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sehnsuchts-trunken · 11 months ago

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So Much Love in Oklahoma

Tyler Owens x fem!reader 7k words

summary: Tyler saves you from a tornado one day. The next, he shows up at your doorstep.

a/n: absolutely no clue about tornados. or oklahoma. don't come at me for inaccuracies

also!!! i'm currently working on some tyler smut too, but you are so definitely allowed to come request things (or just talk to me)! my inbox is wideeeee open, especially when it comes to mister owens <33

masterlist | twisters masterlist

What happens that particular Tuesday afternoon should have been impossible. That's what goes through your head about a bazillion times in the following days. The chances of what happens even happening are about as close to zero, you think, as the possibility of you discovering a cure for cancer.

(They're not. Of course. But it feels like that.)

Because you're not even really in Oklahoma. You're just driving through Oklahoma. You're not from a place where they give you a 'How to Deal with Tornados' manual in school. You're entirely, completely, wholly unprepared for what's brewing as you drive down almost empty highways with the radio all the way up.

So when suddenly, you're in the middle of a storm, with the wind picking up until it drowns out your music and rain and hail slashing against your windows, you're absolutely terrified.

It forms within a few minutes, goes from barely grey skies to a horrible, horrible whirl of almost black clouds, and the insecurity you'd been feeling turns into the gut-churning realisation that you're unquestionably fucked.

Some part of your brain tugs out a deeply buried memory of cars being sucked into tornados on the news, so with your heart racing a few hundred miles per hour and your hands shaking so badly you can barely hold onto the steering wheel anymore, you maneuver your car onto the side of the road, just in time for you to be climbing out of the passenger seat as another car comes to a shrieking halt next to yours.

You're getting drenched within half a second, you're honestly not that sure whether your cheeks are wet from the rain or your tears, and on top of that, you almost trip as you set your trembling feet onto the ground below. The other car's driver bangs their door shut with a resounding thud that makes you flinch so hard you think your soul leaves your body. Your head shoots up as he shouts at you, already three steps away from his truck:

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

He's drenched, too - his hair sticks to his face and his shirt clings to his skin and his pants are stained at least a shade darker. But unlike you, he's not shaking, he's steady as a fucking rock, steady and quick, already reaching out for your arm before you can even begin to think. Your brain lags behind, foggy and cloudy and scared, so fucking scared. You're so terrified you can hardly open your mouth.

"I-", you stutter, then he's wrapping his big hand around your arm and tugging you away from your car, away from the road already.

"We need to get the fuck down!", he calls, pulling you with him onto one of those many, many fields that surround you. "There's a ditch over there, see that?"

You're wide-eyed, shaking, basically being dragged along by him - one foot in front of the other, that's what your brain's concentrating on right now, which is easier said than done. You trip over your own feet every other step. But the guy just wraps his arm around your waist and hurries further.

"Do you see that?", he asks again when you don't respond. Your mind races even faster than your heart does, but you force yourself to concentrate on his voice. The panic doesn't lessen, but his question shifts your focus. Ditch. Ditch. Not the storm raging around you, no, you're looking for a ditch. You're focusing on finding a ditch.

"Yeah", you breathe, your eyes finally catching on the ditch only a bit away.

"Yeah?", the guy shouts. "We need to get there. We need to get low."

With that, he picks up his pace once more and you stumble along, bumping into his side, watching the ditch come closer and closer and closer until your feet are drowned in dirty, muddy water.

"Alright, get down!", he shouts, unwrapping his arm from around your waist to help you into the cold, cold water. "Hold onto the ground!"

You aren't thinking. You can't think. Your brain has shut off completely. Panic numbs every part of you. All you can do, all you can possibly do, is concentrate on the voice of the man who's crouching down beside you. It's like his words have replaced your own thoughts, and like a marionette, you stretch out your arms and dig your fingers into the grass. Which is way easier said than done. You're pretty sure you feel one of your nails break as you try your hardest to find something, anything to hold onto. And then the wind hits.

If you'd thought you'd experienced heavy winds before, you were wrong. So wrong. No vacation in a surfer's town could possibly compare to this.

"Fuck!", you scream, instinctively dropping your head onto the moist grass below. The wind pulls and pulls and pulls at you and you imagine yourself being dragged by it - dragged away, away into certain death. But then an arm wraps around you, and the guy next to you is not next to you anymore but half on top of you, securing you in his arms, holding you close, pressing you to the ground.

"Stay down!", he shouts as you cling to the grass. "I got you."

I got you.

You replay that in your head like a mantra - he's got you, he's got you, he's got you. You're trembling, you're shaking, you're cramping, you're trying to hold onto the ground with all your might as the wind grows and grows and grows and pulls and pulls and pulls at you.

You want to scream. You think you're screaming. But it's so loud. It's deafening, the roar of the wind and the thunder. You can't hear yourself scream.

He can, though. He can. And he tightens his arms around you and repeats "I got you, I got you, I got you". And you believe him. You have to.

You're crying now, you're sure of that. Some part of you hurts. Maybe all of you hurts. You're scared. You're not just scared, you're terrified. It's loud, it's loud and it's everywhere, all around you.

And then suddenly - there's nothing.

It disappears within seconds.

There's no sounds. None. There's silence, deafening silence. Forget the calm before the storm - this is the silence after the tornado.

You take a few shuddering breaths. You're trembling, trembling from head to toes. You're soaked. You're cold.

"Alright, it's gone", the guy says - the guy that's still got his arms wrapped around you, who's still on top of you. "You did it."

He pulls his arm away from you and rolls onto his back next to you. Water sloshes around as he goes.

You don't move an inch.

You can't move.

You're stuck, you're frozen in place. Your fingers are cramped into the dirt and the grass and you're frozen.

The guy sits back up again and reaches out for you. He smooths his hand down your back, surprisingly warm against your ice-cold skin.

"Hey", he says softly. "You're okay. You can get up."

You pry your fingers from the ground one by one, flex your trembling hands and push yourself upright. It takes a few seconds for reality to sink in - you're in a ditch. In a ditch. You're soaked, soaked with muddy ditch water. Your shoes are drenched, your legs splattered with dirt, the hem of your dress soaked in brown. And you're cold. Ice-cold and trembling. And your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your fingers hurt. Three of your nails are cracked.

You're sitting in a ditch in the middle of Oklahoma and you'd just been through a tornado. A fucking ditch in Oklahoma and a tornado.

And a guy, a guy who's brushing his hand down your arm and eyeing you up.

"Alright, let's get you out of here, you're shaking", he says and for the first time, you turn your head and look at him. Actually look at him.

He's tall and he's blonde and he's drenched, too, drenched in that same dirty, muddy water as you. His hands are big, big and pleasantly warm as he grabs softly onto you and carefully maneuvers you towards him.

You don't really remember the next minutes. Not what you're doing, at least. It's a hazy, fuzzy passing of time - you barely remember that you're moving. You're cold and scared and still in shock and somehow, your eyes have locked onto him, onto this guy who you realise probably just saved your fucking life. Because when you come back to reality, he's wrapping a blanket around you - a dry, warm blanket - and the spot where you'd parked your car is empty.

Empty.

"My car", you whisper, staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing. The guy wraps the blanket tighter around you before he looks over his shoulder and glances around.

"Your car's not that important", he reassures, even though his voice is heavy. Heavy and raspy, you realise. He's got a certain Southern twang to it that you hadn't noticed in all the chaos before. "Much more important is that you're alive."

You nod half-heartedly (he's right, some rational part of your brain shouts, while the practical part mourns the shit ton of money you'd just lost) and settle your eyes back on him.

You don't know what it is, exactly, but something about this, something about the warmth of the blanket and the way he's rubbing your arms, something about him, about his voice and his words, slowly peels away the layers and layers of terror that are clinging to your pounding heart.

You swallow hard, reach up to tug the blanket tighter around yourself and shift your focus. Not the car or the tornado or the fact that you're drenched in dirty ditch water - him. This guy in front of you, who's looking you up and down to check if you're hurt. It's easier that way. It's easier to calm down when you're not thinking about any of it. It's easier when you're staring at him, counting to ten, slowly regaining your sanity. And what's suddenly also easier is realising that this guy in front of you is very much easy to look at. Even though his hair sticks to his head, even though his jeans are stained brown. He's what you'd expect as a reference picture next to the word "handsome" in a dictionary.

All of a sudden, you're not as cold anymore. All of a sudden, you're rather flushed. Because if he's drenched and dirty, you must look about the same. And you don't think you want him to see you like that. You'd much rather meet him in a bar or something, when you're dressed up and clean and preferably not terrified.

"Thanks", you get out, a little too quickly as you tighten the blanket further around yourself. "For, uh, for saving my life."

The guy's lips quirk up and he grins, a lopsided, half-cocky grin that makes your heart leap.

"Anytime, sweetheart", he drawls, then reaches up as though he wants to tip his hat - just that he's not wearing one, so instead, he settles for brushing his hand through his hair, just a second too late to seem intentional from the start. "Why were you out here anyway? Half a mile back is a gas station with a basement."

"I didn't-", you start, hesitant to admit just how unprepared you'd been for what had happened. "I didn't know it was a tornado. I thought it was just a bad storm or something, I'm... I'm not from around here."

He nods at you, his lips already parting when you suddenly twitch away from him and sneeze - once, then twice. His grin has dropped by the time you look up at him again and excuse yourself. God, is this embarrassing.

"You need dry clothes before you catch a cold", he says, his eyes travelling down your soaked dress and your bare legs. "I've got a shirt in the trunk, give me a minute."

He walks towards the back of his car and opens up his trunk and you're hit with two thoughts at the same time. The first is more along the lines of goddamn, are his shoulders broad, but the second - arguably the one that should be more important - is why the fuck his car is still standing in the very same spot he'd parked it before the tornado had hit.

Especially when your car is absolutely nowhere to be seen. Your car and all your things inside it. Oh, god-

"Here you go", he says, holding out a dry copy of the shirt he's wearing, red checkered cotton. He's about to go on when you blurt out:

"Sorry, why's your car still... you know, there?"

His lips pull into that impossibly charming grin once more and he points at the underside of the truck.

"Tornado-proof", he explains, just the slightest bit cocky. You follow the invisible line he's drawing to two... what looks like giant screws? twisted into the ground below.

"Oh", you let out, not too intelligently - but really, what are you supposed to say?

He just chuckles and holds the shirt out for you again. You take it carefully, your fingers grazing his. He's so warm, so fucking warm. Meanwhile you're shaking even underneath the blanket he'd given you. Though that's also starting to get soaked.

"You can change in the car if you want", he offers, already pulling open the door to the passenger seat. You don't really have to think hard about it. You're drenched in the middle of nowhere, with no way to get home, and this guy has just saved your life. So you unwrap the blanket and give it back to him with a smile and a thanks.

It's tight and cramped inside the car, even as you roll the seat all the way back. You pry the drenched dress off of your body and only then remember to turn around and check if the guy is watching you (as handsome as he is, he's still a guy). But no, he's turned away, has his hands rested against his hips and is staring intently at the slowly clearing sky.

You turn back with a smile and get rid of your soaked bra, too, before you pull his shirt on over your head.

Damn, it smells good. He smells good. And it's very comfortable, you have to admit. Plus, it's dry, which is most definitely an improvement.

You take a few seconds to consider whether or not to pull off your shorts... but they're drenched, too, and the guy seems respectful enough to not risk a bladder infection for. So you take your shoes off, and your socks, and your shorts. And then you crack open the car door again and knock softly against the window.

"I'm done", you call out, loud enough that he can hear. He turns back and his eyes drag down your body - or what of it he can see through the open door - and even though he looks right back up at your face, you can't help but feel flustered. You ball your wet clothes up in your hands nervously.

"Alright then", he says, takes a step closer and reaches for the door handle. "You said you're not from around here, where were you driving?"

Ah, right, that part.

Honestly, with so much happening in so few minutes, you'd about blocked out everything else. Everything normal.

"My parents, uh-", you start, trailing off when you realise that's not much help for him. "About three, four hours from here."

"That's quite a drive", he chuckles. "I live maybe half an hour from here, how about I take you with me so you can eat and drink something? Maybe you can borrow a pair of Lilly's pants. And you could phone your parents."

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a second too long to even understand all of what he's saying before taking another second too long to sort how you'll respond. Then you start with what you find most important.

"I've got my phone", you tell him, pulling it out from where you'd just deposited it in the centre console. "I had it in my pocket."

You'd taken it with you more reflexively than consciously when you'd stumbled out of your car - but truly, what self-respecting adult didn't take their phone with them when they left anywhere?

The guy just raises his eyebrows and glances at your phone.

"And it still works?", he asks, a little incredulously.

"Yep", you smile - for the first time, you realise, since the tornado. "It's waterproof."

More because you'd been scared you'd drop the love of your life into the pool or the ocean on vacation, but a tornado in the middle of Oklahoma worked as well. At least you now knew you'd spent your money wisely.

"Smart", he grins. You can't help but grin right back.

He's charming and he's respectful and he looks so goddamn good.

"Who's Lilly?", you ask then, because that had been the second thing you'd wanted to say. He hesitates for a half a moment.

"A friend", he says. You squint at him. He doesn't look like he's lying, but he does look like there's something you don't know about. God, if he turns out to be a cheater- "I'll introduce you if you'd like."

You raise your eyebrows. Alright, so not a cheater. And, if you're interpreting correctly, another invitation to come with him. Not that you'd been about to refuse the first one.

"Sure", you say, as casually as you can. "I didn't really feel like standing around half-naked on the street anyway."

...

A few minutes later, he's driving his weird car/truck with the screws on the bottom down the empty highway. Though 'empty' is the wrong description, really - here and there, trees, road signs and utility poles are scattered on the pavement.

You're driving in silence. Well, silence as in neither of you talks, not as in actual silence. Alongside the motor, the radio had turned on, playing one country song after the other.

"You never told me your name", the guy says suddenly. The very much stranger, who's very much right - you'd never told him your name.

"You never told me yours", you counter, because that's also the truth. He'd never told you his name. You knew his friend's name, but not his.

"Didn't think I'd have to", he mutters under his breath, so quietly you barely catch it. "It's Tyler. Tyler Owens?"

He says it like it's a question. You don't know why. So instead you just answer with your own name and Tyler, as you'd come to know, repeats it with a smile on his lips.

God, you don't think it's ever sounded that good.

"Pretty name", he says, all casual like that doesn't get your heart racing again. Pretty. He'd called you pretty. Almost unconsciously, you brush your hands through your hair.

"Thank you", you mutter. As if to distract yourself, you add: "So, Tyler, what do you do?"

...

Exactly half an hour later, Tyler takes your hand in his and helps you out of his car. His house - the one he's sharing with Lilly, you'd found out, with Lilly and the rest of his Tornado Wranglers - is big and inviting. It's a little way off from any other houses, which you personally think is quite nice. Not that you say that, though.

Tyler walks you inside without having to unlock the door. He takes two steps, then he calls out "Guys, we've got a guest", which immediately results in a surprised shout of "whoops" and the sound of a set of feet scurrying up the stairs. Tyler has barely pulled off his shoes (after politely asking you to wait just a second) when a head pops through the doorframe at the end of the hallway.

"Boone was naked", the woman grins before settling her eyes on you and throwing you a wave. "Hey there, I'm Lilly."

She glances down at your bare legs.

"A little cold there?", she asks and even though her words are sarcastic, her voice is anything but.

"A little", you answer truthfully, smiling at her as she steps out into the hallway.

"You want a pair of pants?", she asks, seemingly without giving a single thought to who you are or why you're standing half-naked in her hallway.

You glance at Tyler, but he's grinning and only shrugs at you, so you turn back to Lilly and nod at her. She seems sweet, really sweet, and very kind. She takes you with her to her room (up two sets of stairs, the fucking house has three floors and a basement) and shows you her closet, the very definition of unbothered even as you nervously rummage through her clothes.

"Hey, you can take a shirt too, if you want", she says, flopping down onto her bed and rolling onto her side to look at you.

"Oh", you let out and glance down at the shirt you're wearing - Tyler's shirt, that very country, checkered shirt that's way too big for you. "I'm fine, thanks."

Honestly, if it were up to you, you would never wear anything else ever again. Tyler's shirt is soft and comfortable and - most importantly - it smells like him. You really just want to tug the hem up to your nose and breathe in his scent (but that would be weird, so you don't).

"Alright", Lilly drawls. "Your choice."

...

Lilly shows you the bathroom, gives you the wifi password and tells you to come down whenever you feel like it. You realise half a second too late that you haven't told her your name yet and crack open the bathroom door to call out for her.

Honestly, you like her. You really like her. And you really like Tyler, too. He's handsome and he smells good and he's respectful and he's nice and he saved your fucking life today. You don't even want to think about what would have happened to you if he hadn't driven by.

In the bathroom is the first time you can really breathe. You throw some water at your face and blowdry your hair. Ten minutes later, you're walking down the stairs into the hallway again - this time, when you stroll through there, you're wearing comfortable pants, fuzzy socks and take your time to look around.

You'd already called your parents back in the car with Tyler. They'd been about as shocked as you'd expected, had needed a few minutes to even understand just what you were telling them, but then they'd offered to come pick you up immediately. Tyler had provided them his address and now here you are - knocking at the open door to the kitchen, where all of the Tornado Wranglers sit around the table. All of them, except for Tyler, who's leaning against the countertop and looks up at you with a grin when you step in.

"Hey there", he drawls, his eyes raking down your body once more today - you've tucked his shirt into Lilly's pants and you could swear his eyes linger on your waist. "Warm and dry?"

"Very", you grin back, then nod at Lilly. "Thanks again."

She shakes her head and waves you off.

"Hey, no big deal. Do you want some pasta?"

...

It's comfortable there, in the kitchen of these strangers who are feeding you pasta and lending you clothes. You've settled onto the countertop next to Tyler and now and then, when you're dangling your feet or he's taking a bite, your legs graze his arm. He's changed into dry clothes too, you realise as you brush against him for the first time, and he's even warmer now than before.

"Tyler's told us all about you", Boone says after a few minutes of easy conversation. You raise your eyebrows and turn your head, staring at Tyler from the side.

"Has he?", you ask, because you hadn't even told him enough about yourself to warrant any use of the word 'all'. Sure, you'd talked on the ride here - but mostly about him, because - as it had turned out - what Tyler Owens did wasn't a normal job like doctor or lawyer, but instead professional Tornado Wrangler. Which, of course, had then dominated the conversation for the rest of the drive.

"Yeah, like how you were driving to you parents and didn't know what to do in a tornado so you just kept on driving", Boone grins, scraping the rest of his pasta off his plate. "And how he made you go in that ditch and-"

"Alright, shut up, Boone", Tyler interrupts, even though there's no real malice behind his words. "She knows the story. She's in it."

"I'm just saying", Boone goes on, entirely undeterred as he puts his now empty plate down on the kitchen table. "If you'd filmed that, it would go viral for sure."

You have to snort at that.

"Yeah, because of all the indecent exposure."

...

When your mother rings the doorbell three hours later, you're in the middle of the second round of a boardgame Dexter had pulled from a drawer. You'd been paired with Tyler for the first round and - somehow not surprisingly - that had worked quite well. You'd won just so against Dexter and Dani (Lilly and Boone hadn't been too much competition) and Dani's "We never get to play this right 'cuz we're always five people" after Tyler had high-fived you with a victorious cheer had warmed your heart. At least they'd enjoyed themselves - at least you hadn't been a burden.

"I call dibs on her", Lilly had declared when the second round had begun, so Tyler had teamed up with Boone instead.

"Oh, oh, botany!", you call out, just as the doorbell finally rings. Lilly jumps up and high-fives you.

"How in the hell did you guess that?", Dani asks, sounding all but exasperated at this point as Tyler pushes out of his seat and walks towards the front door. You shrug.

"Pure talent", you joke, then you climb off the couch as well. "Alright, it was so nice meeting you all, but I think my taxi's out front."

They all hug you goodbye and tell you to come around again anytime - Boone even hands you one of those t-shirts Tyler had told you about in the car. You can hardly hold back a snort. Though Tyler had told you about the shirts existing, yes, he must have accidentally forgotten to mention that his goddamn face is printed on them, paired with the very... comedic phrase "Not My First Tornadeo".

You thread through the hallway with the shirt and your phone in your hands, only to be hit with the sight of Tyler hugging your mother on the doorstep. Or your mother hugging Tyler, more like. Either way, you're suddenly frozen in place.

But then your mother opens her eyes and sees you standing there and she lets go of Tyler with a sharp cry to come running at you instead. She throws her arms around you with so much vigor you're almost knocked off your feet. You meet Tyler's eyes over her shoulder - crinkled with lines of laughter as he smiles at you. Your eyes dart away again just as quickly.

"It's fine, mom, I'm okay", you reassure.

"Yeah, thanks to Tyler", she mutters into your hair. "I already told him we'll pay him whatever he wants for saving our daughter."

"And I already said I don't want any money", Tyler clarifies.

...

The next morning, you wake up comfortably late in a warm bed. You walk down the stairs in fuzzy socks and start the day with a simple cup of tea.

A simple cup of tea and Tyler Owens' YouTube channel.

You'd looked him and his Tornado Wranglers up the very second you'd sat down in your mother's car. Then you'd subscribed to every channel you could find. And then... you'd kind of got obsessed. You'd watched so many of their videos that by one am, you'd simply fallen asleep to one of them.

"Aunt May's gonna be here in half an hour", your mother informs you casually, a stack of plates in her hands as she rummages around in the kitchen. You're still sitting at the table in your pajamas, a spoonful of cereal in your mouth, your phone propped up against a water bottle in front of you, playing a Tornado Wranglers video from a year ago.

"Seriously?", you get out, chewing on your cereal before you can swallow it down. "Mom, I still have to shower and get ready and all."

She throws you one of those eyebrows-raised glances that immediately let you know she's judging you for something.

"We only let you sleep this long because you almost died yesterday", she says matter-of-factly, then she eyes your phone. "And if you weren't watching Tyler's videos so obsessively, you would be done by now."

"Really, mom?"

You let out a resigned sigh. She only shrugs and grins at you. She's a little bit right, anyway.

"He's good-looking, I get it", she says, then she strolls out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself while you curse at her. He is good-looking, fuck this. You need to get it together before the rest of your extended family arrives.

...

The doorbell rings for the umpteenth time that day, just as you step out of the bathroom and smooth down the front of the red-checkered shirt you're wearing. You call some version of "I got it", down the hallway, not too sure if anyone even hears - they're all in the backyard anyway. Then you open the door with a smile on your face, a smile that instantly pulls into a wide grin when you see just who's standing there.

Because it's not another aunt or uncle or cousin. It's no one in your family, not even close.

It's Tyler.

Tyler Owens.

"Hi", he says. Just that. Hi.

You lean against the open door and cross your arms. Your grin only grows.

"Hi", you echo.

His eyes rake down your body and it seems like whatever he'd wanted to say gets stuck in his throat as he realises that the shirt you're wearing isn't your shirt, really. You can't help but bite down on your lip.

Look, you hadn't expected this. You hadn't expected him. None of this was a scheme or a plan or anything even close. You'd just seen it lying there this morning, right next to Lilly's pants on your desk, and you hadn't been able to help yourself. It smelled so fucking good.

"Nice shirt", he grins, eyes snapping back up to yours.

"Thanks", you grin back. "I got it from this guy after he saved me from dying in a tornado yesterday."

Tyler chuckles.

"Seems like a great guy."

"So great", you agree. "Even though he prints his face on t-shirts."

Tyler is just about to retort something - all toothy grins and laughter lines - when your mother calls out his name, very obviously pleasantly surprised as she comes down the hallway. She smiles at him, big and wide.

"What are you doing here?", she asks, stopping next to you to ask the very question that had been on the tip of your tongue too when you'd opened up the door.

"Oh, I'm just bringing these back", he says and holds up his hand to show a stack of neatly folded clothes with your bra right on top. You have to bite down on your cheeks to stop from outright grinning.

Okay, so even if wearing his shirt hadn't been a scheme, and even if you hadn't expected to see him... You might just have done something to ensure you would see him again. But hey, he's about the most handsome man you've ever laid your eyes on, you'd be damned if you'd have to watch him on the screen of your phone for the rest of your life. So yeah, you may have accidentally 'forgotten' your wet clothes in his bathroom after you'd hung them over the heater to dry. You just hadn't thought he'd find them so quickly.

"And you drove four hours for that?", your mother asks, more baffled than you are. Tyler only shrugs. Your mother reaches out for your clothes, grabs them from him and puts them on the cupboard in the hallway. Then she looks at him.

"You're coming in, yes? We're having barbecue now and cake in a bit. I'm not letting you drive four hours here just to deliver her clothes."

...

Twenty minutes later is when you get Tyler alone for the first time. Your mother has schlepped him with you through the whole garden and introduced him to every single person there - "He's the guy who saved her yesterday!" (because, obviously, your story had been about the only topic anyone had talked about so far) - your father first and foremost, who hugs Tyler so tightly that for a moment you're afraid he'll break him.

You catch up with Tyler just as he finishes loading his plate with food, finally on his own after your mother has excused herself to go cut up more bread.

"How'd you find me?", you ask, sipping at your ice-cold coke and eyeing him up. It's the one question that had been burning in your mind for the past twenty minutes. How in the hell had he managed to find you? It's not like you'd left a note with your address next to your clothes (though in hindsight, you don't remember how you'd meant for him to bring them back to you).

He looks almost bashful for a second.

"Boone noticed you'd followed our account", he explains then. "He figured out your last name from your handle and searched the phone book of the city on your mom's license plate. And then he read out all the names until I recognised your mom's because she'd introduced herself to me yesterday."

Your eyebrows raise, further and further the more he speaks. You swallow. Silence falls for a second, then two.

"You know, some people would call that creepy", you say, but your lips tug up into an involuntary grin that gives away more quickly than you'd wanted that you aren't one of those people. Tyler grins right back at you.

"Personally I think it would've been more creepy if I'd kept your bra."

...

It's 9:20 when your mother comes over. You've long since switched from barbecue to cake, then to snacks. Your feet are tucked underneath Tyler's legs, propped up against the side of his garden chair and he's running his fingers up and down your calves.

You'd spent the afternoon chatting away and laughing, barely talking to anyone but him. Your 'family get-together' had turned into more of a date. You certainly aren't about to complain, though.

"Tyler, you're staying the night, right?", your mother asks, a fresh plate of chips in her hands that she puts next to the almost empty one on the table in front of you.

"I don't want to overstay my welcome", he says, all gentlemanly even as your mother rests her hands against her hips and stares him down.

"Young man, you're welcome in this house any time, for however long. I'm not letting you drive home four hours. You're staying the night." Then she points at you. "She's still got a couch in her room that you can sleep on. I'd offer you a guest room, but half the family's staying here and we're already out of air mattresses."

So an hour later, you're rummaging about your room, picking up clothes off the couch and stuffing them in your closet to make room for Tyler. He's leaning against your doorway, looking around, taking in the mess that is your childhood bedroom.

"Nice posters", he says, and you throw him a look over your shoulder that could be deadly. He's grinning all sarcastic, only chuckling as his eyes meet yours. "You could put up one of my shirts here."

You have to snort at that and before you can even really think about it, you've pulled the shirt Boone had given you yesterday from where you'd put it down on your desk. You throw it at him carelessly and he catches it with no effort at all, which - paired with that fucking grin - shouldn't be as attractive as it turns out to be.

"Knock yourself out", you say, then you turn back around to your closet and tug out bedsheets for him. "My old poster glue should be in one of the desk drawers."

You don't think he'll seriously do it, but you seem to have misjudged him. Badly. Because he gets to work immediately.

You watch him for a few stunned seconds before you decide to just leave him to it. So while you turn the couch into a makeshift bed for him, he glues that goddamn "Not My First Tornadeo" shirt to your wall.

"Fits perfectly if you ask me", he declares eventually, barely concealing the amusement dripping from his words. You smooth down his sheets before you look up at your wall. He's put the shirt up in one of the few empty spots, right between your Maroon 5 and Destiny's Child posters.

"Yeah", you snort. "Perfectly."

You give him a toothbrush and let him use your bathroom. While he's gone, you change into your pajamas, fold his shirt carefully and put it on a pile with Lilly's pants and her socks. Honestly, a little part of you already mourns the loss of it - but another part of you already has hope for another shirt. Maybe in a different context.

"What're you doing?", Tyler asks, shutting the bathroom door behind him. You don't look up as you fold the other clothes you'd thrown onto your desk yesterday.

"I put Lilly's things and your shirt there, you can take it back tomorrow", you explain, starting a second pile of your own clothes next to his.

"Keep my shirt", he says. That finally makes you look up at him.

Which isn't a good idea. Not at all. Because he's standing there in nothing but his briefs and good fucking lord-

You'd known he's handsome. You'd known he's broad. But you hadn't known he's fucking ripped. You shouldn't stare. You're very aware. You definitely shouldn't stare. It's incredibly rude to stare. It's very inappropriate to stare. But goddamn, this man is built so perfectly god himself must be jealous.

You have to forcibly blink yourself back to reality. You're definitely red in the face when you finally manage to meet his eyes again. And he's raised his eyebrows in a way that tells you he's reading your every emotion right off your face.

"Sorry, come again?", you croak out, brushing your hand through your hair and realising just a second too late that your eyes have travelled down too far again.

"I said you should keep my shirt", he repeats, a very, very obvious grin on his lips. "It looks better on you."

"Okay", you agree, a little too quickly. The heat in your cheeks comes from more than just the half-naked view of him now. He thinks his shirt looks better on you. You don't even care if that's a line. "I'll... I'll go brush my teeth real quick."

When you come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Tyler has made himself comfortable on your couch. It's a little too small for him, you realise, but he doesn't seem bothered. He's pulled the covers up to his hips - you can still stare at his chest, to your delight. And he's put one hand under his head, flexing his bicep in a way that has you hurrying over to your own bed so you won't jump him right then and there.

"Alright, goodnight, Tyler", you breathe, adjusting your pillow and wrapping your blanket around your body as if grabbing at it will somehow ground you.

"Goodnight", he echoes, and then you turn off the light.

It's quiet. The only noise is the laughter of your family a floor below, all settling into bed themselves. It's quiet and it's dark.

And you're staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing.

Oh, god. He's so fucking hot. He's so fucking hot you want to throw yourself out of the window. He's so fucking hot and he's on your fucking couch, barely ten feet from you. He's so fucking hot and he'd driven four hours here just to bring your clothes.

"Tyler", you say, barely two minutes after you'd turned the light off. He hums in response - still awake. You don't know what you'd expected. "Thanks again. For, you know, for everything."

"Anytime", he replies, and even though you can't see his grin, you imagine you can hear it. You nod into your pillow. Then silence falls again.

It lasts maybe another two minutes.

"Your family's nice", he says then. You can't help but smile.

"Thanks", you mutter.

"I like your mother", he says. Your smile only grows. You turn onto your back and stare at the dark ceiling.

"She likes you too."

It's the truth.

Tyler stays quiet. You don't even try to close your eyes this time - you can hear him breathe, deep and relaxed. It's calming. You're sure it could lull you to sleep. If you were anywhere near tired, that is. This way, you just blink at black nothingness.

"Were you really a Destiny's Child fan?", Tyler asks eventually, his sheets rustling.

"Yep", you say.

That's it for that conversation.

You don't know what it is, the darkness or the silence, but something pushes on your chest and weighs you down, warming your skin as it settles on your body. It's a tension, thick and heavy, one that had grown with every scrap of conversation.

"You know-", he starts again, but this time, you've got enough.

"Tyler", you interrupt, turning onto your side and pulling your covers with you. "Get up here."

You can't see him as he throws his bedsheets off himself, can't watch as he heaves himself up, can't look at him as he strides over to your bed - but you hear the rustling of his covers, you hear the couch creaking, you hear his steps on the floorboards. And you feel the mattress dipping when he finally sets his knees on your bed.

You don't wait until he's actually in there. You don't think you could possibly wait until he is. You just push yourself up, grab onto the first part of him you can get your hands on (his shoulders), cup his face in your palms and pull him into you.

Right into your kiss.

Tyler Owens kisses you for the first time in the darkness of your childhood bedroom. For the second time in the morning light in your bed. For the third time in your parent's kitchen, right as your mother walks in. For the fourth time in his truck, after your parents all but throw you out of their house and force you to go home with him. For the fifth time in front of his own house, where his crew watches through the window.

And after that, Tyler Owens loses count of just how often he kisses you. Because he kisses you every day for the rest of his life.

#x reader #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens #twisters #tyler owens twisters #twisters 2024 #twisters x reader

6K notes · View notes

k-hotchoisan · 1 year ago

Note

hiiiii <333 I have lovedddd lovvvveeeddd alll of your works I actually spent my day reading each and everyone of them I love it so muchhh!! 😭❤️

I have a request teehee, could you write one where Sannie is like a professor in your college and there’s little teasing here and there and where he ends up having her alas!! DOM - SAN ‼️💋

his favourite

<prof!san x fem!reader>

Prof Choi likes playing favourites.

You’re his favourite.

Genres/Warnings: smut, dom professor Choi San, pwp, face fucking, unprotected sex, oral (m receive) ,mutual pining, age gap, size kink, cream pies, mild jealousy plot, sir kink, light bondage (just tying up reader) teasing, sexual tension, teaching assistantxteacher obv forbidden but we still eat it up anyway!

Word count: 12.3K

a/n: happy birthday to the man of my dreams </3 enjoy this little choi san birthday treat. i put my love into this so please love this as much as i did! and thank you @bro-atz for the tidbits of help as always 🩷

apply for taglist here!

You stare at the laptop screen, scanning through your details on the application form, double, and triple checking that everything was filled in correctly.

“Which professors are you trying as a teaching assistant for?” Your roommate asks, her neck craning over to see you attaching the file to six different emails, to six different professors within the department, pretty much answering her question the moment she reads off each professor’s email.

“Why not try for the department chair?”

You scrunch your eyebrows as if it’s the first time you’re hearing that.

“Who?”

“Professor Choi?”

Your eyes widen, your neck almost getting whiplash from how fast you turned to your roommate at the sound of his name.

“Why the fuck would I try him?”

Your roommate shrugs in an attempt to hide her amused reaction from your reaction at his name.

“Who knows? I’m confident he remembers you even though you spent only one semester with him”, she hums turning away to pour herself another ice drink from the pitcher. “On a serious note, you may as well just get all the help you can get. Besides, what are the chances that Prof Choi sees your email? He’s the department chair. I’m sure his mailbox is just flooded anyway.”

True, you think to yourself, turning your head back to your laptop, and adding the professor’s email address in. But you still hesitate, staring at the application form, your cursor hovering over the send button. Your roommate looks over at you, and she decides that your wishy-washy behaviour is just being the biggest nuisance on earth, so her hand flies over yours and helps you to press send, and she watches you freak out at her while she giggles and escapes after committing her crime, chasing your roommate around the kitchen island for a good seven minutes.

Settling back down in defeat, you sigh in your hands, giving yourself pep talks.

Right.

The chances are close to zero that Prof Choi will see my application anyway.

The chances of him remembering me are close to zero anyway.

You shut your laptop, and the applications are completely erased from your mind.

“Yo, check your emails, babe. The application results are out for me”, your roommate says, her eyes glued to her laptop screen.

You settle yourself down across her, a chilled drink in your hand, pulling up your email inbox. As you expected, you see the subject headline ‘Teaching Assistant Application Results’, and you expand the email.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me”, you mutter, loud enough for your roommate to hear. Her head pops out from behind her screen.

“Who did you get?”

“Choi San.”

Professor Choi San. His classes weren’t the bane of your existence—but he, himself was.

And the fact that it only took one semester to solidify that claim. Almost everyone wanted to get into his class, so fucking many of them just squealing over how he looked almost god-like. You wonder how much of a swoon he would be, how much of the rumours that travelled down the stream were factual, though with thousands of students constantly fighting for a spot in his class, you sure were coloured surprised when you landed a spot in Professor Choi’s class.

The moment he walked in, the whispers within the confines of the lecture hall erupted into gasps and squeals. Unfortunately, the rumours were right—the moment ProfessorChoi walked in, it was as if your eyes naturally followed his movement—confident strides in his steps dictated by his outfit—a simple dress shirt under a dark gray vest that accentuated his wide shoulders and skinny waist.

He was so fucking handsome—his hair neatly slicked back, frameless glasses sat on his nose bridge, his sharp and small eyes hiding behind the lens. Undoubtedly, seeds of infatuation began lodging themselves in you. Well, it’s not like you had a chance with him anyway, especially when the gold band reflected from his ring finger being a huge indicator. Maybe keeping him as an eye candy would work out just fine.

Prof Choi’s classes were interesting, and he as a professor, other than being a distraction during the majority of his classes, held his credentials. However, at times, some sarcastic comments would bubble to the surface, and even though he did tend to commend top-scoring students for tests, he still maintained professionalism for the most part—the content taught wasn’t rocket science anyway. You saw yourself being able to breeze through the syllabus for the most part until you received your grade for one of your essays. You stared at his comments, marked in red lines, circles, and words—tone cold and direct—not that you weren’t used to it, but this time? You felt his comments alongside him marking you down were completely unjustified.

It was then that you pushed past the group of girls who would stay back after class to shamelessly flirt with him, under the guise of wanting to discuss more about the content taught that day, and you stood before the group, asking to speak to Prof Choi personally. Prof Choi did have people staying back after class to consult with him about grades, although they would stay shortly with him staying stern to his marking rubrics, but when he realised you weren’t backing down on top of the way you approached him so directly, it intrigued him.

His office was spacious, considering that he was the department chair—and without introductions, he had you dive in immediately in consultation.

You wasted no time, flipping through the spent pages of your essay, pointing out areas where you felt his comments were unjustified. Prof Choi listened, and he refuted your points, some of which you decided to accept but not for one particular part;

“This part had no proper scientific support of your argument for this point-“

“Bullshit”, you cut him off. Prof Choi blinked, shocked at the blunt cut from you. His eyebrows were scrunched in confusion next, wondering if he heard right that a student not only just cut him off, but cussed at him.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s here. A small significance value is still something isn’t it?” You replied, pointing at the paragraph after. He glanced at the paper once more, forcing himself to focus while you fought back that your argument was supported.

So you made Prof Choi sit before you and listen to your elaborations, and needless to say, he was rather impressed, although he had to hold his expression neutral.

You came out of the consultation victorious—the day Prof Choi called you over after his class again, handing you your script, and you saw your total marks shooting up to a gorgeous score. Your head was so into the clouds that you returned a smirk along with a shrug—showing off your victory and satisfaction as your thanks—an I told you so, leaving the professor to stare after you in awe while you practically skipped to your seat.

That sealed your fate.

From then on, Prof Choi would have his attention on you—recognising which seat you picked to sit in in class, wondering why you hadn’t dared sit nearer. And when it came to picking people to answer questions, his gaze would fly to you immediately—either waiting to call you out once you raised your hand or simply calling you when he felt like it. For some sick reason, he finds the way your face scrunches up in stress when he calls your name in his honey-soaked voice amusing, and even adorable at times, though he would never admit it. But oh, did he love the comments and answers you would give him.

Despite that assignment being the only one where you decided to consult Prof Choi, following every grade release of an assignment, he would single you out, especially after class, to fucking ask if you had questions regarding said assignment, which honestly started to freak you out—mostly because he never gave you the attention before, and you weren’t used to it. The whispering gossip in the class about you being the teacher’s pet slowly reached your ears too, and even Prof Choi heard it—and he only exacerbated that rumours by constantly giving you his attention.

Every time you reached your dorm, the words that left your mouth which your roommate could recite verbatim, “I swear to god, Prof Choi has it out for me!”

Not to mention you were fucking relieved when the last day of his class rolled around, but unfortunately, his parting words to you were, “I’m sure I’ll see you around, y/n”. You did everything in your power to avoid getting into his class and even bumping into him, which seemed to work swell.

Until now that is.

Now here you are again, standing before the familiar heavy wooden door, staring up at the wooden plate, embossed with gold lettering “Department Chair Choi San” staring right at you. You had to physically drag yourself off your bed to prepare for the first day partnered with Prof Choi. And when your roommate’s words of “oh come on, he can’t be that bad. He’s hot!”, echoed through your ears, it all the more made you want to just ditch your first day by clawing your eyeballs out.

You had to collect yourself before Prof Choi collected you.

With a raised knuckle, you rap against the door, taking deep inhales in the process. His voice, which sounded deceivingly like honey, remained the same as you remembered.

“Come in.”

You pause for a moment, embracing yourself before holding onto to doorknob and pushing his door open.

There he was, Professor Choi, his eyes focused on the scripts on his desk, which had piled up. His space remained the same as you remembered, for the most part—shelves littered with awards and files, the same desktop taking up one-quarter of his huge ass desk, and the couch with the coffee table left to the side of the room. Prof Choi wore a stern look of concentration on his face, still preoccupied with finishing up marking his scripts.

When his pen pauses and his gaze shifts towards the door, a small smile spreads across his face. He lifts his head and drops his pen, interlocking his fingers on his desk with growing amusement when his eyes meet yours.

Fuck, he’s still so handsome.

“Professor Choi”, you greet, holding your expression neutral as you bow, forcing yourself not to fidget with your tote bag.

“Y/n!” Prof Choi greets almost too enthusiastically. “I would assume you would be more than delighted when I picked you to be my teaching assistant.”

“Honoured, almost”, you reply. It’s taking all of your energy not to break his gaze. He’s staring at you with unreadable eyes, and you’re wondering if the fluttering in your chest is from the anxiety or the way Prof Choi is staring at you.

Prof Choi laughs, and it tickles your ears a little too good.

“Sit. We have a lot to go through today”, he gestures to the seat before him, and you take it.

He switches on his monitor to his course syllabus and turns the monitor slightly towards you.

“Oh, before we begin, it’s a pleasure meeting you again, y/n.”

Oh boy, was being Prof Choi’s teaching assistant a fucking handful. You knew it was gonna be rough, but to be assisting Professor Choi San? He was on another level—his schedule would be filled to the brim with meetings with the faculty on top of conducting classes weekly. You struggled in your first month, learning the ropes, especially from a busy and challenging professor like him. He wasn’t mean or cold at all, on the contrary, more direct and meticulous. Well, he had to be, considering his position. Nonetheless, it felt like he was always too busy to attend to your questions sometimes, and that would leave you to your own devices.

You stand in the aisle, looking down at the assortment of foods lined up in the chiller. Has Prof eaten yet? Does he even eat? What does he even eat? By instinct, you pull out your phone and open his chat.

[you]: Hi Prof. Have you eaten? I’m at the convenience store near the campus. I could grab something quick for you.

A couple of minutes go by, but your phone doesn’t receive a ping, and you had to reach the office soon. So you pick up another tuna rice ball for the professor alongside yours before making a beeline for the cashier.

Prof Choi hears the knock on his door and as usual, he utters his usual “come in”. His gaze lands on you, and he glances at the clock.

“You’re on time today”, he points out.

You furrow your eyebrows, confused. “I’m always on time, Professor.”

“You’re usually in a little earlier.”

“Right, because I got you this”, you reply, rustling through the plastic bag in your hands, fishing out the rice ball.

He looks up at you, confusion hinted in his expression. He doesn’t take the food yet.

“What’s this?”

“Tuna rice ball. Surely only having coffee in the morning is not filling your stomach.”

You put the food in front of him. “Besides, I messaged you but you didn’t reply. So I just chose something safe. Unless you’re telling me you’re allergic to tuna or something.”

Prof Choi blinks. His hands reach out to take the snack from the desk, unwrapping the plastic packaging as he watches you leave his office to grab a mug of coffee. He glances over at his phone, and sure enough, your name is there with your message.

Since then, his reply would pop up in mere minutes whenever you asked him if he wanted anything to eat.

Of course, the more you spent time with him, the more you grew comfortable, and all the thoughts you ever stressed about slowly faded off. Prof Choi grew more relaxed around you, internally grateful that you’re able to tank a significant fraction of his workload for him. Undoubtedly, you also come to realise that Prof Choi is human after all—he obviously would make mistakes, even as someone of his caliber, and deep inside, you found it rather cute, well, until you had to stop yourself from developing deranged thoughts.

Not to mention, another problem seemed to pop up—his flirty banter. He likely picked up that it made you flustered sometimes, and since then, he wouldn’t let it go, relishing at the way pink creeps up your cheeks when he would say something that wasn’t like his ‘professor-self’, and at worst, feeding into your crooked thoughts.

You stare at him as he types away, particularly, the metal band around his ring finger. You wonder who was the lucky lady who had the chance to be with him. You blink.

What the hell were you thinking?

“It’s rude to stare, you know”, Prof Choi’s voice snapping you out of your daydreams.

“I’m just wondering about your ring, that’s all”, you reply, forcing your attention back to your half-marked assignments.

“I’m not actually married”, he suddenly confesses, and for some reason, it makes your heart beat slightly faster.

“Huh?” Is all you manage to reply.

Prof Choi chuckles. He pauses his work on the desktop, turning his attention to you. Even though you have worked so closely with him for a while already, you can never seem to find your composure around him.

Even though you see his face every week, you can’t seem to wrap your head around how insanely good-looking he is, how sometimes you struggle to maintain eye contact with him, because it doesn’t take long before you feel yourself slowly flushing.

“I wear it on my ring finger so the students stop asking about my marital status”, Prof Choi clarifies. You watch him pull the ring from his ring finger and fit it over his index.

“So you’re single”, you echo.

He nods, “I’m single.”

What is this strange feeling of relief?

“What about you?” He suddenly asks. You’re not looking directly at him, and you don’t realise the way he’s looking at you attentively. And if you do, you just might combust.

“I’m…single too”, you answer, trying to meet his gaze, fidgeting with the red pen in between your fingers.

“And why’s that? Too busy fighting with your professors for grades?”

You glare at him.

“I think it was my professor picking fights with me”, you reply quickly, jabbing right back at him.

You watch Prof Choi lower his gaze, a smile spreading across his cheeks—an actual smile—his dimples showing up. Oh fuck. Just when you thought you could depend on your ribcage to contain your heart properly, you found out Prof Choi could actually smile.

When he looks up at you again, you break the eye contact, your gaze flying back to the papers before you.

“You know, I’ve met many students, but you were the first to cuss out at me.”

You did? “I did?”

Your professor nods, cocking his eyebrow at the way you had seemed to have simply forgotten something as eventful as that.

This time, Professor Choi bursts into a chuckle, completely amused by your reaction.

“Is that why you kept-“

“Giving you chances to answer in class for credit? You should really thank me for that. Your grade for my class was one of the highest you know.”

You feel your cheeks flush. But before you can retaliate, Prof Choi cuts you off.

“Jokes aside, no. I think the discussion we had that afternoon had an impression on me. The cherry on top was you cussing at me. I liked that. Refreshing and endearing”, Prof Choi continues, his attention seeping back to the pile of scripts before him.

“I think this side of Professor is pretty refreshing and endearing too”, you let it slip.

His pen pauses in mid-air. You don’t catch his gaze completely softening on you.

As the semester continues on, you began easing into the class schedules. You watch prof get swarmed by a group of students, a usual ritual that happens right when the class ends. At this point, you had grown used to it. Sometimes the students would come and approach you instead, which honestly surprised you, but your heart would feel warm, knowing that these students trusted you.

It was then you became acquainted with another teaching assistant under Prof Choi, who joined shortly after you did—Choi Jongho. Initially, he came off as a rather shy individual, but the both of you warmed up quickly with each other, sharing the workload and bonding over gossip with each other. Gosh, was he fucking amazing with gossip, especially when it came to Professor Choi. Soon enough, the both of you were texting almost on a regular basis, the conversations weighing more towards academic topics sprinkled with a little gossip.

“You’re going off with Choi Jongho?”

“Yeah”, you reply, bunching the papers in your hands. “I’ve got some things to discuss with him about.” Partially true.

For some reason, even though your professor has been completely swamped with papers to grade and meetings to attend, you would always find him loitering around your desk from time to time. He seems to especially enjoy doing that when you’re around.

“You’ve been spending an awfully lot amount of time with him”, Prof Choi points out, looking over your shoulder as he watches you scribble on another student’s paper.

“Yeah, we get along well actually. Isn’t that a good thing, Prof? Both your teaching assistants are besties.”

For some reason, that makes Prof Choi frown, but you’re too absorbed in your work to notice it.

A couple of minutes go by, and you still feel his presence, not that you mind, but you’re starting to find it peculiar that he’s been hanging around your desk a lot recently.

“Do you have something to discuss with me, prof?” You ask, eyes still glued to the paper.

“Yes”, he replies, taking another sip from his mug. “What do you think of Choi Jongho?”

Such a random question to ask, you think. Maybe he’s just making sure you and Jongho get along well?

You pause, giving yourself to think, tapping the back of the red pen against your bottom lip, taken aback by Prof Choi’s sudden question, but the conversations you and Jongho had resurfacing into your brain, and a giggle escapes you, which makes Professor Choi subconsciously narrow his eyes and furrow his brows.

“He’s fun to be around, and despite how he looks, he’s actually got a wicked sense of humor. Oh god, wait. Let me tell you what you he did that day while we were having lunch together-“

You turn your head to continue to run your mouth, only to slowly trail off when realise his face is just inches from yours, and you swear your heart is on a treadmill from the lack of distance between you and Prof Choi. It’s as if time paused, the both of you sinking right into each other’s gazes. You can’t help but notice how intense his gaze is, and you can’t seem to decipher his thoughts, but from the way this situation played out, you swore he’d just lean in and kiss you.

Your heartbeat accelerates at the thought—why would he do that?

And when his fingers are on your chin, your rational thoughts are getting flushed out.

“That’s an awful lot of cute things about Choi Jongho. I’ve never heard you talk about another Choi like that.”

You swallow hard, your body still frozen in spot.

“What do you think about him then?”

“Jongho? I was just-“

“No. Choi San.”

Oh god. You could only stare back at him. Prof Choi tilts his head, his eyebrows raised, waiting for his answer. His cologne floats and almost shuts down your senses—has he always smelled this good?

The corner of his lips curl slightly at the way you’re staring at him like a deer in the headlights.

“I t-think Prof-“

“San. Choi San”, he corrects you.

Another hard swallow the more you try to focus your gaze on him.

“I think Choi San’s a great professor. He’s really competent, a lot softer than he presents himself as-“

Fuck you can’t think. Not when he’s staring down your eyes to your lips like that.

“Mmhm.”

“And he’s really so-“

Then a loud knock echoes across the room, breaking the tension. Prof Choi’s body doesn’t shift, but he looks up at the door, shouting “door’s unlocked”, before he stands back upright, adjusting his glasses and walking back to his desk.

Jongho��s head peeks in, then he bows at Prof Choi before he walks to your desk. You stare up at him with a forced smile.

“Ready to go? I was waiting for your message”, Jongho says, his eyes glancing over the professor, then you, a strange feeling that he probably interrupted something.

You nod, while shoving your belongings into your bag, then slinging it on your shoulder.

Barely being able to look at Professor Choi, you still force yourself to, bowing goodbye to him.

“Thank you Prof Choi. See you tomorrow.”

He looks up from his desk, right into your eyes.

“See you too, y/n.”

You can’t help but wonder how far things would have gone if Jongho didn’t knock the door.

Jongho isn’t an idiot. Initially, he assumes that you and the professor were on much friendlier terms considering that you came in before he did. Granted, the workload he would give the both of you was the same, he would take the initiative to have lunch with the both of you both individually and together whenever he had pockets of free time, but what roused his awareness was the lingering glances Professor Choi would cast at you from time to time, the way he seemed to relish the reactions you would give him whenever he teased you.

He notices the way your ears would grow red even when you roll your eyes at the professor and jab him with another playful snarky remark.

Though he wonders how dangerous things could get, Jongho thinks this could get interesting.

The semester continues smoothly, the only change being that Jongho being absent from the office more often due to his other commitment to soccer. You remember him telling you he had quite a big match coming up, the sparkle in his eyes bright and twinkling whenever he talks about said sport.

If he wasn’t in classes, he’d be off for training, hopping into the office from time to time to pass Professor Choi marked scripts and reports. Prof Choi pretty much didn’t mind—he stated as long as Jongho did his job, he could be free to do what he wanted outside of being a teaching assistant.

Needless to say, the office was mostly Prof Choi and you, now even more time spent with him with Jongho mostly being absent. By then, the both of you had grown so accustomed to being in each other’s presence that banters amongst each other became the norm—the both of you competing with each other with unserious remarks, laced with almost flirtatiousness, just to see who would back down first.

Then came the proximity—since Prof Choi would wander over your desk as if he had all the free time in the world, he would somehow strike up another conversation with you, leaning over to hear you better, his arm bumping into yours to look over at the papers you were grading to check if you were doing them correctly. But what he absolutely adores the most is when you’d roll over to his desk to pester him with your questions—sometimes even testing him on his own content.

He likes the way he gets to be closer to you. He likes the way your shoulders touch his when you lean in to push the paper towards him so he can see the script better.

He likes the way you would finally look up and meet his eyes when you’re done formulating your question, waiting to hear his opinion.

Today is no different—Professor Choi being so used to the notion that he would only be seeing you in the office, the corner of his lips pull upwards at the thought of the types of banter you would have with him, the kinds of shenanigans you would bring into the office.

He hears your knock at the time you would always arrive, watching the way the door opens, and your head popping from the door, as you greet, “Hi Prof!”

“Good morning, y/n”, he would greet back, sipping on his morning coffee.

You walk over to his desk, dropping his tuna rice ball. “Here you go. Enjoy your breakfast, Prof!”

“You can stop calling me Prof”, Prof Choi suddenly says, twirling the pen in his hand. For a second, you wonder what triggered the sudden change. You’ve been calling him Prof since day one, pretty much used to it already, the only time you didn’t was when he—never mind. The thought of it is making your face flush again.

“Is there something else you want me to call you?” You ask, trying to calm your heartbeat down when that memory suddenly resurfaces.

“You can call me San. I’m fine with that. I know you’re still my teaching assistant but we’ve been working closely. I think it’s fine to drop the Prof honorific.”

You try out.

“Sure thing San”, you reply. “Though it’s gonna take a while for me to get used to this.”

“If you’re able to cuss in front of me, calling me by my name should be the least of your worries, y/n”, San teases.

You raise your hand, feigning a stance ready to smack him before you lower your arm, listening to the way San laughs before rolling your eyes and sinking into your desk.

The day marches on as normal—attending a class or two with Jongho before he’s whisked away to his soccer practice, leaving just the two of you for the rest of the day.

San is leaning at your desk again, looking at you typing out your report. He squints slightly before he leans down to your shoulder, his finger pointed at one of the paragraphs, asking you about the content. You answer him, and when you turn your head once you’re done, you find yourself looking at San’s side profile mere inches away—his sun-kissed skin, his pretty lashes, his thick, well-trimmed eyebrows, and the way his lips protrude out a little—he always looked like he’s pouting in the most adorable way.

That’s when you realise a problem seemed to be bubbling up to the surface, try as you might to ignore it, repress it—that you’re falling for your professor. Fast.

You snap back to reality, finally aware of how loud your heart is beating against your rib cage, and your hand flies up in instinct as a divider between you and San. San blinks at the sudden movement, confused.

“Y/n, what are you doing?” He’s not moving.

“I think I’ve got something on my face.”

San cocks an eyebrow. “You do? Let me check-“

His palm covers yours, bringing it down to the table, and you’re kicking yourself for sprouting such a self-sabotaging lie.

Why? Because now San has his hand on yours on top of his face in full view of yours, his eyes meeting yours before his gaze flutters around your face, checking for whatever hell you said was on your face.

His gaze meets yours and for a split second, something else glints in his eyes.

The door swings open, and San straightens himself up, slightly irritated at the interruption, leaving you to spin your chair away from San, your hands cupping your cheeks, the heat warming you up against the cold air conditioner. The heat from his hand on yours lingers for a little longer.

Jongho walks in, his duffel slinging on his shoulder with his shoe bag clipped.

“Hey, Prof. Hey cutie.”

San blinks. What did he just call you?

“Hey jjongie. Aren’t you supposed to be at practice?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on your colleague instead.

“Supposedly, yeah, but there was a sudden downpour midway so training got cancelled. Might as well get some work done here”, he shrugs, dropping his bag onto the floor.

San is wrapping his head around the fact that you and Jongho seem to have pet names for each other.

“Didn’t miss me too much right?” Jongho teases. “‘Cause I did!”

“That’s a first coming from you jjongie”, you reply, surprising a smile.

“Of course! It’s been a while, how could I not? We should go eat dinner together sometime.”

San only stares on in silence, pretending to sink back into his grading.

Jongho walks over to your desk, taking his turn to look at your report. San watches the way Jongho’s arm is comfortable over your seat, as he asks you about your report, talking to you as if San wasn’t just behind you seconds before.

The fact you’re entertaining him—hitting his arm playfully and laughing at his remarks—all the more rouses some kind of irritation in San. It’s like a boiling pot.

He pretends he doesn’t see the way Jongho leans in to whisper something into your ear although it’s bugging him so fucking much. For once, he wishes Jongho’s training didn’t cancel.

“Oh right before I forget”, Jongho mutters, rushing back to his desk, digging through his bag. He walks back over with a paper in hand and places it before you. You glance down and your face brightens up—it’s a ticket to his game.

“For real?” You exclaim, your eyes bright, taking the ticket in your hands. “I’ll definitely make time for you.”

“I’ll score goals for you, kay?” Jongho teases, his eyes glancing at San, who is progressively looking more irritated.

“Ah, Is San not going?”

“San? Since when were you on first name basis with him?” Jongho wonders aloud, the suspicion only brewing even more.

“Jongho, don’t you have reports to hand in?” San asks curtly.

You feel like you are caught in between crossfire for some reason.

Jongho smiles, then has your head under his arm, which elicits another irritated reaction from your professor.

You have never had Jongho done this before. In fact, you recall him offhandedly mentioning that he’s never a physical touch person, and that anything with physical touch makes him shudder.

“Relax, Prof. You’d rather your subordinates get along than not right?”

Just when San is about to reply, Jongho suddenly exclaims.

“AH, coach is calling me back to the field. Prof, I’ll send you the report by tomorrow okay? See you guys!”, Jongho hums as he runs back to his desktop to turn it off.

“Has he always been like that?” San wonders aloud, his eyebrows furrowed.

“I guess. It’s actually what makes him cute.”

“Cute? You think Jongho is…cute?”

“Is he not? Doesn’t he remind you of a bear? Big and cuddly.”

San clears his throat, and you watch him walk over to your desk, his hand resting on the tabletop. He leans in.

“So… you find it cute when he gives you pet names?”

“Well, I mean-“

“You find it cute when he plays with your hair?” San curls your locks around his fingers.

You can’t seem to get words to leave your throat.

“You find it cute when he has his hands all over you like that?” He’s leaning in even closer this time, arms trapping you at either side.

“Prof-“

“No. It’s sir.”

Your mind is in a whirlwind at the way he’s towering over you, his scent the only thing filling your olfactory senses, the way he’s staring right into you, gaze sharp as a blade.

“You find it cute when his touches run up your body like this?” His fingers are trailing up your arms, every touch he burns into your skin, and when his thumb pauses at your chin, you realise you’re royally fucked.

Once more, his face is mere inches away from yours. You wonder if you’ll be teased like two previous times before.

“Of course you don’t. You’d rather I do that to you, right?”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Yes, sir.”

His voice is barely a whisper, his eyes downcast, staring at your lips like it’s his reward to claim.

“Good girl.”

Of course, he claims it.

His kisses are so greedy—his lips prying yours open, and you feel yourself completely give in to him, surrendering whatever resistance, rationale, repression to Choi San.

You want more—you want seconds. Every swipe his tongue passes your lip, it makes your head float. How does someone taste this fucking good?

He pauses mid-way—barely a couple of seconds, to pull off his glasses and strew them across the desk—then goes back to devouring your lips.

San would smile in between kisses when he hears your whimpers. He thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you tremble slightly at his touch. It all goes straight to his cock.

He thinks you’ll be even more adorable when he ruins you.

When San pulls back, he swipes his thumb across your bottom lip, watching your glazed-out expression with amusement.

"I'd love to continue messing you up, but I have a meeting to attend. I’ll deal with you later, sweetheart. See you next week.”

His touch lingers on your chin for a couple of seconds longer before he pulls away and shifts to walk back to his desk, leaving your heartbeat wild and erratic, and your thighs squeezed tighter.

Since then, that was all you ever thought about—the slight smile before his lips collided with yours, the way his words rang in your ears. You could barely meet his eyes.

In more instances than one and with any chance given to him, he’d close up any physical distance he had with you. Worried that your emotions would bubble and overflow when he does that, you developed a habit of avoiding his eye contact.

Even after classes, you swore he was casting you glances even with lines of students waiting to talk to him.

“Did you piss Prof off or something?” Jongho asks as he shuts his laptop.

“Why are you asking?”

He shrugs. “It’s just that he’s been eyeing you down like a hawk recently. Did something happen between the both of you?”

You freeze when the flashbacks of the taste of his lips return to your memory when you remember how hungry he looked just wanting to devour you.

“Y/n?”

You blink, then force yourself to meet Jongho’s eyes.

“No. Nothing happened. At least I hope I didn’t make any mistakes.”

“You’re fine. There’s a reason why the department chair chose his teaching assistants.”

You laugh softly at his words.

But when you hear San’s voice from behind you, you almost jump.

“Y/n, Jongho, the both of you can wrap up here and head back to the office”, he instructs. You feel his warmth radiating from behind, and it only makes your heart jump at the proximity.

You watch Jongho slowly pack up, small conversations sparking between the both of you about his soccer practice.

You glance at the door. San isn’t back yet.

“I think it’ll take him awhile to be back. The students there seem to really like him.”

No doubt, the female students for this class seemed a lot more assertive, almost always demanding all of San’s time. Well, not that it should matter. It’s not as if he should mean anything-

“Y/n? Are you okay? You seem pretty off recently. Even Prof’s pretty worried”, Jongho’s voice grounding you back to the cold office.

You force a smile and shake your head.

“I’m fine. I guess it’s just so much workload to deal with.”

Jongho places his hand on your shoulder in comfort, “You’re doing fine. You know you can approach either of us if you’re struggling right?”

You feel comforted, even though your messy thoughts weren’t even about the workload, so you return an assured smile before waving Jongho off for his soccer practice.

You’re wondering what you’re feeling nervous about, because when the door of San’s room opens, you jolt slightly.

“You’re still here?” You hear San ask.

“Yeah. Need to reply to some emails and double-check some of their assignments.” Not a total lie. It’s the swirling feelings he’s been giving you whenever that day surfaces in your mind, the small bouts of attention he pays you and the touches he lets linger a little too long that’s all a dopamine rush in you. You can’t help but want more. But in the same breath, meeting his gaze will allude doom for you.

San nods as he sits back at his desk, going right back to his computer. The silence continues for awhile and you’re surprised that you’re even able to concentrate.

“Y/n”, you hear San call you.

Your gaze doesn’t break from your screen. “Hmm?”

“Come here. Help me look at this.”

You walk over, ignoring the way your heart is just pounding so damn loudly. It’s painfully obvious that San is staring right at your face, and it’s also painfully obvious that you’re avoiding looking at him.

And it definitely seems to be ticking him off.

Your eyes stay locked to his screen reading off whatever is on the screen, and nothing is processing in your brain.

“It looks good”, you curtly reply, trying to ignore the fact that you’re being stared down by a certain professor. You turn away, your eyes still not acknowledging San, only for your professor to stop you in your tracks.

“Now where do you think you’re going?”

He’s making you face him now.

You’re still not giving him eye contact.

“Back to my desk?” You say, looking off into the distance. But San seems to have other plans.

“You know ‘looks good’ isn’t the feedback I’m looking for, right?”

Shit. You know that clear as day.

Now San has both his arms trapping you on his desk.

You somehow still manage to avoid his sharp gaze even when you’re backing up against him, easily letting him corner you.

His belongings are strewn all over the desk when he pins you down. By some miracle, only papers flutter down his desk.

And you’re finally looking right at him.

“You’re finally looking at me, y/n”, he states the obvious. “Now tell me, did I do something wrong?”

“No, you didn’t, sir”, you reply curtly.

He leans in closer.

“Then why are you avoiding my eye contact?”

You shut your eyes and squeeze them. There’s no pure way out of this—your dirty thoughts are seeping into the smallest crevices of your brain, and the more San is prodding you, the more it makes you throb.

“It’s because that evening when we…” you feel your cheeks burn with every word leaving your lips.

San is waiting for you to continue.

“When we kissed…couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

“And?”

“It made me want…more.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Has anyone told you how adorable you are when you’re honest?” He chuckles. “I’m gonna finish what we started sweetheart, like I promised.”

It makes your heart flutter.

“Am I getting your consent for this?”, San’s voice rings in your ears. You’re finding it hard to focus, especially when his thumb is pushing past the corner of your lips, and you’re just growing wet as fuck.

This is not right. This is so dangerous.

“Yes sir”, you reply back, trying to ignore the way your cunt is just tingling from the feeling of San’s thick erection pressing against you.

“That’s my good girl”, he praises before he dives in for a hungry kiss, his fingers roaming around your body, squeezing your tits before he unbuttons your shirt at an agonising pace. He smiles on your lips when he hears your soft gasp, and he presses his lips down to your jaw and then to your neck, sucking and biting the soft skin against your neck, his erection growing tighter against his trousers when he hears you moan and squirm.

When he’s satisfied with the light marks he decorated down your neck, his lips are pressed against your ear, and his hands are moving dangerously close to your cunt, and inevitably, your bottoms are off in seconds, leaving you in your pretty panties.

“I would prefer fucking you on my bed instead for the first time, but taking you on my desk? Maybe not too bad.”

Your cunt squeezes at the sound of San cussing. You never thought he’d sound this fucking hot.

He groans when his fingers press against the soaked patch of fabric hiding your pussy. All that wetness for him. He bunches up the fabric and rubs it against your clit, the friction drawing frustrated whimpers from you, much to his satisfaction. It feels so good but it’s not enough, and it’s driving you crazy.

San’s fingers finally hook against the waistband of your panties, sliding them off your legs, and pocketing them, much to your shock.

And he doesn’t give you much time to focus on that because when he pulls his cock out from his unzipped pants, it makes your head spin from how thick Choi San is.

“Sir, I’m not sure-“

“It’ll fit, sweetheart, like it’s made for me”, is all the warning San gives before he lines up to your hole and pushes his cock in.

You can’t tell what’s fucking you up more—the way his cock is stretching you open or the San groaning in relief when he finally gets to stuff you full.

You bat away your tears, his cock so fucking full inside of you, pressing against your walls, being squeezed so perfectly by you.

God, Choi San thinks he’s in heaven.

His fingers brush across your cheeks, collecting your teardrops. His eyes lack any ounce of empathy.

“Aw, are you crying because it feels good? You look so fucking pretty crying when I’m stretching you open.”

You barely find the words to reply to him, all stuck in your throat, your mind only flooded by the way San’s cock is buried in your cunt, your thighs trembling from the pleasure. It’s almost sickening. You know you shouldn’t be doing this—not with your professor, not on his fucking desk, but when he has you wrapped you around his finger and cock fucking the daylights out of you, it’s a temptation you can never resist.

A soft hiccup escapes past your lips when San pulls out almost all the way, his cock covered in a sheen of slick and precum before he pushes himself in once more, groaning when you clench around him for the nth time.

“You feel so fucking good, sweetheart. God, I could just fuck you all day. You’d like that right?”

You’re barely keeping track, eyes rolled to the back of your head while your thighs twitch from the pleasure, but you manage to hold the eye contact, and through blurry tears, you mutter a weak, “Yes sir”.

“Of course you do”, San hums before he pulls out once more and starts fucking you dumb on his desk.

No matter how much you try to cover your mouth, bite your tongue or your lip, your moans only come out louder in defiance, the dopamine shooting up your pussy over and over again whenever San’s cock hits your pretty spots.

Your mind is addicted to the way San’s shirt is buttoned down his chest, his cleavage almost fully out for you to gawk at, the way strands of his hair cling to his forehead because of the sweat, the way his eyes roll back when he feels you squeeze him with every loud fuck, and the way he looks down to you from time to time before he eats up your pathetic moans with hungry kisses.

He fucked you up so good, you didn’t even realise it until now.

“S-San”, you manage out a whimper, “please…”

“Please what, sweetheart?”

You don’t even know what you’re begging for.

“Please… you feel so fucking good. I’m gonna cum. It’s so fucking good”, you babble, trying to force your eyes open.

San can’t help but smirk when his ego is being stroked so nicely like that, especially by you. He’s a good person, of course, he’ll give what his good girl wants.

His thumb slides south on your body until you feel the ticklish sensation of him on your clit. Cream and precum pooling at the base of his cock makes it even worse for you—with every graze, his finger pressed onto your clit, the knot tightened in your stomach.

Your nonsensical strings of words only push San to tease you more as he endearingly watches you break slowly when your orgasm builds up.

Your body twitches, your back arches, your eyes roll back, white splashes beneath your eyelids. Your orgasm burning through you while you cry out San’s name and you twitch pathetically on his cock, letting your cream leak all over his wet cock.

“Fuck. You’re such a good fucking girl for me, aren’t you?”, you hear San curse. He fucks you through your orgasm, the overstimulation building up. The sensitivity feels so fucking good.

His hand catches your jaw, and he forces you to meet his eyes.

“Wanna pump you full of my cum, keep you so fuckin’ full for days on end,” he huffs, “but not now, sweetheart.”

Not that you minded, but there’s a strange tinge of disappointment ringing at the back of your head.

San thrusts into you a couple more times before he pulls out, his thick and wet cock resting on your pelvis, twitching as his hand takes over.

Nothing can beat Choi San’s fucking face when he cums. He looks like he’s in fucking heaven, and he’s tearing up the sky because of you. His fingers leave light marks on your thighs, you hear him groan at such a low tone that your cunt flutters uselessly against the air. Translucent spurts land on your skin, but it barely registers in you—you’re too busy swooning over the way your Professor just cummed over your body.

San’s high dies down, and he catches his breath, casting you a glance, red dusting his cheeks, before he reaches out for the tissue box to clean you up.

A quick kiss on the lips before he goes on to collect all the papers all over the floor.

That night he drives you home, filling the space with light conversations as if he didn’t just railed you on his desk.

It’s only when you reach home that you realise one important thing—San still has your panties.

You know you shouldn’t be telling secrets to your colleague, especially when it’s about your fucking boss. But here you are, facing Jongho, who has his arms crossed in front of you.

“What’s up with you and Prof?” You predict the words that leave his lips.

You hesitate to tell him, unsure how you should even say it, where to even start.

The worst part you knew clear as day was that nothing changed since that day. You chalked it off as San being swamped with assignments to deal with, that’s why the topic was never brought up again, but something still irked you. The only comfort you had was that the semester was ending, and so was your term as San’s teaching assistant.

Maybe it was how it was meant to be. Just nothing more than that.

But when you realise the dreaded feeling prickling at the back of your eyes, you knew you were fucked.

“I don’t know how to even start jjong”, you sigh. Jongho scrunches his eyebrows.

You watch his expression switch from one to the other. You expected him to freak out at you, yell at you for unprofessionalism or something, but he doesn’t.

“It’s so fucked up. But I just can’t help but wonder if he feels anything”, you mutter. The thought of you not being the only one he’s doing this with makes your stomach churn. But somehow, in the most twisted ways, confiding Jongho made you feel slightly better.

“Well, looks like we’ll have to play that card I guess”, Jongho shrugs. “But you should mentally prepare yourself for the results, that’s all I gotta warn you. I just need your consent to play along.”

It’s a risky bet you’re playing, but drastic times called for drastic measures, right?

As the semester closes to its end, so does the workload. San feels a lot lighter on his shoulders, and while he’s grateful for his teaching assistants for lifting a significant amount of workload off him, the end of a semester meant the end of the working relationship between him and his teaching assistants. He usually doesn’t feel that much, considering he has had many teaching assistants in the past, but for some reason, he feels a sense of discomfort lodged in his stomach when he thinks about having to let them go.

Especially one of them.

He sighs, removing his glasses from his nose and shutting his eyes while reviewing the exams. San feels like a fucking idiot when his eyes land on your empty desk, his frustration bubbling when you cross his mind again.

Even though he pretends to keep himself busy by flooding his mind with work, somehow, you would bubble to the surface once more, pushing him into the pits of frustration when he’s reminded of the way you get a kick arguing and refuting him just to get a reaction out of him, the way you taste like sweetest thing on earth he’s ever tried and the way you completely unravel when San fucks every single thought out of you—

He bites his cheek.

No. He has to keep it professional. At least, until the term is over.

He just doesn’t know how to tell you.

He knows he’s entered deep waters when he crossed the line that evening, the sight of you undone right before him snapping all his rationale. More than anything, he’s suffering the withdrawals, maybe that’s the punishment he has to bear.

He glances at the colourful ticket at the corner of his desk. It’s Jongho’s big game. Even though he usually doesn’t let himself intertwine with his subordinate’s personal interests, it’s hard not to.

In addition, you’ll be there. Maybe he’d snag you after the game and talk to you properly.

The meeting ran overtime, San glances down at his silver watch, realising he’d missed almost thirty minutes of Jongho’s game. Despite the exhaustion, he pushes it aside and heads to the stadium.

He watches the brightly lit scoreboard as he takes a seat on the bench, Jongho’s team is in the lead by one point.

Somehow he gets wrapped up in the game, cheering when Jongho’s team takes championship as the benches all burst into loud cheers too.

He gets up to leave, already thinking of drafting a text to congratulate Jongho in his head, maybe get him a small congratulatory gift on the side.

Then he spots you, just rows below. Now, he’s walking down as if on instinct, to get to where you are.

San pushes past the crowd to approach you. He’ll offer to drive you back—he knows it’s all an excuse but anything to get you into his space once more.

His arm outstretched, reaching out to tap your shoulder, then suddenly stopping when he sees Jongho appear right in front of you. That’s fine. San could just congratulate him at the same time—

Which all of those thoughts immediately disintegrate when he watches Jongho cup your cheeks with his hand, his eyes widening in complete silent horror as Jongho leans into you for a kiss.

You seriously doubt that Jongho’s plan would work. Didn’t San decide not to come anyway? You heard it with your own ears too.

Nonetheless, you pushed it to the back of your mind, focusing on cheering for your friend, watching the leading scorer jump from one team to the next. You couldn’t help but erupt into cheers when Jongho’s team won, screams echoing through the open stadium.

You watch Jongho walk up to the benches where you are, and his arms wrap around you, his smile big and bright, competing with the stadium lights.

“Congratulations, baby bear”, you tease, pushing against his shoulders lightly. Jongho inches close to you.

“He’s behind you by the way”, Jongho mutters, loud enough for you to hear, but not long enough for you to process, because his hands are cupping your jaw, his thumb pressed against your lips.

He hears you muffle some kind of question but your lips stay sealed.

“You owe me one for this,” is the last thing you hear before he leans in. Your eyes widen in shock, and you freeze in your spot, even though his lips don’t meet yours, evidently separated by Jongho’s thumb, his action had caught you off guard.

You barely have the capacity to process what had just happened, and you feel someone’s warmth tightening against your wrist.

Jongho lets go of you immediately, but you’re staring right at your professor, who is staring right at Jongho with an unreadable expression, with his fingers curled tightly against your wrist. It feels like an eternity since you saw him. He’s not wearing glasses today and his hair is down instead of his usual slicked-back look, donned with a simple dress shirt and tie which framed his wide shoulders so perfectly.

“Congratulations on your win, Choi Jongho. I believe you should be with your team to celebrate right?”

Jongho only smirks back. “Right. See you babe. Thank you, Prof. See you next week.”

Jongho casts you a glance, the mischief twinkling in his eyes before he turns his heel down the stairs and back to the field.

What the fuck just happened?

And you find yourself staring up at the male before you, his gaze piercing into yours.

“Prof—San?” You blink. “I thought you weren’t-“

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, sweetheart. Why would I not want to see the cute relationship my teaching assistants have right?” His voice is laced with venom.

San doesn’t really elaborate further, leading you to his car, sealing your fate once more when the passenger doors close shut.

He’s all over you. His body is burning up, maybe just as fast as yours is, and it’s making you feel dizzy. His moves are aggressive, impatient and you swear you feel something else too—desperation.

“S-San—“ you gasp, in an attempt to take control of something.

“It’s sir to you, sweetheart”, his voice low and gentle, but commanding. Goosebumps scatter across your skin, making you shiver in response when his palms slide up your waist.

You never saw it coming—from the second his hand grabbed yours, pulling you away from Jongho, his eyes locked into yours for a moment before he turns to Jongho, then to the car ride back, where you noticed the way his knuckles turned pale from gripping the steering wheel. On the walk to his car, you asked him where you were going, and all he did was turn to you and reply, “We’ve got things to talk about, don’t we, sweetheart?”

Now you’re becoming undone once more under San’s touches, trapped beneath him like the first time, now at his place, on his fucking couch instead.

“It was just foolish of me to just let it be, wasn’t it?” He asks. “Fucking you dumb on my desk wasn’t a good enough indicator, was it?”

“S-sir…!”

“And you think it’s cute getting all cuddly with Jongho? Letting him kiss you all over, touch you all over?” San mutters, his fingers wrapped around your throat, his grip tightening slightly and you’re sure he’s about to leave light imprints.

But oh, was it so fucking exhilarating—the thought of Choi San riled up like that, a sight you’ve never seen before, and you’re not sure if fear or excitement running through your veins right now, but what you do know, is that if he finds out that your panties are completely soaked through, you’re fucking done for.

His lips collide with yours again, branding himself as some kind of oxygen thief when he’s turning your mind into complete mush.

“I’m not sure if it’s a little game to you sweetheart, but if it is, I think you need a reminder.”

You breathlessly look up at him, and he looks ethereal even when he’s panting and looking pissed as hell.

“What reminder, sir?” You dare ask back.

The side of San’s lips tugs upwards. His hand leaves your throat and trails down your blouse, effortlessly unbuttoning the apparel until he tugs it off you, panting at the sight of your tits hugged by your lace bra. Your bottoms are off again on the floor of his bedroom, alongside any ounce of rationale. Your soaked panties are agonisingly pulled off your legs, and before you know it, his hands spread them open too. It takes all of San’s self-control to not stuff you full. At least, not yet.

“It’s my cock you’re gonna cum all over. Even when you have another guy’s lips on yours, it’s my name you’re gonna fucking scream.”

Oh. Oh god.

The pieces of what Jongho was trying to do suddenly come together, unfortunately, the realisation doesn’t last long because San has his lips greedily on yours again on top of the way his full-blown erection is pressing onto your pussy.

“Sir”, you manage out a weak mutter when he finally pulls away, trying to press and grind against his clothed dick for some friction or anything to rid the burn that’s going through your body. But San remains still.

“Use your words since you love using your mouth so much.” Like kissing Choi Jongho.

Your mind is a complete puddle.

“I really…fuck. I really need you to fuck me right now, sir”, you beg, red flushing your cheeks, but it’s not from the shame. There’s a feral glint in San’s eyes that you don’t miss.

“No”, is all he answers, and you feel your heart drop to your stomach.

“Not until I’ve fucked your mouth full, sweetheart.”

All you can do is watch him speechlessly as he hooks his index finger on the knot of his tie and loosens it, unraveling it back to its original form.

“Hands together”, he commands you, and you do so immediately, basking in the scent of his cologne while he leans into you, his hands tying knots around your wrists with his tie. “Don’t let it loosen, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now on your knees.”

You’ve never dropped to your knees so fast.

San forces you to watch him unbutton and lower the fly of his trousers, and you’re just doing your best not to get drool on his expensive carpet.

When his cock springs out, you’re also forced to watch him fuck his palm at a slow pace, drinking in his groans, slick staining your inner thighs, and the fucking floor next if you don’t do anything.

His cock is heavy against your cheek when he taps it there, and your tongue slips out of your mouth by instinct, given experimental kitten licks on his slit, before his fingers catch your chin, and he forces you to look up at him.

“Look at me”, he instructs.

You do. You do your best not to break the eye contact, trying not to be sidetracked by his big fucking cock, but your eyes can’t help but dart to his appendage.

“No, keep your eyes on me”, he redirects once more, his fingers fixing your head in place.

Then he slides his cock into your mouth and pulls out a choked moan from you.

“That’s it. Good girl”, he grunts when you start bobbing your head, fucking his cock with your mouth.

His fingers trail to the back of your head, but he’s using all of his strength not to force your head down.

But as you pick up the momentum, it’s an automatic reaction to push your head down so his cock hits the back of your throat. Your eyes are watering but fuck you feel like you’re in fucking heaven. Your head spins whenever his wet cock is forced down your tight throat, and you break eye contact a few times, which San has to tap your jaw to make you keep eye contact while he fucks your face.

“I’m cumming, sweetheart. Fuck. Keep that pretty little mouth open for me yeah?” He groans, bucking his hips, letting streaks of warm white paint your throat and mouth, watching the way you’re looking up at him with doe eyes, taking his cum in your mouth like a good girl. His good girl.

He smudges his thumb against the corner of your lips before his arms carry you up, only to dump you on the couch.

Your back is on the couch again, hands still tied behind your back and legs up with San pressing his body weight on you.

He props your leg on his shoulder, and he stretches you open inch by inch. You gasp when he fills you up, your walls immediately clenching around him.

“So fuckin tight for me, sweetheart. You take me so well.”

His thrusts are growing more aggressive mixed in with the possession that’s bleeding in and it’s setting your whole body on fire. Your words are caught in your throat when he’s buried into you to the hilt. He groans at the way your pussy is fluttering pathetically against him.

It feels so fucking good that nothing but stars engulf your vision when his cock stuffs you full to the hilt again. His name leaves your lips like a mantra on top of broken moans and whimpers, and it only makes San fill up the space in your pussy all the more better.

His shoulders are so wide that he’s towering over you, his fingers forcing you to face him whenever you’re drifting because of the pleasure, his eyes feral when you look so fucked out for him. And when he combines his heavy thrusts with a squeeze around your throat, it makes your mind shut off and your cunt cream all over his dick.

“Good girl, looking all so fucked out for me.”

His cock is hitting all the perfect spots, and it’s driving you insane with the knot tightening in your stomach at such a fast pace. You think you’re sliding off the couch but San isn’t letting you—especially not when his thrusts are keeping you on the couch. His name continues to leave your lips in broken moans every time he fucks you.

San snakes his fingers to your scalp and he tugs sharply, enough to force you to look up at him. You’re tearing up again, and it feels so fucking good with the way he’s keeping your hair tugged while he fucks the ever-loving shit out of you.

“My name does sound much better when you’re crying it doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

You choke back a moan when he hits your g-spot once more.

“Y-yes sir.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Full. So full sir. Want more. Please. Need you to ruin me”, you beg once more, your mind floating in an endless euphoria.

“Oh, I definitely will”, San hums, watching in sheer pleasure as your eyes roll back when his cockhead presses perfectly against your g-spot over and over.

Before you realise it, your orgasm hits you like fucking train, spreading through your body like a fucking wildfire, engulfing every crevice of your body.

He’s gonna break you, and you’re fucking loving it.

“San-“, you cry out, not registering the way he’s wiping the tears off your eyes. “So good. You feel so good. Cumming so much-“

“I know, sweetheart. It feels so fucking good doesn’t it?” He asks with a smile, satisfied when you nod frantically while he rubs your thighs.

Your thighs are shaking from how good this all feels, cream staining your inner thighs and his cock when he pulls out.

“I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart”, San reminds you.

He turns you over, keeping one hand on your tied hands, while the other pressing your head against the back of the couch. He lines his cock back to your cunt, pushing into your hole once more. You choke on your moans again, tears gathering at the corner of your eyes until he’s fully seated in you once more.

The sounds are even wetter now, especially when you’re overstimulated, pussy just being so perfectly abused by Choi San. You fucking love the way his hands are around your neck, forcing you against the cushions when he fucks you dumb from the back.

Your stomach is in knots once more, the feeling building up faster than the previous time, and all you can mutter is that it feels so good. San thinks you’re so fucking adorable when you’re not having banters with him and being this cock drunk for him.

Then he pulls you off the couch, letting you catch a breath before he sits you on his lap, his cock still buried in your cunt, and starts bouncing you off his cock from below.

He alternates between melting your brain with his pornographic moans right at your ear and planting more love bites down your jaw.

“Gonna cum again. You feel so fucking good in me. Oh god”, you hiccup through your tears, the sensitivity pushing your limit.

“Cum as hard as you want, sweetheart. I’ll let you milk me dry, fill you up so fucking good that you’ll be leaking with my cum for the next two days.”

That was enough to set you off. Your pussy convulses when your second orgasm hits, fireworks bursting in your eyelids, long drawn-out cries while San fills your tight cunt with his warm and thick cum, while his groans fill up in your ears. You feel his fingers massaging your thighs, coaxing you from your high.

You’re dizzy, and light-headed as your head slumps against his shoulders, too spent to acknowledge the male behind you leaving more marks down your neck.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” San breaks the momentary silence, well aware that his softening cock is still in you.

Your hand flies up to his chest to stop him, even though you’re still recovering from seeing stars.

“We need to talk-“

“After we clean up”, he cuts you off, lifting you off his cock and carrying you bridal style to his bathroom.

But you’re stubborn.

“N-no. It wasn’t what you thought it was”, you say, feeling your tears well up in your eyes on top of the weight.

The prickles are starting to form at the bottom of San’s heart, but he’s more focused on trying to hose you down with warm water. But he’s listening you run your mouth, not that he minded.

“We didn’t kiss”, you reiterate.

Now he’s just confused. He stares at you.

“We just had sex, y/n”, San reminds you, trying not to let the red reach his cheeks.

“No—I mean Jongho and I. We didn’t kiss”, you clarify.

San doesn’t really know if he should believe your words or his eyes, but now he’s focused on lathering your hair and body.

“That wasn’t what I saw”, he replies, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s cause we did this-“ you huff, turning his head to face you, imitating the way Jongho had slid his thumb between your lips and his, demonstrating San the fake kiss.

San only stares at you wordlessly when you pull back, only more questions than answers.

“But why would he do that for?”

“He was trying to rile you up.”

“For what?”

“To see if you felt anything for me?”

“By kissing you?”

Oh god. It felt like the more you explained, the more San was getting the wrong ideas. You let your head sit in your hands, unsure if it’s from the embarrassment or the fact that you don’t even know where to start.

“It wasn’t a kiss, Choi San”, you groaned, your hands leaving your face, suddenly self-conscious that San is staring intently at you. “After we, um, fucked the first time, you acted like nothing happened, and I felt like shit about it, and I told Jongho and then…” you trail off, feeling your cheeks heat up again. It’s probably the hot water, at least that’s what you try to convince yourself with.

“I don’t kiss people I’m not in love with, San”, you sigh in defeat. Your eyes are downcast, but you feel his fingers cup your cheeks, and his lips press onto yours. You swear you could go another round again.

The silence hangs in the air for a while, only the sounds of the shower filling the emptiness when he pulls back.

“I didn’t do anything since after that evening because I wanted to properly tell you after the term ended.”

“Tell me what?”

“That I’m in love with you, too.”

You blink. Somehow that shocked you more than the both times he fucked your brains out.

You don’t answer him because your head is just swarming with so many thoughts, and San lets you do so, satisfied that he’s finally have you quieten down so he can finish washing you up.

Even when he’s dressed you in his oversized hoodie, San peppers you with kisses, basking in the way you sometimes cover his face with your hands to stop him, which only rouses him to continue to attack you with his lips.

San’s arms are tight around you when the both of you are finally on his bed. You smell like his favourite body soap and he can’t seem to get enough of it—nuzzling against the crook of your neck, muttering sweet nothings. You think this is probably your favourite version of Professor Choi.

Your fingers twirl around his splayed-out locks, and you speak.

“Prof Choi”, you tease, and San looks up, and it’s the first time you actually see him pout—it almost makes you combust.

“I told you to stop calling me that”, he frowns, burying his face, feigning trying to cut off physical contact from you, which only makes you laugh in response.

“I just wanted to disturb you”, you respond, trying to yank him back into your arms. “I do have a question though.”

His head pops up from his pillows and he stares at you, waiting for you to speak.

“When did you realise you had feelings for me?”

He pauses, giving himself a couple of minutes to think.

“The moment I received your teaching assistant application.”

📚 Bonus Epilogue 📚

“Prof Choi!” One of his teaching assistants calls out to him.

He turns his head and attention to her, pushing up his glasses.

“Yes?”

“I need help with this part of the assignment. Could you help me check that I’ve marked it correctly?”

San nods, taking the papers from her.

As he scans through her work, the teaching assistant’s eyes glance down at the band hugging his ring finger.

“Prof, you’re married?”

San pauses his writing to glance at the glistening gold on his finger, and a small smile spreads across his cheeks.

“You know, I used to wear a ring on my ring finger so students would stop asking me if I was married or not.”

She raises her eyebrows, her curiosity piqued. “So you’re not?”

“I am.”

Her eyes brighten, invested in her handsome professor’s love story.

“Tell me more then”, she asks.

San scoffs playfully, turning his gaze to her.

“All I can tell you is that she’s always been my favourite.”

taglist: @bro-atz @diamond-3 @mcarebearsstuff @choisansplushie @pre1ttyies @songmingisthighs @yeosangiess @mylovelymito @softwsan @yourlocaljonghoe @ywtf @woojirang @yuyusgirl

@jeon-ify @itza-meee @miss-fallon @hwallazia @bunnyluvr25 @eggyboy5 @hourswithoutyou @iwishiwasthemoontonight @yunhogrippers @watermelon2319 @vampiregirl215 @kibs-and-bits @s-h-y-a @liyahbug05-blog @luvt0kki @httpseungmxn @vic0921 @sanhwajoong @bitejoongie @no1likevie

network: @atzhouse @cultofdionysusnet @cromernet

#ateez #ateez scenarios #ateez fanfic #ateez imagines #ateez x reader #ateez smut #smut #ateez fic #kpop smut #choi san smut #choi san ateez #ateez choi san #choi san x reader #choi san #ateez san #san x y/n #cultofdionysusnet #atzhouse #cromernet

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verricherri · 21 days ago

Note

you call and i arrive ma cherié 🍒❣️ have a couple random requests that so will spam your inbox teehee, no pressure to write tho! <3

reader gets her menstrual cup "stuck" and panics, she doesn't want spencer to help take it out but he does and fluff/smut ensues....

Just Breathe (NSFW // MDNI)

A/N: My biggest nightmare is my menstrual cup getting stuck and ending up in the ER like “hi hello I need professional help and zero eye contact.” BUT. here’s Spencer Reid — like the dream man he is. Warnings: If period talk isn’t your thing, feel free to skip, but personally? An orgasm a day keeps the cramps away Masterlist Feedback and reposts are appreciated ☀️

You’ve been in the bathroom long enough to lose feeling in both feet and every last shred of dignity.

You’ve squatted, you’ve breathed, you’ve tried to “relax” like the forums say — but your damn menstrual cup won’t budge. It’s stuck. Like emotionally-attached kind of stuck. And the longer you try, the more you spiral.

Which is exactly when you hear it.

“Babe?”

You freeze.

Spencer’s voice is gentle, just outside the door.

“You okay in there?” “…Yeah,” you croak. “Fine.”

Pause.

“You’ve been in there twenty-three minutes. That’s 8.5 minutes longer than your average shower plus oral hygiene routine.” You groan. “Stop with the stats, Reid.” “You don’t sound fine,” he says. “You sound… frustrated.”

You lean your forehead against your palm. There’s no saving this.

The door cracks open. You poke your head out.

Spencer’s in plaid pajama pants and a worn Caltech t-shirt, hair sleep-mussed, eyes full of concern.

“…My cup’s stuck,” you admit. He blinks. “What kind of cup—oh.” You give him a look. “Yeah. That one.” “Okay,” he says simply, like you just told him you misplaced your keys. You shuffle awkwardly. “I’ve been trying. My hand’s cramping. My uterus is staging a revolt. I feel like a goddamn Tupperware container.” “Suction lock,” he nods, already processing. “Happens when the rim seals too high near the posterior fornix. Add muscle tension, it’s like trying to pull a plunger off a mirror.”

You stare.

“…Why do you know that?” “Because I love you. And because I wanted to understand everything that affects you — not just emotionally, but physically. So I learned."

You snort despite yourself.

He leans in, voice soft.

“Do you want help?” You blink. “Help… how?” “I wash my hands. You lie back. I find the rim and release the seal. No big deal.” Your face is on fire. “That is absolutely a big deal.” “Not to me,” he says. “To me, it’s anatomy. And you. And the fact that you trust me enough to ask.” You hesitate. Then: “Okay. But if this gets weird—” “We stop the moment you say.”

---

Spencer washes his hands like he’s prepping for surgery. Thorough. Focused. You catch yourself watching him — the way water glides over his wrists, the roll of his sleeves, the precision of those impossibly long fingers.

He glances at you in the mirror. “You’re staring.” “Just… mentally preparing.” “I’ve delivered a child in less-than-ideal conditions,” he says with a tiny smile. “Helping you with this? I promise — it’s not even remotely uncomfortable.” You nod. A breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

You’re on the closed toilet lid, towel wrapped around your hips, heart pounding in your ears.

Spencer kneels in front of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Scoot forward. And try to relax your pelvic floor — think melting butter, not steel door.” You bark a nervous laugh. “Do you flirt like this at the BAU?” “That wasn’t— I wasn’t trying to flirt. I just wanted you to have a helpful visual.” Then, after a beat, quieter: “But… if it helps, I don’t say things like that to anyone else.” He glances up again. “Still good?” You nod. “Alright. I’m going to feel for the base. Tell me if anything hurts.”

You take a shaky breath. And when his fingers make contact — warm, steady, gentle — you almost forget how anxious you were.

“Tilt your hips a little. Good. The seal’s strong. No wonder you couldn’t get it.” “I told you—” “Shh. You’re doing amazing.”

His voice is low, focused, soothing. And when he finally releases the seal and eases the cup out, you actually sigh in relief.

He doesn’t toss it.

He rinses it.

You stare as he rinses the cup at the sink — gentle, thorough, not even slightly grossed out. He’s handling it like it’s just another lab instrument. Like it’s normal. Like you are normal.

He turns the tap off and dries it carefully before setting it back in its little container. Then he looks over his shoulder, casual as ever.

“You're supposed to wash it with warm water and mild soap after removal to avoid bacterial contamination. You can also boil it between cycles, or use a 70% isopropyl solution, but it depends on the brand, and—” He cuts himself off. “Sorry. You probably know all that.” You blink at him. “No, I mean—yes, but… you’re doing it like it’s second nature.” He shrugs, drying his hands. “I’ve read before. Menstrual products. Pelvic floor tension. Cervical positioning—” You tilt your head, amused. “Spencer.” “Right. Sorry. I just meant... you shouldn’t be the only one who understands your body. I care about you, so I learned.”

That hits you right in the chest.

“I think I just fell in love with you again.”

He blinks, caught off guard. Then gives you that soft, lopsided smile that ruins you every time.

“Are you still cramping?” You nod. “A little.”

He sits beside you, drying his hands again — mostly to keep them busy.

“There’s a statistically significant link between orgasm and pain relief, particularly during menstruation. It’s the oxytocin — it spikes during orgasm, which helps reduce the release of prostaglandins, which are the primary cause of uterine contractions and cramping.” You raise a brow. “Spencer.” “Also dopamine and endorphins. Plus, the muscle contractions during orgasm help relax the uterus post-release, which—sorry. I’m rambling.” “I’m not complaining.” “Okay, good, because—” he breathes in, grounding himself “—I could get your heating pad. Or… I could use my fingers. Only if you want.” “You’re prescribing it?” “No,” he says seriously. “Prescriptions come with dosing requirements and side effects. This is just… a suggestion. Based on research. And love.”

You stare at him.

He fidgets. “Was that weird? That was weird.” You shake your head, smiling. “It was very you.” “Then I’m glad,” he murmurs, finally settling beside you. “Because I really, really want to help you feel better.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt.

He stands, then pauses.

“Would a warm shower help first? Before… anything else.” You glance up. “Yeah. That actually sounds good.” “Okay. Yeah. I’ll, uh—set the temperature.”

You watch as he turns toward the shower, rolling up his sleeves instinctively, even though they’re coming off. He adjusts the knobs, testing the water with the back of his hand like he’s handling evidence.

“Too hot can increase blood flow,” he murmurs. “But if it’s comfortable, it can also relieve muscle tension.”

Then he looks at you — and there’s something so gentle in the way he says:

“Do you want help with…?” You nod again. Quietly. “Yeah.”

He moves slow, untying the towel around your hips like it’s something sacred. Then he peels off his shirt — awkwardly, like it’s a crime scene hoodie — and drops his flannel pants next.

When you’re both bare, he offers his hand again.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let me help you feel better.”

The water steams behind him.

And this time, when you step in together, it’s not just for relief.

It’s for all the things you’ve never let anyone else see — and all the ways he shows you he’s safe to be seen.

---

The water hits your back. The steam rises. But it’s his fingers on your stomach that make your body melt.

“Still okay?” he murmurs behind you. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m going to use my fingers. Just me and you, and how you trust me.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

He turns you gently, back pressing to the tile. His hand cups your hip, the other sliding between your thighs.

“You’re bleeding a little,” he says softly. “You know I don’t care, right?” “I know.” “Good.”

Then he presses in.

Two fingers — slow, deep, and absolutely filthy. You gasp, eyes flying open.

“God—” “Not God,” he murmurs, “just your boyfriend.”

He starts to move.

Slow thrusts. Thumb circling your clit. His other hand presses to your stomach like he wants to anchor you to the earth.

“You’re already dripping,” he growls. “Not just the water — me. You want this so bad.”

You moan, hips grinding forward.

“That’s it. Fuck yourself on my fingers. Just like that. I’ve got you.”

You’re barely breathing. Every word makes it worse — better — everything.

“This is what you needed. Not a heating pad. Not ibuprofen. Me.”

He thrusts deeper.

“You think this changes anything? You think I don’t want you like this?”

“Spence—”

“I want all of you,” he says. “Messy. Bleeding. Soft. Loud. Ruined. Always.”

Your legs tremble. Your voice breaks.

“I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me. I’ve got you. Let go.”

And you do.

Your orgasm rips through you like a wave — sharp, overwhelming, perfect. You cry out, collapsing into him as your whole body shakes.

He doesn’t stop until your knees give out and he’s catching you.

Holding you.

Kissing your temple.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You’re so okay. You’re mine.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #verricherriask🍒

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hcneymooners · 3 months ago

Text

౨ৎ pink noise.

wnba!paige bueckers x influencer!azzi fudd. men & minors dni.

synopsis: paige bueckers is fed up and empty, burnt out and crushed by the pressure of her dallas debut. enter azzi fudd, a retired figure skater and niche influencer who might just be saving paige's life.

cw: implied mental health issues, mentions of injury, fluff, strangers to friends to lovers.

notes: i was really struggling and debating about posting this. i've gone back and forth, endlessly. this is the first thing in a while that i've written that i'm proud of, but i also understand the turbulence that comes with rpf and anything that associates with it. i truly just think these girls would be beautiful together, and i respect them regardless of the outcome of their lives.

before continuing, i want to give a heartfelt thank you to the following: @pbaz7 @azzibuckets who have literally been such an inspiration. you guys are incredible and i have so much love for you. hope you're taking care of yourself. x

my inbox is always open. don't be afraid to let me know what you think, or to just say hello.

alright, here we go.

"hello," she says, "and welcome back."

azzi's face blossoms over the screen, her cheeks rounded with the force of her smile. paige curls further into herself from where she lays in bed, her overhead headphones blocking all sound except azzi's soft, summer voice.

"today, i'm in berlin for a skaters' conference."

she's a figure skater, paige remembers, or at least she was. then her knee shattered, and she spun out. paige has watched her performances, seen her bend and curve her way into countless gold medals. she thinks of azzi's hollywood smile as she waves at the crowd, her curls tucked back from her face and her dimples dipping into the plush skin of her cheeks. she was almost intolerably beautiful at times. venus with dimples, a journalist had called her.

and now, she was just (@)azzi35 with her slightly shaky camera angles, earnest smiles, and breathy laughs.

"i'm here for their mentor program. my mom thinks it would be good for me. i don't know what i think yet."

she's so sweet, so honest. her lips are caught between her teeth, and when they slide out, they leave a berry pink stain beneath her two front teeth, the squares prominent like an american girl doll's. paige wants to lick it off.

azzi is bare-faced minus her brown mascara and pink lip mixed with a softened outline of her lip liner—shade name 'brownie'. the camera shakes slightly as she tries to show the world outside her uber window. paige finds her gaze settling on her subscriber count: 5,304. she hopes it never gets bigger, only to have azzi all to herself.

but azzi fudd is a wonderland. it's only a matter of time before the world finds her and rediscovers their venus with her gentle voice and kind eyes. but right now, in this space, with paige's midnight blue airpods max on and her chin tucked to her chest, azzi feels like only her girl. the vlogs are so lyrical, so soft that it feels like visual voicemails azzi's left for her to get to later.

paige resists the urge to comment, if only to keep the attention away. her fans will zero in on the activity like vultures in sight of meat.

"i got this new camera that all the girls say makes your filming really good. i'm a bit chronically offline, so i don't keep up with all of that, but i wish i did. learning how to work this thing is so confusing, and i feel like my content is a bit shit already."

azzi laughs after that statement, and paige thinks the uber driver does, too. she watches as azzi presses her powder pink acrylics to her bottom lip; she imagines them pressing into her instead.

"mario is my uber driver. he's been so accommodating of my rambling. well, i have to go for now. reached the hotel, and i should not be showing you where i'm staying."

azzi comes in close to the camera, her eyes like two pools of light. paige finds herself leaning in as if she's right there in the car with her. subconsciously, paige knows azzi is talking to five thousand of them, but she can't help but have the fantasy of being the only one to receive this message.

"we'll chat later, okay?"

okay, paige thinks.

azzi grins as if she's heard her, and the screen goes black. then, a thin line of white text appears. i forgot to keep filming! sorry!

paige laughs, but her headphones make it sound faraway. she's sleepy now, and the world is dusky outside as the morning comes in.

the video ends, but paige plays it again.

✺

that's the last sense of peace she gets for a while.

azzi posts on her instagram account—paige has a hunch that she either has a social media manager or forces her brothers to help her out—and paige lingers in the bathroom while she scrolls through the carousel. she strokes a thumb over the soft curve of azzi's cheek, its fullness pressed against a fan's as she smiles shyly.

she looks at the comments. the people's princess!, someone has said. she likes it before she thinks too much of it. an external pounding, different from the one in her head, breaks her out of the bubble. someone is yelling for her. maybe her coach, maybe a teammate. since joining the wnba, so many people seem to want her. paige closes her eyes and resists the urge to hug herself.

she should stay inside, stay here.

she goes out and plays.

paige walks through the park, hood up against the morning chill, headphones firmly in place. she's supposed to be on her way to an early team meeting, but she's deliberately taking the long route. she needs this—these fifteen minutes with azzi's voice in her ears, a buffer between last night's crushing defeat and whatever analysis is waiting for her at practice.

"so i went back to the rink yesterday," azzi's voice says, slightly tinny through her headphones. it’s the wired ones today. paige wants to feel more like herself, less jaded and more real. someone could simply pull the wire. she sort of hopes they do. "not to skate, just to… be there, i guess? my physical therapist said it might help with the mental block."

paige finds herself nodding as if azzi can see her. she knows about mental blocks. three missed free throws in the final quarter. twitter hasn't let her forget it.

"it smelled the same. that's what got me. like cold and rubber and—i don't know—possibility? is that weird to say?"

paige smiles. it's not weird. she gets it. the squeak of sneakers, the hollow echo of a basketball hitting hardwood. home sounds.

"it reminded me of this perfume a friend got me for christmas last year. it's a very icy smell. it's been discontinued, but she's so good at sourcing on ebay. it should be her full-time job. the notes say iris and vodka, which is so funny to me because i don't smell that at all. it just smells like home. like snow." paige wishes she would say what the perfume was, if only to see if she could find it, too. "anyway, so i'm at the rink…”

she's so caught up in azzi's voice that she doesn't notice the uneven sidewalk. her foot catches, and as she stumbles, her phone slips from her pocket, clattering to the ground. the headphones yank from her ears, suddenly filling the morning air with azzi's voice.

"…standing there like an idiot, honestly, but then my old coach—"

paige lunges for the phone, but another hand gets there first.

"was i saying anything interesting?" says a voice, exactly as the podcast continues, "—told me i didn't need to rush back into anything."

the surreal echo of the same voice, one from the device and one from above her, creates a strange doubling effect that makes paige freeze. the podcast keeps playing—“that maybe i needed to find my own path”—while the real azzi reaches down to silence it.

paige looks up, still half-crouched, and finds herself staring into azzi fudd's smiling face.

the same dimples. the same brown eyes. the same berry-pink lips from her videos, but now they're curved into an amused smile just for her and seem to be a shade darker. she's wearing a dior bodysuit, intricate diamond patterns tracing across it with strategic cutouts that reveal glimpses of warm, brown skin, paired with an asymmetrical gauzy lace skirt that floats around her legs, catching the morning light. it's elegant and ethereal, reminiscent of her skating days but with a modern edge.

paige's brain short-circuits. “you're—”

"azzi," she says, holding out the phone. "and based on what i just heard, you already know that."

heat floods paige's face. "i—yeah. i watch your videos. they're…" she struggles for a word that isn't pathetically revealing. "calming."

azzi's laugh is exactly how it sounds in her videos, but louder, tangible. "calming? that's a first. most people tell me i talk too fast."

"you do," paige says, finding her voice as she takes the phone. "but in a good way." she hesitates, then adds, "i'm paige."

azzi's eyes crinkle as she smiles, and her next words are a livewire. "i know. bueckers, right? i thought you looked familiar. i watched your game last night."

now paige wants to disappear. of course, azzi saw that disaster. she must be so red right now.

( azzi is only thinking of how blue her eyes are. )

azzi just shakes her head admiringly. "that three-pointer in the second quarter? with the defender right in your face? that was unreal."

paige blinks, surprised. most people only remember the misses. "thanks."

"i miss that feeling," azzi says, almost to herself, one hand absently smoothing the flowing material of her skirt. then she brightens. "anyway, i didn't mean to interrupt your… well, me." she gestures at the phone, and that laugh spills out again.

paige can't help it—she laughs too, a real version that loosens something tight in her chest. "it's not weird, i promise."

"no, it's definitely weird," azzi counters, still smiling. "but kind of cool. i didn't think wnba stars had time to watch my terrible travel vlogs."

"i make time," paige says, more honestly than she means to. “and they’re not terrible. you—you’re just doing what you love. i respect it.”

they stand there for a moment, the morning bustle of the park continuing around them. the breeze catches the edge of azzi's skirt, making it dance around her legs.

"well, i was just heading to get coffee," azzi says finally. "if you're not busy…"

paige thinks about practice, about the team meeting, about the inevitably grim analysis of last night's game. she feels her body lock up, feels her brain scramble. she knows what the right decision is. she makes the “wrong” one.

"i could use some coffee," she says.

✺

paige is learning just how much she's underestimated her need for somebody.

she never knew; she just assumed that she was doing alright. but coffee with azzi has led to friendship with azzi, which has led to her finding a hole inside of herself. she's only found the hole because it's beginning to fill.

it fills when azzi texts her absentmindedly about something she saw that she thought paige would like. it fills when she says good luck before a game. it fills when she calls, and paige purposefully lets it ring, only to hear the voicemail she leaves after. the filling is slow and endless, and it transmits into everything.

outside, the city hums with late-night traffic, horns blurring into the distant echo of sirens. paige should sleep—her body aches from the weight of practice, the constant push of competition—but instead, she scrolls. watches another video. then another.

azzi in a café, stirring sugar into her espresso. azzi trying on plum-colored lipstick in the reflection of a subway window, only to scrunch her face in distaste. azzi wandering through an open market, nose pink from the cold, laughing when she almost drops her phone.

paige presses the side of her fist against her mouth. there's something so unbearably soft about it, the way azzi lets the world see her like this. no stadium lights, no roaring crowds—just her, tucked away in quiet corners, existing in a way that feels small. still existing, despite the crumbling of her original path. paige wonders if azzi likes it that way. if she wants to be forgotten.

(she won't be. paige won't let her.)

she wonders if azzi understands just how much she's saved her life.

another game occurs. paige is better, though an outsider would call her phenomenal. she's not the best at being kind to herself.

twitter talks less. paige finds a way to leave herself alone. the hole is filling.

her teammates are gossiping, the usual buzz after a big win. someone mentions a player from a rival team who's been trying to get paige's attention all season. paige shrugs, a half-hearted smirk playing at the edge of her lips as she wipes her sweat-soaked face with a towel.

"i don't know, girl. she seems fun," paige says, eyes flicking toward her phone.

her teammates roll their eyes, but paige doesn't notice. she taps the screen, and the slight furrow in her brow softens when the name azzi lights up. she seems fun, paige thinks, but she's got nothing on her. she swipes to answer, her voice dropping to a tone that's so soft and easy it might not even be the same paige they all know.

"hey, az. miss me?" she says into the phone, the edge disappearing completely as she leans back against the locker, smiling like it's just the two of them alone in the world.

"hi, p," azzi says, her soft voice filtering through the speaker. paige almost closes her eyes, pictures summer rain. "i'm only calling for a few minutes. i have to get to this concert, but i think i'm lost."

paige feels a bolt of anxiety at the thought of azzi on her own in a new city. she asks her to hold a minute and checks her location. she's in a town called trogir. paige zooms out further. she's in croatia. she hops back onto the call.

"what are you doing in croatia?"

"you're such a little creep," azzi says fondly, her smile evident despite paige being unable to see her. "last-minute girls' trip with my mom. she says 'hi' by the way."

"hi, katie," paige says dutifully, and there's a faint whisper of someone saying hello in return.

"look, i'm getting distracted. i called to tell you something and—" there's the blare of a horn, and paige's heart jumps again.

"az?"

"i'm here. i'm fine. someone just almost got hit, jesus." azzi takes a deep breath, and paige wishes she was there to hold her hand. "um, okay. sorry! i called to say that i'm coming to dallas."

the world drains away, and suddenly paige can only hear the twin pumps of their hearts. her face warms with joy, and she feels the heat of a full-body blush. she's smiling like a loon, and most of her teammates have gone by now, but the ones who have stayed are watching her with amusement.

"are you being for real right now?"

azzi says yes through a sharp giggle, and paige spins in place. she sits down, suddenly dizzy, and squeezes her eyes shut until the black behind them is swimming with grains of white and pinpricks of light. she laughs.

"when will you be here? i can—i can pick you up. i will, if you want. which airport? can you just send me—"

"i will," azzi says, cutting through gently. "i promise. i'll send you everything, okay? i gotta go, but i promise."

paige clutches the phone with both hands, suddenly feeling like a child. she shifts in place and then says,

"azzi?"

"mmm?"

"will you…will you stay with me?" and it doesn't come out the way it's supposed to. it's only intended to be an offer of accommodation, but the words are swollen and filled with something else. she's asking for two things at once, and it embarrasses her.

"where else would i be?" azzi responds, and paige has nothing to say.

she goes to speak again, goes to expel the three little words sitting deep inside of her chest, but she swallows them down. she's such a child. she's a school girl with a crush.

"az?"

"yes?"

"i just—i can't wait to see you."

the background quiets. paige doesn't know where she is.

"me too, p. i miss you more than anything."

they end the call. the locker room has emptied now. it's only her. paige places her head in her hands. she grasps at her face, slides her hands over her mouth, and screams.

✺

the week of azzi's arrival comes so close, so quickly, like a flame.

paige barges into her coaches' office with so much force that it blindsides them, just enough for them to let out a startled 'sure' when she requests a couple of days off. she smiles with all of her teeth at the affirmative and gets on the road while she's still riding the high.

she arrives at the airport two hours early, as if punctuality could somehow make time move faster. she parks in short-term, ignoring the exorbitant fee. money doesn't matter today; only azzi does.

the arrivals hall is a mess of bodies and noise. families reuniting, frazzled pets held tightly, passengers searching hopelessly for their ubers. paige finds herself pacing, checking her phone, the overhead screens, her phone again. she's wearing a baseball cap pulled low, but she doesn't think anyone would recognize her anyway—not with her face this soft, this open with anticipation.

a text from azzi: landed. heading to baggage claim. see you soon x

the ‘x’ makes paige's heart stutter. she types back can't wait and deletes three different emojis before sending it plain.

when people start streaming through the arrivals gate, paige stands on her tiptoes, scanning the crowd. her height should be an advantage, but the nervous energy makes her feel small. she sees families, couples, businesspeople, then—

azzi.

she's wearing low-waisted jeans that reveal her belly piercing and a baby blue spaghetti-strap tank underneath a white bolero sweater that’s slipping off of one shoulder. her curls are gathered in a loose bun on top of her head, a few strands framing her face. she looks tired but luminous, dragging a carry-on behind her, eyes searching the crowd.

their gazes lock.

the moment stretches between them like taffy, sweet and pulling. then azzi's face breaks into a smile so bright it could power the entire terminal, and she's moving, weaving through the crowd with sudden purpose.

paige doesn't remember deciding to move, but suddenly, she's striding forward too. they meet somewhere in the middle, and paige doesn't know what to do with her hands. a hug? a wave? she hesitates, awkward and aching.

azzi has no such reservations. she drops her bag and throws her arms around paige's neck, her body warm and solid and real. she smells like airplane air and something sweet—vanilla maybe, or honey. paige's arms wrap around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground. she presses her face into azzi's neck and breathes.

"hi," azzi whispers, her breath warm against paige's ear.

"hey," paige says back, and it comes out embarrassingly rough. she clears her throat and tries again. "welcome to dallas."

when they pull apart, they're both smiling like idiots. azzi's eyes are wet, but she wipes at them quickly, laughing. "sorry, i'm just—it's been a long flight."

"no, i get it," paige says, even though she doesn't cry after flights. she gets it because she feels it too—this overwhelming something that makes her chest feel too small for her heart.

azzi reaches up and tugs the brim of paige's cap. "nice disguise, superstar. almost didn’t recognize you."

"shut up," paige laughs, taking azzi's bag before she can protest. "come on, i'm parked this way."

as they walk toward the exit, their hands brush once, twice. on the third time, paige hooks her pinky around azzi's, the smallest point of contact. she doesn't look over, but she feels azzi smile beside her.

in the car, azzi talks about her flight, about the book she read, about the baby two rows back who cried for four straight hours. pretty impressive actually, she says with a light smile. paige listens, stealing glances whenever traffic slows. the late afternoon sun catches in azzi's hair, turning the edges golden. paige grips the steering wheel tighter.

"you're staring," azzi says without looking over.

"you're beautiful," paige replies, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

the car falls silent. paige keeps her eyes fixed on the road, her face burning. she's blown it. she's made it weird. she's—

"so are you," azzi says softly. her hand finds paige's on the gearshift, her thumb tracing circles on paige's knuckles. "i really love your eyes."

the traffic moves forward. they do, too.

✺

the room is quiet except for the soft hum of the air conditioning. it's late afternoon, the world outside bustling, but here, there's warmth and stillness. paige is sitting on the couch, her legs stretched out in front of her, and azzi is curled up against her, head resting on paige's lap.

azzi's breathing is slow, even, and paige runs her fingers gently through the soft curls resting on her thigh. she's been like this for hours, scrolling through her phone aimlessly, but there's nothing that can pull her attention away now. she doesn't even notice how still she's become, how careful she is with every movement, how much she's trying to keep quiet so azzi doesn't stir.

azzi shifts slightly, her cheek pressing deeper into the fabric of paige's shorts, and paige freezes, holding her breath as if moving too much would ruin it. the sight of azzi so peaceful, so vulnerable in her arms, is enough to make paige's chest tighten. she hasn't felt this attached in months. but here she is, with the lines between her and azzi a little too blurry, and paige doesn't mind. she's unafraid.

azzi's eyelids flutter for a second, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and paige smiles to herself. there's a part of her that wants to get up, stretch her legs, maybe go grab a drink. but she can't—won't. not with azzi here, warm and trusting in her lap.

she watches the rise and fall of azzi's chest, her fingers gently tracing patterns along azzi's arm. if she moves now, she knows she'll ruin it, disturb the quiet. and for once, paige doesn't care about anything else. she doesn't care about the press or the noise or her next game. she just wants to stay like this, with azzi in her arms, forever. she wants to film this, make her own vlog to watch back when the world is crushing her.

time passes without her noticing. outside, cars begin to slow in the height of rush hour. it's perfect; it's just the two of them. azzi stays asleep, her head tucked into the curve of paige's body, and paige lets her be, letting the moment stretch on until she doesn't even know how long it's been.

eventually, paige's phone vibrates on the table beside them, but she doesn't move to answer it. instead, she looks down at azzi, resting her chin on top of her head, a soft whisper of "i got you" escaping from her lips.

it's a promise, even if neither of them has said the real words yet.

after another hour, azzi stirs slowly, her eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks. she stretches, cat-like, still half-under, before realizing her head is resting on something warm. someone. paige.

“what time is it?” she mumbles, her voice rough with sleep.

paige shifts slightly, her hand still tangled in azzi's curls. "almost seven," she says softly. "you were out for a while."

azzi sits up, blinking in the dim light of early evening. she rubs her eyes, embarrassed. "why didn't you wake me up?"

"you looked like you needed it," paige says, and then adds with a grin, "plus, i liked watching you sleep. you make these little noises—"

"i do not," azzi cuts in, laughing as she pushes at paige's shoulder.

it's then that azzi notices the coffee table. it's covered in takeout containers—at least a dozen of them, all neatly arranged. she blinks, confused.

"i got food," paige explains, suddenly looking sheepish. "i didn't know what you'd want, so i just got you everything."

azzi leans forward, opening one of the containers. quinoa salad with roasted vegetables. another one reveals a green smoothie bowl topped with chia seeds. a third has some kind of grain bowl with avocado and sprouts.

"i thought you hated ‘healthy-healthy’ food," azzi says, looking up at paige with wonder.

paige shrugs, averting her eyes. "yeah, but you don't. and i thought you might be hungry when you woke up, so…"

there's a moment of silence, and then azzi is moving, closing the distance between them. she reaches up, curling her fingers around the back of paige's neck, and pulls her down until their foreheads touch.

"you're something else, p," she whispers, and before paige can respond, azzi presses her lips to hers.

it's soft, sleepy, a barely-there touch that feels like the most natural thing in the world. then it deepens.

paige clutches at the base of her neck and tries to swallow her, biting at her bottom lip until azzi gives her enough room to slip in her tongue. azzi makes a high noise, something like a whimper, and paige squeezes her waist with her free hand. she kisses her harder, her fingers trailing gently over the cool gem of her belly button piercing. when they pull apart, paige's eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed.

"was that okay?" azzi asks, suddenly unsure.

paige nods, a smile spreading across her face like a slow sunrise. "okay? fuck, az. that was more than okay." it was all i've ever wanted, is what she holds back.

azzi smiles back, her cheeks bunched high with the force of it, and then gestures to the food. "we should probably eat before it gets cold."

paige laughs, reaching for a container. "i think some of it's supposed to be cold, babe."

"will you shut up?" azzi says, but she's smiling far too hard for it to have any bite. they don't say anything about the pet name.

they eat cross-legged on the floor, containers spread between them, talking about nothing and everything. it feels like they've been doing this forever, like they've known each other all their lives. like, this is exactly where they're supposed to be.

at least, paige knew this was where she was supposed to be. and if it felt miles better than being on the court, that’s her perfect secret.

✺

the press room is buzzing with the usual chatter. paige's post-game routine is the same—answer the same questions, give the same responses. she's had enough of it by now, the lights, the cameras, the questions she's been asked a thousand times before.

"paige, great game tonight! you really pulled through in the second half," one reporter begins, the usual pleasantries. "but we have to ask—can you tell us about your friendship with azzi fudd? we've seen you two together a lot recently, and you two are a little bit of an unlikely duo."

paige's shoulders tense, her jaw tightening slightly. she can feel the eyes of every reporter in the room, all waiting for her to answer in the same carefully scripted way. she's never been one for this media circus, and she certainly doesn't enjoy being poked and prodded about her personal life. but something shifts in her. the question lingers, more intimate than the usual “game analysis” ones.

she leans back in her chair, trying to act casual, but her eyes flicker down to her phone hidden in her lap. the screen lights up with a text, and her lockscreen flashes. it’s a picture of her and azzi, their faces haloed by the dallas sun. paige isn’t even looking into the camera; she can’t be bothered to look at anything that isn’t her. azzi is laughing, open-mouthed and pleased.

this is her girl, the way the world once saw her, the way paige always sees her: aphrodite with the world at her feet.

"um, well," paige starts, her voice surprisingly steady, "azzi… she's everything. i mean, look, she's always been special to me. she found me at a time in life when i needed her. she's been through more than people know, and i respect the hell out of her for that. she's my best friend, my person.”

paige stops herself, eyes narrowing as if considering whether to backtrack or not. instead, she continues, the words coming out before she can hold them back.

"azzi's a queen, man," she says, a lightness in her voice that's unmistakable. "she deserves to be loved for more than just her talent, you know? what she used to be. people see her as this little ice princess frozen in time, but she's so much more than that. she's smart, funny, kind. i'm lucky to have her in my life. i wish i’d had her earlier.”

the room goes quiet for a moment. paige can't help but glance at the reporters in front of her, their pens moving quickly, capturing every word.

she doesn't care. not this time. the clip goes viral within minutes, the headline flashing across social media—paige bueckers opens up about friendship with azzi fudd: "she deserves to be loved."

✺

paige is in bed, the lights dim, but her face is illuminated by the glow of her phone. her ponytail is messy and dark with sweat from a long day of practice, but she doesn't care. azzi's facetime rings in, and her heart skips a beat.

"hey, princess," she greets, already in a lighter mood. azzi's there, scrunching her nose at the camera, dressed in a cozy hoodie and no makeup, just her.

"am i keeping you up?" azzi teases softly.

paige leans back against her pillow, trying to act nonchalant, but there's a softness in her voice that betrays her. "i was just waiting for you to call." she traces her finger along the edge of the screen. "couldn't sleep without hearing your voice."

and she sees it in azzi's face: that warm affirmation that she saw what paige said during press today. they don't talk about it. instead, azzi says,

"i love you. so much."

paige's chest tightens. she nods, tries to say i love you too, i love you more— but struggles against the lump in her throat. azzi hears her anyway. she always seems to understand.

"um, tell me about your day," paige finally pushes out.

"sure, baby.”

azzi begins to talk. paige puts her airpods in. blocks out any other noise. she falls asleep like that.

#mine ; 🐎.#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi #paige bueckers #azzi fudd #lowkey terrified of posting this but doing it anyway #uconn wbb #uconn huskies

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ramp-it-up · 2 months ago

Text

Muse: One

Muse Preview | Muse Masterlist|| Muse: Two

Summary: You and Ari meet on Raya. Chaos ensues.

Pairing: Art Curator! Ari Levinson x Plus sized model! Reader

Word count: 4.5 K

A/N: Muse will be a series of one shots featuring Muse and Ari, and this one will probably be the longest one. We’re gonna hear from them at least every week. 😏 Big thanks to @princessphilly who basically inspired the premise and then endured me being feral in her inbox. And yes, this is the same Ari that's in Show Off, so this AU is tangential to the Peach and Knock You Down verses. I was honestly working on another fic and this one possessed me. Here I go again. 🤷🏽‍♀️

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Ari Levinson: art collector/curator/ fuckboi, Reader: model/ player, dating app life, drinking, casual sex, Dominant Ari, assertive reader, sex almost straight out the gate, size kink (c &b), breeding kink, but protected sex, pussy/clit slapping, praise and degradation, one night stand with zero feelings caught (lies!)

I don’t have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post!

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

--------

You weren’t even supposed to be on Raya that night.

You’d just finished a long shoot in a downtown loft where the air was thick with hairspray, and the photographer kept yelling absurdities like: “Give me strong, but soft! Like a powerful whisper!”

Your feet ached. Your back screamed. The only thing keeping you sane was the cold cabernet sauvignon sweating in your hand.

You weren’t looking for anything. You just wanted to see some pretty faces and feel like a hot girl with options.

Swipe.

No.

Hell no.

Well damn. Ari Levinson.

You’d heard about him. Your model friends had stories about how smooth he was, the size of his dick, and how he ghosted right after getting what he wanted. Classic.

But you got it. On a cellular level. Because you weren’t looking for entanglements either.

You just wanted the D.

His first photo was black and white, him standing in a sunlit Parisian gallery, framed by massive abstract canvases. His hair was tousled like he either just woken up from a nap on a vintage couch or spent the morning negotiating a private sale.

He wasn’t looking at the camera, of course not.

He was looking at the art.

Ari also looked like art, smart blue eyes and soft lips partially hidden by a beard that you thought would feel good between your thighs. You could tell that he was tall, broad shouldered, and built to last. He was dressed casually, and that’s how you knew he was rich rich.

He didn’t have to show it off.

His bio was enigmatic:

“Chasing beauty, collecting moments. Sometimes it’s oil on canvas. Sometimes it’s the silence between two songs.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

You read it twice.

You meant to swipe left.

But fate, or the wine, intervened.

It’s a Match.

You stared at it for a minute, then typed before you could change your mind.

“Picasso said 'art is a lie that makes us realize truth.” You buying lies or selling them?” Drinks?

He responded within seconds.

He suggested a bar in SoHo with intimate booths, dim lighting, and top tier mixology.

You almost said no. You didn’t do dates.

You did vibes, connections, and the occasional night of excellent chaos.

But something about his response made you curious.

—--

Raya was never really Ari’s scene.

Too curated. Profiles with perfectly lit selfies, vague aspirations, and bios that tried too hard to sound both deep and detached.

He didn’t swipe often.

But the truth was, Ari Levinson was lonely.

Not in the sad, broken kind of way, more like he was perpetually surrounded by beautiful people who only admired his collection, complimented his taste, but never asked why he kept certain pieces or why he stared too long at sculptures that looked like loss.

His encounter the other night with the newlywed Rogers made him yearn for that kind of fire, that kind of connection. But he didn’t know if that could be duplicated.

Ari was just about to close the app when your profile popped up.

He recognized you right away.

Not because you were just beautiful, you definitely were, but because you commanded the image. There was a magnetism in the way you moved, a joy and defiance that didn’t care for permission.

On your profile was a picture of you in oversized sunglasses and a silk robe, holding a book. And another one of you at some red-carpet event, plus-sized and absolutely radiant, laughing like you were amused at the world.

You were absolutely stunning.

Your bio:

Model. Curvy chaos. Not here for a long time, just a good time.

Ari smiled. Finally, someone not performing a softcore version of forever.

You weren’t like the others, not looking to be wifed up with someone rich and powerful like him. That made you dangerous.

He swiped right instinctively, just to see. Just to admire.

He didn’t expect a match.

But when the screen lit up, It’s a Match!, his chest actually tightened.

And then came your message.

You look like you curate galleries by day and cry to phoebe bridgers by night. Drinks?

He choked on his espresso.

It was hilarious.

And too perfect.

He should’ve ignored it. Should’ve played it cool.

Instead, he typed back faster than he ever had in his life.

“I’m intrigued. 8PM. Little Branch in SoHo. Can’t wait to see you.”

Short, sharp, and confident, not overplaying his hand.

And it was the word intrigued, not “interested,” not “curious.” And he’d said, “Can’t wait to see you.”

That got you. Because that meant he was already a little undone.

—---

Ari was already there when you walked in. Black button-up, gold chain, leaning on the bar casually, but you could tell he saw you the second you stepped through the door. He stood, smiled, and you rocked back on your heels as if hit by a bolt of lightning.

The man was massive. Pictures didn’t do him justice and you didn’t know of the button up was tailored, all you knew is you felt the power beneath it. You also had to stop yourself from turning your head sideways to check out the package in his jeans.

You paused, steadying yourself, and continued your approach..

“Wow,” he said when you approached and introduced yourself.

You laughed, because no matter how many people ogled you for a living, the involuntary kind of compliments always made you flustered. You swallowed, then turned to the barback.

“Negroni. Empress Gin.”

Ari raised an eyebrow, impressed.

“Oh. A big girl drink.”

You laughed. He kind of loved it already.

“Well, as you can see, I’m a big girl.”

Ari’s eyes slid down your body and you weren’t mad as he did a double take at your jeans.

“I see. And I like.”

The way he licked his lips made you warm. You raised your eyebrow, imagining him munching away.

“My booth is back here.”

You looked at his large hand pointing the way to the back of the small bar to an even more intimate area. Yeah. You could ride that.

You walked ahead of him and you knew that he was watching your ass. You didn't mind. That was the point.

His booth was tucked into a corner, shadowed and intimate; it was the kind of space designed for secrets and seduction. You slid in first, and he followed, sitting close.

He signaled for another round, fingers grazing yours on the drink menu as if by accident, and when the server left, he turned back to you with that beautiful smile.

“So. Model, huh?”

You smiled back at him.

“That’s the rumor. Print and editorial mostly. A few campaigns. But I prefer runways in Europe over the states. I travel a lot.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

You shrugged.

“Sometimes. But I like bringing the fantasy to life.”

You took a sip of your drink and his eyes were on your mouth.

“And you? Art dealer, right? Collector?”

“Curator,” he corrected gently. “Sometimes broker. Sometimes buyer. Mostly, I help people spend obscene amounts of money on things they don’t understand.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“So a charming con artist with a gallery?”

He grinned.

“Exactly. But I only sell what I believe in.”

“Nice. I sell unattainability and the occasional skincare product. We both deal in illusions.”

“Yours just have better lighting.”

You laughed and tilted your head. Something happened in Ari’s chest. He should have run.

“So, what, you sit around all day judging brushstrokes and seducing heiresses?”

“Mostly. And trying not to text back women I shouldn’t.”

“Am I one of them?”

“Too soon to tell. But you’re a strong contender.”

You let that linger in the air for a second.

“So,” you said slowly, setting your drink down with a clink, “is this where you try and charm the pants off me?”

“I was trying to decide,” he murmured, as he took a drink, eyes locked on yours, “if I wanted to fuck you at your place or mine.”

You blinked, just once, but your smile widened.

“Oh, we’re skipping pretense, then?” you questioned. “Good. I hate when men waste my time. When was the last time you were tested?"

Ari raised his brow. You cut right to the chase.

"I get tested once a quarter, last time was two weeks ago. Clean."

"Hmmmm. I tested a month ago. And I'm clean too. But I'm gonna still need you to wear protection."

Ari smiled and lowered his eyes. His hand moved slightly under the table to rest near your thigh, but not quite touching you. A tease.

"Of course. Something tells me you don’t let anything, or anyone through,” he replied.

You studied him, wondering if you were reading worship and destruction into his look or if it was actually there.

“You’re starting to sound like someone who catches feelings.”

“Feelings?” he echoed with a grin. “No, I just like being around wild, beautiful creatures. And I enjoy the ones that bite back even more.”

You leaned in closer to him.

“You think I’m wild. And you think I bite?”

“I hope you are. And I hope you do.”

Your leg brushed his under the table. His eyes flicked down, then back up to your face, darker now.

“I have the same hopes for you, Mr. Levinson.”

Ari’s jaw flexed, nostrils flaring.

“I think we’re going to get along just fine.”

His fingers moved to your thigh and traced a slow line up your crotch beneath the table.

You leaned in closer.

“You still sure about just one night?” he asked, eyes on your lips again.

You put your hand on his thigh at that moment, moving it up to feel his thickening cock. You were excited at the potential there.

“One night. That’s the deal. I don’t do second acts. So you better make it count.”

Ari grinned and your stomach flipped.

“Well, then. I need to make it unforgettable.”

—----

You were straddling him on your couch when Ari realized he was in trouble.

He should’ve known the second you walked into the bar, hips swaying and those curves...damn. But here, now, with your thighs around him and your body pressed so close he couldn’t tell where he ended and you began, he was so gone.

Ari wasn’t the type to rush.

He was all about artful restraint and being aloof. But you shattered that.

You kissed like you knew just how to destroy him with your lips, teeth, and tongue. Ari hadn’t experienced the feeling since he was a teenager, but damn, he was throbbing underneath you.

And when you unbuttoned his shirt, fingers dragging over his chest, rubbing his nipples under your palms, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck. You’re unreal,” he murmured.

And you just smirked, leaned in, whispering, “I know.”

God, the way you moved. Every roll of your hips was a tease, every drag of your nails down his skin was a stripe he wanted to earn. He gripped your jean-clad thighs thighs hard enough to ground himself, because he was floating somewhere between desperation and awe.

You rode him slowly at first. You wanted him to feel all of it, every breath, every tremor. And he did.

Your pussy was buzzing with anticipation and you were impatient, but you wanted to savor this one.

You arched as his hips rolled up between your legs, anchoring your hands on his broad shoulders as he branded the shape of himself between your legs. And when he did it again, you moaned and tried to create your own rhythm, but he held you in place.

Ari had to stop you because he only had one shot tonight and he wasn’t going to throw it away and let you cum in your pants. When your orgasm hit, it would be with the slick walls of your pussy clamped around his cock.

So you did the only thing you could, which was to grind down harder on him, causing him to let out a shaky breath, finally moving you against him to get some friction.

"Fuck... let me feel you, darlin'."

Ari made a new rhythm, one he managed with his eyes locked on yours, hands roaming from your waist to your back, then tangled in your hair as you leaned in and bit his bottom lip, making him groan.

“You gonna fall in love with me, Ari?” you teased against his mouth.

“I think I already am,” he said, before he could stop himself.

You didn’t answer, thinking it was part of the game. You just smiled, leaned back, hands on his chest, and started moving faster, driving him out of his mind.

Every sound you made wrapped around his ribs and squeezed. He didn’t know what felt better, the pressure building low in his stomach, or the way you moaned his name like it tasted sweet in your mouth. The feel of your wet, hot pussy through your jeans was just a bonus.

He'd slept with beautiful women. Charming women. Women who made love like it were their last day on earth.

But you? You were different.

And the way you looked, curls akimbo, lips parted, eyes locked on his like you were seeing to the bottom of him, that image seared into him.

He stood, picking you up effortlessly, grabbing you under your ass.

“I’m assuming that your bed is up here?”

You just nodded, breathless at his power as he carried you up the stairs to the loft where your king sized bed was.

He reached the top and dropped you on the bed. You bounced a little as he reached for you and unbuttoned your jeans, dragging them down your legs along with your panties.

Shit, he wasn’t wasting any time.

He stopped and proceeded to strip off his own clothes.

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he commanded and you scrambled to comply, removing your top and your bra and watching him undress at the same time. You almost groaned at the sight of his cock.

You hadn’t always been a cock hungry slut, but you were a little obsessed. Ari was big and long, not the longest you’d had, but definitely the thickest. It was beautiful: veiny and flushed, with a large swollen head that leaked precum down his shaft. You knew it was going to be amazing when he stretched you out.

Then you noticed his balls. They looked full and heavy. You couldn’t help but lick your lips as you imagined how much cum he’d have for you. Ari smirked down at your wide eyes on him as he pushed your shoulders until you were lying on your back.

He hooked your thighs with his hands and dragged you until your ass was at the edge of the bed and you squealed with surprise as he lifted your feet up to his shoulders. This was quite the change from your usual three positions with your one night stands: missionary, cowgirl, or doggy style.

When he rubbed the his thick tip along your soaked slit, you closed your eyes and moaned. He tapped the entrance to your pussy with his cock, holding your hip to ensure that you didn't make him slip inside you.

Yeah. Ari wasn’t like other guys.

You felt the weight of him as he dragged his cock through your slippery, swollen pussy, smearing your slick all over him and you looked down, mesmerized by the sight. This was going to be good.

Ari looked down angrily.

"Fucking soaked for me," those blue eyes snapped up to yours, freezing you in place. "You always this wet?"

He licked those red lips and if you had a heart you would have been in trouble. You’d never been this wet with anyone before. You just shook your head no, not trusting yourself to answer, lest you have him thinking, correctly, that he was the shit.

But he read you anyway. That smile was both beautiful and annoying.

"For me? You shouldn't have... might get me addicted."

You scowled at him, but then you bit your lip as he started to draw circles on your clit with his penis. You were dickmatized again, eyes riveted to the spot as you moaned.

He tapped his cock against your clit to get your attention.

“Look at me.”

You looked at him through your lashes.

“Do you have any condoms?”

Oh no. Did you? You couldn’t think because of the pre-orgasmic haze you were in. Ari licked his finger and then brought it down to caress your clit while he waited for your answer.

That didn’t help the clarity of your thinking.

“Ch-check the top drawer.”

You gestured toward your nightstand, hoping it was the right direction.

He left you, opened legged and bereft as he went on his mission, and you breathed a sigh of relief when he said, “Found them.”

Thank god. You were about to beg him to ride you bareback if he hadn’t found any. He sheathed himself and then moved back into his previous position.

He rubbed himself over your slit again, and you moaned.

“Right about here, between these beautiful thick thighs, wouldn’t you agree?”

He was driving you crazy. Your cunt was humming on a five at the bar, but he had ramped her up to an 11. You’d never been this desperate for a cock before.

“Just fuck me, please!”

He chuckled and lined the head of his cock against your entrance, but didn’t push home. He teased you for a second, before dragging it up and down one last time, just to see the look your face.

Beautiful.

“You sure about this?”

His voice was pure sin. You opened your eyes fully and glared at him.

Gorgeous.

“Yes, Ari. I need you.”

That must have been enough because he immediately plunged in, inch by glorious fat inch, straight to your core.

“Oh fuck!”

Ari’s meaty cock stretched you out, and your head fell back in ecstasy as your hips instinctively arched to take him in deeper. You were panting from pure pleasure as you tried to adjust to his thickness.

“You like that? Like my thick cock in this little pussy?”

“Yes, God, yes!”

You couldn’t stop yourself from bucking against him to try to get him to move. He was still as a statue and his jaw was clenched from restraint.

“Tell you what, if you beg me to fill your pussy with cum, I’ll fuck you so hard your head spins. Deal?”

“Um…” you couldn’t form your thoughts to beg, or to realize that there would be no cum filling because of the condom.

“Why don’t you think about it and let me know,” Ari said casually as if he were talking to a customer browsing his gallery.

But he started thrusting slowly into your cunt as the electric current in his dick made you crave the roughness he’d suggested. You tried to pull yourself together, but it didn’t work.

Ari was transfixed by your breasts. They looked delicious.

“Play with your nipples,” Ari growled.

You cupped your breasts with your hands and pulled at the stiff peaks. He continued his leisurely pace, except now everything was worse. Or better.

Every time you pulled your nipples, you felt a corresponding pull between your legs. And then there was the way he was looking at what you were doing, eyes half lidded and mouth open as you touched yourself. Fuck that was so erotic.

The pressure was building, but you knew you wouldn’t cum until he fucked you harder.

Ari stopped and pulled out.

“Nooooooo!” you cried, and he chuckled at you, as if he was amused.

“I really wanna make you cum, but I think I’m distracting you too much.”

You couldn’t think, but you didn’t want him to stop. A sharp smack against your swollen pussy lips made you yelp and a blast of delight surged through you.

Holy fuck what was this guy doing to you?

When he slapped your pussy harder, you realized how completely fucked you were.

You would do whatever he wanted.

“Okay okay. Let me think…. Shit, Uh…” you were completely in a daze.

“Are you ready to beg me to fill you with my cum?” Ari reminded you of the question at hand.

He brought a finger back to your clit and rubbed devastating circles around it.

Jesus fuck, it was like he didn’t really want you to be able to talk. Catching a moment of clarity, you rushed it out.

“Please, Ari, fuck me hard and fill me with your cum. Pretty please. I just need your cum. Promise I’ll be the best fucktoy you’ve ever had, please?”

He gave you an evil grin and caressed your clit harder. You whimpered.

“Please, Ari. Need your cum.”

He stopped rubbing and you felt his tip nudging into you, and you were almost purring from the pleasure. He pressed in until he bottomed out, waves of bliss washing over you. You started trembling preemptively.

“Good girl,” he announced as he pulled out gently, only to slam back in hard.

“Oooooo, fuck, oh my god!” you gasped out as he fucked you ruthlessly.

The sound of your moans mixed with the squeaking of your bed, and you continued to play with your tits which only increased your pleasure.

You went from one peak to another as you quickly spiraled toward your orgasm, Ari’s grunts each time he sank into you helping to speed you along.

“Such a….good… little… breedable…. Fucktoy…..”

He slammed into you, groaning with every word. All it took was one brush of his finger to push you over the edge.

You screamed, “Oh, god, yes!” as you came all over his cock and writhed against him as he roared that he was cuming. New waves of rapture surged between your legs, traveling throughout your entire body.

He drilled into you for a moment longer, and the intense aftershocks were almost too much to bear. When he finally pulled out, the room swirled around you and you let out a tiny giggle.

Ari did promise to fuck you hard enough to make it spin.

He went to the bathroom and disposed of the condom and then returned and pulled you up the bed to make you his little spoon.

You reveled in the smell of sweat and sex, almost getting high on the scent. You laughed softly like you couldn’t believe what just happened. But he knew. He knew exactly what happened.

He was ruined.

But you were a one-night promise, a walking fantasy with no intentions of calling back. And still, as you lay in bed with him, catching your breath, his hands on your body, Ari knew he didn’t want this to end.

Not anytime soon.

“You don’t have to stay if you have something in the morning…”

You meant that to sound more definitive, like you were inviting him to leave, but Ari had wrecked you so much that you didn’t have the energy to be cold. That was the reason you turned, burrowed into his chest and let your eyelids get heavy.

Ari chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Muse. I’ll get out of your hair soon. Just catching my breath.”

“... the fuck is Muse?...” you questioned on your way to sleep, the rhythm of his fingers on your thighs the nails in your coffin of sleep.

“You are. You’re my Muse.”

You didn’t quite feel the kiss on your forehead. But you smiled.

—----

In the morning, the light in your apartment was rude.

It filtered through the curtains like it had a personal vendetta, hitting your face just as you tried to pretend the night didn’t happen the way it did. Your limbs were sore in that satisfied way, like you’d run a marathon, but only with your hips.

You stretched. Yawned. Felt the warmth behind you.

Shit.

Ari was still there.

He was on his side, one arm slung over your waist like it belonged there. His broad chest was on your back, and his nose buried in your neck, breathing you in.

You shifted. He didn’t move. Just tightened his hold with that annoying, possessive kind of tenderness.

“Morning,” he mumbled into your skin, his gravelly morning voice threatening to do you in.

“Mhmm,” you answered, noncommittally. You carefully peeled his arm off.

“You can go, you know.”

That got his attention. He lifted his head, messy hair falling over his eyes, beard pressed with pillow lines.

He looked like sex personified.

“Damn. No coffee? No kiss on the cheek? Not even a fake number on a Post-it?”

“Don’t make this weird, Ari.”

You’re out of bed now, grabbing your robe from the chair, ignoring the way his eyes tracked your every move. You knew the drill. One-night stands didn’t turn into brunch plans.

He propped himself up and leaned against your headboard like it was custom-built for him.

“Wasn’t trying to. Just… didn’t think you’d be in such a rush to forget me.”

“I’m not,” you lied, tying your hair up with a scarf, trying to be as unattractive as possible.

You had no idea that to him you looked like the most beautiful painting he'd ever seen.

“I just like to keep things clean. No open tabs.”

“Hmm.”

He studied you for a long moment, then stretched like a cat, unapologetically naked and smug.

“You always kick people out like this? Or am I just special?”

You sighed. He wasn't making it easy. He was too comfortable in your space. Too charming. Too in your face.

“I didn’t peg you for the lingering type.”

“I’m not. But something about your bed makes me reconsider my brand.”

He grinned.

“And you snore a little. It’s cute.”

You whirled around.

“I do not snore.”

He laughed. Like it was a private joke between you. It softened you for a second. Just a second. You cleared your throat and motioned down toward the door.

“Seriously. You should go.”

He nodded slowly, slid out of your bed and grabbed his clothes, treating you to the sight of him getting leisurely getting dressed. When he caught you watching, he grinned, and you scoffed, going down the stairs so you wouldn’t be tempted stare any more.

Ari walked past you, stopped at the doorway and turned.

“If this is your way of making sure I don’t catch feelings... it might be too late.”

That caught you off guard. He shrugged.

“It’s fine. I’m not asking for a toothbrush or a drawer. But if you ever want to fuck again… or talk about art… or do both at the same time…You know where to find me, Muse.”

He winked. The mutherfucker actually winked, then walked out like he didn’t just ruin your perfectly controlled system.

You stood there, silent, heart hammering a little harder than you would have liked. And only when the door clicked shut did you whisper:

“...Goddamn it.”

——-

Muse: Two

So… whaddya think? 🤔

#ari levinson au #ari levinson #ari levison x reader #ari levinson x plus size!reader #ari levinson x model!reader #ari levinson smut #ari levinson x you #chris evans #chris evans character

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a-hazbin-reader · 1 year ago

Note

Hey did you get my ask/request of Alastor and Wife!reader having an argument and Alastor says something horrible to her leaving him to have to make up for it?

I did, I just have a lot of stuff in my inbox

Alastor X Reader Headcanons

✅️Romantic

❌️Platonic

TW: Alastor being in the DOGHOUSE

Description: ☝️⬆️

Alastor doesn't mind fighting, likes to bicker with and irritate those around him as some strange show of dominance

But his wife is an exception, he hates fighting with his wife and goes to great lengths to avoid it

Despite his efforts, you two do still fight from time to time and he hates it, he tries so hard to reign in that cruel part of him

He doesn't really even remember what started the fight, probably something dangerous he did that upset you

Something like the Adam stunt

And he probably tried to brush it off, his pride not letting him admit that your fears were warranted

You were understandably getting worked up over his dismissal, and he was getting irritated that you wouldn't just drop it

Everyone else in the hotel had scattered and hidden the moment you two started to uncharacteristically raise your voices at each other

Angel had to grab Niffy to stop her from watching the entire argument play out

He just doesn't want to scare you with the idea of losing him, he wants to be your strong, invincible husband

It makes him uncomfortable that you see beyond the powerful overlord demon and instead zero in on the man beneath it all

"Darling, I would understand your fears if I hadn't come back to you in one piece, but I'm here. With you. Perfectly fine."

You could rip your hair out due to frustration, almost in tears, how could he not understand how you felt?

"Alastor! That's not the point! You can't be so reckless! It's not just you that you have to worry about anymore! You have a wife! You have to live and be safe for me!"

He fears a pang of anger over being told what to do, rage and irritation over the unintentional reminder of his failure to win

Which makes his mind wander to his deal, his fucking leash

The words are out of his mouth before he even realizes what he's saying

"If I knew that everything I do had to be approved by you then, I would've rethought this whole marriage ordeal."

Alastor regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, his ears folding back at the sight of your hurt expression

Your eyes have tears in them but you're doing your best to hold them in, turning on your heel to leave the room

"Wait-Darling, I didn't-"

"Just...give me some space, Alastor."

He regrets it so much, watching you walk away from him when he should be begging for forgiveness

He hates seeing you so upset but he hates being the reason for it even more

Alastor tries to give you the space you asked for, but it's difficult when all he wants to do is make up with you already

But he also doesn't want to actually talk about what happened

So he breaks fairly easily when he sees you again, coming up behind you and hugging you

Only to be shrugged off when he goes for a small kiss, left with a sinking feeling in his stomach

"I said to give me space, I'm not ready to talk to you yet."

Normally, Alastor loves it when you're cruel and cold, finds it a little hot, but when it's aimed at him? He hates it so fucking much

Literally looks like a kicked puppy when you walk away from him again, Charlie and Vaggie looking at anything but him

"You know what, Charlie? I do see that crack in the wall!"

He tries again later, sitting next to you and trying to wrap an arm around your shoulders while the radio bursts to life with a love song

Only to be rewarded with an ill hidden sniffle and you immediately getting up to walk away from him

"If you're not going to apologize and have a genuine conversation with me then don't even bother."

It's driving Alastor crazy not being able to be with you, to not be able to properly make up with you

But he still doesn't want to admit he messed up or have that uncomfortable conversation with you

So he tries lavish gifts and other romantic gestures that all get rejected or given to Niffty to do whatever she wants with them

"Yay!! I'm going to poison these and give them to the mother bugs!!"

Okay...maybe Angel should have these...

Alastor is starting to understand that he can't just gloss over this one

He understands it a little more later that night when you go to bed without him, and he's left too nervous to follow after you

Several hours into the night, the guilt eats at him and he breaks, sneaking into the bedroom

You're awake, your eyes red rimmed from crying but you manage to give him a glare before turning your back to him

"Darling, I believe I owe you an apology..."

The way your tense body relaxes is all he needs, crawling into bed with you and pulling you to his chest

It's a difficult pill for him to swallow, so it's easier for him to have these conversations with you like this

He doesn't want you to see his weakness even when he's laying it out for you

Luckily, Alastor is good with his words and you're willing to listen now that an apology is on the table

It's a long conversation that leaves you both sleepless and emotional in each other's arms

But things are settled and Alastor is forgiven, happy to be back in your good graces

He tried to be strong and hold himself back, he really did... but being without the warmth of your love was torture for him

It was a rough couple of hours for him

HA WHIPPED

"Angel, shut the fuck up before you get yourself killed!"

He's extra clingy and romantic with you for DAYS afterwards, making everyone else at the hotel practically nauseous

Except for Charlie, of course, she loves it

He's just so relieved that you've forgiven him, still disgusted with himself for even saying what he said

Asks you for yet another kiss that morning before Husk finally walks away, annoyed by Alastor's neediness

You don't mind your husband's clingy antics, enjoying the extra attention he's giving you

You should get mad at him more often

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor hazbin hotel x reader #alastor hazbin x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin x reader

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silens-oro · 2 months ago

Text

Well Enough Alone: Part I

Not all fics have adult content, but this blog is 18+. Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader (nicknamed Hawk) Prologue

Masterlist Pope Cody Playlist

General Synopsis: Hawk juggles her life between Julia, Julia's son J, and the Cody family. Slow Burn. Word Count: 5,335 (lmao I'm cooked) Content Warning: No description of the reader, other than the nickname. Warnings will be updated chapter by chapter. Mentions of cps, drugs, overdoses, death & prison. A/N: Thank you to everyone who gave support on the prologue (linked above). This fic is a passion project that I hope you'll enjoy! As always, my inbox is open.

The chatter around Smurf’s dinner table stopped on a dime after Hawk’s question. Has anyone heard from Pope? After a particularly upsetting visit to Julia’s, it got her thinking about him. He had been gone six months and those six months seemed to pass relatively quickly for her. Of course they did. She wasn’t locked in a cell with god knows who, surrounded by people that wanted to beat her ass -or worse. Hawk couldn’t imagine how he survived every second that passed in Folsom.

Baz, Deran, and Craig looked at Smurf, then looked at Hawk. She eyed Hawk carefully and Hawk was the first to break eye contact, knowing how the pecking order went under Smurf's roof.

“Just wondering if anyone has gone to see him is all,” Hawk muttered, going back to the chicken on her plate.

“You know we can’t visit him, baby. He’s got a lawyer, and money on his books -he’s taken care of.” Smurf tried to placate Hawk. “He does call once in a while when he’s up to it, and he’s doing the best that he can. Pope’s strong. He’ll get through this. He always does.” It didn’t sit right with her. Hawk knew why they couldn’t go to the prison to see him, she got it, but it still felt wrong. Pope was their family and they just…left him.

Abandonment when there was no more use seemed like a reoccurring Cody trait if Hawk ever saw one, though she never voiced that opinion out loud.

“Yeah, I understand.” That ended the tense conversation and chatter picked back up around the table.

It took a lot of hyping herself up for the 9 hour drive up to Folsom from Oceanside when Hawk decided to book her visiting slot. When Pope was initially locked up, Smurf had Hawk listed on his approved visitors list for emergency purposes because she was disconnected from any Cody shenanigans and had a clean record. Hawk never really thought she would actually make the trip north -not until she realized just how long Pope was destined to be up there like an animal with zero support on the outside other than a few bucks for commissary.

Hawk also wasn’t confident that Pope would even want to see her to begin with, especially if things were much worse on the inside than he was letting on to Smurf. Folsom had its reputation for a reason.

In a way Hawk always held a torch for the Pope, even as teens, but he never noticed it or chose to ignore it. Either way, the unrequited longing was still present now well into her thirties, and it wigged her out the longer she thought about it. Hawk told herself that if he rejected her visit, her feelings wouldn’t be hurt, but even the thought of that very real possibility was almost enough to make her turn around and tuck tail back home.

Pope needed support, Hawk told herself, letting the endless freeway in front of her distract her enough to keep going. He wasn’t getting it from his family and Hawk knew he didn’t really have friends -none of them did, really- and definitely not anyone who would drive nine hours to see him. It broke her heart a little. Even if he rejected her visit, it wasn’t a mistake. Showing him that she cared would let him know that he’s not alone. That there was someone on the outside who genuinely cared about him and his well-being .

To Hawk’s surprise, Pope accepted the visit. Generally the inmates don’t know who is waiting for them in the visiting room, just that they’re on the approved list, so imagine Pope’s surprise when he saw Hawk sitting on the other side of the cubicle, fidgeting as she waited for him to come out. Pope was an incredibly difficult man to read under normal circumstances, but the confusion was clear as day on his face when Hawk finally looked up from her hands and saw him coming her way. His right eye held remnants of fading bruises and the left corner of his downturned mouth had a mostly healed split.

God knows what happened to him in there, she thought to herself.

Picking up the receiver on Hawk’s end, she held it up to her ear. Pope took his time picking up the phone receiver from the other side of the glass and held it to his own ear.

“Hi,” Hawk said after a few beats. Pope didn’t respond for a few moments, but he kept his eyes locked on Hawk.

“Smurf send you?” His voice was raspy like he hadn’t used it much, and he probably hadn’t.

“No, she doesn’t know I’m here.” Both of his brows raised at this. His eyes, ever observant, were watching Hawk every move from her picking the skin around Hawk finger nails nervously, to the way Hawk’s eyes couldn’t keep contact with him for more than a few seconds at a time. She was nervous, that much he could tell.

“Does anyone know you’re here?” His eyes narrowed. She knew it was a stupid idea to take the nine hour drive by herself, but she couldn’t imagine being stuck in a car with Deran or Craig for that long -if they even wanted to go with her. Baz would’ve told her to go fuck herself for even asking.

“No.” Hawk spoke softly with a sigh, scratching the back of her neck.

“You’re a long way from home, Hawk. You should’ve brought someone.”

“I didn’t want to, and they were too chicken shit to come anyway, otherwise they would’ve already made the trip.” Hawk didn’t mean to answer so rigidly, and it got the most minute reaction out of Pope -a small twitch in his right eye- but Hawk’s anxiety was in overdrive. She hadn’t spoken to Pope and just Pope in years. There was always a buffer whether it was in the shop or at Smurfs and he never spoke to her first.

“If Smurf didn’t send you, then why are you here?” Pope leaned forward towards the scratched plexiglass, his voice lowering even further. If Hawk made the nine hour drive north, something had to have happened at home.

“I…” Hawk hesitated. What could Hawk say to him? “I spoke with Smurf the other night. I asked about you. She more or less said that none of them were coming up here for obvious reasons and it got me thinking…” Pope, ever stoic, stared unblinking as he listened to Hawk ramble. “I’m disconnected from everything and I’m already approved, so I figured I could make the drive to visit you. I’m sorry for not giving you a heads up, but I figured you could do with knowing there is someone on the outside who cares about you. I can’t begin to imagine your situation,” Pope almost laughed -situation. “If you’re fine with it, I wouldn’t mind coming up here every couple of weeks during visiting hours? But if you’re not cool with it that’s fine too. The ball’s in your court. I don’t want to overstep anymore than I have already.”

Pope blinked, studying Hawk with an intensity only he was capable of, and nodded ever so slightly after what seemed like forever. A weight was instantly lifted from Hawk’s shoulders. The timid smile she gave him made the corner of his mouth twitch ever so slightly, but Hawk caught it and she locked it away for a time she needed to think back on it.

That little grin alone made the trip worth it.

Those visits continued every two to three weeks on Saturdays or the occasional Sunday if her schedule didn’t allow it -the prison allotting four hours of visitation a month total if the inmate was on good behavior- and while Pope never really said much, Hawk knew he appreciated her being there even if it was an adjustment for him in the beginning. It was essentially a one sided yap session where Hawk updated him on Julia -only when he asked, and what was going on in her life. He never asked about his brothers or Smurf and Hawk was grateful for it. Their arrangement was separate from the family. It was something that was just theirs and theirs alone, and Pope wouldn’t let it bleed over if he could help it.

Two and a half years later and the calls and visits to Pope had become a routine. Pope knew that every two weeks, Hawk would be on the other side of that plexiglass like clockwork. The routine was good for him. It was something he could look forward to when everything else had gone to shit. He wouldn’t admit it, but Hawk was the sole reason he survived his three year lockup. It was her voice he heard when his cell was silent. It was her face he saw when he closed his eyes at night. He thought about her in every way a man could, especially when he had the cell to himself at certain points of the day. Her visits were something he looked forward to, something constant that made waking up the next day worthwhile.

The yearly parole hearings had become a routine as well, but so was their rejection. Pope didn’t expect to be released with the first hearing, but Hawk could see that he was deeply affected by it when she saw him two days after they rejected him. By the time the second rejection came, he was more settled with the idea that he wasn’t leaving. When his third year rolled around, Hawk could tell he was getting antsy when he called her to talk about the new parole hearing that had been scheduled for two weeks out.

“I don’t know why they waste their time when they already know I’m not going anywhere,” Pope told her. He was agitated before the call even connected -something had to have happened prior to the call that worked him up, and Hawk tried to get him to settle down so he didn’t have a meltdown.

“Don’t give them a reason to say no, Pope.” She warned him. “You’ve kept your head down and stayed out of trouble in there this long. That good behavior has to show for something. I’m with you either way, alright?” Hawk was stirring the contents of the pan she had going on the stove for her and J. A simple pasta with chicken and veggies in a white wine sauce was quick to throw together and her stomach growled just by smelling it.

“Alright.” Pope breathed into the phone. “Listen…maybe you shouldn’t take the trip out to Bakersfield this time.” It was Hawk’s idea to drive halfway to Folsom when Pope had his hearings. She’d book a hotel room in Bakersfield, and she’d wait for his call to hear what the parole board had to say. If he was released, it would be an easier four and a half hour drive to get him and if he wasn’t, then Hawk only had half the distance to drive back home. She made the time in her schedule and she had the means, but Pope still didn’t like her doing it.

“Stop, Pope. Don’t start with this. You still have two weeks before anything happens. I know it’s hard and it sounds cheesy as shit, but you have to stay positive. They can’t keep you in there forever, not with the charges you had. You’ll get out. You just have to hold on til then.”

J walked through the door right on schedule as she turned the burner off. He waved, but bypassed the kitchen and went straight to his room. Hawk pulled the phone away from her face and called out “Five minutes!” to which J yelled back with a ‘K!’ as she pulled some plates down from the overhead cupboard.

“What was that?” Pope asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“I’m watching a friend’s kid while she’s out of town.” Hawk explained, a little white lie. “Nothing to worry about.”

“She’s not waking up.” J’s voice was oddly calm when Hawk answered her phone from a deep sleep a few days after her call with Pope. She rubbed her eyes, sitting up in bed, and looked down at the clock on her phone before bringing it back up to her ear.

“What?” She yawned, groaning as she sat up. J explained that he went to grab something from Julia’s apartment before school when he found her unresponsive on the sofa, arm extended over the edge and a used syringe on the floor under it.

“What do I -do I call an ambulance? Her lips are blue, Hawk. She’s…stiff.” Hawk jumped out of bed, pulling on the first pair of shoes she saw as she stumbled through her house and out to her car. She and J had close calls with Julia too many times in the past to keep track of, but J’s voice sounded different this time around.

“Is she breathing at all, J? Any sign of life?” The other line was silent, then a whispered “No.”

“Alright. I need you to go outside for me, okay? Stay outside. I’ll be there in five minutes. Just…stay put and stay on the line with me. I’m going to get an ambulance on the way, just hold on.” Tears lined her eyes and her throat started to choke up. Hawk mentally prepared herself over the years for this day that she knew was going to come sooner or later, but for it to actually happen was another thing entirely.

Hawk spoke to the coroner when she got to the complex, and explained Julia’s situation. The scene was quick to process. Overdoses were frequent in this neighborhood, and at this complex in particular. Police, ambulance, CPS -everyone was at the small complex documenting the scene -talking to her and J, separately.

“I don’t need to go with you. I’m seventeen-” J started to argue with the officer and CPS case worker who were talking to him about thirty feet away from Hawk. All she could see was J shaking his head, pointing in her direction, and his mouth moving a mile a minute.

J pointed to Hawk again and all she could do was stand off to the side and watch as he was escorted to the back of the awaiting CPS van. Her chin dropped to her chest as the tears broke free in a steady stream.

The full body scream Hawk let loose was so intense that she felt her teeth vibrate. Her forehead smashed down on the steering wheel once, twice, then a third time and she ripped at her hair. Anger, frustration, desperation, and grief all swirled together through her like some kind of fucked up cyclone, pulling every bit of sanity she had left out of her.

“That can’t be right,” Hawk insisted, leaning over Sandra the Social Worker’s desk. “Janine wanted nothing to do with Julia or J for the last seventeen years. She can’t be the next of kin.”

“Janine Cody is his legal next of kin per the State of California. I’m sorry, but there is nothing more I can do at this point. She’s already been contacted and she’s willing to take him in. That’s all I can tell you.”

“But I’m his emergency contact for everything. I have been since he was two. He can’t go to those people, Sandra. Janine isn’t fit to care for him, much less any child. J’s never met her and his mother kept it that way for a reason. He already has a room in my house. I am more than equipped to take care of him -I’ve been doing it the last fifteen years.” Hawk was desperate. “I have a business, I can pass a drug test, I’ve never been arrested. I can do…uh I can do home visits as often as you need them done. I-I own a home, I have a college fund for him. I’ll jump through any hoops you need me to because you can’t uproot him to give him to strangers, Sandra. How-how is that supposed to be what’s best for him?” Sandra held her hand out to stop Hawk from continuing.

“I know this is difficult to navigate, but this is the law. Had his mother gone through the proper channels and made you co-guardians, we’d be having a different conversation. That being said, because you have been caring for him for so long, there are routes for you to take that can get you in front of a judge to plead your case if that’s the direction you need to go.” She handed Hawk a pamphlet and told her that was all she could do for her. That entire conversation felt like a punch to the kidney.

Over.

And Over.

Hawk couldn’t take Smurf to court. Financially she could, but Smurf would sooner drown her in a toilet before they even saw the first court date. Hawk couldn’t take on Smurf and win, not while she had her boys to protect her, and that was a hard pill to swallow, but for J’s sake she did. Hawk wasn’t any use to him if she was dead and she’d do anything in her power to protect him. He was legally Smurf’s for less than one year, then he’d be eighteen and off to college as far away from Smurf as he could possibly go.

Hawk held herself together as best as she could as she stood up, thanked Sandra for her time, and beel-ined it out of the CPS office doors to her car so she could meltdown in relative peace.

“I’m so sorry, Julia.” She whispered against the steering wheel as she cried.

Hawk’s house had never felt so empty in the fifteen years she lived in it. It was stifling, uncomfortable. Grabbing a bottle of white wine from her wine fridge, she popped the cork and took it outside to the back porch. Hawk sat on the outdoor sofa, her legs twisted under her, and sipped straight from the bottle as she stared at the endless horizon for the next couple of hours. She was about three quarters of the way through the bottle when her phone rang, breaking the tranquil silence as she watched the sun set.

“Shit,” Wiped at her eyes and took a deep breath. She didn’t want to answer it, but she never missed a single call from Pope. Not once. Her emotions were all over the place and she was teetering over the edge of buzzed, toeing the threshold into the worst drunk night of her life. She couldn’t talk to Pope when she was like this, but she couldn’t just let it ring. With one more deep breath, she swiped on her exhale.

“This is a collect call from Folsom State Prison on behalf of-“ “Andrew Cody” Pope’s voice interrupted the automated message before it continued. “Do you accept the charges to connect the call?”

“Yes.” It rang once, then connected. “Hey, Pope." Hawk’s voice was raspy and airy, her vocal cords damaged from her trip to the CPS offices earlier in the day. He clocked her immediately.

“Are you okay?” His tone was all business. Pope was the first person to ask her that since everything went to ship and she wanted to tell him the truth. No, she wasn’t okay. She was grieving, she was devastated, and there wasn’t a single soul she could talk to about it. Pope asked, but Hawk couldn’t unload on him -especially when it was about his sister. She doubted Smurf clued him in to all that’s happened in the last week and Hawk didn’t want to drop this kind of news on him when he still had another week until his parole hearing.

Her mourning would remain between herself and the wine bottle for now.

“I’m fine, Pope. Just had a…really rough couple of days, but I don’t need to complain to you. You’ve got enough to worry about without me adding anything to it.” Her words had a slight slur and Pope knew she wasn’t a drinker, not anything more than a glass of wine at dinner or a beer here and there. Hawk didn’t get drunk, so to hear her teetering was just alarming enough for Pope to keep her on the line as long as he was allowed to. Hawk tried to hide a small sniffle as she wiped her nose on her sleeve, but nothing got by him. She was crying, or had been at least. Something was very wrong.

“You gotta let me in, Hawk.” His voice rasped, his brain working overtime to figure out the best way to navigate. “I called because I wanted to hear your voice. Talk to me.” He coaxed. “About anything. I just want to hear you.”

Hawk was clicking through the channels on the hotel’s tv when her cell rang. Pressing the mute button on the remote, she was quick to answer her cell.

“This is a collect call from Folsom State Prison on behalf of-“ “Andrew Cody” “Do you accept the charges to connect the call?”

“Yes.” Tossing the remote into the bed, Hawk put the phone on speaker. It rang once and then Hawk could hear noise on the other end as it connected. “Hello?”

“They did it.” Hawk swayed on the bed, blinking as if that would help process what he said.

“They did it? Are you serious?” Of course he was serious. Pope was only serious. Hawk couldn’t believe what she was hearing and needed him to confirm it.

“Three years and nineteen days later, yeah.” She fell back against the mattress in relief. “You in Bakersfield? If not, I can take a bus-”

“-I can be there in four hours, tops.” Hawk cut him off. “Been gnawing off my goddamn fingernails waiting to hear from you. I’m just…really happy it’s good news this time around, Pope”

The remainder of Hawk’s final ride to the prison was filled with jitters and absolute silence.

Pope was getting released.

Pope was free.

The four hours passed by quicker than Hawk would’ve liked, anticipation gnawing so badly at her stomach and chest that she was sure she was developing an ulcer. She sat parked outside of the prison for another hour and a half -waiting, continuing to mindlessly gnaw at her already raw fingertips before a buzzing sound filled the immediate area. Hawk caught movement coming out of a secured gate to the right of where she had parked and within seconds, Pope was walking out, his eyes scoping the lot.

Trying to play it cool, Hawk kept herself seated against the hood of her small SUV, but the reality was that she feared she’d make an absolute fool out of herself if she seemed too eager to go to him.

Seeing Pope for the first time in three years without a sheet of bulletproof Plexiglas between them was jarring. Seeing him not in an orange jumpsuit was also jarring. He had definitely put on muscle in his time locked up. Not that he was beefy, but he was sturdy, strong, immovable. Solid.

Pope didn’t carry anything other than a manila file in his hand. He stopped walking when he spotted Hawk, eyes squinting in the harsh California sunlight. Hawk took that as her que to start walking towards him. They both looked each other up and down, assessing the other before Hawk stopped just before him. Pope’s mind went to their call from the previous week, the call Hawk was definitely drunk for. He could see it on her face, whatever she was going through had taken the spark that she had when she came to visit him. Pope couldn’t see her eyes past her dark sunglasses, but he could tell she was slightly off. Pope didn’t mention it out loud, but he did take a mental note.

Hawk held out her hand, his sunglasses perched in her palm on offer to him. She was mindful to swipe them from Smurf’s when he went up for parole the first time and held onto them with a little pile of his belongings. His head dropped down and he smiled. Not a tilt or a minor lift -a genuine smile, Simple’s on full display, then he looked at Hawk with an emotion that she couldn’t register, but he was happy and that’s all that mattered in that moment. It was a win for her after so many losses. Pope took the shades out of her palm gently and placed them on his face, a small ‘thank you’ leaving him.

“Can I?” Hawk’s question was hesitant as she tested the waters, giving him the opportunity to initiate any contact. Pope raised a brow, but lifted his arms just high enough to let Hawk know he was alright with it. With all the relief and joy in Hawk’s heart, she wrapped her arms around his waist and held him tightly. His body immediately tensed at the contact after going so long without, but when Hawk went to let go he wrapped his arms around her shoulders to pull her back to him. Hawk felt Pope’s chest expand as he nuzzled his face to the crown of her head, breathed in deep, held it and then exhaled.

“It’s good to have you back, Pope.” Hawk spoke softly into his shirt before letting him go. She felt the pinch of tears starting to spring, but willed herself to hold them back. “Come on, let’s get you to the hotel. I have the room for the night anyway and it’s a long drive back. Doubt you’ll want to sit in the car that long.”

“You could drag me behind it the whole way home and it wouldn't hold a candle to being in there.” He nodded to the prison with a grimace.

“Hold onto that thought,” Hawk chuckled, “For now, we’re going to Bakersfield. You hungry?” This brought another grin to his face.

“Starving.”

“Does anyone know you’re out?” Hawk popped a fry in her mouth as Pope savored his second burger, bypassing the fries. The sky was shades of periwinkle and pink as the sun began to set. They were currently sitting at a table outside of an In-N-Out that was halfway to their hotel so Pope could enjoy his first meal out in the fresh air before the sun set for the first time in three years.

“Nope.” Not knowing what to say, Hawk just nodded slowly knowing his unexpected return to the Cody residence in the morning was going to be a shit show.

“Alright.“ They finished their meals in relative peach. Pope would glance over to Hawk behind his sunglasses. He wasn’t trying to hide it. Three years in prison for anyone would do just about anyone in when it came to consensual intimacy.

When they got back to the hotel Hawk could feel Pope’s eyes on her the whole time they were in the elevator and as Hawk led him down the hall until they reached the door. It was familiar, a little unnerving, but otherwise comfortable.

“This extra key is for you,” Hawk handed Pope the duplicate. “Not sure if you’ll get restless and want to wander a bit.” He took it and stowed it away in his front pocket. “Room 426” Hawk said out loud as she tapped the keycard against the mechanism. A burst of air conditioning hit Pope and he closed his eyes at the feeling. When he opened them again Hawk was standing inside, holding the door open for him patiently.

“I haven’t claimed a bed yet, so pick whichever one you want” Hawk offered as he stepped through the threshold. The bed closest to the door was the obvious answer for Pope as he sat on the corner of the mattress. He nearly groaned at the softness of it. His brain went to Hawk’s safety first, not that he was expecting anything to happen. This was one of the nicer hotels in the area, but it was still Bakersfield and he would -without a second thought- put himself in harm's way for her if need be. Of that he was absolutely certain.

“I’ve been collecting some of your things from Smurf’s since you told me about the hearing that was coming up -just in case. I felt good about the odds this time around.” Hawk placed a small duffel on his bed with a gentle smile and sat on her bed opposite of him. “I didn’t go through your stuff or anything, just your clothes and some things I thought you’d want for tonight and tomorrow.” Pope unzipped the bag and poked around in it, checking out what she brought. A change of clothes, underwear and socks, a new razor and shaving cream, stuff for a shower, and a pair of sneakers.

“How’d you get this out without Smurf noticing?” Hawk’s sly grin made the corner of his mouth tilt.

“I’ve been known to have sticky fingers in my youth. While I may be out of practice, I’m unseen when I need to be.”

“You?” Pope didn’t look convinced. “Little Miss Five Finger Discount?”

“I was a troubled youth.” Hawk laughed. “And stupid. Don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Nah,” Pope shook his head, his voice soft. “You were never stupid. Probably the smartest out of all of us.”

“That’s not saying much.” She joked, getting a ghost of a chuckle out of Pope. “I only smartened up before I could get caught.”

“Getting caught was more of Julia’s thing.” Hawk’s stomach sank at the mention of her friend and Pope noticed a change in demeanor, though she tried to mask it. He was more observant than the average person, Hawk had to remind herself, especially watching his own back for three years. Pope could read people and she felt entirely exposed in front of him. He was right about her eyes when they were outside of the prison.

“What happened?” Hawk took a moment to compose her thoughts.

“I really don’t know if it’s my place to say or if this is where I should say it.” Hawk’s eyes didn’t meet his.

“Did something happen to Julia?” Pope’s feelings about his sister were complicated and conflicting. She was a junkie and she betrayed the family -abandoned Pope. He cut contact with her the day she bailed out of Smurf’s house and only got updates through Hawk when Hawk wanted to give them. Hawk only spoke about Julia, never her son. They knew of J’s existence, but not his name, and J didn’t know about their’s -other than that they were out in the world. J didn’t know their names, how old they were, what they looked like. Well, he did, but he didn’t know that they were related to him. Even at her worst, Julia stressed to Hawk that he couldn’t be a part of their world and Hawk had failed her miserably.

Hawk leaned her elbows on her thighs and dropped her face into her hands for a moment before sitting up straight.

“She’s gone, Pope.” Hawk’s voice was just above a whisper, so soft he almost didn’t hear it. Pope’s expression didn’t change, but Hawk saw a shift in his eyes.

“OD?” Hawk nodded. It was always a matter of when with Julia, not if, and it hurt Hawk’s heart to think that even if it was true. Pope blinked a few times, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “When?”

“About a week ago. Funeral’s in two days. I didn’t want to tell you before the hearing in case it went south and I didn’t want you to focus on anything other than possibly getting out, ya know?” He nodded, jaw clenching harder, and stood with the duffel bag. He looked down at Hawk, the space between his brows pinched like he wanted to say something, but took the bag and made his way over to the bathroom. “Pope?” He stopped, but didn’t turn around. “I’m really sorry.” He ultimately stepped forward without another word, without acknowledging Hawk, and locked himself in the bathroom.

Hawk’s head dropped back down into her hands. Pope didn’t know the situation with J -yet, and Hawk had no idea what he was going to do when he did.

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