisses against your inner thigh, his hands stroking soothing circles over your skin. He nuzzles against you, like he can’t quite bring himself to pull away, like he’s still lost in the moment, in you.

“God, I love you,” he murmurs, voice thick, still wrecked. He presses another kiss, this one softer, almost reverent, before whispering again, “I love you so much.”

But then, as the haze starts to clear, his touch falters. His brows furrow slightly, his breath hitching as he lifts his head and really looks at you. Your skin is still warm- too warm. The fever that had you curled up and miserable earlier hasn’t completely broken, and the realization crashes over him all at once.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing himself up slightly, his hands immediately going to your face, brushing your hair back, feeling your forehead. His expression shifts, guilt flashing across his features as his lips press into a thin line. “Sweetheart, are you okay?” His voice is softer now, filled with worry as he cups your face, his thumb stroking over your cheek. “I- I shouldn’t have done that. I wasn’t thinking. You’re still sick.”

His eyes search yours, concern bleeding into every inch of him. “Do you need anything? Water? Medicine? A blanket?” His hands are already moving, like he’s ready to jump up and grab anything you might possibly need. “I’m so sorry, baby, I-”

But you don’t let him go anywhere.

Instead, you reach up, grab his wrist, and tug him down until his body is pressed flush against yours, his head resting against your bare chest. He tenses for half a second before melting into you, exhaling shakily as you wrap your arms around him, fingers threading through his hair, holding him close.

“I’ve never felt better,” you murmur, voice soft, sincere.

Matt lets out a breath, something between a sigh and a laugh, and buries his face against your tits, his lips brushing over your skin as his arms slide around your waist, pulling you in tighter. His body is warm, solid, grounding, and for a moment, he just lays there, listening to the steady beat of your heart beneath his cheek.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mumbles, pressing a lingering kiss against your chest. But there’s no frustration in his voice, just quiet, exhausted affection.

The two of you stay there for a long moment, just breathing, just feeling. Matt’s weight is warm and solid against you, his head resting against your chest as his fingers lazily trace along your side. His breath is still a little uneven, but there’s something peaceful about the way he holds you, like he never wants to move.

But then, after a few minutes, he shifts slightly and mutters, “Fuck, I need to clean you up.” He pauses, groaning softly as he shifts again. “And I, uh, need to take care of myself too.”

You blink, tilting your head down to look at him. “Wait,” you murmur, teasing. “Are you still hard?” You grin slightly, running a hand through his messy hair. “Do you want me to blow you?”

You barely start to sit up before Matt’s entire body tenses against you. He jerks back slightly, his breath catching as his vision momentarily swims. “Oh- shit,” he mutters, squeezing his eyes shut for a second, like just the thought alone was enough to make him dizzy.

Then, with a reluctant groan, he shakes his head. “As much as that sounds fucking incredible… I, uh…” His voice drops a little, and suddenly, he’s fidgeting, shifting awkwardly as he clears his throat. “I already came.”

You blink at him, surprised. “Wait, what?”

His face turns bright red, his ears practically glowing as he runs a hand through his messy hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah,” he mutters, clearing his throat again, looking almost painfully embarrassed. “Like… while I was eating you out.”

Your gaze instinctively drops lower, and that’s when you see it- the very obvious, very large stain on the front of his grey sweats. Your cheeks heat instantly, and you swallow, eyes flicking back up to him.

“That’s just from… eating me out?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Matt presses a hand over his face, groaning softly, but he nods. “Yeah.”

Silence hangs between you for a second- awkward and heated all at once, because somehow, that’s both incredibly embarrassing and incredibly hot. Your mind swirls with the thought of him grinding against the mattress, that desperate, that lost in you, that completely wrecked just from tasting you. You wish you had seen it.

He clears his throat again, breaking the tension as he finally forces himself to move. “Okay,” he mutters, shaking his head, like he needs to get himself together. “Let me get you cleaned up.”

Without another word, he rolls off the bed and heads into your bathroom, still visibly flustered. You hear the sound of running water, cabinets opening, and then he’s back, a warm towel in his hands as he kneels beside you. His touch is gentle as he cleans you up, his brows furrowed slightly in concentration, his lips pressed together like he’s still processing everything that just happened.

But as he works, his gaze flicks up to yours, and despite the embarrassment lingering in the air, there’s something warm and fond in his eyes.

“Never gonna live this down, am I?” he murmurs, his lips twitching slightly.

You bite your lip, suppressing a smile. “Probably not.”

Matt groans, shaking his head. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

As Matt finishes cleaning you up, you let out a little amused hum and murmur, “It’s okay. I probably would’ve done the same if you let me blow you.”

His entire body locks up. His grip on the towel stills, and he visibly tenses, his breath catching in his throat. For a second, he just stares at you, like his brain short-circuited, before he shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s trying to physically push the thought away.

“Sweetheart,” he groans, his voice low and strained. “You gotta stop talking about that or I’m literally gonna break.”

You giggle at his reaction, tilting your head at him, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Why don’t you let me, then?”

Matt groans again, dragging a hand down his face. “No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “I’m not letting you blow me while you’re sick. You’re not doing anything to me while you’re sick.” His voice softens slightly, his gaze flickering over you with concern. “I don’t want you overworking yourself.”

You sigh dramatically, pouting. “Okaaayy.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond smile playing on his lips as he finishes cleaning you up. Once he’s done, he stands, heading back into the bathroom. You hear the soft rustling of clothes, the wet drop of fabric hitting the floor, and then a moment later, he steps out- now dressed in a fresh pair of sweats and boxers that he’d left at your place before.

When he looks at you, though, his breath catches slightly. You’re still sprawled out on the bed, naked, your body relaxed and already starting to doze off, your lashes fluttering against your cheeks.

His heart clenches at the sight.

With a soft sigh, he walks over, crouching beside the bed and brushing his fingers gently over your arm. “C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice filled with so much love it makes your chest ache. “Let me get you dressed and bundled up, then you can sleep.”

You let out a little sleepy whine but don’t protest as he carefully slips his own sweatshirt over your head, his hands gentle as he pulls it down over your body. It’s oversized on you, swallowing you up in warmth, and he smiles to himself as he rolls up the sleeves just a bit. Then, he grabs your sweatpants and helps you slip them back on, making sure you’re comfortable before pulling the blankets up around you, tucking you in snugly.

Just as he’s about to stand up and leave, you reach out, grabbing his wrist weakly. Your voice is small, tired, but filled with so much quiet pleading.

“No… please stay with me tonight,” you murmur, blinking up at him sleepily. “You can’t leave.”

Matt exhales softly, his expression melting into something so incredibly tender.

“Okay, baby,” he whispers, brushing his knuckles gently over your cheek before slipping into bed beside you.

The second he does, you shift closer, nuzzling against his chest as he wraps his arms around you, holding you tightly. His warmth seeps into you, his steady heartbeat against your ear lulling you further into sleep.

Matt presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, tightening his hold on you just a little.

“Get some rest, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

You nuzzle closer into Matt’s warmth, your fingers curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt as you bury your face against his chest. His scent, familiar and comforting, fills your senses, and you let out a soft, content sigh.

“I love you, Matt,” you murmur, your voice muffled against him but filled with quiet sincerity.

His arms tighten around you instantly, like he’s holding onto something precious. He exhales softly, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head before whispering, “I love you too.”

And in that moment, with his heartbeat steady beneath your ear and his arms wrapped securely around you, everything feels right.

No matter what happens tomorrow, no matter where life takes either of you, you know it’ll be okay. Because in the end, you’ll always find your way back to each other.

You’ll always wait for each other.

MASTERLIST

tags: @ilovejohnnieguilbertsblog @mattsturnii @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @watercolorskyy @strangecatpeach @katie1002 @1ovesiick @slut4christopherr @mattgirl4eva @mayalovesturn @chriss-slutt @sturniolohohoho @courta13 @izzylovesmatt @matthewsturnsgf @aaa-mi @bigbeefybitch @hopelesslydevotedsstuff @wastelandzella @yourmother29 @whore4-chrissturniolo @idefinitelyhateu @madisonnxtdoor22 @user1smvtysturniolo @briisturniolo @sturniololuvz @hesvoid34 @butterflytsblog @mommymomm @mattsbunnyxx @blushsturns @i8kth @annalisesturnioloxo @kenziesturniolo54 @ribread03 @sturnl0ve @grace-sturniolo12 @sophsturns @mattsturnfx @lilyloveschris @milo-the-dog @riggysworld @scrumptiouskoalabasement @tenaciousearthquakeperson @sturnlovematt22 @seros-girl @sofsturnz689 @sturniololuvz @eeyoresturnz

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madamecaos · 2 days ago

Text

Crush(ing) pt.2

Summary: Where Ghost goes a little too rough on you in training then makes up for it.

6k+ ish words │ Ghost (Simon Riley) x Y/N

Warning: Mature filth, probably depression

A/N: You know the drill, no proofread found here. (This is literally an experiment to fight head-on my perfectionism lol)

Part 1

Part 2

Johnny must have said something, you realized the next morning. There was no way the strict management would provide him a personal room without providing some sort of information of a necessity.

And the team was… nicer. You couldn’t explain nor figure out if Johnny had told all the details. Or at least some because no one looked at you with pity.

Training was the same, no sparring today, just some laps and some cardio-inducing sweat. You hadn’t seen Ghost anywhere yet, but something told you he wouldn’t go near you anytime soon. Despite this team being one of the most secretive amongst the military branches, it wouldn’t be excluded from a bureaucratic process if you were to accuse him of something.

Of what, you weren’t sure. You were angry, but you weren’t there yet.

Everything was… as if you weren’t just another ‘lad’ in the team. Soap greeted you with his usual jolly good morning, kept an ongoing conversation like usual, but he filled up your tray and carried it to your table. This was the first time someone had done that. Gaz offered to carry your gym bag back to your room. Price rescheduled a briefing on the intel, allowing you to have fun and explore the city, or whatever that meant without any sort of security to follow you around.

Odd, and confusing. You weren’t sure you were complaining at the sudden reprieve from military treatment, but you weren’t sure if you were comfortable with being treated like a child. As something fragile.

Whatever, your complaining could wait a few days. You wanted to get your hair done and get some coffee that didn’t taste like water and bitter mornings.

So you did, you went shopping for clothes that you weren’t sure about when and where you would wear. At the same time, you eyed the open-back blouses wistfully, a little part of you wishing that your life wasn’t so filled with bruises and scars.

But that was the job. You had to get by.

The taxi left you at the entrance, the driver not having the credentials to enter the base, but that was not a problem.

You couldn’t find your badge, the guard’s expectation making the rummaging of your purse more aggressive. And again, that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that, when the guard opened the gates, making you think that he had recognized you and would allow you in, Ghost was standing right smack at the middle as they parted, expecting you. He was as casual as yesterday, a long sleeve tee and the expected balaclava.

You returned his inquisitive stare for a few seconds, the handles of the shopping bags digging into your bruised-enough arms. The hot shower last night had helped tame down the swelling, but not enough to not to feel it.

Keeping that in mind, you walked forward with all intention to ignore him. As you neared-

‘Ma’am-“

“She’s with me,” Ghost said, not allowing any doubt in his tone. The guard, given Ghost’s no-nonsense attitude, didn’t argue. The guard had recognized you but was jut being difficult, surely.

“May I?” He asked as he matched your pace, the whirring of the gates closing behind you occupying the silence.

You faltered and cursed internally. So much for not being affected by him.

Without hesitation nor expecting an answer, he took your bags, and you couldn’t help but notice he avoided skin contact.

The walk to your room was tense. His footsteps were not as quiet as usual, which made you think he made noise on purpose, enough for you to be aware of how far behind he stayed.

Somehow that put you somewhat at ease, but not enough. Ghost being nice? Something was happening, you just didn’t know what, but at the same time you were done assuming things about him and what his actions meant.

“I’m in a different room.” You explained as you neared the corner of the hallway that used to be your bunk bed.

“I know,” he answered just as briefly.

From your peripheral, you eyed him. You returned your gaze forward immediately when you met his, as he was already looking at you. His eyes seemed to have more depth under the fluorescent lights, no horror nor worry to be found this time.

But they weren’t blank and unexpressive as usual.

Eyes centered forward, you finally neared your room, eying warily the small cooler right by the door. When you opened your new room, you turned to ask for your bags.

You should’ve known this was a trick as he shouldered himself into what was supposed to be your safe space.

Tiny and cautious steps led you in as he placed the bags on the simple desk. You left the door open.

Then, he had the gall to point at the bed. “Sit.”

He turned back, and returned as he closed the door, now cooler in hand.

You stood frozen in the middle of the room. The frown that marred your face was enough for him to falter. You looked at the bed slowly, then back to him.

This room, away from the others, was all him. The room was far away from the people that knew there was tension between you two, and now he was demanding that you sat on the bed. There was no question as to what this might lead to.

You were no barrack bunny.

Your heart wanted to crawl up your throat.

“Please…” He showed his hands as a peace offering, placating. You were too in your head to notice the ice packs. He made another gesture towards the bed. “Cold helps swelling go down.”

You wanted to think that he genuinely wanted to help, but that tiny monstrous voice in the back of your mind told you he must want the bruises gone because they were proof enough of his brutality.

Intrusively, the dark thought developed. He must want a blank canvas to ruin again.

“You can barely see them now,” you said, knowing that your strong reprieve would loosen if you felt his hands on your skin.

He took a deep breath in, seeking patience at your resistance. “Right.”

Droplets hit the floor as the ice packs melted. When you realized he wouldn’t move, you sighed and took them from him. “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

You sat on the corner of the bed and begrudgingly placed an ice pack beneath your shirt, the size of it barely covering the span of your shoulder. Thankfully, you were strong enough to hold in the hiss at the contact. “There, happy?”

“No,” he reached for more inside the cooler. “I know it’s not only your shoulder.”

He waited for you to act, but not patiently, that much you could tell, but he was smart enough to not push you. Instinctively, you held in an eyeroll and laid down on the bed, belly down. If this is what you had to do to get him out of here faster, then so be it.

Tentatively, he grasped the bottom of your shirt, avoiding skin. He managed to lift your shirt halfway, before it became troublesome for him to reach all the marks.

There was hesitation in his actions. The sure soldier now timid, uncertain, not knowing what was required. There was no way your clothes wouldn’t soak as the ice packs melted, and there was no way he could reach the bruises on your upper back without seeing.

He paused and you knew what he was asking of you, silently and unwearyingly. At least, he was smart enough not to make demands when you laid in this vulnerable position.

But, when you sat up and shed off your shirt and bra, he took a trembling breath as if he was the one being splayed open. Ghost looked away respectfully but caught the deep shades of blue and purple in the corner of his eye.

After shedding the only layer that covered your back, you laid belly down, pretending that you weren’t as nervous as him.

You expected clinical detachment from the man that had shown you only that, but as he sucked in a breath at the sight of your spine, you knew this was anything but.

Your arms pillowed your head as you faced the wall, concentrating on counting from one to ten as cold burned along the length of your spine.

Instinctively, you hissed when the cold packs reached a really sore mark that had been beneath the clasp of your bra all day.

“Easy,” he mumbled, deep voice doing nothing to help the rising goosebumps along your skin. “Going up now.”

He warned before you felt the branding of his fingertip, tenderly brushing away the hair from the nape of your neck. The shiver that racked through your body had nothing to do with the cold.

“Tickles,” you grumbled, burying your face further into the sheets.

“Yeah?” He mused gently, doing nothing to hide the fond undertone.

The voice inside your subconscious kept screaming that this meant nothing. That this was a soldier taking care of another. A weak link in the team meant repercussions.

The time passed in silence, and going against your instinct, you did nothing to fill it.

What could you say? That you mark easily? That it wasn’t his fault?

You said nothing, just like him. Thankfully, in the shadows of the sunset that bled into the room, you found yourself asleep before you had to face another awkward goodbye from the man that, surprisingly, felt something other than disdain for you.

This had been the offset routine for the last two days. And, for the first time in a while, you wished one of the terrorists reappeared for a whole other reason. This break had to end, or you would lose your mind.

“Easy,” he coached as he always did when he iced your back, as he’s been doing every night. Only the phantom-like of his fingertips brushed against you as you hissed. “There we go.”

His hushed worry didn’t help.

The tension and the edging had you holding in the urge to squirm. The gnawing lust you felt for the man must be unnatural, and in the midst of your grudge, you thought he was doing this on purpose.

But, to your disbelief (and delight), he’s done nothing but be a gentleman inside and outside the bedroom.

During drills, he checked in often. Inconspicuous to your teammates, he let you off on not running the last lap. He also refused to let you spar with anyone “until you’ve recovered” he said once. The first day at training was fine, the second day you remembered why you were mad in the first place.

Despite doing the most in your mock fights, he didn’t believe you were strong for this job overall. The Lieutenant didn’t believe you were his equal.

But the third night you thought it over because, when the night was at its darkest, he visited your door, awaiting for entrance and a silent forgiveness for what he’d done.

When you removed your shirt, he looked away. He asked, checked and coddled you as he placed each icepack, never allowing his flesh to touch yours. Also, you weren’t going to pretend that he didn’t caress your hair away, being the opposite of methodical.

So you found yourself on the third night, laying belly down on the bed. The bruises were almost already gone, most yellow and transparent.

Part of you knew this was the last night he would do this, and part of you wondered if he would find another excuse to interact with you? Should you leave it up to chance and wait for him to act? Did he even want to? Or was this a one-time thing, a reprieve for the brutality he had put you through? That would mean that, when all wounds were healed, there was nothing else tying you two.

Maybe this was the last time you had the opportunity to speak with a semblance of privacy, outside of the norms of a soldier. This gave you enough bravery to do something different.

This time, as he was placing the last icepack on your upper back, you turned your head, now facing him.

If you weren’t so in tune with his movements, you wouldn’t have caught the slight falter as he pressed gently, right by your shoulder. Unintentionally, this was a sign that the dynamics had changed.

He didn’t have as much power as he thought, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. There was a conversation to be had, and he couldn’t bully nor punch himself through it.

Two days ago, you would’ve been furious at yourself for reading him so easily.

With no other space left to blanket your back, he leaned backwards, sighing heavily into his chair. At your ongoing stare, you dared to believe he looked defeated.

“The team is leaving in two days, 0800,” he started.

You merely blinked and his fingers twitched, fighting the urge to fidget.

He blinked back, the balaclava doing nothing to hide the tightening of his jaw. “Price has scheduled a briefing for tomorrow.”

“I heard.”

There was some information he wanted from you, but you weren’t sure what. The details mentioned were already rumors around the whole base, they were no secret.

After a pause, he looked around the barren barrack. “I haven’t heard of a request for transfer.”

“The Captain would be the only one privy to that information, would he not?”

He grunted in agreement. A long pause, then Ghost played again with the skin of his knuckles. What an odd time to notice that he hadn’t been wearing gloves this whole time.

“Just tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Don’t be difficult,” he snarked, baiting you for an answer in your usual anger, but you thought a lot about how you wanted this night to go. You laid placidly, feeling the ice melting against your back.

“More demands then,” you sighed, merely disappointed, cheek pillowed against your arm.

“Demands? You threaten to leave, and then I ask if you’ve requested a transfer-“

“That would imply that you, indeed, asked a question,” you said, gently as you kept staring at him, unexpressive. “The only question you’ve asked me since we’ve met is ‘are you dumb?’ three weeks ago while training.”

He went still and you waited for a refusal, an excuse that the military was no place for questions or politeness. He had been trained to take, follow orders and for others to do the same.

“You don’t ask.”

“I don’t… I only want to know if you’re leaving. After…”

-After he had to ice your back for several days straight after he didn’t know how to measure the severity of his strength. You were stealing one of his tactics, one that worked well with you. Allow the other to make the assumptions, fill the silence and reap the benefits.

“Then ask.” You said, as if it was the most obvious thing. “What do you want to know, Lieutenant?”

In the dimmed lighting of your temporary reprieve, the silhouette of the man that had driven you near insanity moved and leaned in, elbows resting on his knees.

“Are you leaving?” he asked, lowly, as if it were a secret between you two.

You played along and tilted your head downwards minutely. His eyes followed the movement along as if he was starved for it. “Would you like me to?”

Just as gradually, he shook his head. The slow denial whilst holding your stare did something to you, enough to forgive that he hadn’t rebutted your leave with words. But, given the deep breaths he was taking, which might have been unnoticed for anyone else, you knew he was meticulously observing you, gauging you for your wants and needs.

You knew that look, the sudden shift. He was a soldier in a battlefield, a soldier with a mission. Ghost wanted you to stay and, right now, he was quietly asking what would get him exactly that.

“Anything else you wanted to ask me?” You asked, acting oblivious to his intensity.

You could play games too.

After a beat, still and unmoving, he shook your entire belief that he was cruel and uncaring. “Do you forgive me?”

Your breath stuttered, cool girl act failing, hardly hiding how those words affected you. Wide eyed, you stared and muttered dumbly a ‘what?’

While this night passed in the secret of your bedroom, you thought it would all be forgotten. Somehow, in your expertise as to what was Ghost, he was a man of action, not words. As you laid there, ice reddening the skin of your back, you believed that as soon as the bruises disappeared, nothing else would be mentioned. No words necessary. Transgressions would have never been declared again, and Ghost would’ve gone back to the cooly and indifferent Lieutenant you’ve come to known.

Asking for forgiveness and admitting fault felt like a whole other monster entirely.

At your silence, he leaned forward, allowing one knee to fall, then the other with a thud. The chair creaked at the movement as the man left the seat.

By your bedside, Ghost carefully knelt with hands splayed on his thighs. The bed wasn’t tall enough, so even kneeling, he had to hunch himself to keep eye contact with you. His eyes roved over your face, with thirst for any reaction that wasn’t hatred.

“Do you forgive me?” he asked again carefully, trying to get through your petrified form.

You merely blinked without words coming to mind, avoiding the burn behind your eyes. Along with a faltered breath, a shiver racked along the length of your spine, drawing his eyes to the goosebumps rising on your skin.

The ice had already melted, wetting the towel pinned beneath you. He had thought of everything.

Ghost returned his stared back to yours, finally catching the minuscule nod as an answer to his question.

He returned your nod with one of his own.

It seemed that the confirmation sprung him into action, like that was all he needed to hear. He stood and you did nothing else but lay there, immobile with your back exposed as he returned the melted ice packs to the cooler. Other nights, you had fallen asleep before he left, even with the cold covering your back.

You had often woken up with a towel-dried skin and the covers drawn up to your neck.

This time, you weren’t sure what to expect. Was this it? Now that you said yes, would it all go back to normal? Would he avoid you in the hallways and bark instructions in the battlefield?

The click of the cooler closing seemed to echo in the room and a sense of finality settled in.

You sat up, clutching the towel to your chest, doing the impossible to cover the shivers running through your body.

Despite his rapid movements to clean and organize every item he brought up, you knew he was running from the mere second he was vulnerable. There was no way this man had gotten on his knees before, not for anyone.

Given his braveness, you dared to ask the question that had plagued you since he stood up. “Is this it?”

No begging in your tone, no expectations. If he said he was done, you wouldn’t bring it up, wouldn’t claim nor believe he owed you anything, you decided. You weren’t also blind to the fact that he was always the one that set the tone for whatever sort of relationship you two had.

The man was always covered, always on guard, always a higher ranking, always more methodical.

And you already said what he needed to hear. There was no solid reason for him to come back.

“Are we… normal now?”

Ghost turned slowly, and you weren’t sure what he saw when he looked at you, but his intent gaze definitely brought you flashbacks. It wouldn’t be the first time he had looked at you like that after having access to your body, and then turn away and out of your life as if it meant nothing.

You had expected him to do the same as that night, the night where you found reprieve in each other’s bodies, then never spoke about it again.

Expectation kept you still, bracing for whatever nonchalant rejection came your way.

“You look at me as if you expect the worst from me,” he said as he turned towards the entrance, no hurry in his pace. His hand reached for the handle; cooler left behind at the desk. The lock clicked shut. “I aim to change that.”

You didn’t know what was more important, to breathe, to speak or to run.

He didn’t leave space for that as he headed towards you, expectation building at his leisurely pace. As if he had all the time in the world, he knelt again before you, eyes leveled with yours. This time, he was closer, enough for you to feel the heat through his clothing.

Hands that had known nothing but violence reached for your face, slowly but steady.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, something akin to worry in his tone. Thumbs caressed your cheeks as he held your face, searching for any reaction that might be against this.

“I’m cold,” you replied in barely a hush, shoulders caving at your vulnerable state.

Decidedly, you wanted to do the same. He saw the intention behind your actions as you gave him enough time to stop you.

Carefully, you reached forward, allowing the towel that covered your chest to drop, and rolled up the balaclava that had you spiraling over the last few missions.

Simon didn’t look down but searched for your eyes as you took in the face of the man that had plagued your dreams and nightmares.

You chuckled and he tensed.

“ ‘s not fair.”

His blonde eyebrows furrowed, distorting slightly the scar above his right eye.

“You can’t be buff and pretty,” you jested, eyes crinkling at the corners when you tried to hide your grin.

Uncharacteristically, he rolled his eyes and huffed at your joke. This made your smile widen, thinking about how expressive he really is as he was used to hiding behind a mask.

And you wanted to live in this moment, where you could appreciate every detail of his face, something that you’ve had the sole honor to see, but your anxiety was driving you wild.

You hated yourself for a moment, as he held your face fondly, for not being able to accept the present and wonder if this was a one time thing. After this night was done and he had proven he was more than pain and passion, would this tender moment live in your mind and your wishes for more.

It was sad but not unusual to expect crumbs.

As if sensing the shift in your mood, his head tilted, observing. Hands that radiated warmth drifted down to your neck, your shoulders then your hair as he caressed the wisps down your back.

“What is it?” he asked, low and worried.

The fact that he asked was monumental, but not enough to get you out of your spiraling.

“I’m not… I don’t expect anything,” you started, or tried to as the wide circles massaged into the tense muscles of your lower back served as a distraction. “But do I have to…”

His pinning and inquisitive stare had you stuttering and quivering.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“I know but…” You dared to finally look back at him and asked meekly. “Do I have to pretend this never happened? Like last time.”

No answer from him, merely a sigh and you bit your tongue. You sat up straight with a mournful smile as he retreated his arms from your body and you crossed your arms across your chest.

He stood up and this time you expected him to leave, truly.

Instead, you got a, “turn around and take off your pants.”

He certainly could be blunt when he wanted to. At your confusion and furrowed eyebrows, he took the liberty to manhandle you into what he asked of you. With his hands on your hips, you stood with no space between you two. As you stared, he methodically undid your belt with a clink and unclasped your pants, then knelt, bringing your pants down with him. One hand behind your knee had you lifting your foot, then the other, leaving you in your underwear.

You kept looking down at him, asking silently what the hell got into him that had you standing in your underwear. The expression on his face dared you to say something.

Did he look like that every time you had been stubborn?

Without regrets, he turned you then pushed down on you, until you laid flat, belly down, similar to what you had been 10 minutes ago.

“You might be bipolar, has someone told you that?” You huffed, annoyed, about to use your arms to rest your head. That was until your wrists were taken, arms placed by your sides.

Then, the bed dipped with the weight of a full-grown man as he sat behind you, inches away from your thighs. Unlike the other nights, you expected an icepack to be placed carefully on your skin. Instead, you felt something liquid and cold after something clicked open.

You hadn’t even noticed he had caressed your hair away, leaving the span of your back exposed.

Then hands burrowed into your skin, massaging away the shocking cold from the lotion that sat innocently on your nightstand. Simon was now digging his thumbs into the knots of your back and the nape of your neck, ignoring the hisses you let at the pressure.

If this was the way he would act whenever you bombarded him with a vulnerable question, you might do it more often.

“No,” he said after a few minutes, your mind already drifting to a calmer place.

“No, no one’s told you you’re bipolar?”

“No,” he answered gruffly. “You’re not allowed to pretend this didn’t happen.”

You kept your eyes closed despite your surprise as the pressure of his hands drifted downwards, avoiding your underwear, heading directly to knead your legs, your calves. The proximity of his thumbs between the apex of your thighs had you squirming.

“If you do, I’ll have to find ways to make you remember.”

You barely held the groan when his thumbs dug away into the sole of your feet. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it.

“You be stubborn. I’ll keep finding ways to make you feel good.”

Despite your newly found relaxed state, you couldn’t fight the sensation pooling in your lower stomach. You might’ve drifted to sleep in this tender moment, but your mind kept wondering what else those hands could do. How much pressure could those thumbs do?

As he drifted upwards, he caught on your squirming, teasing gently as he kept massaging your thighs. Just as carefully, his fingertips brushed against the edge of your underwear.

“Need something, sweet girl?” He taunted but did nothing to hide the grave tone of his own lust. Not long after, his thumbs ‘accidently’ brushed against the cleft between your legs.

You bit your tongue, aiming to be stubborn and curious as to what he would do without guidance.

After he had enough, your underwear was tentatively pulled down to your feet. Then the hands that had been so through on relaxing you were now silently positioning you upwards to your parted knees, back arched as your torso laid placidly.

When he got you like he wanted, his fingers dug into your upper thighs for leverage, expecting you to run away. And that you did as a soft breath brushed against you before the slickness of a tongue delved into you.

You flinched instinctively at the sensation with a whimper, but he held you to him. He was no shy adventurer.

Simon had been teasing all night, and it seemed he was done playing games. His tongue, along with his lips, left nothing unexplored. His hands roamed along your flesh, issuing pressure to your lower back when needed to keep you arched enough for him. There were no tentative licks nor touches as he hummed into your folds, slick running down his chin.

Thumbs splayed you open, and your whimpers rose into moans as he lapped at your clit with enough tension to make you gasp for breaths. Instinctively, you reached back, fingers latching into a full head of hair.

When you pulled, he moaned just as loud as you. That seemed to unravel him, his careful lapping now an intense suckling as he inserted one finger, then two. The hollow beneath your lower stomach now partially full. You were wet enough to accept whatever he had to give you.

When he dug down, aiming for your upper walls, you keened. He rubbed and rubbed, fingers so thick he had no problem hammering away into your g-spot repeatedly.

Now your moans were let out brazenly, gasping into the pillow as he did his best to burrow himself into your skin.

The shaking started on your calves, the tension rising upwards to your lower back. The sensation seemed to spur him on into a continuous pattern where he kept his mouth latched on you as your nerves coiled into and impending life-changing orgasm.

With a shock, your body spasmed with a silent scream, the soldier holding you tight through your tremors. Violent shock after shock racked through you until you managed to get some air in a keening moan. After seconds, Simon petting you lightly with his tongue and feeling every spasm, you laid back down placidly, all energy sucked out of you.

At the first flinch of overstimulation, he languidly let you go, barely letting his hands off your skin as he laid you flat on the bed.

He was out of breath too, but something told you it had more to do with the tent in his pants than lack of oxygen.

Owlishly, you looked back at him through the haze. As soon as he started petting your hair, you knew you lost whatever battle had been going on between you two.

Simon had done the impossible; proven he was going nowhere and that he was just as obsessed with you as you were with him.

And, as if nothing short of extraordinary had happened, his hands drifted lower to keep the ongoing massage as the remnants of your pleasured haze pulled you to sleep.

#cod x reader #ghost x y/n #ghost x reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod fanfic #simon ghost riley x reader #cod simon riley

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astrocafecoffee · 3 days ago

Text

Astro observation part 7

🪷 FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY, ENJOY 🪷

~~~~~~~~~~~~~🪻🪻~~~~~~~~~~~~~

☞ MASTERLIST

~~~~~~~~~~~~~🪻🪻~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lunar return obs.

🌷 Everytime Chiron in my 1st house in Aries , I inevitably face difficulties during those months. I am just tired of this shit.

🌷 Moon conjunct mars - definitely arguing with your mother or close family member.

🌷 Venus conjunct Saturn- you could think about your love life often, perhaps thinking about someone or sad about your connection with your love interest.

🌷 Venus in 12th house could mean same as previous point.

🌷 Jupiter in 3rd house- this could mean short distance travel.

🌷sun in 11th could mean you are active on social media often, searching things, learning things.

🌷7th ruler in 10th house could mean you are taking guidance for your career/ work from your family members or friends or someone higher rank than you. If it's in mercury then this could mean you are discussing very important matter with them.

🌷 Uranus in 2nd house - I've spent a lot of money.

🌷 1st house ruler in 3rd house - people taking about your appearance alot. (Definitely my mom did).

🌷 Chiron in 7th house - difficulties with your loved ones.

🌷 Meeting your fs or long term soulmate indicator in lunar return -

- Groom/ Briede conjunct Jupiter.

- Groom/ Briede conjunct Union

- Union in 7th house.

- Union in 3rd / 11th house(online meeting).

-Groom / Briede in 11th house ( online)

- Groom / Briede in 6th house.

- 7th ruler conjunct Groom/ Briede.

- Vertex conjunct Groom/ Briede.

- Northnode conjunct Groom/ Briede.

🌷 I've seen in some astro observations that Venus in 10th house can mean a career upgrade, but in my case that didn't happen. Instead my close ones have been motivating me to upgrade my career.

Solar return obs.

💚 7th ruler in 11th house - meeting a potential love interest through social media.

💚 sun in 11th - i have meet a lot of friends through social media.

💚 saturn in 11th house could mean difficulties with friends. I lost touch with many old friends.

💚 The 10th house ruler in Capricorn brought me career difficulties during those years despite my hard work.

💚 part of fortune in 12th house - I started this Astrology blog 😃. It also conjunct my mercury. In general this means heightened spirituality and learning something spiritual.

💚 I had 8th ruler in 11th house last year and I started this blog. This means sharing your spiritual abilities online.

💚 here i discussed some solar return indicators, but some prominent indicator you will see when you meet your fs -

- solar return juno conjunct natal groom.

- solar return union conjunct natal union.

- solar return union conjunct natal Vertex or northnode.

- juno conjunct vertex

- groom / briede in 6th and 7th house.

- solar return juno conjunct solar return groom/ briede.

- Boda conjunct sun.

Juno Persona chart

🌊 if you have Jupiter in the 7th house then you are lucky bro. You won't ever have to worry about this person being unfaithful to you. You will know deep down this person loves you for real.

🌊 i think sun in the 9th house is one of the indicator your fs is foreign than you in some way, like ethnicity or in general very different than you, could be cultural or religion difference.

🌊 Part of Fortune in the 10th house: I think they're at the top of their field. They're a prominent figure, but they had setbacks before achieving success. It took time for them to accomplish everything.

🌊 check Mony asteroid (7782) from where their money is coming from.

🌊 moon opposite Chiron - your fs may have a tough time opening up emotionally or showing vulnerability even if they deeply long for emotional connection. Their emotional needs may feel unfulfilled ,but they may have difficulty articulating or even acknowledging what those needs are.

🌊 Saturn opposite groom asteroid - your person might need to take more time to mature emotionally or intellectually before committing fully. They may also be cautious about making promises or vows cause they wants to ensure they are truly ready before taking the next step.

🌊 7th ruler in 10th house - One thing to be mindful of is that, with this placement, your fs might occasionally struggle to balance their personal and professional life. Their career ambitions may sometimes take precedence over their emotional or relational needs, don't worry just communicate with them about this matter. Don't suppress yourself.

🌊 Jupiter conjunct moon - very loving and emotionally generous spouse. They have a lot of emotional warmth and support to offer a partner. They may also have a tendency to over give emotionally sometimes, they may need to mindful about this.

🌊 Juno in 1st house - These individuals(your fs) can be especially sensitive to any inconsistency in commitment from a partner. If a partner shows signs of wavering, indecision, or lack of loyalty, it can affect them deeply. The personal identity of someone with Juno in the 1st house is often so tied to the idea of a secure, steady relationship that even minor signs of instability can trigger strong emotional responses.

🌊Juno in the 5th house could indicate that your spouse sees a long-term relationship as an adventure to be explored. They might not view the "everyday" aspects of commitment as mundane but rather as a continual process of discovery and joy. The idea of emotional exploration and new experiences with their partner could be a source of deep satisfaction.

🌊Uranus in the 12th can create a sense of feeling “different” or alien from the people around them. Because the 12th house is linked to the unconscious and the hidden aspects of the self, your spouse might feel like they don’t quite fit into societal molds or family expectations, even if they don’t express this outwardly. They could experience a feeling of being an outsider or of having a unique, unconventional way of perceiving the world that they don’t often share with others.

General astro obs.

🍁 you can definitely tell if a gemini sun likes you or not. If they are interested then they will actively reach out , just expect frequent calls and texts from them. They will also engage in conversations with you about all sorts of random topics.

🍁 Taurus rising peoples might be the type to fall asleep mid movie because they're too comfy to stay awake. Lol.

🍁 and also Taurus rising people are generally so calm? Like they are very stable or they manage things very calmly without making any mess. But if they become angry then run bro, just run.

🍁 if you talking to an Aquarius placements specially sun , and they seem distant or a little zoned out don't take it personally, they are probably just mentally solving world problems while making a grocery list.

🍁People might think Capricorn Venus is all work and no play, but they can actually be surprisingly sweet and sentimental when you get to know them. They might not show it on the outside, but deep down, they’re very invested in their loved ones and will hold onto meaningful mementos for years. They may not say it, but they'll remember your favorite coffee order from 3 months ago.

🍁 Capricorn rising peoples reserved nature can give off a distant or serious vibe. People might think they’re standoffish or unapproachable when, in reality, they’re just trying to figure out how to fit into the situation. They prefer to observe first before getting involved, which can make them seem a bit guarded until they warm up.

🍁They may not always say much, but Pisces placements are usually spot-on when it comes to reading people and situations. They can pick up on subtle cues like your tone of voice, body language, or emotional energy and process it all to form an almost psychic understanding of what's really going on.

🍁If you're in trouble or need support, a Pisces placement is often the first to offer a listening ear, a hug, or to jump in and offer help,,no questions asked. But their compassion can also lead them into situations where they’re putting others needs ahead of their own, sometimes to their own detriment.

🍁When there’s tension in a group, Libra Moons step up to resolve it. They’ll likely step in to calm things down, offer balanced perspectives, and try to make sure everyone feels like they’ve been heard. They’re basically the emotional diplomat, always trying to create balance and keep things peaceful.

🍁Sagittarius placements can be hilariously blunt. They don’t really have a filter when it comes to speaking their mind, if they think something, they’re probably going to say it, often without realizing it might come across as tactless. They’re not trying to be rude, they’re just being totally honest... sometimes too honest.

🍁Cancer Moons are fiercely protective of their loved ones. They’ll go to great lengths to shield their friends and family from pain or hurt. However, this protective instinct can sometimes be a bit overbearing,they might try to “fix” things for people or even shield them from tough situations that could help them grow. It’s all coming from a place of love, but it can get a little intense.

🍁Leo placements are competitive, but not in the way that they need to be the best at everything. Instead, they love a good challenge that lets them prove their worth. Whether it’s competing for a promotion, taking on a difficult task, or even just playing a game with friends, they’re motivated by the idea of showing their strength and skills.

🍁Virgo Mercury people might come across as critical or even judgmental at times, but they usually don’t mean it in a mean-spirited way. They just have high standards for themselves and others, and they want to help people improve. If they point out flaws, it's often because they genuinely believe there’s a better way to do things and want to assist others in getting there.

🍁8th house synastry can sometimes bring about unusual dream connections. One partner might dream about the other person frequently or have vivid, symbolic dreams that feel linked to the relationship. In some cases, both people may have similar dreams about transformation, death, or intense experiences, which can deepen their spiritual connection and add an element of mystery.

🍁There’s often a sense that the relationship is a bit out of control or “not of this world” when it comes to 12th house synastry. It might feel as though you’ve surrendered your will to a higher force, like destiny or fate is pulling you two together. There’s a sense that things aren’t entirely in your hands, which can be both liberating and unnerving at the same time. The relationship’s direction might unfold in unexpected ways that feel "meant to be," even if you don’t fully understand why.

🍁Scorpio Suns are fiercely protective of those they love, but it’s rarely loud or flashy. They won’t necessarily step in front of you to physically fight someone (unless the situation absolutely calls for it), but they’ll have your back in ways that are intense but subtle. They may not say they’re protecting you, but they’ll silently sabotage anything that tries to hurt you or undermine your happiness. You might not even notice until later, when you realize something just magically worked out in your favor.

~See you next time pookies ✨

-PIKO 💗

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ravens-bird · 20 hours ago

Text

"You really want to test me right now?" - Zayne.

Pairing: Zayne x F!Reader/MC

Tags: Boyfriend Zayne, uh not-quite-smut smut, oral F!receiving, kissing, fingering, thought of adding semi-exhibitionism, but i have no brain juice left - it's literally 3am. "Love" used as nickname

wc: 1.5k.

Note: Y'all... Guess who just had a dream and decided to write this right after 😮‍💨 Definitely not proofread 🦦 (I don't know what happened, the post got fucked zo repost)

You arrive at Akso Hospital and make your way to the receptionist’s desk, finding Yvonne sorting through paperwork.

"Hey, Yvonne. Busy day?"

She sighs, rubbing her temples—a rare display of exhaustion. You quirk a brow.

"You have no idea," she mutters. "Between the long shifts and this mountain of paperwork, I could use a vacation."

You chuckle. "I bet. Speaking of rounds, do you know where Zayne is?"

"In his office. He just finished up his last patient visit, so he should be resting right now." Then, with a knowing glint in her eyes, she adds, "But he mentioned clocking out early today. I wonder why…"

A playful smirk tugs at your lips. "I might have an idea."

She grins. "Go on, then. Before something else comes up."

You thank her, and make your way up to his office, your heart picking up speed at the thought of finally seeing him after so long.

It had been two weeks since you’d last seen Zayne—his business trip to Mt. Eternal with Dr. Noah had kept him away, and by the time he returned last night, you were already gone on a last-minute mission. This morning, he’d left for work before you even got home, and seeing him had been the only thing on your mind the whole day.

Naturally, the first thing you did after getting off work was come find him.

Stepping inside, your eyes land on him immediately.

Zayne is seated on the couch, his coat and glasses set aside, tie loosened as he leans back with his head resting against the cushions. Was he asleep?

You hesitate for a moment before softly calling his name.

He stirs, blinking up at you in surprise. That’s all the confirmation you need. In a heartbeat, you close the distance, launching yourself onto him before he can even stand.

Zayne grunts at the impact but recovers quickly, wrapping his arms around you as you settle into his lap. "You could’ve just said hello, you know."

You nuzzle into his neck, inhaling the faint, yet familiar scent of his cologne. "Where’s the fun in that? Besides, I missed you."

His hands settle at your waist, fingers squeezing gently. "I missed you too." His voice is softer now, more intimate. Then, amusement flickers in his eyes. "You’re awfully energetic for someone who spent the night hunting down wanderers."

You groan against his skin. "I should just kidnap you for the weekend."

He chuckles, the sound low and warm. "Oh? And do what with me, exactly?"

You pull back slightly, to playfully glare at him. Before you can speak, he lightly presses the back of your neck to bring you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips.

“How was your day?” he asks, kneading the back of your neck gently and you melt into his touch, instantly distracted.

“Tiring, but it wasn’t as serious as Tara had made it sound,” you sigh. While the clean-up itself had been a walk in the park, the travelling had been tedious, even with the faster and advanced motorcycles from the Association.

His eyes were bright, and he was looking at you so warmly that you couldn't help but beam at him.

"Yvonne said you were clocking out early." Your fingers find the loose knot of his tie, tugging playfully. "Any particular reason?"

His gaze dips to your lips before he clears his throat. "I figured we deserved a night in."

"Mmm." You hum, letting your hand drift from his tie to his chest, feeling the steady pulse beneath your fingertips. "You’ve been gone so long, Zayne. Do you know how hard it was to sleep alone?"

His jaw tenses slightly, but instead of addressing the obvious implication in your words, he exhales slowly, as if willing himself to stay composed. "We have chamomile tea at home. Studies show it can improve sleep quality with its mild sedative effects when taken before bed."

You blink up at him. Then a slow, sly smile spreads across your lips. "Chamomile tea?" Your fingers graze the fabric of his shirt, trailing lower. "Right, but that wouldn’t help."

His brows knit slightly. "The white noise machine in the bedroom has a setting that mimics rainfall—"

"Not the same as having you next to me."

Your voice is softer this time, but there’s no mistaking the way your fingers press against his chest, the way your body leans into his just enough to make your point.

His grip tightens slightly. "We are still at the hospital," he reminds you, though his voice lacks its usual firmness. "And you're making this difficult."

You smirk, tugging the tie loose until it comes off. "Am I?" You shift just enough for him to feel the friction, watching as his breath catches. "I’m not even doing anything."

The first button of his shirt comes undone beneath your touch, your nails grazing his collarbone.

His hand snaps up suddenly, fingers wrapping around your wrist—not rough, but firm enough to make your breath hitch.

"You really want to test me right now?" His voice is a quiet warning, laced with something dangerous.

Your pulse spikes.

"What if I say yes?"

For a moment, he just watches you, tension coiling between you like a drawn bowstring. Then, Zayne exhales slowly, the warmth of his breath brushing against your skin before he tilts his head, capturing your lips in a kiss that steals your breath.

There’s nothing hesitant or soft about it this time.

A small gasp escapes you, and he swallows it greedily, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, pressing you flush against him.

"You’re doing this on purpose," he murmurs, his voice rough with restraint.

You don’t deny it.

When he finally pulls away, you barely have a moment to catch your breath before he shifts beneath you, his hand trailing up your thigh and to your heat, rubbing you through the thin material of your pants.

"Zayne—" your voice hitches as his fingers press more firmly.

"Yes, love?" His tone is teasing, though his own breath is slightly uneven.

"What happened to being at the hospital?"

"You talk too much."

Before you could retort, he moves again, picking you up with startling ease and changing your positions until you're the one beneath him, pressed into the cushions. The feel of his weight against you, the press of his hips, and his growing arousal, makes your stomach flip in anticipation.

His fingers make quick work of the button of your pants after undoing your belt, pushing them down just enough before his hand dips between your thighs, his touch firm and teasing.

You suck in a sharp breath, hips jerking against his palm as he rubs you through your underwear. He watches you closely, his pupils blown wide with desire. His fingers slip beneath the last barrier of fabric. The sensation makes you whimper.

"So impatient," he speaks in a low voice, his voice a rough whisper as he presses down just right, making you arch into him.

"Zayne—"

He silences you with a heated kiss, swallowing every sound you make as he finger-fucks you. His free hand grips your hip, keeping you pinned as he builds a slow, torturous rhythm, his breath hot against your lips.

"Is this what you wanted?" His silken murmur makes you want to clench your thighs together, but he holds you in place, lips trailing down your throat. "Say it."

You barely manage to gasp out a needy "yes" before he rewards you with a deep stroke that has you trembling beneath him. His chuckle is dark, satisfied, as he continues his slow, deliberate pace, drawing every reaction from you with precise, practiced movements.

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, nails digging in as the tension coils tight within you. You clench around his fingers, feeling the start of a wave of euphoria when he pulls his hand away, and a desperate, needy noise escapes you.

“Be patient,” he chastises, and you resist the urge to swear when he slides your pants down further, his fingers trail teasingly against your bare skin before he shifts downward, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh.

A strangled moan escapes your lips as his mouth finds you, his tongue stroking in slow, deliberate patterns that have your fingers twisting in his hair, your thighs trembling around him.

Zayne works you open with his mouth and fingers, his name falling from your lips in breathless gasps as he devours you with unrelenting focus.

“That’s it, love.” The roughness of his voice was so damn sexy. “Be a good girl, and come for me.”

That finally did it.

When you finally shatter, he groans against you, holding you in place as you ride out the waves of pleasure.

As you pant, still trembling, he wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes locked onto you with something dangerously intent.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s already reaching for his belt, a wicked smirk playing at his lips. "We’re not done yet, love. You started this."

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kedreeva · 5 hours ago

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Except it only says it "leaves" doors open. Maybe it doesn't close them, but it also doesn't state that the spider is the one that opens the doors in the first place. Additionally, the fact that it only eats left-out food, and not the food in your fridge or cupboards, suggests it cannot open those doors to get the food, and therefore is unlikely to be able to open any closed door. Considering it is capable of teleportation, it may not need to open doors, it may just need open space enough to teleport to a space (thus excluding cabinets/fridges if they're full of stuff). Not being able to trap it means not being able to close it into a room, so it either opens doors (which is unlikely if it can't open cupboard doors to eat any food) or is capable of teleporting through them, or else you could just close it into a room.

My bigger concern is does it ONLY eat left out food? What does "left out" mean?Do I have to actually feed it (I have to leave food out for it) or does it just happen to gobble up anything not put away that's sitting on on counters or floors (like groceries I didn't immediately put away)?

We know that it can't harm ME- but can it harm guests? Can it harm other pets? If you can teach it to hunt vermin, does that mean it can hunt your pet cat, your small dog, your baby? Could an exterminator hurt it (not that I would want this- but if I DON'T take the house, will someone else move in that will call an exterminator and kill the giant teleporting, snack-eating spider? would I be responsible for this if I pass on the house)? or is it a read-only creature for everyone?

In fact, the idea that you cannot move it outside without it teleporting back into the house suggests the possibility that it CANNOT leave the house; maybe you are supposed to help it escape whatever has cursed it to live there.

i love seeing posts made by arachnophobes that are like this bc it's just. there are literally 0 downsides to this situation. i get to live in my dream house AND have a big fluffy beast as a pet. this is fucking awesome.

#spiders #twitter #fun discussion!!#If it could hurt my other pets I couldn't responsibly move in #but if it's read-only for everyone I'm in #it's basically just a cat with eight legs

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bosbas · 3 days ago

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Chapter 5: they said the end is coming, everyone’s up to something

series masterlist previous part || next part

pairing: anthony bridgerton x fem!daphne's best friend!reader WC: 3.1k words

Warnings: period-typical gender roles, idiots in love, mentions of a broken bone, mentions of death (but no death), alluding to sex, things are HAPPENING

Summary: At her wit's end after Anthony's multiple attempts to scare away her suitors, Daphne employs her best friend's help to keep her brother distracted while she tries to find a husband. It's a foolproof plan, except it ends up working a little too well. (or, a Bridgerton version of The Taming of the Shrew/10 things I hate about you)

July 7, 1812 - Anthony felt the breath knocked out of him as he landed on his hand, pain rippling through his arm and toward his shoulder like a hot iron rod branding his skin. A low groan escaped his lips once he got his breath back, and he bit his lip to keep from screaming from the pain as he cradled his injured hand.

Looking up to see the horse that had just thrown him off its saddle, Anthony screwed his face into the most venomous glare he could given the state he was in. Now, the question remained: how on Earth was he supposed to get home?

Anthony had been on his morning ride when his horse encountered a small frog, smaller than his pocketwatch. But alas, its size did not matter. The Bridgerton’s horse had been far too frightened to continue through the usual route. Instead, it decided to launch Anthony off its saddle and run around in circles until the frog hopped away, no doubt more terrified than the horse.

With not much else he could do, Anthony held his injured arm close to his chest and roughly grabbed his horse’s reins, starting his return to the Bridgerton residence. Damn his proclivity for taking rides in more secluded areas!

With every step he took, Anthony clenched his jaw, the pain overtaking him entirely. Surely he’d broken a bone, he thought. Mighty inconvenient time for it to happen, too, since he was now courting someone. Could he even dance with you with a broken hand? He wasn’t quite sure. But he’d like to try, at the very least.

As his thoughts drifted to you, much like they tended to as of late, he found himself thinking a bit more deeply about what his injury truly meant. By all accounts, Anthony was lucky he’d only broken his hand. Had his horse been more erratic, he could have ended up with a broken rib. Or worse, crushed under its strong and punishing hooves.

At that thought, the breath was stolen from Anthony’s lungs once again. He very well and truly could have ended up dead because of an activity as mundane as a morning horse ride.

And where would that leave you? Surely you would find another suitable man to court you, as much as the thought made his blood boil. But if this incident were to happen in the future, once you two were married, what then? What if you already had children, and he left them behind as well, much like his father had?

Anthony’s mind was in complete turmoil, his wounded hand now the least of his worries. How could he have let himself fall for you?

The Bridgerton let out a strangled scream and kicked the grass beneath him, thankful it was still too early for anyone to be milling about. He couldn’t let this go on. This courtship with you could only end in pain. Even if you did agree to marry him, how long would it be until you had to experience the same loss his mother had? Anthony couldn’t let it go on.

And so, as Anthony walked into his home, gasping for breath and begging for a medic, he decided that he had to let you go. It was the kindest thing he could do for you. He made up his mind to talk to you that very night at your ball.

He cursed himself for getting feelings involved in a courtship in the first place, but there was not much that could be done in that regard.

With his mind made up, he chose to focus on his fractured hand rather than his broken heart, finding that pain much easier to deal with.

---

Daphne squealed as soon as she saw you, immediately leaving her family to go talk to you.

“The ballroom looks beautiful,” she complimented, amazed at how vibrant your home looked when it wasn’t just you and your father.

“I know, it’s the same every year and I can still barely believe it,” you responded looking around at the guests dancing and laughing.

It was the one night every year you got to actually enjoy being at home, and nothing was going to ruin your mood. Your ballroom felt alive for the first time in twelve months and you weren’t about to waste the evening.

“Is Anthony here?” you inquired, looking around for any sign of the man.

“Yes, by the refreshments I’m sure. He’s been acting oddly all day, though. I have no idea what the matter is with him but maybe you can fix it.”

You laughed nervously. “I’m sure nothing I do will make a difference. This isn’t even a real courtship!” you reminded her, though you didn't like the way the words felt coming out of your mouth.

Clearing your throat, you rushed to change the subject. “What is your intention with Mr. Norwood tonight? Will he be in attendance?”

Now it was Daphne’s turn to look uncomfortable. Shifting from side to side, her eyes scanned the ballroom.

“He will be in attendance, yes. I’m not quite sure about what will happen, but I know I must speak with him. Could you keep Anthony busy while we talk?”

“Of course,” you assured her, secretly excited to have an excuse to spend all night next to her brother.

An hour later, Daphne had finally found Phillip, and you took that as your cue to seek out Anthony.

Crossing the ballroom to where he was standing, you tapped him on the shoulder as he spoke with his mother. Turning to look at you beside him and sporting a huge grin, Anthony leaned down to kiss your hand.

“It’s lovely to see you this evening,” he said, his hand still holding yours gingerly. “Your home looks beautiful.”

You gasped when you looked down and saw his bandages. “What happened? Are you alright?” you asked, concern evident in your voice.

Anthony looked down, almost as if he’d forgotten he’d broken three bones, and suddenly became very still.

“Ah, just an incident during my morning ride. Nothing too serious,” he smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Do you have a moment to speak?” he asked, frowning slightly.

“Um, yes, of course,” you responded. You were slightly confused at his change in mood but were quickly drawn out of your thoughts when you saw Daphne and Mr Norwood having a heated conversation. You weren’t quite sure what was being said, but you knew Anthony would be fuming if he caught wind of it.

“We can go to the gardens,” you suggested, leading the eldest Bridgerton brother away from his sister.

“Is that Norwood talking to my sister?” questioned Anthony, the pair catching his eyes as he traveled across the ballroom.

“Is it?” you feigned ignorance, gripping Anthony’s healthy hand tighter and speeding up.

As you stepped out of the densely packed ballroom and into the cool night air, you tripped over your feet and yelped as you saw the ground quickly approaching you.

Anthony, as attuned to you as ever, reached out to grab you with his injured hand and prevented an unfortunate fall onto your paved outdoor pavilion. Immediately, he hissed in discomfort, feeling his entire arm throb as he finished steadying you.

You gasped, horrified at how much pain the Bridgerton seemed to be in. “Are you sure it’s nothing serious? Anthony, what happened?” you scolded, fear evident in your voice as you led him away from the windows facing the ballroom.

Clearly, he had downplayed the gravity of his injury, and you cradled his hand in yours as you searched his eyes.

“I only broke three bones,” he tried to reassure you, though he failed miserably.

“Three bones?” you screeched, drawing the attention of the other partygoers milling about the gardens. “Anthony, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, staring at the white bandages that covered his fingers.

You felt an unfamiliar panic rising in you. The thought that Anthony had been in any pain at all was devastating to you, and you couldn’t help the worry you felt when you looked at his gritted teeth and tightly closed eyes.

“A-Anthony? Can I do anything?” you asked softly, tears forming in your eyes.

You tried to calm yourself down. It wasn’t like Anthony was in any sort of mortal danger. He was at a ball, after all! He wouldn't have come if he was truly unwell. Why had seeing him injured set you off so much? You’d never been one to be so skittish, so why now?

Your mind stilled for a moment.

Heavens, you were in love with him.

A small gasp escaped your lips at the realization, your hand dropping his immediately.

It wasn’t a game anymore, you thought, panicked. This was real. Your feelings were real.

God, how could you have been so stupid as to fall in love with him? And how had it taken you until now to realize?

Did this mean you had to end things with him?

Now you were really crying. Maybe it was the right thing to do, then. To let him go if you really felt this way.

A small sob escaped your lips.

“Oh, Anthony,” you cried, trying desperately to wipe away the barrage of tears coming down your cheeks.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, completely focused on you now that the pain in his hand had subsided. “Y/N, what’s the matter?” he asked again, growing properly worried now.

But you were too distraught by the thought of losing him to respond. You tried to form a coherent sentence but could only manage a few choked sobs at a time.

Anthony placed his uninjured hand on your cheek, turning your face toward him.

“I’m right here,” he reassured, knowing that having him near you always seemed to calm you down.

Taking a few deep breaths, you managed to control yourself a bit better and sniffed sadly.

“I just don’t want this to end,” you said, your voice breaking.

Anthony’s breath caught in his throat. Had you somehow found out he was going to end things with you? He had no idea how you would have, but he blinked uncomfortably nonetheless.

Mistaking Anthony’s hesitation for confusion, you clarified, “Us. I don’t want us to end.”

Ah, damn everything. He was completely powerless when it came to you.

“I don’t see why it has to,” he responded, breathlessly leaning down to kiss you on the forehead.

He was too far gone to think clearly, and the thought of marrying you seemed awfully attractive at the moment. The kiss on your forehead turned into a kiss on your temple, then your cheek.

And finally, with a shaky breath, he closed his eyes, leaning down to kiss your lips.

The feeling of his soft lips encasing yours was completely indescribable, and your brain completely shut down any and all thoughts that did not include kissing this man back. You stood on your tiptoes, wanting to be closer to him as you felt his tongue poking into your mouth.

Gasping for breath, Anthony broke the kiss and looked down at you with a wild look in his eyes. Never in his entire life had he done something so rash, including during his numerous years as a rake. But you were simply too irresistible. He couldn’t help it; he wanted you more than he had ever wanted anything else.

Remembering where you were, you gasped softly, looking around to see if anyone in the garden had seen what had just transpired. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, and reassured by the fact that no one inside the ballroom could see you, you reached out to Anthony, who was already leaning in to kiss you again.

“Anthony,” you scolded softly, laughing at how eager he was. Then, lowering your voice to a whisper, you said, “We must find somewhere else to continue this conversation. We can access the library through the garden around this corner.”

“Best conversation I’ve ever had,” murmured Anthony sarcastically, allowing himself to be led to your family library while ensuring no one was looking your way.

Once you were inside the library, you shut the doors leading to the garden and locked them, not wanting to risk being found alone with a man while you were yet unmarried.

As soon as you turned around, you felt your back hitting the doors behind you and Anthony’s body pressed against you, kisses raining down on your face.

You giggled, having far too much fun than what was appropriate for a lady in your place in society. You grabbed Anthony’s head in both hands and guided his lips to yours once again, needing the connection to him more than you needed air.

As you continued kissing, you both grew more desperate. An unfamiliar warmth was spreading through you, and you could do nothing but whimper as Anthony’s hands roamed your torso.

He groaned in restraint, breaking your kiss once again.

“Do you want to do this?” he asked you, leaning down to kiss your neck.

Breathlessly, you responded, “Well, I’m not quite sure what ‘this’ is…” You had never received any sort of talking to from your father about the marriage night, if that’s what Anthony was referring to. Your knowledge was based only on the whispers that you had heard while eavesdropping on your housemaids.

Anthony laughed richly, completely enamored by you. “Of course, you don't,” he smiled down at you. “Why don’t I start by demonstrating and you tell me if you want me to keep going,” he said seductively, his voice dripping with desire.

You could only nod in excited agreement, amazed that you were finally seeing Anthony’s rakish side.

---

You awoke early the next morning to a soft kiss on your cheek.

You opened your eyes and found yourself on the floor of your library, covered only by the blanket that was stationed on the couch for when you spent nights reading into the early hours of the morning. Anthony was next to you, looking at you and trying to take in every detail possible.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, mostly to himself as his eyes roamed your figure.

You felt your face growing hot at the compliment and buried your face in his chest. He laughed and hugged you close to him, careful to keep his injured hand protected.

“I must go now before anyone suspects anything,” Anthony said, checking his pocket watch. It was still five in the morning, far before anyone in his household or yours would be awake let alone notice anything amiss, but he wanted to take no chances.

“I shall call on you later today, of course,” he assured you, starting to get dressed while still doing his best to maintain any sort of physical contact with you.

Interlocking your fingers with his, which were at the present moment located on your hip, you nodded and bit your lip, enjoying the show.

“I’ll be waiting,” you promised, sitting up to plant a tender kiss on his cheek.

He did you one better and pecked you on the lips, elated at this newfound way of interacting with you.

“I’ll ask your father for your hand tonight,” he said decidedly, already excited at the prospect of a future with you. “And perhaps we’ll ask for an expedited marriage license because I don’t know how much longer I can keep myself from you again.”

You could only giggle in excitement, not quite believing that the man in front of you would soon be your husband.

“Check on Daphne for me,” you requested, remembering how agitated your friend looked last night. “And I’ll see you this afternoon.”

Leaning down to kiss you goodbye, Anthony smiled warmly at you. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”

---

Anthony had no idea how he’d managed to remain calm for the rest of the morning. He had gone home and slept for a few more hours, then went downstairs to greet his mother and assure her that he had left your ball early because his hand was being quite bothersome.

Then, he’d spent the rest of his time trying to make himself look presentable for your father, needing him to approve if he was to ask him for your hand in marriage.

Anthony had never been in this position before, and as much as it caused him a great deal of stress, he was elated and nothing really could have soured his mood.

Finally satisfied with his appearance, Anthony headed downstairs to go to your home once again. On his way out, he passed by the tea room where he found Daphne. And, remembering your request from this morning, he greeted her warmly.

“Hello, Daph,” he said cheerfully, but the sob his sister let out stopped him in his tracks. “What’s happened?” he asked, seamlessly shifting into Daphne’s protective older brother.

“Mr Norwood,” cried Daphne. “He said my dowry wouldn’t be enough to cover the cost of a new home, and that he doesn’t want to marry me anymore,” she explained between fitful sobs.

“He what?” asked Anthony, appalled at this common man’s lack of decorum. “What a complete bastard,” he swore, waving away Daphne’s shocked look at his colorful language. “Had he expressed interest in marrying you before?”

Daphne nodded tearfully. “He said he loved me,” she sniffled, already knowing how silly and naive she sounded.

Anthony narrowed his eyes. “You see, that’s why I didn’t let you out of my sight your first season. You really can’t be trusted to make this decision, Daphne. Of course he only wanted you for your dowry! He is an untitled bachelor with no fortune to his name, are you thick?”

“Am I thick? Are you really asking me that?” yelled Daphne, fuming at her brother’s response to her despair.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking you,” responded Anthony sharply, in disbelief that someone could do this to his sister. “This is why I should be the one making this decision, or at least vetting your candidates,” he muttered, a bit louder than he’d intended to.

Daphne scoffed, furious at Anthony’s condescension. “Oh, you think you know better than me?” she taunted. “Then how come you haven’t figured out that the only reason Y/N is interested in you is because I asked her to fake it so I could get a chance to talk to some gentlemen without you meddling,” she spit out, her tone venomous.

Anthony froze. With a voice that was calm but deadly, he asked, “I beg your pardon?”

—

previous part || next part || buy me a ko-fi!

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darkmatilda · 1 day ago

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𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: two years ago, completely by accident, you helped catch a serial killer. now, as mysterious events start to pile up around you, you begin to suspect that someone is after you, seeking revenge. terrified, you're willing to do anything to save yourself—even if it means reaching out to your ex, who wants nothing more to do with you.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐭𝐰: [these warnings only apply to part 2!] spencer reid x criminal(thief)female!reader, stalking, mention of dismembered bodies, serial killer targeting women, mention of abduction, reader kinda joking about killing an old man (i have no idea how to phrase it differently)

𝐚/𝐧: hi, my loves!! thank you for the feedback on the previous part, and as always, thank you to my dear friends from the server 👀 today especially @nachrosas who appears as one of the characters

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 7.3k

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

You were a bit embarrassed to admit it to yourself, but you didn’t leave your hiding spot until Spencer arrived.

It took him about forty minutes, though it felt like no time at all. In the dark, small closet, time moved differently. The human heart beats 60 to 80 times per minute—yours, however, was more than double that, which probably affected your sense of time.

You recognized his footsteps as he approached, and soon the door opened. For a brief moment, you two stared at each other in silence. He was wearing dark clothes again, with a burgundy shirt peeking out from under his jacket. His eyes no longer held the animosity they did the last time you saw each other. It seemed like everything that was happening had him so preoccupied that he'd forgotten, even if just for a moment, that he wasn’t supposed to like you.

"Hey," you managed to say, your brain only able to form this one word.

Spencer blinked at the casual greeting.

"Are you okay?" he asked, still holding the closet door open. He looked at you more closely, noting your slightly bent knees and expressionless face. Only then did he move with some hesitation, unsure of how to act, before offering his hand to you.

You reached for it, only catching the tips of his fingers. Still, you could feel the strong, steady grip. He helped you out of the closet as if you were a princess needing support to exit a carriage.

He released you immediately when your feet touched the floor, pressing his hand firmly to his body.

“What’s going on? Is… is this your apartment?” he asked, glancing around the room with confusion. “What were you doing in…”

“This is Rebekah’s apartment,” you cut him off, taking two steps forward to shake out your still shaky legs, and at the same time, to distance yourself from him. The bedroom was too small for a full walk, so you circled around, stopping at the edge of the bed. Your head was still spinning from the fear, but you forced yourself to straighten your back. You didn’t want him to think you were just paranoid again. You needed to appear confident about what you’d seen and what you’d been through.

“Rebekah…” he repeated the name aloud, thinking. You hadn’t expected him to immediately recognize who she was, but he added, “The woman you saved that time.”

“Right. Your memory,” you muttered, taking a deep breath. Your gaze landed on the empty bed, and the words Robert Miller escaped from prison echoed in your head. You quickly turned to Spencer, urgency in your eyes. “He was here. I came to check on Rebekah; I hadn’t heard from her for a few days. No one answered, so I came inside…and then he followed me…”

You stopped mid-sentence when you saw his expression. You had expected fear—not...disbelief.

“You called me, saying he escaped!” you shouted, crossing your arms angrily. “Do you have a reason to think I’m lying, or are you just doing this for the sake of it…”

“I’m not saying you’re lying,” he interrupted firmly, mirroring your tense posture. “I know you’re shaken up, and I know it really happened. The thing is, it couldn’t have been Robert Miller. The escape news reached us immediately. He wouldn’t have had time to get here, and how would he even know where she lives?”

First, you opened your mouth, about to say something, but then quickly pressed your lips together. Who else could it have been? At first, you thought it was just your perception, but then the memory of the scent that filled your nostrils as the man entered the room came back to you. You couldn’t shake the thought that it was him. Of course, you weren’t about to say that to Spencer—he already thought you were paranoid.

Maybe it was one of her friends? But then, damn it, why would he visit her when she wasn’t here? You lowered your head, trying to clear your thoughts and focus. You needed to figure out what had happened to Rebekah, first and foremost.

With that in mind, you bypassed Spencer and made your way to the kitchen.

“There’s something else you need to know…” he started, trailing behind you as if you were keeping him on a leash. You didn’t even turn at his words, heading straight for the fridge, bending down to peer inside. “Wait, are you seriously going to eat now?”

You pulled a bottle of milk out of the fridge, but before checking the expiration date, you shot him a look full of disdain. He crossed his arms defensively.

“Yeah, I’m starving. You want something?” you muttered, going back to what you were doing. “I’m trying to figure out when she was last here based on expired food. Instead of standing there like a statue, how about you help me out, Mr. FBI?”

He clearly had no response, so he cleared his throat and ventured further into the kitchen, carefully scanning it for any clues.

“I didn’t know we switched roles,” he added after a moment.

You shrugged.

“I’ve always thought detective work isn’t that hard. Just have to be observant”

Spencer snorted.

“Well, in that case, maybe you’ll take a look at a certain case for me. The guy was called Zodiac. Ring any bells?”

You could have easily come up with at least five sarcastic replies, but there was something more pressing on your mind than winning this verbal battle.

"Some of the stuff in this fridge is already expired, or about to be," you remarked, taking one last glance at the shelves. "If she’s missing, it was recently. Maybe...maybe today. And the person who did this came back to erase potential evidence. When I got here, the light was on. They must’ve turned it off. What do you think?"

He stood still, facing away from you, his back to the kitchen counter. He didn’t answer. You took a small step to the side, and that’s when you saw what he was holding.

"I don’t think they were here to erase evidence," he replied in an unreadable tone, a trace of tension in his voice. Only then did he turn toward you, holding up a piece of paper. "I think whoever it was, came here after you. They were following you. They wanted you to find this."

The piece of paper had a simple message written in bold black marker.

POLICE = SHE DIES.

For a moment, you stared at the words, frozen. You took the paper from him, light as a feather, yet somehow it felt as heavy as an adult elephant in your hands. Your arm dropped limply to your side.

"Now do you believe me that all of this is connected?" you asked, a hint of dark triumph in your voice. Spencer kept his jaw clenched. "The last murder? The faucet in my kitchen? Miller's escape, and now this?" you trailed off, struggling to swallow. "He's after me."

He stared at you silently, bracing himself with one hand on the edge of the counter. You tilted your head, unsure of what to make of the prolonged look he was giving you.

"You were right from the beginning," he said finally, the words clearly coming with difficulty. Before you could scoff at the obviousness of the statement, he added, "After you came to me, I took another look at the last murder. It turns out... we missed something important."

Normally, you would have thrown in some sarcastic comment about the FBI's incompetence or asked where your taxes were going. But you were too focused on his words, too eager to hear what he was about to reveal.

"One of the victims had, still attached, a piece of the rope they were tied with," he continued. "Paracord. A type of line used in sailing. All the other thirteen victims of Miller were tied with it. We never released that information to the public. We kept it under wraps in case someone tried to take credit for it. So...it couldn't have been a copycat."

This time, you were the one at a loss for words—or rather, the ability to string them together properly. You exhaled heavily, crushing the paper in your hand. The full weight of Rebekah’s situation had just hit you. She was being forced to endure all of this again. The note suggested she might still be alive. But even if you managed to save her—again—would she be able to piece herself back together after this trauma, again?

Despite the grim thought, one thing was clear: you had to do everything in your power to help her.

“You’re not telling anyone about this,” you snapped sharply, pointing at Spencer with the hand still clutching the crumpled note.

“I’m not telling anyone,” he agreed with a slight nod. “Except my team.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off.

“Listen, every serial killer demands not to involve the police. And do you know what you’re supposed to do in that situation? Involve the police. We’ll handle this—”

“And I’m handling it with you,” you finished firmly.

This time, he looked like he wanted to argue.

“It’s inevitable,” you added before he could say a word. “He’s targeting me, so I’m involved no matter what. Instead of wasting time trying to convince me otherwise, let’s get to work. What do you think about all this? Miller had a partner the entire time, didn’t he?”

Despite your mixed feelings toward him, you couldn’t deny his knowledge and experience—things essential for tackling this case, things you personally didn’t have. Not that you hid the fact that your understanding of crimes went beyond that of the average person. Spencer placed his hands on his hips, shaking his head slightly.

“Seems that way,” he replied, adopting that deeply calculating expression, the one where most emotions vanished from his face.

You tried to reconcile that look with a softer one—like the way he’d looked when the two of you used to lie in bed in the morning, talking excitedly about something. But you couldn’t. That memory had already faded, blurred, replaced by an indistinct haze. You weren’t sure if you felt any regret about it. Maybe you shouldn’t think about it at all.

“At the time, we were certain these were crimes committed by just one unsub,” he continued, his voice steady. “And I’d still hold to that theory if it weren’t for…all of this.”

Something uncertain sparked in your mind.

“What if he didn’t commit those murders? Sure, Rebekah was found in his house, but…”

“He confessed,” Spencer interrupted, his tone leaving little room for debate.

“Yes, but—”

“The polygraph confirmed his statement too,” he cut in again. Then, after a brief pause, he admitted, “Okay, I know that’s not exactly reliable evidence. But after all the time I spent interrogating him…studying his body language, his facial expressions, comparing it to the profile… he is The Waterside Butcher. Or at least…” his voice dropped slightly, “he believes he is.”

You listened to him only partially, your gaze wandering painfully around Rebekah’s empty apartment as you tried not to imagine what she might be going through or feeling right now. And, above all, you tried not to let yourself worry about your own safety.

“So, an accomplice,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Someone we know nothing about. But if they teamed up for something like this, they must’ve meant a lot to each other, don’t you think? I mean, they must’ve known each other back then.”

Spencer gave a small nod—so small it barely felt like agreement.

“It’s possible. And since we don’t have anything else to go on, we should start there. Go back through Miller’s life. I should be able to access all the case files related to him without any trouble. And update my team about all of this”

The silence between you stretched, tight and uncomfortable. It took you a moment to realize his words meant you should leave and get to work. Still, you felt glued to the floor of the apartment, as though moving would make everything more real. Finally, you sighed and straightened up, forcing a sense of readiness.

“You’ve got my number,” you said, heading toward the door. “Call me when you’ve got the files.” As you flicked the light switch on your way out, the apartment sank back into darkness.

Spencer hesitated on the stairwell, pausing in front of a graffiti drawing on the wall— spray-painted dick. He was blissfully unaware of the masterpiece behind him.

“Be careful,” he said, his tone serious. You couldn’t quite tell if there was genuine concern behind his words.

Maybe a little.

You reached under your jacket, pulling your coat back slightly to reveal the handle of your gun. You kept your movements measured, your face calm—or at least, as calm as you could make it seem. “I’m good,” you replied.

“Still, just…be careful,” he repeated, his brow furrowing slightly. “Actually, you could just leave this to us—”

“So you can miss something important again?” you teased, your voice edged with sarcasm. You’d always been the kind of person who trusted your own instincts over anyone else’s, and right now, you didn’t feel like handing over control. “See you later. And hurry up. No naps on the way.”

Spencer opened his mouth, ready to snap something back, but you were already heading toward the stairs before he could get the words out.

Returning to the apartment was risky, but you had to do it.

Slowly opening the door, accompanied by the shrill barking of your neighbor's poodle, who gave his last, final concert every evening before collapsing on the couch, a strange calm filled you. And it probably wasn’t just because you were holding a gun. It didn’t seem illogical that Miller would show up here right after escaping from prison. If he managed to do that, if he and his accomplice were able to kidnap Rebekah, they must have been following some larger plan.

Soon, you would find out what it was.

Erika's dog kept barking as you double-checked the entire apartment. You were never the type to relax as soon as you entered your place, tossing yourself carelessly onto the couch. You always crossed its threshold warily, especially when you were involved in some major heist or making deals with someone from the darker side of the dark side of everything.

In any case, it was clean.

You shoved the gun behind your belt, hung your jacket on the hook, from which it immediately slid off, but you weren’t planning to worry about it. Instead, you made your way to your bedroom, to the cash album, to take most of it. You didn’t know how long Miller’s search would last or how the situation would unfold—perhaps escape would become necessary...but that would definitely not happen before you found Rebekah. Safe and sound.

You tried not to look at all the photos, from which your faces had been cut out. With a grimace on your lips, you skipped over those pages, jumping to the last one, the one with the money... when a photo fell out of the album, one that didn’t belong to you. At least, you thought it didn’t.

Because yes, there were a few photographs of family members, even ones you hadn’t been in touch with for a long time, who had passed away when you were a child. But this woman… you felt like you had never seen her before. She seemed young, the black-and-white photo with slightly bent corners, her hairstyle and makeup, indicated it must have been taken in another decade.

Slowly, you took it in your hands, analyzing her facial features with a furrowed brow. You might have thought it was just a photo that had been slipped in there, if it weren’t for the fact...that there was something familiar about her.

You stared at that face for a long time before you forced yourself to shut the album. Some time had passed, you had gone to visit Rebekah late in the evening, so it didn’t take long for you to realize it was the middle of the night. With no news from Spencer, you didn’t really know what to do, and it left you with a solid sense of helplessness. Closing your eyes wasn’t an option, so you leaned your hips against the damn expensive shabby chic island with a marble countertop, trying to make yourself some coffee. Many of the furniture pieces in your apartment were old, which made them stand out against the modern kitchen appliances. You hadn’t quite figured out how to work the espresso machine yet, and you were too lazy to, so you always preferred to grab coffee from somewhere in town. You spent an enormous amount of time searching through the cabinets for the user manual (spoiler: you’ll later realize you threw it away and hit your forehead against the counter in frustration) while wondering whether Spencer would ever contact you again.

Maybe he only promised to get back to you to push you away from the investigation, planning to handle it entirely with the help of his team. Maybe he considered you unnecessary in all of this and didn’t think you could help in any way.

Wow, were you really antagonizing your ex in your mind again as a way to kill time?

You missed the moment when Erika’s dog finished its performance.

In any case, you were wrong. Spencer had sent you a message early in the morning, skipping the commas he always diligently used, which suggested he had listened to your advice and hadn’t taken a nap on the way. Once again, with your jacket on your back, you jumped into the front seat of his car.

"I thought this would take you less time," you said with dissatisfaction, looking at his hands on the steering wheel and feeling the familiar scent of his presence. It had been a long time since you last shared such a small space. "You always said the first 24 hours after a disappearance are the most important. We’ve already wasted about a third of that..."

“That’s not a typical missing person case,” he cut in between your words, sounding like a lecturer, allowing himself a brief yawn in the process. There was always that little purple ring around his dark eyes that disappeared during vacations or work breaks, when you’d spend time together in the laziest possible ways. "It’s a kidnapping, and the unsub has given us a condition. If, of course, his words hold any value, Rebekah will stay alive as long as you don’t notify the police."

"Which I already did," you muttered.

"My team is quietly searching for her. For now, we need to focus on what we decided earlier. We need to go through Miller’s life again and maybe find a clue about his accomplice. Here are the case files..." Spencer suddenly stopped, holding a thick folder in his hand, slightly extended toward you but still in his grip.

You reached for it, but he pulled it away.

“Jeez, found a moment to play the kid, huh…”

“I just realized you’re not authorized to look at these,” he replied.

“Why not?” you asked, throwing your hands up, accidentally brushing against his shoulder. "Ugh, right, I know. Protecting the privacy of the man who killed thirteen women. Sorry, officer, for wanting to breach his confidentiality and treat him with a lack of respect..."

He handed you the folder without a word. You sent him a triumphant smile.

“I had the point, right? You could admit it out loud."

“That would be dangerous for your ego.”

“You assume that one compliment from you could seriously affect it? Bold.”

Spencer glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, not fully taking his gaze off the road ahead.

"Did you want me to admit you were right or give you a compliment?"

You opened the folder to the first page, immediately confronted with Robert Miller’s face. You barely managed to hide the small twitch in your shoulders. Spencer scrutinized you once more, and you tried to mask your reaction.

“So,” you began, clearing your throat. “We’re heading to his father’s house, the one still alive. Kinda rich guy, huh?”

“I’ll have to keep an eye on your sticky fingers,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible.

“What did you just say?”

He put on the expression of a gentle lamb, almost angelic.

“That we’ll have to talk to him,” he replied with a slight shrug. “As much as his health allows. He was showing signs of dementia two years ago.”

“A rich guy, not fully in control of his mind?” you threw in with a small smirk, deliberately trying to get under his skin. You had heard his first comment. “I’m drooling.”

“Jesus Christ,” he sighed, rolling his eyes.

Silently, you studied the unsub's profile included in the file, refreshing information you already knew. That he and his father shared a passion for water in general, engaging in water sports and setting out onto the lake as often as possible. During one of their boat trips, he had pushed his mother overboard—she hadn’t been wearing a life jacket. Due to his young age, apparent remorse, and his father’s unwavering belief in his innocence, the incident had been ruled an accident.

In reality, it was the beginning of his murderous spree, directed exclusively at women. The first victim—the one who had given him life.

You arrived at a rather large estate, standing out slightly against the otherwise modest neighborhood. A typical American suburb, with an intensely green lawn that looked almost painted on. White walls, a dark roof, and untrimmed bushes hinting at a long-standing lack of effort in maintaining an illusion of perfection.

Spencer rang the doorbell and quickly shoved his hands into the pockets of his black coat. You stood side by side, the wait dragging on. You couldn’t help yourself—you nudged him with your elbow. He glanced at you, slightly surprised.

"When he opens the door, you're gonna do that power move with the badge, aren’t you?" you asked, your tone playful as you tilted your head to look at him.

Spencer chose to ignore the comment, pressing the doorbell again.

"Don’t be shy, I always thought that was kind of attractive," you added, watching in amusement as his expression stiffened ever so slightly.

He leaned in just a bit before speaking.

"And when he doesn’t open the door, you’re gonna pull your little hair pin trick, aren’t you?" he shot back, mimicking your tone—but with the clear intent to get under your skin rather than simply engage.

You snorted.

"You think I’m an amateur? I have actual tools for that..."

Both of you fell silent as the faint sound of movement came from inside. Someone was there, lingering behind the door, watching the two of you from the other side. After a moment of hesitation, the door finally opened to reveal a very young looking girl. A few curls had escaped from the loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, and her delicate face showed little enthusiasm at the sight of you. She was dressed casually—a loose button-up shirt thrown over a dark tank top.

For a brief moment, you struggled to place her. Was there anything in Robert’s file about a (significantly) younger sister?

Spencer introduced himself as FBI, and as he pulled out his badge, he made a very deliberate effort to avoid even accidentally meeting your gaze.

Understanding suddenly dawned on her face, and her lips pressed together slightly.

"You're here because of Robert," she stated rather than asked. "I heard he escaped. Well, I guess everyone in this country has heard by now. I've been careful about opening the door in case he… decided to show up."

There was tension—fear, even—in those last few words.

"And you are…?" you began, trailing off.

"His cousin," she replied in a strange tone, as if introducing herself with some kind of cruel nickname she'd been given in high school. "Rosas. On his mother’s side. I take care of my uncle—he’s not doing too well anymore. You want to talk to him, right?"

"May we?" Spencer asked. There was more behind it.

Will we be able to?

Rosas let you in, leading you to a small bedroom on the ground floor. What had once been a cozy space with gray walls now resembled a hospital room, with a fan positioned right next to the bed where a frail-looking man lay. His face was gaunt, his body thinned by age and illness.

He didn’t look much like Robert—or maybe it was just hard for you to see the resemblance through the years and the sickness.

As you stepped inside, the girl leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest, watching your every move.

“He’s not very responsive,” she warned. “ALS. He can’t even breathe on his own anymore. And his mind’s been going for a while. He says things that don’t make sense, sometimes calls me by different names. I… I don’t know if this conversation will help you at all.”

Spencer moved closer to the bed, his sharp eyes already absorbing every detail of the room. You, on the other hand, needed a closer, more deliberate look. So, without shame, you started pacing, examining the framed photos of sailboats and ocean landscapes that lined the walls. Devoted to his passion until the very end.

You approached the dresser, where a small lighthouse figurine stood.

“That’s very generous of you,” you remarked, not turning around. “Taking care of your sick uncle.”

Rosas hesitated before answering, then scoffed.

“He wrote in his will that his entire estate would go to whoever took care of him in his final days,” she stated, without a hint of remorse.

A small smirk tugged at your lips.

“I see. And I appreciate the honesty,” you said.

Of course, you didn’t judge her. How could you blame a young girl for wanting to secure some money in this economy? In fact, you were almost certain that if you had a dying relative with a fortune up for grabs, you’d do the same.

As you stared at the photo of Robert embracing his father against the backdrop of a boat, Spencer was trying to communicate with Joseph—a task that wasn’t easy, given his condition. The man barely reacted, his eyes drifting somewhere beyond the two of you, as if he were stuck in another time and place.

Rosas decided to help, stepping into the man's field of vision and speaking to him in a voice that suddenly became soft and soothing. In an instant, her nonchalant attitude disappeared, replaced by that of a caring guardian. There was no denying it—he was lucky to have her by his side in his final moments.

“So you think Robert might want to visit his father?” you asked after both of you had seemingly given up and were now just staring at the man in silence, as if waiting for something. “You’re scared.”

“I know what he did to those women. Of course, I’m scared,” she said, her tone suddenly colder. Then she took a deeper breath, as if trying to calm herself down. “I think it’s possible he might show up. He broke out of prison, he probably needs money and…whatever else people who break out of prison need.”

Spencer nodded, confirming her theory.

“Don’t you think he might also want to say goodbye to his father?” he asked.

Rosas hesitated, considering the question.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted after a moment, shaking her head slightly. “My uncle got much worse after Robert was arrested. Especially after he found out that he was the one who killed my aunt. That…hit him harder than the other women.”

“That’s her?” you asked, pointing at the framed photo of a woman by the man’s bedside.

You froze in place as soon as you saw it.

Fuck.

Rosas confirmed it and went on talking with Spencer about her cousin. Two years ago, she hadn’t testified in his case—she was practically a new witness, a fresh perspective. Apparently, their families had never been particularly close.

You watched as Spencer listened intently, nodding with a thoughtful expression. Oddly enough, it filled you with a sense of calm. If he had pulled something important from this conversation, then this wasn’t a waste of time, and maybe—just maybe—you were one step closer to finding Rebekah.

You caught yourself realizing that you still trusted his mind.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the photo on the bedside table, lost in thought, until a sharp gasp yanked you out of your trance.

“Clinton,” Joseph Miller suddenly rasped, his voice hoarse yet somehow…tender? His eyes darted around frantically, taking in his surroundings with desperation, though they remained vacant.

Spencer and Rosas rushed to him, eager to seize this brief moment of lucidity.

“Clinton…Clinton…my poor boy…”

"Mr. Miller, can you hear me?" Spencer asked, his voice firm but gentle.

Silence. The man’s body went still again.

"Who is Clinton?" The words slipped from your lips before you could stop them.

Rosas adjusted the pillow under Miller's head, her movements careful.

"A family friend, you could say," she replied. "Well, I never knew him as a child because he was much older than me, just like Robert. But the Millers sort of took care of him after his parents died."

"Did they adopt him?" Spencer furrowed his brow. "We didn't know about that..."

"No, they didn’t adopt him," she corrected, shaking her head. "I mean... as far as I know, he grew up across the street. He was friends with Robert, and his parents weren't, well... the best. So he spent a lot of time with them. They’d take him on sailing trips, I think they even helped him financially when he went to school. By the time they died, he was already an adult, so there was no need for formal adoption. My uncle always treated him like his own son."

You and Spencer exchanged a glance, both of you frozen for a moment. You were sure your eyes were reflecting the same realization. You'd just found the partner you'd been searching for.

The air seemed to press heavily down on you, and you wiped your tired face with your hand.

"He was here a few days ago," Rosas added after a moment, reluctantly. "I didn’t like it much because... well, anyway, they talked privately for a while. At least, Clinton tried to talk to him."

She didn’t need to finish the sentence for you to understand her unease. The man who, as she said, her uncle treated like a son, suddenly appearing. A potential rival for the inheritance. A cold shiver ran down your spine, and when you glanced at Spencer, his expression mirrored yours. If your theory was correct... Rosas, just a few days ago, had let a serial killer into her home. Or at least his accomplice.

Spencer asked her for a few more details about him. After thanking her, she led you both to the door, but you hesitated for a moment.

"That's a very weak lock," you said, nodding toward the door. "It wouldn't be hard to break in. I’ll send someone to install a better one for you, okay? Since Robert is out there, it’s better not to take any risks. Maybe the police will offer some protection," you added louder so Spencer, walking toward the car, could hear you.

The girl smiled faintly. You couldn’t help it—you felt some sympathy for her. And you were scared for her safety, just as you were scared for Rebekah. And for yourself.

You were about to turn around when something stopped you.

"You know, you could just disconnect him from the respirator," you muttered. It wasn’t that you wanted to suggest it, but you were curious about her reaction, about her real feelings toward her uncle. There was a lot of tenderness in the way she treated him, and you didn’t think it was just for profit. "You’d save him from suffering. And get the inheritance faster."

Rosas stared at you, probably thinking you were joking. She likely thought you were also in the FBI. Then she shook her head, as if in disbelief.

"I don’t think I could," she said softly. "Besides, this job isn’t that bad. I’d rather wait than end up in prison if someone found out."

"Fair point," you agreed, your gaze drifting to the side, where Spencer stood with his hand resting on the car door, listening to your conversation. Curiosity was the first step to hell. You raised your voice just enough to make sure he’d hear. "Although, sometimes all it takes is having a guy in the police, and you can get away with anything." Rosas chuckled, likely understanding what you were doing. "I honestly recommend it."

You waved her off one last time, and she gave you a friendly wave back.

When you got into the car, Spencer was staring at you seriously.

"Did you just suggest that girl kill her uncle?" he asked, his disbelief evident in his voice.

You shrugged. You couldn’t be bothered to explain it.

“I was just making sure she knew all her options.”

“Options...?” he repeated, sounding confused. Then he sighed, shaking his head. “I used to think nothing could surprise me about you, that I knew absolutely everything there was to know about you, and now, here you are, showing up two years later, and...”

He suddenly stopped, his jaw dropping when he saw what you pulled out of your jacket pocket.

“Did you fucking steal this?”

“Wait, let me explain…”

“You stole a dying man’s photo of his dead wife?”

He stared at the frame in your hands.

“I had to, because…” you started, but he cut you off again.

“Let me guess, that frame is probably worth a lot, right? You just couldn’t resist. Honestly, should I start tying your hands every time we go somewhere...?”

You silenced him with your hand, forcing him to close his mouth. You were so close now that you could see his dark eyes widen in surprise. Your next breath was a little shallower for some reason.

“I need to show you something,” you said calmly, almost in a whisper. He was close enough to hear every word, no need to raise your voice. “At my apartment.”

His gaze lingered on your face, then briefly dropped, only to return to your eyes. You removed your hand from his face and, after a moment, pulled away. There was urgency in your tone, a sense of seriousness.

Spencer swallowed, nodding slightly in agreement.

He stared at the two photos. One, slightly damaged, was from your album. The other, framed in an expensive frame. Though they were two different shots, it was undeniable they depicted the same woman.

You watched Spencer closely, noting the expression on his face. His eyes fixed on one point in front of him, his lips pressed tight, his jaw more defined than usual. You both sat on the floor of your bedroom, facing each other, the album spread out between you like a campfire around which campers gather. Without a word, he flipped through the remaining pages of the album, all the photos where your face had been cut out.

He froze when he came across the photo of the two of you in Rome.

He carefully reached for it by the corner, staring at himself, because, well, you were there only from your neck down. Honestly, you were at a loss for words. Here you were, flipping through pictures of your once happy relationship with your ex. The atmosphere wasn’t exactly light, and the spacious bedroom suddenly didn’t feel so spacious anymore.

Suddenly, Spencer cleared his throat, forcing himself to look back at the photos of the woman.

"That's Robert Miller's mother," he said, his voice still hoarse. "In both pictures."

You sat cross-legged, bracing yourself with your hands on either side of your body for better stability. Your head was spinning a little.

"He showed me this photo because..." you trailed off, shaking your head as you searched for an explanation. "I remind him of his mother? The same one he drowned?"

"Maybe..." Spencer began, but suddenly hesitated, falling silent.

"It's okay. You can say it," you encouraged, trying to mask the tension building in your chest.

"Maybe he sees you the same way he saw her," he explained, trying to soften his tone, as if not wanting to scare you. It irritated you a bit; you didn’t want him to treat you like a victim—more like a partner in the investigation. "As a problem that needs to be eliminated."

Your face gave no expression. You already knew this, but hearing it from him made it sound more blunt. You took a breath, a little hastily, trying to maintain a calm demeanor.

"I think it’s been here for a while, I just didn’t notice it," you admitted truthfully. "It definitely didn’t show up yesterday. Which means Robert couldn’t have dropped it off, it must’ve been his accomplice. Probably that Clinton guy."

"We need to find him. Well, both of them, actually."

And save Rebekah, you added in your mind.

You saw Spencer’s gaze drop back to your album, and how he forced himself to look away again. You nodded encouragingly at him.

"Go ahead."

Spencer stared at you for a moment, sitting right across from him, before he slowly reached for the album, immediately skipping to the pages where most of the history of your relationship was captured. Many of the pictures showed just him, like the one where he was lying on the couch with reading glasses perched on his nose, absorbed in a book, while you sat opposite him, nudging his leg clad in pajama pants, forcing him to look at the camera. You told yourself in your mind that he was probably just curious about how he looked back then.

“I didn’t think you’d still have these,” he said, his gaze still on the photo. The corners of his mouth barely twitched, but he looked like he was holding back a smile. Then, finally, he gave in, and a small smile tugged at his lips. It had been so long since you'd seen it, and it was hard not to keep staring at him. “I didn’t even know half of these existed, but, you know… just saying.”

You let out a quiet chuckle.

“I move around a lot,” you said. “It’s harder to keep memories. But I like having them. Photos help.”

“Memories with your ex,” Spencer added, and you raised an eyebrow at him.

You studied him for a moment, then sighed.

“They’re still good memories,” you said. “You were...an interesting experience, you know. I loved you, even though we weren’t together long. In a way, I probably always will. It’s not like I look at you and feel hatred, or can’t even stand looking at your face in photos.”

You said it casually, a bit of a smirk playing on your lips. Spencer raised his eyes to look at you, a strange expression on his face that you couldn’t decipher. This time, in his hand, was a photo showing only his back as he walked a step ahead of you at some festival or event, reaching back without looking to grab your hand.

You shrugged, not quite understanding.

"So what?" you asked. "Do you just hate all your exes?”

"Of course not," he denied.

Both of you stayed quiet for a moment.

"Just me, huh?" you asked.

Spencer’s face twitched as he reached for the next photo in the album, not answering right away. It was one of the few that showed both of you together, and it was a good one. It had been taken in a slightly spontaneous moment when you had just returned to his apartment from a restaurant. His shirt sleeves were slightly rolled up, visible as he cupped your opposite cheek with his hand, holding it gently while kissing you on the cheek, the kiss a bit chaotic because of the small smile on his lips. His eyes were closed.

“Can I keep this one?” he asked softly, lifting the photograph so you could see which one he meant. He held it so gently, as if it were something sacred.

His question caught you off guard, and the answer slipped out before you could stop yourself.

“No,” you replied curtly. Then you quickly shook your head, almost as if to bring yourself—and both of you—back to reality. What were you even doing? You were dwelling on the end of your relationship when you should’ve been fully focused on finding Rebekah, tracking down Robert, and hunting for the mysterious partner. You rose from your seated position to kneel, gathering the photos.

“Listen, we should focus on locating this Clinton guy. Somehow. From what Rosas said, he’s not exactly a clean guy. I’ll ask some of my contacts…”

“Oh, I’m sure my team will find him soon enough,” he cut in confidently.

He handed you the photo and stood up, adjusting his position. His shirt slightly pulled out of his pants as he moved. His face still wore that tired expression, and after your strange exchange, it seemed more tense than ever. You felt a bit weighed down by the situation yourself, but you quickly shook off the thoughts. It didn’t matter if he hated you or not.

Both of you paused for a moment, each with doubt written on your face.

"We'll see, so the people will be first," you said with a hint of sarcasm.

Spencer tilted his head thoughtfully, then gave a nod.

"Alright. The one who wins gets to keep the photo."

He didn’t need to specify which one. You raised an eyebrow, surprised that it mattered to him that much. Maybe he just needed some kind of stake for the bet, and that was the first thing that came to his mind. He stared at you, waiting for an answer, which came in the form of a simple shrug.

"Fine."

He looked at you for a moment longer, then seemed to realize he was probably planning to leave the apartment. His eyes blinked a little faster, as if he reminded himself of that. When he crossed the threshold, a strange feeling filled not just you but the entire apartment. Well, your previous interactions, your past conversations, never carried such honesty. Not once before had you both lowered your guards, revealing a little more of yourselves. Through the constant teasing and not-so-pleasant remarks, it was easy for you to miss the kind of longing that had been lingering between you.

You closed the door behind Spencer, but you didn’t lock it. You spent a long moment suspended in emptiness, leaning over a single sentence you had said to him, the one that had made him so uneasy. I loved you, even though we weren’t together long. In a way, I probably always will.

It wasn’t that you were ready to throw yourself into his arms or go back to him. The meaning lay in the fact that his presence would always carry some sentiment, an enduring nostalgia, and a collection of fading, good moments and feelings. Maybe you wouldn’t tell your grandchildren about him, but if one of them asked about him, pointing at a photo in the album, you wouldn’t frown—you’d smile.

A few minutes passed, when you heard...footsteps in the hallway.

Irresponsible, but you immediately opened the door. Somehow, you recognized them right away, knew that it was him, coming back to your door, even though he had just left. You almost laughed at the sight. Almost, because instead, you threw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss that made his entire body lean in.

You didn’t know what wild impulse was driving you, but it was definitely nothing rational, nothing justified. Spencer remained still for a second or two, before his hand landed on your cheek. You almost forgot how he could kiss, the intensity of it making you take a step back, of course, pulling him along with you.

For a moment, you were out of breath, not opening your eyes as you pulled your face away from his, letting out an uneasy sigh. But then your lips didn’t find his again. Instead, you cracked your eyelids open, noticing that strange expression on his face—embarrassment, despite unspoken tension, a hunger he couldn't hide, even though he tried.

"I was going to say..." he started, quickly losing his train of thought and furrowing his brow to try to get it back. "I came back because my friend, Penelope, already tracked down Clinton’s apartment. And...and..I just wanted to tell you that."

Oopsie.

part 3 (last one) soon

taglist: @she-wont-miss @mggslover @nyeddleblog @dylanobrienswife0420 @wmoony @heddgie @khxna @marauder-exe-old @yujyujj @charleyreid @kitty-kai @sp3ncelle @pleasantwitchgarden @beesin03 @misserabella @re1dsb1xch @trulymadlydarling @cynbx @penelopegarciaismygf @awordsmith @i-padfootblack-things @honestlyloving @fromsaltandsea @kwonhoeshi @mega-kittyglitter-1 @sleepysongbirdsings

*part 3 will be so freaking long get ready pls

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfic #dr spencer reid #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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whumpster-fire · 22 hours ago

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All these contraptions rated by a guy who knows fuck all about home design but does live in a home and use furniture sometimes

Contraption 1: the lifting shelf. At first glance this looks like a cool way to make the highest shelf easy to reach but then allow it to be retracted out of the way, but then I realized you could just put the shorter shelf at floor level because it's not like it can store as much stuff as a really tall shelf. I'm also not sure what value closing the window into the kitchen serves. Also looks like a great way for your kids to guillotine each other's hands/heads off because they wanted to see what would happen. Looks cool though. 4/10

Contraption 2: Relies on linear actuators to block off travel through the kitchen when open by creating a Death Pit. Curious what the safeguards are to keep someone from being trapped by this stupid thing. Also I can tell just by looking at it that this leads to a "Wine Cellar." Peak Rich People Shit. 2/10

Contraption 3: At least these retracting stairs don't cut off travel through a room entirely and it opens on both sides so you don't have an open death pit? 4/10

Contraption 4: Are those... stairs under there? A crawl space? What are you even supposed to access or put under there, other than a large colony of raccoons? Also nice railing. 2/10

Contraption 5: wall mounted fold out table. Finally a useful fucking contraption. There's even space to store something smaller than the table. 6/10

Contraption 6: Electric attic ladder. Extra cost for very minimal benefit because someone who can climb that can probably pull an unnpowered ladder down, but at least it doesn't do absolutely nothing. 4/10

Contraption 7: Spinning TV mount. You gotta be kidding me. I bet that literally costs more than putting a second fucking TV screen on the other side of a normal column. Rich People Shit. 1/10

Contraption 8: A double decker shelf that folds down into a desk, thereby making the top shelf not usable to store anything because it would fall off when you turn it into a desk. 1/10

Contraption 9: Is this a rack for drying clothes or something? I've never seen this before and don't know what it's for. I can't rate it.

Contraption 10: Unusable stairs to nowhere with no railing, with a shitty couch made of stairs that retracts to reveal even more deathtrap stairs with no railing. Also a conversation pit. This is the home of someone who does not vacuum their own house or even use a Roomba. Rich People Shit. 2/10

Contraptions 11-12: We've improved on the spinning TV concept by adding more pinch points for children and pets to guillotine themselves. 0/10

Contraption 13: "We spent a lot of money on this sad beige art but we really hate that you can see all of the shelves at the same time so we spent even more money on sliding doors to hide it." 0/10

Contraption 14: Well a sofa bed isn't new, but at least it's actually functional and convenient unlike most of the bullshit products in this video. 6/10

Contraption 15: This is going to leak, I just know it. But at least you have the smallest, shittiest balcony. 3/10

Contraption 16: A swimming pool cover is at least nominally a functional product, but man that takes up so much yard space. 4/10

Contraption 17: A cot that folds up into... something? I guess this is useful for people who don't want a futon and have lots of space to store random folded up furniture? 4/10

Contraption 18: The guy demonstrating almost took himself out with the spinning TV. I'll give it half a point for that, but subtract half for whatever those pebbles underneath the TV are supposed to be. 1/10

Contraption 19: Window shutter that folds up into an awning. A thing I can't afford but at least it doesn't do nothing. 5/10

Contraption 20: Retracting false backsplash. "Maximilian! We must install a secret panel that hides half our countertop from view! We can't let guests know we own a toaster." 2/10

Contraption 21: Retracting kitchen entry gate that slides out of countertop. You know what? This is the only thing on this list so far that seems to be designed with the idea that this house might have children or pets in it, and conventional baby gates always seem to come loose and fall down. I'm giving this a 6/10 but taking off a point for having the kitchen be a step higher than the rest of the floor. Someone WILL trip while carrying something in/out of the kitchen. 5/10

Contraption 22: "We spent a lot of money on this sad beige art but we really hate that you can see all of the shelves at the same time so we spent even more money on sliding doors to hide it." 0/10

Contraption 23: Sliding bookshelf that makes a doorway. I mean it's kinda cool but also I why is it being demonstrated with a shelf full of fragile, expensive art? 4/10

Contraption 24: Sliding staircase cover with black glass panels. This manages to be worse than all the other hidden staircases because it's not at floor level even when the cover is ON so you have to step up onto that thing to reach any shelves behind it, and also there's no railing at all stopping people falling into the death pit. 0/10

Contraption 25: Retracting windows to let the sun into a room make way more sense if it's at a hotel or something which this seems to be, but I'm not rating it because that doesn't look like a house.

Contraption 26: Fancy garage door. At least it's not worse than a normal garage door and looks cool. 5/10

Contraption 27: Pivoting window between indoor and outdoor dining area. Does something I guess. 5/10

Contraption 28: WHY ARE YOU PEOPLE SO OBSESSED WITH HIDING YOUR BASEMENT STAIRS? YKW this one's at least not a total death trap and it looks decent so 3/10

Contraption 29: ANOTHER FUCKING SPINNING TV. WHO KEEPS BUYING THESE THINGS? 0/10

Contraption 30: Literally just a Murphy Bed. Actually usable even if not original so 6/10.

Contraption 31: You don't even have enough sad beige art to populate the absurd amount of shelves on this wall. I like shelves but maybe this is a little too many. Covering some of them will not hide the shame of having too many shelves. 0/10

#architecture #interior design #inferior design #rich people shit

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insidekatmind · 2 days ago

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Mingle- Hwang In-Ho

Wearning: manipulation

You are playing mingle, a game that seems harmless on the surface, but you know that nothing here is. The game was only seemingly simple: enter a room with a number of players by indicating, it was your turn to be with one person. You were about to choose someone, but before you could decide, you felt a strong grip on your arm. You whirled around and met the cold eyes of Hwang In-ho. Without giving you time to react, he dragged you into a room, closing the door behind him. You don't know why he chose you, but his behavior made you even more tense. Your breathing accelerated, the silence in the room heavy as a boulder. In-ho seemed calm, but his gaze left no room for doubt: something was about to happen. Before you could ask what he wanted, a noise behind you made you jump.

You turned around and saw another player, someone who had obviously tried to sneak in to save himself or perhaps to attack you. When you notice that there is another person in the room, the air becomes suffocating. He doesn’t even have time to speak. In a lightning-fast movement, In-ho lunges at him, grabbing him by the neck.

“You shouldn’t have been here,” he muttered with icy coldness, as the other struggles desperately. You remain still, paralyzed with terror. In-ho moves faster than you can understand. In an instant, he grabs the player by the neck and pushes him against the wall. His movements are precise, ruthless, and in a matter of seconds, the other falls to the ground lifeless. You remain paralyzed, eyes wide in shock. Despite your efforts to look away, you can do nothing but watch as the man fades away under In-ho’s merciless grip.

When it is all over, the lifeless body of the other player collapses to the ground. In-ho turned to you, his breathing slightly quickened, but his face showed no sign of emotion. He took a step toward you, and your instinct was to step back, but there was no escape.“Calm down,” he said, his voice sounding gentler than expected. “It was necessary. He wouldn’t have spared you.”

You continued to tremble, unable to respond, your eyes still fixed on the other player’s body. In-ho moved closer, until he was only inches away from you. He cupped your face in his hands, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, before leaning in to kiss you. It was sudden, disarming, and somehow it calmed the chaos inside you, if only for a moment.

In-ho was manipulating you to his liking, and you melted into the kiss. Your body pressed tight to his, the kiss deeper and more passionate than anything you’d ever experienced. In-ho was strong, dominating, but there was something else – a hint of vulnerability, a flicker of suppressed emotion that made your heart race. He was a complex puzzle, a man of contradictions, and this only made him all the more irresistible. There was a kind of power he held over you, one you couldn’t deny even as doubt tugged at the back of your mind.

As you kissed, In-ho's hands traveled over your body, his touch possessive yet gentle. It was almost as if he was mapping out every inch of you, as if he wanted to memorize every contour. He seemed to be waging a silent battle within himself.

He was enjoying the moment of how you were giving in. It had been easy to manipulate you as he pleased, you were a scared girl of only twenty, with problems with her father and alone. In-ho pulled away, his lips hovering centimetres from yours. His eyes were dark, intense, as he looked at you. He was searching for something, some sign, and you were uncertain as to what.

You bite your lip, looking at him in surprise and breathless. In-ho's gaze darkened as you bit your lip, clearly amused.

"You're a surprise," he murmured, his voice low and slightly hoarse. His thumb brushed over your lower lip, as if to soothe where you had bitten.

He continued to study you, his eyes roaming over your face, as if trying to decipher the secrets behind your gaze. Then he leaned in again, his breath tickling your ear. "You know, this is just a game," he whispered, his voice a sinful mix of warning and promise. "And I always win."

You still look at him in surprise from the kiss and you're still trying to come back to yourself. "What?"He smiled, an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. His gaze was cool, calculating, but there was a hint of something more within it – a sense of satisfaction at how he had you off balance. In-ho stepped closer, closing the gap that was between you.

"You heard me," he confirmed. "I always win. It's a rule I've lived by for a long time."

His warm breath on you was nearly distracting enough to make you forget the tension in the air. His eyes were trained on yours, as if he was waiting to see your response. In-ho was a man of power, an individual who could manipulate situations to his advantage and right now, he was enjoying your confusion.

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lokidjarin-7567 · 3 days ago

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The Alchemy

Hwang In-ho (professor AU) x Reader

Your chemistry professor caught your eye the moment you walked into class, and as time went on, you couldn’t deny your feelings anymore. Did he feel it too, or were you doomed to heartbreak?

fem!reader x Professor Hwang In-ho, smut, fluff, a little angst and everything in between, badly edited, multiple POV, 18+ MDNI

8.5k words (sorry not sorry)

And here it is!! I’ve been obsessed with him for a while now, so very glad Squid Game is giving him the recognition he deserves from a Western audience. Decided to da a Professor AU because yum, so hope you enjoy x

Taglist: @nicki-lovesolderfictionalmen @jamiewritesfanfiction-blog @nunita23

TTPD Contents | General Masterlist | AO3

You knew it was wrong. Your obsession with him. Everything about him was thoroughly captivating to you: the way he spoke, the way he dressed, the way he walked around the lecture hall with such confidence. You were enthralled every single lesson, so attentive and studious, hanging on his every last word like it was some kind of spell for everlasting life. Really, if you thought about it, it was actuallly a good thing. Your grades were better, you hadn’t missed a single lecture since the term began, and you were putting more effort into your studies in a desperate effort to impress him. And the cherry on top of the cake was that he had noticed. He knew you by name, he always picked you first if you had your hand up, and he even added complimentary comments to your papers. Even if he was old enough to be your dad, even if there was a power imbalance, even if nothing could ever happen between you, your crush only continued to grow stronger.

“I know, I know, class is nearly over, but we’ve got a few more things to cover, so let’s wake you all up with a little organic pop-quiz.” A few groans echoed around the room, but you smiled. Organic chemistry was your favourite, especially when he taught it, so you watched as he drew a few molecules on the whiteboard. A formula, and a damn easy one.

“Can anyone tell me the primary product here?” Your hand was up before the question was finished, but you tried to limit your keen nature - only half-raising your hand lazily as you doodled the finished equation on your notepad. You liked to think you were quite good at hiding your adoration for him. Yes, you could listen to him talk for hours, but you knew when to watch him and when to take notes. You knew when to speak up and when to stay quiet. You could control your face, aside from the occasional blush, never sitting there with puppy-dog eyes or biting your pen like they do in the movies. You were subtle - small smiles after a compliment, gazing with admiration when he wasn’t looking, answering any questions quickly but with professionalism and confidence. The perfect student. But you never, ever flirted. You knew that was academic suicide, especially with a Professor as influential as him. You were content with detached obsession. For now, at least.

Your heart did flutter, though, at the smile and small chuckle he gave when he saw your hand.

“Of course, the only student I have that actually enjoys organic…” You heard a few hums of agreement from the students behind you, saw the nods from the ones in front. You smiled at your reputation.

“What can I say, at least you always have someone to answer your questions…” Another laugh, music to your ears.

“That is true. Go ahead.”

“Well, that’s ethanol and that’s ethanoic acid so you would produce ethyl ethanoate.”

“Ah, I made it too easy for you! Should have mixed up the length of the polymers so you would have to think about which prefix came first.” Another flash of a smile.

“Rookie error.” You joked, and it was the closest you’d ever been to flirting. The back and forth was making you blush, the way his eyes were fixed to you from the front of the classroom. You were in your usual spot in the third row - the perfect distance to see him clearly, but not too close to look keen. Although, that point was kind of defeated by the amount of times your hand was first up, no matter how nonchalantly you tried to do it. His eyes were glittering with a slight playfulness now, head slightly cocked and you were bewitched as a few locks of his neat hair fell across his forehead.

“In that case, come and draw it for me please.” Fuck. He looked pleased with himself, hand brushing the fallen strands back, small smirk playing across his features. You sighed, heading to the front of the room in defeat. He handed you the whiteboard pen, fingers brushing yours just slightly. They were soft, delicate and warm, and his eyes were firmly fixed on you as you muttered a quiet thank you. You didn’t get to see him this close often, but you didn’t have time to take him in beyond the deep brown of his eyes, his height compared to yours, and the light scent of sandalwood that seemed to cling to the air around him even after he had walked past you back to the front of the room.

“While she’s doing that, can someone else tell me the uses of this ester please?” You were grateful your back was to the rest of the class, a furious blush spreading across your cheeks at the proximity. He glanced back at your shorthand sketch, giving you a small nod of encouragement.

“Good, and in full please.” You obeyed wordlessly, just finishing the second bond on the oxygen when the bell rang.

“That’s it for today then, everybody. Check the online portal for the homework.” He called out above the sound of bags being packed. “Oh, and there are more practical classes this term, so your timetables are also on the portal for those. I know they’re boring, and I know you’ve done them all a million times, but you have to do them again to pass!” He sighed, half the class already gone by the time he finished his sentence. He turned back to you, holding his hand out with a smile and you passed the marker back to him, careful not to brush his hand this time. As much as you wanted to feel his skin against yours again, you would blush too obviously to get away with it. “Thank you,” he said to you quietly, “I know at least one student will show for the practicals.”

“No worries.” You didn’t want to leave yet, allowing yourself to enjoy the being around him a little now the rest of the class was clearing out. He was wearing your favourite suit today - charcoal grey wool - with a soft, baby blue shirt and a navy tie. He was meticulous as ever: understated silver tie pin perfectly level, tie itself knotted immaculately, hair brushed back neatly. Even his shoes were perfect, not a single scuff on the leather. Being around him like this was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but talk to him just a little more as the last student filed out of the room. “What will the first practical be, out of interest?” You asked, forcing yourself to move back to your desk and slowly pack up your things.

“Just a distillation, I think...” He replied, trailing off and absentmindedly flicking through a few papers on his desk. You nodded, sensing his loss of interest, slinging your bag over your shoulder with just a hint of disappointment.

“Ok, sounds good. Thank you Professor…” You turned towards the door, but froze when you heard him call your name. You turned back around to see him looking at you slightly expectantly, a nervous energy buzzing from him that you’d never seen before.

“Before you go, I was just wondering if you’d picked an advisor yet? I know the decision is coming up in a few weeks.”

“No, I haven’t actually…” In all honestly, you had two options. And he was one of them. Of course he was. He was the best in the university, not to mention one of the best in his field. You learnt the most from him, you had the best relationship with him compared to the rest of your Professors. There were only two reasons why he wouldn’t be a perfect choice. Firstly, he was very picky with who he takes on, but if this conversation was going the way you thought it was, problem solved. The second, and much bigger, issue was your little obsession. If he was your advisor, you would see him one-on-one every two weeks at least, on top of class time, practicals time and in between all of that if you had questions. And for most people that had a crippling crush like you did, they would be jumping for joy at the opportunity to spend more quality time with them. But you didn’t want that. You didn’t want to make a move on him, or make your feelings for him obvious because it could destroy everything you had worked so hard towards. But equally, having him on your side was a great accolade, and it would do you wonders in your academic career.

You were a big girl. You could handle a little crush.

“Well…” He continued, hand running through his hair again before starting to pack up his own things. “I would very much like to fill that role unless you had anyone else in mind. You’re incredibly talented, and passionate about the subject in a way I don’t see often. You don’t have to decide right now, of course…”

“I would love that.” Your mouth had answered before your brain caught up, but his wide smile solidified your resolve.

“Excellent. Well, how does Friday sound for our first meeting? I think that’s when you’re scheduled for the practical, so that makes it easy…”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you, again, Professor Hwang, I appreciate the opportunity…”

“Not at all. The pleasure is all mine.” His wide smile warmed your heart thoroughly, and you left before you could melt into a puddle on the floor at the nature of his words.

It had been a couple of months now, and dear God, it was driving you insane. You’d made a huge mistake, and unfortunately for you, it was an unfixable one. He was the perfect advisor in every way - attentive, intelligent, willing, passionate, everything you could ever want. But being so close to him was driving you crazy. Once a fortnight, it was just you and him in his office, talking for an hour, joking, laughing, fighting every urge in your body to climb across the desk and give in to your desires. You had even started to dress up for him - purposely putting in extra effort the days you knew you had a meeting. The crush was getting much worse too, obsession starting to take over. For days after your meeting, all you could do was analyse every tiny interaction you had, every time he looked at you or spoke to you or even breathed differently. And fucking hell it was driving you insane.

You were sure it was getting harder to hide too. Before, it was less of a crush, more an admiration. Yes, you were aware he was attractive, but more than anything, you were capitavated by his teaching and passion. Now, all of that was still true, but all you could think about was how much you wanted to fuck him. Twice just that week you had missed half the class caught up in a daydream, not even being able to answer him when he called on you, too busy thinking about him bending you over his desk and having his way with you. Your last paper got a B because every time you tried to write, all you could think about was him reading it. What he would be wearing when he graded it at home. Comfortable clothes, surely, hair messy and uncouth. What he would think of it, whether he would smile at your words and add little notes when he agreed with what you were saying. Whether he truly thought as much about you while reading it as you thought of him while writing it.

You’d fucked up. You’d gotten too close, irreversibly so, and now, you had to see him today. You knew he would have something to say about your grades dropping. It was getting too obvious. You just hoped he would accept whatever bullshit you managed to invent on the spot. Your knuckles rapped against his office door, heart stuck in your throat.

She had caught his eye the minute she stepped into his lecture hall that first day of term. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly about her, whether it was her eyes, or hair, or lips. Or maybe it was just her. The confidence she seemed to exude, her sense of style, the studious and determined look she always seemed to have on her face. She was the most active participant in his classes, and every time he called on her, she would answer with such enthusiasm and excitement. He could tell how much she genuinely enjoyed the subject from the very first lesson, and even as the term continued, her passion didn't waver like some students’ did. She hadn’t missed a single lecture - always there in the same spot on the third row, and he was grateful for her choice of seat. It was close enough to see her, not too close to make it obvious that he was staring, and it was also far enough into the classroom that he had time to admire her while she made her way to her seat. To watch her while she was focussed elsewhere - namely, walking down the stairs without falling over. He enjoyed the time it gave him to work out how she was feeling on a day, whether she seemed dejected or excited, shy or outgoing. He liked how easy it was for him to read her.

And, if he was honest with himself, he liked the attention too. The first time he saw her, he knew he would be head over heels for a little while, and he accepted that. She was his student, and nothing could happen, so he buried it and got on with his lectures as usual, with only a few extra glances thrown her way when he knew she wouldn't be looking. But then he noticed it. The coy smiles, the extended glances, the occasional time he caught her biting her lip or pen. The way she blushed furiously if he ever caught her in the act. The first few times, he wrote it off as coincidence and wishful thinking, but eventually, it clicked that there was something there. Something charged. And he thrived off that energy.

That was why he had put forward the idea of being her advisor. If he was honest, he knew it was a terrible idea. That it could get messy, that he could get too close, that he would hurt his own feelings. But ultimately, he wanted to be near her as much as possible, and at the end of the day, in every scenario of shit hitting the fan, he was always the one that got fucked over. His feelings were clearly stronger than hers - something he had noticed recently swelling in his heart unreciprocated - and he was the one with his job on the line. He was the only one at risk, and he was willing to take that risk to be closer to her.

Recently, though, she’d seemed different. Distracted. Stressed. Avoidant. Her grades were dropping, she was barely talking in class and when he spoke to her one-on-one, he would catch her shrinking back into herself if she laughed too much, as though she was second guessing everything she did. He’d done everything to hide his feelings, and honestly, he thought he was doing a good job, but maybe she felt uncomfortable around him. Maybe he was being obvious and he’d misread her feelings. Or maybe she was just going through a rough patch in her personal life.

He had a meeting with her today, and he couldn’t think of anything but seeing her for the whole day. What she would be wearing, how or if he would broach the topic, what he should even say to her… He was struggling to concentrate on his lectures, mind wandering to her.

The relief washed through his body when he heard her knuckles softly knock against the door. He was worried she wouldn’t even come.

“Come in.” She opened the door cautiously, small smile on her lips. She looked more beautiful than she ever had somehow. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, just some natural blush and mascara, and her hair was down and framing her face perfectly. Her outfit was simple but classy; all black, simple satin skirt and skintight tee, chunky knit cardigan over the top.

“Hi Professor.” She replied cheerily, but there was a hint of something unreadable in her voice. Weariness, maybe? Stress? “How has your day been?” He smiled as they fell into their usual chatty routine, mind slightly at ease.

“Not too bad, thank you, although a few too many lectures for my liking. How was yours?” She laughed lightly, the sound warming his heart.

“Same problem for me too. A lot of lectures, none of them particularly interesting…” it seemed as though she wanted to say something else but bit her tongue, and he couldn’t help but feel himself deflate. He wanted her to be able to feel more comfortable around him, but she was holding herself back.

“That’s because I wasn’t teaching them…” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, but to his relief, she smiled, a small chuckle escaping from her.

“Something like that.” She paused for a beat, seeming awkward and unsure. “Look, Professor, before we get into the stuff about my dissertation, I just wanted to talk to you about something…” The serious nature of her tone made his heart lurch, and he wanted to reach out and hold her hands, to drain away her evident nerves. She wasn’t even meeting his eyes, just wringing her hands in her lap as she tried to say what she needed to.

“Of course, my office is always an open space to talk about whatever you need to.” He hoped his words were comforting, and by her small smile, they had at least offered some small reassurance.

“I just wanted to apologise. I know my grades have been slipping a little the past few weeks, and I just wanted to make sure you knew that I’m on it and I’m doing everything to get them back up. I think I’ve just been a little distracted, and I don’t know really…” She was rambling, and his heart hurt for her. Yes, he had noticed her grades slipping a little, but it was from an A to a B for maybe two papers and a quiz. It wouldn’t affect her overall grade, and it certainly wouldn’t affect his opinion of her. He couldn’t help but wonder why she felt the need to apologise or explain herself.

“You have no reason to apologise. Everyone has better weeks than others, and it’s not going to affect your performance in my class or anything like that…”

“But…” she looked confused, as though she was genuinely trying to figure out why he wasn’t annoyed with her. “You’re Professor Hwang. I mean, you’re the best in your department, maybe even in the whole university. You pick your students that you want to advise because they’re the best, and I’ve not been…”

“First of all, I definitely am the best Professor in the *whole university*, thank you, but more importantly, that’s not why I pick people to mentor. I pick people based on their passion, talent, and work ethic. Not because they’re a machine who churns out A* papers every single week and has nothing else going on in their life that might affect that.” Once he’d finished talking, he looked up at her to see her close to tears, still staring at her hands in her lap.

“I, um…” she cleared her throat, finally meeting his eyes with a gratefulness he hadn’t seen in her before. A vulnerability he didn’t recognise, but wanted to see more of nonetheless. “Thank you for saying that. Really. None of my other Professors seem to think in that way.” Then under her breath, barely audible, she added something extra. “Neither do my family for that matter.”

“Well, as I said, my office is always open. If you ever have something you need to talk about, I’m here.”

“Thank you, truly.” She replied earnestly, and found himself struggling to reply as his heart swelled. He hadn’t realised how protective he felt over her until he saw her upset, but now, hand clenched by his side at the thought of someone making her feel unworthy over a few grades, he realised that maybe his feelings had blossomed a little more than he wanted them to.

The day after was another practical class. Just a titration, a check box more than anything with the calibre of his students. They knew what they were doing. Especially her. It would hopefully be an easy half hour; just let them do their thing, tick it off in the system, and be finished with it.

What he hadn't banked on, however, was the student that seemed to spend his whole time flirting with her.

She had been the first in the classroom that afternoon. She seemed tired, the last lesson after a likely busy day, but even more so than usual, her normally flawless makeup doing little to hide the puffy bags under her eyes. Her outfit was clean and put together, but a lot more basic than what she usually wore, just jeans and a baby tee, with none of her usual quirky flourishes. He was about to ask if she was ok, to talk to her more than the perfunctory hello she had thrown his way at the door when another student entered the classroom close behind her. The whole space was empty, but he decided to sit directly beside her. She seemed annoyed, making polite small talk but not much else and he just didn't seem to be taking the hint. He was leaning too close, laughing too loud, looking at her for too long…

His own jealousy surprised him. It was rage, pure and simple, white hot and blinding. He felt inordinately possessive, wanting nothing more than to shove him across the classroom and teach him a lesson about personal space, but as more students piled in to the space, all he could do was glare and hope he got the hint. Eventually though, she solved the problem herself. He had been so close to interfering, so blinded by anger he had started to move towards her bench, but she just stood up, and walked away from him mid sentence, ignoring him completely. The look of shock on his face was priceless, but the joy it brought him was quickly replaced with anger once again as the kid shifted in his seat, blushing red and muttering ‘bitch’ under his breath. If In-ho had a knife, he genuinely could have killed him in that moment. Because how fucking dare he.

But instead, he breathed in deeply before moving over to him calmly and giving him a menacing, tight-lipped smile. The student met his eyes with a perplexed look, but he just spoke over him before he had a chance to say anything else.

“If you ever talk about one of my students, let alone a woman, like that again, you will be barred from my class and the entirety of the chemistry department for the rest of your academic career, both at this school and wherever else you may choose to study. Is that crystal clear?” He said it so calmly, so coldly, that the kid just sat there in stunned silence for a moment, and he had to raise his eyebrow to prompt him to answer.

“Um… yes… yes Professor.” He stammered, and he smiled again without any warmth.

“Good, now find a new desk and complete your practical, or else you’ll have to retake my class, and you really don't want that, do you?” He shook his head frantically, scrambling away with his things and finding a space near the back of the room.

She looked confused for a moment when she got back to the now empty bench, but on glancing around the room and meeting his eyes, she smiled warmly at him in gratitude, blush spreading across her cheeks. He would do anything if it meant she smiled at him like that.

It had been an hour, and apart from one broken conical flask, there had been no major mishaps, and almost all of his students had finished their titrations. Except for her. She was on her fourth attempt now, the last student apart from her silently filing out of the classroom, and she was getting increasingly frustrated each time. He was trying to be subtle, to not make her feel pressured at all, but he couldn't help but watch as she turned the stopcock so slightly, letting a single drop fall into the flask, and he watched it turn colour perfectly… until the stopcock wasn't closed properly, another few drops sneaking through and pushing it past the end point colour.

“Fuck!” Every other attempt, it had been a quiet frustration, hidden under her breath, but this time she couldn't help it, cursing loudly and slamming her hand on the table. He could hear her heavy breaths even from across the room, her hand dragging through her hair in annoyance. She almost looked close to tears, just staring at the failed experiment. He muttered her name in concern, standing up ready to help her, but she just shook her head, grabbing the flask and heading to empty it.

“I’m so sorry for my outburst, Professor, my language was completely inappropriate…”

“No that’s not it at all, curse all you want…” He moved over to her desk as he spoke, but she was busying herself setting up again, not meeting his eyes. So he said her name again, firmly but kindly, garnering her attention without upsetting her. It worked, and she stopped moving for a moment, slightly out of breath in frustration. “Are you ok? You don’t seem yourself at all…” She was grinding her jaw as he spoke, trying to hold her emotions back, but a tear fell from her eye regardless, rolling down her cheek. She huffed loudly, wiping it away quickly and looking to the ceiling, trying to blink back the other tears that were threatening to spill.

“I’m fine.” She insisted, but her voice cracked as she did, another tear escaping as she muttered another curse under her breath. “Sorry, I’m just wasting your time today…”

“Never.” He said firmly, moving to her side of the desk. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what going on, I just can’t seem to…” another tear rolled down her cheek, his heart broke for her.

“Hey, take a second, just breathe, ok? Sit down, cry if you need to, just take a moment.” She nodded, sitting down on the lab stool with a snuffle. He sat down too, tucking his stool slightly closer to her and waiting until she was ready.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m just overwhelmed. I didn’t sleep too well last night, so I’ve been exhausted all day. One of my professors gave me shit for being late even though the bus broke down on my way here, and that ruined my mood. Another lecture turned out to be some surprise test thing nobody had prepared for so that was horrible. And… well I’m just rambling now and I don’t know if I’ve told you this yet but I might as well at this point because I guess it’s something you should know as my advisor - I have general anxiety disorder and…” she paused, catching her breath and scoffing slightly as she continued speaking quickly, “well, and a whole host of other things I don’t have time to go into but I’ve spent most of the afternoon warding off panic attacks hence the…” She trailed off, holding up her hand which was shaking like a leaf. “So I can’t focus, I can’t control the equipment even though I’ve done at least 30 titrations in my academic career and I was honestly just looking forward to seeing… to doing something practical with my day but…” He didn’t think she’d even noticed the tears starting to fall, but he did immediately. He also noticed the way her voice was getting breathier, and the increasingly frantic look in her eyes. He was worried. She seemed worn out, way too thinly strung and now here she was, crying over an experiment he knew she could do in her sleep. She needed to take care of herself for a bit, to take it easy. But right now, maybe he could help.

His hand moved to her face, brushing the tears away before moving to her shoulder and squeezing.

“Hey, slow down. Look at me. Breathe.” He took a long deep breath, his eyes fixed firmly to hers as she copied, repeating the action a few times. He watched as she slowly seemed to calm, shoulders dropping and tears drying up. “That’s better.”

“I’m so sorry, this was only supposed to take like half an hour. I’ve derailed your whole afternoon, I just don’t know what’s come over me today.” He sighed. The way she felt she had to be sorry for being human made him feel so protective of her, so willing to hurt anyone who made her feel this way.

“You’re stressed, you didn’t sleep well and your anxiety is flaring up. None of that is something you have to apologise for. And you definitely don’t have to apologise for derailing my day - my evening consists of grading papers and getting an early night. Both of those things can wait even if this titration takes all night.” She laughed, wiping away the last of her tears with a grateful smile.

“Thank you.” Her hand moved to rest atop his, which was still sitting on her arm, squeezing slightly. His breath caught briefly at the contact, and it took all the self control in his body to not lean into her touch, to kiss her then and there.

“Always…” he muttered, smiling softly, and after another beat, he slid his hand away, feeling cold at the lack of warmth from her. “Now,” he took a deep breath, grounding himself to reality. *Student, teacher, do the maths - not a good idea.* “Let’s finish this practical.”

His presence was so calming to you. After four failed attempts, you were already doing a lot better - hands steady, breaths even, a serenity you hadn't felt all day. He wasn’t even helping you; just being nearby was enough. He’d grabbed a few papers from his desk and was quietly grading while you worked, the occasional turn of paper and scratch of pen relaxing you. It was starting to get to the difficult part now, but your hands didn't fail you, adding the titrate drop by drop, swirling the flask until… it stayed pink. Just enough, a soft wash of magenta, and you couldn't help but grin.

“See…” he muttered, not once looking up from his papers, “I told you you could do it.” You smiled even wider, holding back every urge within you to hug him.

“Thank you.” You settled on the sentiment instead, jotting down the final measurements. “And…”

“I swear if you try to apologise again, I will kick you out of my class once and for all.” God he knew you so well. You chuckled lightly, biting your tongue to stop you from apologising for that as well.

“Never again, I promise.”

You had packed up, moving as quickly as possible to ensure you didn't waste any more of his time, but honestly, you wanted to be around him just a little longer. Today had taught you that maybe your ever-growing feelings might not be a problem, but a help. He was so calming to be around, so good at putting your doubt and anxiety at ease, and talking to him was easy, terrifyingly so. His company was soothing, and on bad days, at least you knew you had a place to go.

And now, you had to face the long bus to your off-campus apartment, followed by an evening alone with your thoughts.

You had sorted your things, putting on your coat and pulling up the hood, bracing yourself to head out in the dark and rainy evening.

“Thank you again for everything, Professor, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Wait…” he called out your name as you opened the door, and you paused, internally sighing in relief. “How are you getting home?”

“Just the bus from campus, its not far to the station from here…”

“I’ll take you, I’m leaving here anyway.”

“No, I couldn't ask you to do that, Sir…”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Where am I taking you?” You blushed at his comment, heart leaping at the authoritative tone, but telling him anyway. “That's only a few streets away from me, it’s not out of my way at all.”

“Only if you’re sure…”

“I wouldn't have offered otherwise.”

You had made it to the awning of the building, the last moment of peace before you were bombarded by the rain. He followed you out, sighing slightly.

“Do you smoke?” He asked, and the question surprised you slightly. He’d never struck you as the type, but now, as you turned around to see him standing with a cigarette dangling between his lips, you couldn't believe how natural it looked.

“Yeah…” You were relieved. You had been desperate for one all afternoon, but hadn't had a chance. You moved to open your handbag, unsure of where you'd left them, but he had already extended his pack out towards you. You smiled.

“Thank you…” He lit yours first, shielding it with his hands for you, and you couldn't help but notice how close he was to you. He lit his own, and you watched it awe at his beauty as the lighter illuminated his face. His first drag was long and desperate, the deep sigh he let out when he breathed echoing your own relief. You wondered if that's what he’d be like when you were on your knees for him quiet but needy, hand running through his hair and…

“What are your plans this weekend?” You blushed, not at the question but what it had distracted you from, taking a drag while you composed yourself.

“Not much, just studying, finishing a few papers, the usual.”

“No plans with friends? A boyfriend?” He asked almost shyly, then blushed profusely. “Or girlfriend, or partner… sorry I didn't mean to assume.” You laughed at his embarrassment.

“No, no plans. Friends are all out of town or doing the same as me, and no boyfriend to have plans with.” You weren't sure why you felt like you had to clarify that. It was an instinct more than anything, something in you felt like he should know. “What about you? Any plans?”

“Nope, no plans either. Friends are all married with children, so they don't have weekends anymore. And my brother is out of town with work, so that just about rules out everyone.” Your heart sung at the lack of a girlfriend or wife mentioned, but you somehow managed to control your face. “I got a new jigsaw I might try…” You couldn't help but laugh out loud at that, and he laughed with you. “Sorry, I know thats like the oldest old person thing I could've said…”

“No I just… I was thinking the same thing but didn't want to seem old.” His turn to laugh loudly, a sound that warmed you through.

“You don't have to worry about that…”

“Neither do you.” You had replied quickly, without thinking, and suddenly the air was charged. He was looking you in a way that was unreadable, almost curious but there was something else brewing just under the surface. His eyes were locked onto yours, and you found yourself unable to look away, not letting yourself to be the first to break contact. You weren't sure what it was about today - maybe just because of how shitty you’d felt the last few days, how kind and caring he had been, how many times you’d been in touching distance of him - but you wanted him to know you were an option. Even if it was a bad idea, if it could ruin both of you, if it could destroy everything you'd ever worked towards… you suddenly didn't care. You needed him to know you were here, arms open and waiting, if he ever wanted you.

The car ride was quiet, silence only broken by the occasional attempt at small talk. It was as though the look you had shared earlier had shattered your ability to speak to each other normally, a cloud hanging over the both of you, threatening to pour. Eventually, you pulled up outside your building, and your heart broke that it was over. You had to leave now, to be alone in your flat, to try and relax without thinking about him. His touch, his laugh, his smell.

“Thank you for the lift.” You managed to croak out after sitting silent for a moment, voice laced with disappointment you didn’t have the energy to hide.

“Anytime.” He muttered back, and your hand moved to the door, eyes glazing over at the sight of the raindrops hitting the car window. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just leave, open the door and run inside, out of the rain, out of the tension. Maybe it was the weather, pushing you to take comfort somewhere warm and welcoming. Or maybe it was the scent of sandalwood and cigarettes that clung to the leather surrounding you. Or maybe it was the way your arm was still tingling where he had touched you earlier, his hands warm and expansive and calming. It didn’t really matter though. Regardless of the reason, you still chose to open your damn mouth one more time.

“I don’t want to wait until Monday to see you again.” Your voice was barely a whisper, barely audible, but from the way he muttered your name warningly, he heard. You flushed furiously, feeling so fucking stupid. You’d ruined everything. He was your advisor, your professor, your whole support system felled in one swoop. God, you were an idiot. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’ll go.” You reached for the handle again, tears springing to the corners of your eyes.

“Wait.” His voice was… well, you weren’t sure. It sounded frustrated, sure, but also, there was a desperation in it. A need. He didn’t want you to leave either. “God, I’ve thought about how this might go so many times and never once landed on what I’d want to say.” There was a lump in your throat, and your hands fell back into your lap, turning to see the slightly pained expression on his face, almost pleading. His hair was messy, one hand raking through it as his eyes met yours. “There’s obviously… I mean it’s undeniable the way I… but I just…” He was so nervous, eyes scanning across your face frantically. “I’m your advisor. I’m your Professor. I’m in a position of authority here, its a power imbalance and I’m old enough to…” You had sat calmly listening to him ramble, so grateful that your feeling weren’t unrequited that you didn’t care what other excuses he would try to come up with.

“I don’t care.” He whispered your name again in warning, but softer, and you could see his resolve eroding with every second he was in your presence. “I mean it. You said it yourself, it’s undeniable. And now we’ve addressed it… what’s the harm in trying?” He still looked confused, pain wrought into his features as his eyes locked onto yours. And then, it was like you could see him accept that he couldn’t stop this now. That he didn’t want to. The fear gave way to longing, his hand cupping your jaw in a way that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I need you to…” The nerves were still clear in his voice, but his hand was definite, thumb brushing your lips and you leant into the touch, body naturally caving towards his. “Please tell me your want this. I need to be sure.”

“I want this.” You were so firm in your response, so final, he had no choice but to believe you.

He leant in, cupping your face in his hand, touch so strong, so definite, that any residual doubt melted away as his lips touch yours. It was fleeting, unsure, but not a moment before he had pulled away, you pressed back into him. Your kiss was desperate and bruising, hard and needy and full of months of pent up desire. He returned so fervently you sighed into his mouth, relief and arousal washing over your body. His hand moved to grip your hair, keeping you close, and you cursed internally that you were still in the car, centre console blocking your body from his. You were desperate to touch more of him, to feel his skin under your fingers, to run your hands across the ridges of his chest and up his arms. His grip was still strong in your hair, but you broke for air, watching with a smile as his lips chased yours. His evident need spurred you on, hand moving to rest against his chest and grip the pressed fabric of his shirt as you shared the air in the space between you.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” He muttered half-heartedly, but his blown pupils and subtle smile told you differently.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

The elevator ride was tense, hand gripped in his, half expecting him to run away, but as soon as your door was open, his lips smashed into yours once more. His hands explored your waist, pressing you to the now closed door, body touching yours slightly. His mouth was saying something different to his body language: lips hungry and needy, body cautious. You were more confident, hands falling to his back and pulling him as close as possible to you. He groaned in response, a low guttural sound that left you panting into his hot mouth. You wanted to gasp his name, but you realised you didn’t know it, embarrassment clouding your mind. You pushed it away immediately, hands snaking round his solid form to his tie, loosening it like a woman starved and throwing it to the side.

“Hey…” he muttered alongside a pant of your name, fingers tracing your face in a tender way, “are you sure you want this?”

“More than anything.” The answer fell from your lips without you even thinking about it. You needed him. He smiled against your lips, hands trailing from your waist to your hips, an invitation. You started to undo his shirt buttons, hands finally coming into contact with his warm skin, hips bucking towards his. A moment of insecurity washed over you. You were young, younger than him by a long way, and while it didn’t bother you, you couldn’t help but wonder if being with someone with so much less experience would bother him. He’d asked for your assurance twice now, and you had just assumed he wanted the same. Maybe he was just here so he didn’t lose his job…

“Is this what you want too?” You whispered, so shy and unsure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks.

“More than anything.” His fingers traced your lips, eyes meeting yours, and he must’ve sensed their slightly hesitant nature. “Since the minute you walked into my classroom, I’ve wanted this.” He smiled slightly sheepishly then, eyes flitting down to scan your form. “You were wearing cord flares and a white tee, leather jacket slung over your bag. You looked so confident, so excited to be in my class… you weren’t even looking at me yet, but I saw a glint in your eye that reminded me of myself in my youth. Everything about you intoxicated me from the moment I locked eyes with you. I want this.” The last statement was so final, so raw, you gave in fully. You smiled, looking deep into his eyes to see them unwavering.

“In that case..” you muttered, puling away from his just slightly, pulling your shirt over your head before unbuttoning your jeans, letting them fall to the floor. He stepped back while you were undressing, eyes darkening as they scanned your whole body with desire.

“Fuck…” he muttered the word quietly to himself, continuing to look you up and down in a way that made you blush profusely. He followed suit quickly, slowly undoing the rest of your shirt buttons with a slight smile. You couldn’t help but gaze half-lidded at his bare form, muscles rippling with every deep breath he took. “Where’s your room?”

Your bra and his trousers were long discarded, your bare form pressed to his as he laid above you, hand resting by your head, holding him up as he devoured your mouth. His kisses were getting lower, pressing against your neck and chest as you could do nothing but pant at his every touch.

“Sir, are you…” you didn’t even finish your question, words lost in your tongue as he bit down softly against the pillowy flesh of your breast, a groan escaping his lips against you at the name you had chosen in the heat of the moment.

“Shh..” the soft sound escaped his lips as he continued to move his lips lower until his fingers hooked your pantries, pulling them down slowly, savouring your squirming.

“What are you…” your words were lost yet again as his mouth enveloped your bare pussy, tongue pressing a firm stripe through your folds. You moaned loudly, the sensation enveloping you as you pressed your hips further towards his mouth. He hummed in satisfaction at the movements from you, hands gripping your hips tightly as your thighs surrounded his head. His tongue was expert, circling your clit with perfect precision and you bucked into him again with a whimper, desperate for some direct contact. He chuckled against you, smiling up between your thighs and you could’ve cum there from the sight of him.

“Relax…” he muttered, surly tone immediately forcing your muscles to loosen, pressing into the bed. His tongue flicked across your clit, and you squirmed, pants and whines filling the room as he continued his assault on your sensitive nerves. “Good girl…” his voice rumbled against your cunt, almost pushing you to the edge there and then.

“Please…” was all you could force out, words jumbling in your mind as the pleasure started to take over. One hand released from your hips, and you barely registered as two fingers pushed inside you, thick and deep. You groaned, an animalistic noise drawn from the back of your throat as he hit the spot inside you that made you sing. Every inch of your body was on fire with need as his fingers filled you, tongue continuing its relentless attack on your clit. You were all but an incoherent mess of moans and pants as he kept going, pleasure building and building close to the point of being too much, nerves burning with desire as he feasted on you like a man starved. It didn’t take long for your orgasm to arrive, fast and brutal, blinding you as your thighs squeezed around him, sobs and whines falling from your lips as you rode out the waves on his tongue.

By the time you had caught your breath, his face was an inch from yours, pressing sloppy kisses your jaw and neck. You whimpered softly, feeling the slick he had left between your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his, blinking up at him stupidly.

“I want you…” his lips cut you off, deep and passionate as your words were swallowed by hood’s mouth. He tasted like you.

“You have me. Body and soul.” Your heart leapt at the sentiment, hand brushing through his hair with affection.

“Then fuck me.”

He was pressed against your back, and was impossibly deep inside you, hitting that spot that made your back arch. His hand was tangled in your hair again, lips to your neck as he somehow pressed deeper, and your hand found his thigh, holding him there.

“You feel so good.” You whispered, fucked out and satisfied, already multiple organs in from his perfect cock.

“I’m close baby,” he muttered against your ear, grinding against your ass as you whined for him so beautifully. He fit so perfectly inside you it felt handcrafted, and he groaned softly as he pulled out quickly, slamming back inside as his hips started to stutter. “So pretty, so perfect for me…” his hand reached around to your used clit, pressing gentle circles as you cried out. You would do anything for him, but you were exhausted and overstimulated, a few tears brimming in your eyes at the bliss and pain it provided.

“Please..” you whispered for the uncountable time that night, hips backing into his as he groaned, deep and animalistic. Your orgasm washed over you as he finally came, moaning against your neck as his teeth clamped down carefully.

“So fucking perfect…”

You felt so effortlessly relaxed beside him, sleep encroaching quicker than it ever had. You were exhausted and spent, but happy. Everything you’d wanted for months but refused to admit to yourself had come true, and tomorrow, you’d have to face the reality of it all. But for now, you were at peace, head rested against his chest and feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. Your slumber had started to take you, eyes fluttering closed, when you heard his voice speak softly, as though trying not to disturb you.

“I hope this moment last forever.” You thought confirming his sentiment would somehow diminish him, or scare him off, pretending your sleep had pulled you under, but your heart swelled in agreement. You never wanted to leave this place.

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