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halfpsychic · 3 months ago

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Perverts (Pope Cody x reader)

Summary: Set around beginning of Season 2– Instead of Nicky at the house with J, you were taken and hurt by Javi. A few days later, Pope checks up on you and accidentally sees you shirtless. That image never leaves his mind, especially not when he comes across a pair of your dirty underwear.

Warnings: sexual themes, voyeurism, Pope jerks off, underwear stealing & sniffing. breaking and entering (sort of). reader has boobs but otherwise written neutral.

WC: 6.5k.

Pope Cody didn’t think of himself as a pervert. He could be obsessive, he could be rough, but he didn’t think it was all that abnormal. People like far worse things than he does. Maybe that was a result of growing up in the Cody house, his view of love and sex skewed since birth.

When he pulled up outside of your apartment building that evening, parked across the street, he didn’t mean to catch a glimpse of your naked body through your bedroom window. On the third floor, it wasn’t very clear and your back was to the window, but that outline of your body made him stop in his tracks. Stood beside his car, head tilted up to that window, he didn’t think of himself as a pervert for watching you slide on your shirt. It wasn’t his fault that you decided to change your shirt in front of your window, with the lamp in your bedroom on. The darkening sky outside only made it easier to see inside your window. He thought about mentioning your lack of curtains to you once he gets inside, but he isn’t sure how you’ll take it. That line hasn’t been crossed yet. He’s still stuck stealing glances at you from across rooms, looking when no one else is.

You leave your spot in front of your window, and as you turn, he sees the way your shirt falls on your body and the lack of support for your breasts. It’s different than how you usually look. For a moment, he thinks about getting back in his car and going home to jerk off to the memory of this. He decides against it, instead praying you won’t notice the bulge in his pants.

Pope didn’t show up at your apartment unannounced often. He had checked on you the day after the incident, but he had texted you about it before. Otherwise, you would’ve worn something different. Opening the door to him made your heart flutter, realizing your shirt shows a lot more than you usually do. Pope’s eyes flicker down to your chest for a second, just a second, as he tries to contain himself. He’s not here for that. It doesn’t matter what he just saw, he can’t.

“Is everything okay?” You ask Pope, still unsure why he’s at your doorstep.

“Yeah,” he answers. “I just wanted to see if you’re okay.”

That surprises you. “Did Smurf send you?”

“No.”

“Well, I’m okay.”

It’s partially true. The ache in your legs has slowly dulled in the last few days, the swelling and the worry that someone is waiting for you in your apartment fading, but that night scared you. Pope had always kept you safe— it was a solid truth in your life you could rely on. He doesn’t show it (other than now, standing in front of you, asking if you’re okay), but he hates himself for not being there. There’s no way he could’ve known Javi would’ve shown up to the house. Still, the guilt weighs on him night after night.

His expression hardly changes, a key feature of Pope’s, his hard gaze that was more like a glare to the untrained eye. He knows you’re not okay, that you’re telling a white lie just so he’ll stop feeling like your pain is his fault. You can see it in his eyes and the way his hands are always curled up into fists, like he can’t stop thinking about revenge.

“You sure?” Pope prompts. He’s always known you better than anyone else. He knows he has to push for the truth.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” you respond, your voice weakened by the memory of your hands tied behind your back and the ringing in your ears that accompanied the exploding heat in your leg.

He doesn’t entirely believe you. That night was the worst you’ve been hurt since you’ve known him, and there’s no way it wasn’t slowly ruining your life. Pope doesn’t ask, he just steps inside and shuts the door. “I should’ve been there.”

You sigh. “You really think you could’ve handled them all yourself? There were four of them. With you, there would’ve been three of us. Two, if they still got J.”

“I wouldn’t have let them take you,” he tells you. When his eyes meet yours, you know he believes it enough to make it true. It’s startling, especially in this business. No one ever cares about someone else enough to save them. You’ve seen it with Pope’s family, the constant fighting and betrayal that is so close to tearing them apart. But, maybe to a fault, they’re loyal to each other. To family. And Pope’s unwavering loyalty to you never fails to send a shock to your heart.

“You don’t know that,” you say quietly. “Besides, it’s in the past now. It already happened.”

“It won’t happen again.”

He says it enough that you believe him, too. For a moment, you feel lighter. Relieved that maybe for once you can rely on someone, trust someone to be there for you when you need it. Maybe with Pope around, you won’t get hurt again. Wishful thinking, but it makes everything seem less scary. And everything is terrifying with the Cody’s.

Pope’s eyes leave yours and he glances around your apartment. He’s only been here a handful of times and never for long. He sees the dirty dishes in the sink and the pile of laundry overflowing its bin in the hallway. All of the lights are dimmed, warm bulbs in every lamp, and the curtains in the living room are drawn closed. He wonders why you keep your bedroom curtains open.

“Can I use your bathroom?” He asks, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, sure, it’s at the end of the hallway,” you tell him. He turns and walks down the hallway, and you go back to your task before he knocked on the door— starting the dishes you know he saw.

Pope hears the sink turn on and his stride slows as he passes your bedroom. He thinks about the sight of your unclothed body moments before he walked in here. He thinks about how your skin would feel under his hands. If you’re as soft as he’s always imagined. His eyes land on the laundry bin beside your door, and the clothes at the top of the pile. Socks, and a pair of underwear.

He doesn’t think before reaching out to grab the underwear. Shoved in his pockets, he carries this dirty secret to the bathroom. He closes the door and stares at his reflection in the mirror. What the hell is he doing? The used underwear feels like they’re burning a hole in his jacket pocket so he takes them out, holding them bunched up in his hand.

A piece of you, just for him. His mind wanders again. They were at the top of the pile, so they were worn recently, right? Today, maybe? Did you just take them off? How long did you wear them? All day, maybe last night, too?

Pope raises his hand to his face and inhales through his nose. His eyes flutter shut as your scent goes straight to his dick, throbbing again, the sight of your body and now your scent driving him crazy.

He can’t do anything about his aching cock here. He’s not that quick— and he wants to enjoy it, not hold his breath as he fucks his fist in your bathroom. He shoves them back in his pocket, deep inside, and takes one last glance at himself in the mirror before unlocking the door.

When you hear Pope’s footsteps down the hallway you turn off the sink and face him. While he was gone, you couldn’t stop thinking about how that night would’ve gone if he was there. Pope would have made you hide, despite your insistence that he should toss you one of the hidden guns around the house. He taught you how to hold a gun, aim, and reload, but he stressed it was for emergencies only. Maybe you could have convinced him that this was the emergency he prepared you for.

He pauses in the doorway, not quite stepping out of the hallway. Pope hovers. He has a tendency for that, especially with you. Lingering close, but not too close.

“You should be resting.”

He sounds disapproving. You know he told you not to do any strenuous activity while you healed and you didn’t think doing dishes was too much.

“I have things to do,” you tell him. “I can’t just sit on the couch for two weeks.”

Pope sighs. He walks closer to the kitchen sink, closer to you. “Just… don’t overdo it.”

“I won’t.” You mean it. The only thing worse than a bullet hole in your leg would be facing Pope’s disappointment.

Pope sits in silence for a minute when he gets back into his car. He puts his hand in his pocket to confirm his token is still there, that it didn’t fall out on his way down the stairs or across the street. The soft fabric meets his fingertips.

He pulls down his pants just enough to free his cock from his boxers. Achingly hard for the last hour, drooling a sticky mess, he wishes it wasn’t your underwear he was holding but your actual body. His hand curls around his cock and his eyes flutter shut. All he can think about is the sight in your window. Your nude upper body, on display for half of California to see.

Pope grabs the used underwear. He sniffs them again as he fucks up into his fist, the bed squeaking from the movement of his hips. It’s an unfamiliar sound for his place— the few times he’s had sex has always been somewhere else. He can’t remember the last time he brought someone back to his place, not Smurf’s house or a motel room.

Even though he wanted to take this slow and make it last as long as possible, he finds himself closer to his release than he wanted. It builds quickly, a result of his pent up anticipation that started when he opened the door of his car outside of your apartment. He thinks about the rest of your body, the parts he hasn’t seen yet. He thinks about what is hidden above the parts of your thighs he’s seen when he pushed up your pants to reveal the injuries caused by Javi’s men. That was torture. He was so close to you, to the skin he’s fantasized about, and he couldn’t do anything about it. But he took what he could get, which was more than he had before. Hot anger filled his chest at the blood dripping down your skin but something else warm built up inside him. When his hands touched you to dig out the lodged bullet and place a few sutures, it was hard to control himself. To not slide his hands up your legs and feel you over your underwear.

Being that close to you, kneeled in front of you, replays in his mind as he spills cum onto your underwear. The pained whimpers you tried to bite back echo in his ears. His hands shook as he stitched your leg up, the way his hands shake now, panting like a dog. God, you ruin him.

Pope regrets the mess he made. He can’t put this pair of underwear back without washing them first and he can’t use them to get off again because now they smell like him, not you.

He checks on you again the next day. He gets there early, despite wanting to know if you change in front of your window every night (he can always drive by later, he reasons with himself). You haven’t been around the Cody house as much this week due to your injury. It made it hard to walk or drive and you hate relying on other people to drive you around, so you stayed at home. It wasn’t so bad. It was nice to catch up on some TV and sleep in for a few days.

Pope calls your name through the front door as he knocks. You hobble from the couch to the door, ignoring the dull ache that radiates up your leg with every step.

“Back so soon?” You ask, opening the door for Pope to come in.

“Just making sure your leg is healing,” he answers, trying to remain detached.

“It’s fine,” you tell him. “Hurts but it doesn’t look infected.”

“Let me see.”

Pope takes a step closer to you, his eyes not leaving yours. “I- I should change-“

“Just pull down your pants,” he says, voice soft, heart pounding at the thought of taking off your pants for him. “It’ll be quick.”

Against your better judgement, you nod. Maybe the idea of letting Pope slide your sweatpants down your legs sounded as close to heaven as you could get.

“Sit down,” he tells you, and grabs your wrist to lead you to your couch. Before you can sit, he sticks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and gently pulls them down, careful not to snag any of the fabric against your wound.

Then, you sit down, painfully aware of how exposed you are to him. But Pope’s gaze doesn’t feel judgemental or critical, not even when his eyes trail down to the sutures he placed days ago. He notices you’re right. The redness around the sutures remains but it hasn’t increased, and there’s no sign of drainage or additional swelling. “Good,” Pope murmurs. His hands gently rest on your leg, his hands warm and rough.

“Told you.”

He looks up at you. “You don’t know shit about wound care.”

“I know enough to know this isn’t infected,” a smile creeps on your face. “You just wanted to take off my pants, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t say anything. Silence isn’t rare with Pope, but you thought he’d say something. You decide to press harder.

“You wanted to see my underwear, right?” You ask, lowering your voice. You’re not sure if you’re serious or teasing him about something that isn’t plausible. “I’m pretty sure a pair of mine went missing last night. Know anything about it?”

Pope stands up, still not answering. Guilt is written on his blank expression, in the way his fingers curl up against his palms.

“I probably misplaced them,” you tell him. “They must’ve fallen somewhere.”

He looks back at you. Your words are riling him up. He knows they didn’t fall. He knows where they are— in his apartment, his dried cum staining the material. He knows your words aren’t true.

“Must’ve,” he says in a grunt. Despite your teasing, he doesn’t want to admit it. His perversion. Telling you he took them means he’ll end up telling you why he took them. Not as a spur of the moment idea but something that has clawed at him far longer than seeing your shirtless body through your window or touching your bare leg as he threaded the needle through your skin.

“Would be a shame if another pair went missing,” you say, putting on your best innocent voice. “Can you do something for me, Andrew?”

The use of his name, not his nickname, draws his attention. “Do what?”

“Can you grab my water bottle from my bedroom?” You ask. “I forgot it, and it hurts so much to walk…”

Pope nods.

Your bedroom still has the curtains pulled open, letting in the early morning sun. He spots your water bottle on your nightstand and it takes all of his strength to not lean down to smell your pillowcase. When he turns around with the bottle in his hands, he notices a pair of underwear thrown on the floor. It stares right at him, taunting him. An identical pair to the one still at his place but these ones don’t have his mess on it. He seizes the opportunity and grabs them, hands shaking in his pocket as he shoves it inside.

In the living room, you’ve flicked on the TV and settled into the couch. Your legs are propped up and covered with a blanket. The creaking of the floor alerts you to Pope’s presence, and your water bottle in his hand.

“Thank you,” you smile up at him. His hand brushes yours when he hands it to you. He nods in response. The words die in his throat from the excitement of his new token.

Later, the feel of your fingers against his plays in his mind as he wraps your underwear around his cock. He had to wait all day for this, stressing over plans for the latest job with his brothers, with you on the back of his mind. He counted down the hours until he could be alone in the dark of his small apartment, with his pants pulled down and your dirty underwear against his skin.

Pope decides to be careful this time and not ruin the new pair. Instead, he uses the pair he already ruined to cum on, again, because the way the fabric hugged his length made him lose his mind thinking about your body around him instead. He was close. Not just to his orgasm, but to your body. He shudders when he remembers that your underwear aren’t just yours, but a real piece of you, your scent and sweat embedded in the cloth from being pressed against your cunt all day. He imagines it’s you rubbing against him, and it almost is. He wonders if you’d ever leave a real dirty pair of underwear lying around, one stained with your wetness or cum. That would be heaven. As close as he could get, anyway.

He grunts as he spills onto your underwear. The thought of you makes him feel so good, he can’t imagine the pleasure he’ll have when he finally gets your body under his.

He doesn’t sleep that night. It’s not unusual for him and everyone knows it. More often than not, he’ll greet the day already awake. He likes it. The quiet of the night, when everyone else is asleep and the world feels like it’s just him. But it wasn’t any of the usual things that kept him up— it was you. He couldn’t keep checking in on you under the guise of checking on your wound. It’s healing fine, and next week, he’ll have to take out the stitches. He can’t wait another week to see you again.

Instead of knocking on your door, he waits until your bedroom light turns off, and another few hours after that to make sure you’re not still up. He parks down the street this time.

Pope knows you keep a spare key under your mat, something he’s advised you against numerous times. But tonight, he’s glad you never listened. He grabs it from under the mat and slowly twists the key in the lock.

The door clicks open, and he pauses to listen for your movement. Nothing. Inside, his body burns with the possibilities. He considers digging through your laundry for a used pair of underwear to jerk off on your couch with, but like the other day in the bathroom, he knows he can’t keep himself quiet. He’d inevitably wake you up and have to explain himself.

He pauses outside of your bedroom door. You sleep with it closed and he doesn’t want to risk waking you up by opening it. That dampers his mood— he was looking forward to a peek of your sleeping figure. Maybe your shirt would have ridden up, exposing your stomach, or maybe you’d be sleeping in underwear instead of shorts.

The laundry bin outside of your door isn’t full anymore. A few towels sit at the bottom, and like a gift just for him, another pair of underwear.

This pair strikes worry in him. The way you brought up your missing underwear the other day tells him you know he took it, and you probably know about the other pair, too. Did you leave this just for him? A gift, like he hopes?

This pair is a different colour. He reaches down for it and brings it up to his face, knees weak from the familiar scent. His cock strains against his pants again and he knows he has to wait until he gets home to take care of it. Still, he palms himself over his clothes and holds back a groan.

With his gift in hand, Pope steps back into the living room. As much as he would like to stay and poke around, he’d rather go home and jerk off again. It’s become a sort of nightly routine; go home, close the blinds, pull down his pants and think about you.

He does just that. Tonight, third night in a row, he decides to put all three pairs of your underwear to good use. One stays wrapped around his cock, spreading his precum up and down; the newest pair pressed against his nose; and the oldest pair off to the side, ready to catch his release again. That pair is beyond saving, but he figures one of the next times he’s in your apartment he can put these back in your laundry bin. Hopefully you won’t catch any of his cologne on them.

As a treat, Pope lets himself whisper your name into the silence of his apartment when he turns onto his knees. He leans forward, on his elbows and knees, fucking into his underwear-covered fist. He thinks about how the edge of your underwear would drag along his cock when he pulls it aside to fuck you quick. Or rubbing his cock on the newly formed wet spot after he kisses you. He wonders if there’s any way you would change your underwear in front of your window, or if that would be too far for your accidental exhibitionism.

Even though he can barely hear his own whispers, he’s worried someone else will hear. Another result of growing up in the Cody house; the lack of privacy forming (now) irrational fears of being caught. He can hear when his neighbors fight, their voices escalating far louder than his barely there whispers, but that worry doesn’t leave him. He fears his brothers on the other side of his door, waiting to barge in the moment he finishes.

That doesn’t happen. His breath stutters, coming out faster than he can keep up with, the thought of any part of you touching him sending him over the edge. Again. His body slumps forward, unable to hold the full weight of himself up, but he doesn’t want to stop. Not yet. It feels too good thinking about you. With the stained pair of underwear, Pope spreads his cum back onto his cock. He doesn’t usually go for a second round right away and he wonders why he never does. He’s so sensitive from his recent orgasm that it almost hurts but the pleasure outweighs the pain.

It doesn’t take long for him to cum again, not even bothering to lift himself up to his previous position. His arm reaches under his body, almost numb from his weight. He makes a mess on his bed but he doesn’t care, he rarely sleeps there anyway. His vision blurs and he swears he blacks out for a minute— only you on his mind as he rolls over, almost collapsing onto the bed.

Pope sleeps for an hour that night. When he wakes up, he can’t tell if he dreamt of you or if he was awake, imagining you.

Baz whisks him away in the morning. They’re planning another job, a bigger, riskier heist and Baz doesn’t want there to be any holes in the plan. All day, Pope has to listen to his brothers drone on about New Canticle. He tries his best to push the last week out of his mind, but it’s hard. Pope is usually entirely focused on the work. Today, his eyes glaze over when Baz and Craig argue about the job again. He doesn’t need to hear that. He doesn’t want to. There are far better things he could be doing than pacifying another fight.

It’s been two days since Pope last saw you. He figures that’s long enough to check up on you. When he’s finally free later that evening, he drives to your apartment.

You’re not home. He even checks, using the spare key again. All of the lights are off and your regular shoes are gone so he assumes you’re out. He doesn’t let his mind wander to the other, darker option.

Tonight, he has time to stay. And since you’re not home, he decides to poke around a bit. The laundry bin is empty, which is a disappointment. He was hoping for another dirty pair to present itself to him. He pushes open your bedroom door and stops, taking it all in. The room is cleaner than the last time he was there.

Pope doesn’t know how long you’ve been gone and when you’ll be back, and he doesn’t want to be caught going through your dresser drawers. He moves quickly, opening each drawer and scanning the contents, only pausing for something worthy. When he gets to your underwear drawer, he can’t decide if it’s worth stopping for. They’re clean pairs, unused, smelling of laundry detergent instead of you. He closes the drawer. He’ll just have to get another pair next time.

He sits on your couch and waits for you in the dark. It’s another hour until you come home, and when you open the door, you shriek at the shadow.

Your eyes adjust and you recognize the silhouette— it’s just Pope, no reason for alarm. Real alarm, anyway.

“How did you get in here?” You ask him, stepping inside and locking the door behind you. Grocery bags drop to to the floor.

“Your spare key,” he answers. “I told you not to keep it there.”

“So you broke in to prove a point?”

Pope watches you favor your uninjured leg as you bring the grocery bags to the kitchen counter. He stands up.

“Is it breaking in if I had the key?”

You glare back at him. Not seriously. You always knew he had a point about the key but you never thought he’d use it.

“Why’d you stop by? Checking on me again?” You ask.

“You’re limping,” he points out, walking closer to you. He notices dark bags under your eyes and starts to worry. “Let me see it.”

“It’s not infected,” you tell him. Your hands reach into the bags to put away the items, but Pope’s hands stop you.

“Let me,” he says quietly. “Go sit down.”

You’re stubborn but you know better than to argue with him, especially when it’s about your health. He unpacks the groceries for you while you sit down. It doesn’t feel natural. You should be doing your own chores, not letting him do it for you. Your leg wasn’t that bad, it just wasn’t easy carrying all of that home.

“Why did you go out?” Pope asks from the fridge. As if it wasn’t clear why.

“Needed groceries,” you answer.

“I could’ve done that for you.”

“I don’t need you to baby me,” you tell him. Pope closes the fridge doors, leaving the rest of the food on the counter.

“I’m not babying you. You’re hurt. If you keep overexerting yourself, you could make it worse.”

Pope’s tone is careful, unwavering, but you can tell he hides a semblance of care under his unmoving expression.

“I’m fine,” you stress, and your insistence just makes his frustration worse.

“Take off your pants,” he commands, standing over you. “Let me see it.”

You don’t make him tell you a third time. Your pants slide down, revealing the aching wound. Pope kneels down for a better look and last night’s fantasies pop back into his head. If you weren’t just limping, he would’ve pulled down your underwear, too, for a taste.

“It’s not infected,” he confirms. “But it’s irritated. No more grocery runs, or leaving this apartment at all until it heals more.”

That earns a groan from you. “So you’re putting me under house arrest? That’s no fun.”

“Do you want it to get infected?” He asks. “You could lose your leg, you know. If it gets bad enough.”

“It won’t,” you roll your eyes at his catastrophizing. “I can handle getting groceries, Pope.”

He looks up at you with determination. “No,” he tells you firmly. “I will.”

The last two days being void of Pope’s presence led to deeper thinking about the situation. His stubbornness about your leg, making sure it’s healing properly and now his insistence that you have minimal movement, makes you wonder if that’s his guilt manifesting. Guilt that he hadn’t been there to prevent it. It showed the night it happened, too. Pope sat outside the house with a shotgun in his lap all night as you tried to sleep inside. It was nice then, and the first few days, but now you can’t help thinking he’s overcompensating. You’d never tell him that, though. Not in those words.

“I appreciate you taking care of me but I really don’t need you to do anything for me.”

“Just until I take the stitches out,” he tries to reason.

“And when will that be?”

“Next week,” Pope answers. “The skin around your knee moves too much. It needs longer to heal.”

“So you’re keeping me locked up for another week?”

“Yes,” he answers. He likes the sound of that. And he doesn’t mind visiting you more than once a day. He could never spend enough time with you, and maybe he’d find another pair of underwear for his collection.

You notice the vacant look in his eye after he answers you. He’s thinking about something, likely the arrangement he just proposed. Constant presence in your apartment, where in the last week, multiple pairs of your underwear have gone missing. The first really made you wonder, and your jab at Pope was mostly teasing, but the next time a pair went missing, it was after he left. Twice was still enough to be just a coincidence, so you went for a third time.

Three times isn’t a coincidence.

All day you wondered what he did with the pairs he stole from you. Did he just touch them? Keep them close because they’re yours? Did he smell them, or stuff a pair in his mouth? Did he fuck them?

Still kneeled in front of you, Pope picks up on your own silence and that knowing look in your eye. Like you see right through him and his excuse to come over every day. He knew you put that third pair out for him to find. It was too convenient, sitting right on top of the towels in the bin. He took your bait, like he still does.

“When did you take them?” You ask, and his heart stops. You knowingly leaving a pair for him is one thing. Asking him about it is breaching the little bubble he’s been living in.

“Take what?” Pope responds. He doesn’t want to admit to it so easily.

“My underwear. From the laundry. They were there two days ago, and then they weren’t. But you weren’t over.”

Pope slightly overlooked that part. You hadn’t been aware of his presence in the dark of your apartment that night. You wouldn’t have known where they disappeared to if you didn’t already have a hunch it was him.

“I always warned you about that key.”

While you suspected it, only momentarily, unsure if Pope was crazy enough to sneak into your apartment at night to steal a pair of dirty underwear, his confirmation is startling. Not in the grand scheme of Pope Cody as a person. You always knew exactly what he was capable of, but you never thought his obsessive protection would bleed into his relationship with you. This is more obsession than protection, though.

“What did you do with them?” Your voice is quiet, weakened by the heat pooling between your thighs.

Pope sits on the couch next to you, his eyes never leaving yours. “I think you already know.”

He puts his hand on your uninjured leg, touching the skin of your exposed thigh.

“Tell me anyway.”

He leans closer, his hands trailing up your thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps. “I jerked off with them. Fucked them. Came on them,” he tells you.

You’ve never seen this side of him before. You’ve seen him during jobs, careful and calculated; you’ve seen him with women, only a handful of times; you’ve seen his loyalty to his family turn into violent threats. But you’ve never seen him so earnest about a secret.

His face is dangerously close to yours, and his fingers brush over your clothed hip. He’s wanted this for months. Even more since you were shot and he was rewarded with the opportunity to touch your bare legs.

“Do it again,” you breathe out. “Grab a pair of my underwear and touch yourself.”

Pope never thought he’d hear something so dirty come out of your mouth. His eyes flicker down to the pair you’re wearing but you catch on. “From the laundry bin,” you tell him.

He doesn’t want to leave you but he obeys, wanting to finally experience this with you. While he’s grabbing the pair you wore all day from the top of the laundry pile, you pull your pants the rest of the way off. It’s an uncomfortable amount of exposure but Pope has seen you like this before. It eases your worries.

He wants to touch you. That want strains against the zipper of his pants but he knows he shouldn’t, not when he just told you to stop unnecessary movement. He’d argue that it was necessary, but he knows he shouldn’t risk making your leg worse than it already is. Having you in front of him while he jerks off is more than enough for today.

Pope leans his face closer to yours, the underwear balled up in his fist. His other hand tentatively reaches for your face. He’s never touched you so tenderly before.

Your eyes catch every freckle across his face. You’ve always seen them from a distance, but never so close. He’s beautiful. And you don’t think he’d ever let you tell him.

So, you show him. You bridge the distance and capture his lips with yours. They’re rough against you and his kisses are no softer, but it’s better than you imagined. And you imagined it often. He tastes like spearmint gum and tequila. He tastes smooth. He tastes like he wants you.

Pope’s other hand, the one gripping your underwear, moves to the button of his pants. He fumbles while undoing it, too focused on making sure his teeth don’t sink into your lip too hard. He doesn’t want to draw more blood. He pulls his zipper down and his lips disconnect from yours as he tugs his pants down to his knees. Your breathing is heavy, matching his, and he almost cums from the way you look at him.

“You drive me crazy,” he mumbles, and kisses you again. His words bring a smile to your lips and he feels it against his, proud of your reaction. He rubs himself over his boxers but it’s not enough.

“Take them off,” you tell him without moving your face away from his. His free hand quickly shoves his boxers down enough to expose his cock. You feel his arms move and you break the kiss to look down at him.

“Jesus, Pope,” you mutter. It’s painful to not touch him or beg him to ruin you. But you both know it has to wait, at least until he takes out your stitches. Watching his hand curl around his length is enough for tonight.

“You need to buy more underwear,” he says as the fabric in his hand makes contact with the head of his cock. He wraps the underwear around himself again, like he’s done the last few nights. It’s a relief to finally show you how good you make him feel. You deserve to know.

“Yeah?” You smile. “Going to steal all of mine?”

Pope nods, his hand moving faster. “Keep leaving the key outside and they’ll keep disappearing.”

You squeeze your thighs together, unable to pretend he’s not making you insanely turned on right now. Maybe he can be gentle, you think. He can rub you over your underwear with his other hand. Pope can tell you’re getting antsy by the way you squirm in front of him. It’s cute seeing you so worked up for him.

“You’re such a pervert, you know that?” You whisper.

He smiles. You have no idea.

“Once your leg heals, I won’t need your underwear anymore,” he tells you. “Because I’ll have the real thing.”

Pope can’t keep his voice straight anymore. He’s too close now. He wants to grab your hand and put it over his but he’d rather show you what you do to him. Just the thought of you makes his cock hard. The sight of you makes him leak into his boxers. The feel of your underwear, the ghost of your pussy hugging him, makes him lose consciousness as he cums.

It happens again. His orgasm hits him so hard he can’t see anything, and his heart beats so fast he thinks it’s going to give out. But it keeps on pumping in his chest and his fist keeps pumping over his cock until the last drop of cum drips onto your legs.

Your face is the first thing he sees, flushed from the sight of him unraveling in front of you. Finally, you have an accurate image of what Pope Cody looks like when he’s at his most vulnerable. His forehead is damp with sweat and his whole chest heaves with every breath. He’s so beautiful.

“Maybe you should just take the spare key,” you whisper. It’s not like anyone else has ever used it, not even yourself.

He nods. “You saying I can come over whenever I want?”

“You do anyway.”

Pope cleans up the mess he made on your thighs with the underwear in his hand. He kisses you again before he puts his dick back in his boxers.

“Seriously, no more getting groceries,” he reminds you. “Let me take care of you.”

Despite how soft Pope’s words feel, you know it extends to things far more vicious than bringing you home groceries and taking your stitches out. You know he would’ve killed anyone who hurt you without a second thought. You know he would do anything for you, something that scared you when you first understood it. It doesn’t scare you anymore, even when he breaks into your apartment in the middle of the night and when you’re not home, just to help get himself off.

masterlist ko-fi

A/N: didn’t mean for this to be so long but i wrote it quicker than everything else i’m working on. probably slightly ooc and i apologize but i couldn’t resist pope doing some freak stuff i’m into. might write a part 2 about pope removing the stitches…

#andrew pope cody x reader #pope cody x reader #animal kingdom #pope cody #andrew pope cody #andrew cody #shawn hatosy

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foxholecore · 1 year ago

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Thinking about how badly Andrew must’ve wanted to be known. For someone to actually notice things about him and be curious and piece all these observations together. Like. The truth game was just as much about wanting to know things about Neil as him wanting Neil to know him. And even without the truth game being evoked, when he knows what answers Neil must be digging for, he gives in more often than not. I think about how when Neil started noticing Andrew’s odd memory, especially when Neil believed him not to be paying attention and when Neil started finally asking questions, and how quickly Andrew answered them, how he must’ve been thinking, finally.

How much he wanted to be known and by someone he knew by now he could trust. Someone he knew could understand him and the implications of things he’s told. Someone he could tell his own secrets and things he’s been keeping to himself. Everything he let other people assume or misunderstand about him. This little nobody runaway is paying attention, piecing it together, understanding in a way that no one has ever been willing to do, not even his own twin. And when Aaron and Nicky asks him when this happened or other variations of the questions Neil’s already solved himself, and Andrew tells them they should’ve figured them out himself.

The way Neil was the first person to take him at his word, especially about something that wasn’t violence. To look further into him and the things he says and does and actually try to understand him. Not just write him off as a violent psychopath who does things for his own pleasure. The way Andrew wanted him to see more of him and understand him. And I just. My mind is tangles. But I want to go on about this forever.

#aftg #all for the game #neil josten #andrew minyard #aaron minyard #nicky hemmick #kevin day

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writerformanymuses · 1 year ago

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The heartbreaking thing about a lot of viewers who haven't consumed the books is they don't completely see is WHY Lestat is near sobbing when he asks "Did you hurt yourself?"

Yes, for general reasons like he loves him and what not. But, don't forget, he also said, "I gave you to Armand. You tell me if that is saving."

In TVL, you get ALOT more of the Lestat/Nicky relationship. You see them bond, fall in love, and then Lestat have to contend with that love once he's kidnapped and turned.

Nicky does not take the vampirism very well. Nicky is a very desolate sort of character. Religious trauma to the max, and then throw in family trauma, gay repression, and then vampirism.

When Lestat leaves Paris with Gabrielle in TVL, he essentially leaves Nicky with Armand. He entrusts him into his care in a way, and Nicky chooses the fire. He can't endure as they call it. Naturally, it breaks Lestat's heart.

One of Armand's jobs as coven leader was to cull weak vampires who can't survive on their own or endure. So there is definitely room for S3 for them to show Armand pushing for Nicky to accept the flame.

With Louis, Lestat doesn't fight back in Paris and lets Louis go with Armand. Once again, he's entrusting someone he loves to Armand. Even if it's very much unwilling, but I'll give it to him for once for respecting a choice.

When Armand calls out to him in San Francisco, it's Lestat's worst nightmare. Louis is hurt, Lestat can't get to him. Armand either has allowed him to be hurt, hurt him himself, or did not protect him as Lestat wants him protected.

It is heavily implied Lestat thinks Louis died in San Francisco. In the books, Armand tells both of them the other died to keep them apart. Once again, the person Lestat loves is dead because of Armand.

Lestat, in his mind, has ultimately failed Louis, and so he falls apart as we see him do in 2x08. When Louis shows up, he cannot believe he's there initially. It's very clear he's only half there mentally. He has to ask him if it was all real and if he'd really been hurt because he has to know if it is really Louis. It's a question you'd ask the ghost of the person you love, but Louis CAN answer him.

Needless to say, please read the books if you're up for it. They are a riot.

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lokidjarin-7567 · 5 months ago

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The Alchemy

Hwang In-ho (professor AU) x Reader

Your chemistry professor caught your eye the moment you walked into class, and as time went on, you couldn’t deny your feelings anymore. Did he feel it too, or were you doomed to heartbreak?

fem!reader x Professor Hwang In-ho, smut, fluff, a little angst and everything in between, badly edited, multiple POV, 18+ MDNI

8.5k words (sorry not sorry)

And here it is!! I’ve been obsessed with him for a while now, so very glad Squid Game is giving him the recognition he deserves from a Western audience. Decided to da a Professor AU because yum, so hope you enjoy x

Taglist: @nicki-lovesolderfictionalmen @jamiewritesfanfiction-blog @nunita23

TTPD Contents | General Masterlist | AO3

You knew it was wrong. Your obsession with him. Everything about him was thoroughly captivating to you: the way he spoke, the way he dressed, the way he walked around the lecture hall with such confidence. You were enthralled every single lesson, so attentive and studious, hanging on his every last word like it was some kind of spell for everlasting life. Really, if you thought about it, it was actuallly a good thing. Your grades were better, you hadn’t missed a single lecture since the term began, and you were putting more effort into your studies in a desperate effort to impress him. And the cherry on top of the cake was that he had noticed. He knew you by name, he always picked you first if you had your hand up, and he even added complimentary comments to your papers. Even if he was old enough to be your dad, even if there was a power imbalance, even if nothing could ever happen between you, your crush only continued to grow stronger.

“I know, I know, class is nearly over, but we’ve got a few more things to cover, so let’s wake you all up with a little organic pop-quiz.” A few groans echoed around the room, but you smiled. Organic chemistry was your favourite, especially when he taught it, so you watched as he drew a few molecules on the whiteboard. A formula, and a damn easy one.

“Can anyone tell me the primary product here?” Your hand was up before the question was finished, but you tried to limit your keen nature - only half-raising your hand lazily as you doodled the finished equation on your notepad. You liked to think you were quite good at hiding your adoration for him. Yes, you could listen to him talk for hours, but you knew when to watch him and when to take notes. You knew when to speak up and when to stay quiet. You could control your face, aside from the occasional blush, never sitting there with puppy-dog eyes or biting your pen like they do in the movies. You were subtle - small smiles after a compliment, gazing with admiration when he wasn’t looking, answering any questions quickly but with professionalism and confidence. The perfect student. But you never, ever flirted. You knew that was academic suicide, especially with a Professor as influential as him. You were content with detached obsession. For now, at least.

Your heart did flutter, though, at the smile and small chuckle he gave when he saw your hand.

“Of course, the only student I have that actually enjoys organic…” You heard a few hums of agreement from the students behind you, saw the nods from the ones in front. You smiled at your reputation.

“What can I say, at least you always have someone to answer your questions…” Another laugh, music to your ears.

“That is true. Go ahead.”

“Well, that’s ethanol and that’s ethanoic acid so you would produce ethyl ethanoate.”

“Ah, I made it too easy for you! Should have mixed up the length of the polymers so you would have to think about which prefix came first.” Another flash of a smile.

“Rookie error.” You joked, and it was the closest you’d ever been to flirting. The back and forth was making you blush, the way his eyes were fixed to you from the front of the classroom. You were in your usual spot in the third row - the perfect distance to see him clearly, but not too close to look keen. Although, that point was kind of defeated by the amount of times your hand was first up, no matter how nonchalantly you tried to do it. His eyes were glittering with a slight playfulness now, head slightly cocked and you were bewitched as a few locks of his neat hair fell across his forehead.

“In that case, come and draw it for me please.” Fuck. He looked pleased with himself, hand brushing the fallen strands back, small smirk playing across his features. You sighed, heading to the front of the room in defeat. He handed you the whiteboard pen, fingers brushing yours just slightly. They were soft, delicate and warm, and his eyes were firmly fixed on you as you muttered a quiet thank you. You didn’t get to see him this close often, but you didn’t have time to take him in beyond the deep brown of his eyes, his height compared to yours, and the light scent of sandalwood that seemed to cling to the air around him even after he had walked past you back to the front of the room.

“While she’s doing that, can someone else tell me the uses of this ester please?” You were grateful your back was to the rest of the class, a furious blush spreading across your cheeks at the proximity. He glanced back at your shorthand sketch, giving you a small nod of encouragement.

“Good, and in full please.” You obeyed wordlessly, just finishing the second bond on the oxygen when the bell rang.

“That’s it for today then, everybody. Check the online portal for the homework.” He called out above the sound of bags being packed. “Oh, and there are more practical classes this term, so your timetables are also on the portal for those. I know they’re boring, and I know you’ve done them all a million times, but you have to do them again to pass!” He sighed, half the class already gone by the time he finished his sentence. He turned back to you, holding his hand out with a smile and you passed the marker back to him, careful not to brush his hand this time. As much as you wanted to feel his skin against yours again, you would blush too obviously to get away with it. “Thank you,” he said to you quietly, “I know at least one student will show for the practicals.”

“No worries.” You didn’t want to leave yet, allowing yourself to enjoy the being around him a little now the rest of the class was clearing out. He was wearing your favourite suit today - charcoal grey wool - with a soft, baby blue shirt and a navy tie. He was meticulous as ever: understated silver tie pin perfectly level, tie itself knotted immaculately, hair brushed back neatly. Even his shoes were perfect, not a single scuff on the leather. Being around him like this was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but talk to him just a little more as the last student filed out of the room. “What will the first practical be, out of interest?” You asked, forcing yourself to move back to your desk and slowly pack up your things.

“Just a distillation, I think...” He replied, trailing off and absentmindedly flicking through a few papers on his desk. You nodded, sensing his loss of interest, slinging your bag over your shoulder with just a hint of disappointment.

“Ok, sounds good. Thank you Professor…” You turned towards the door, but froze when you heard him call your name. You turned back around to see him looking at you slightly expectantly, a nervous energy buzzing from him that you’d never seen before.

“Before you go, I was just wondering if you’d picked an advisor yet? I know the decision is coming up in a few weeks.”

“No, I haven’t actually…” In all honestly, you had two options. And he was one of them. Of course he was. He was the best in the university, not to mention one of the best in his field. You learnt the most from him, you had the best relationship with him compared to the rest of your Professors. There were only two reasons why he wouldn’t be a perfect choice. Firstly, he was very picky with who he takes on, but if this conversation was going the way you thought it was, problem solved. The second, and much bigger, issue was your little obsession. If he was your advisor, you would see him one-on-one every two weeks at least, on top of class time, practicals time and in between all of that if you had questions. And for most people that had a crippling crush like you did, they would be jumping for joy at the opportunity to spend more quality time with them. But you didn’t want that. You didn’t want to make a move on him, or make your feelings for him obvious because it could destroy everything you had worked so hard towards. But equally, having him on your side was a great accolade, and it would do you wonders in your academic career.

You were a big girl. You could handle a little crush.

“Well…” He continued, hand running through his hair again before starting to pack up his own things. “I would very much like to fill that role unless you had anyone else in mind. You’re incredibly talented, and passionate about the subject in a way I don’t see often. You don’t have to decide right now, of course…”

“I would love that.” Your mouth had answered before your brain caught up, but his wide smile solidified your resolve.

“Excellent. Well, how does Friday sound for our first meeting? I think that’s when you’re scheduled for the practical, so that makes it easy…”

“That sounds perfect. Thank you, again, Professor Hwang, I appreciate the opportunity…”

“Not at all. The pleasure is all mine.” His wide smile warmed your heart thoroughly, and you left before you could melt into a puddle on the floor at the nature of his words.

It had been a couple of months now, and dear God, it was driving you insane. You’d made a huge mistake, and unfortunately for you, it was an unfixable one. He was the perfect advisor in every way - attentive, intelligent, willing, passionate, everything you could ever want. But being so close to him was driving you crazy. Once a fortnight, it was just you and him in his office, talking for an hour, joking, laughing, fighting every urge in your body to climb across the desk and give in to your desires. You had even started to dress up for him - purposely putting in extra effort the days you knew you had a meeting. The crush was getting much worse too, obsession starting to take over. For days after your meeting, all you could do was analyse every tiny interaction you had, every time he looked at you or spoke to you or even breathed differently. And fucking hell it was driving you insane.

You were sure it was getting harder to hide too. Before, it was less of a crush, more an admiration. Yes, you were aware he was attractive, but more than anything, you were capitavated by his teaching and passion. Now, all of that was still true, but all you could think about was how much you wanted to fuck him. Twice just that week you had missed half the class caught up in a daydream, not even being able to answer him when he called on you, too busy thinking about him bending you over his desk and having his way with you. Your last paper got a B because every time you tried to write, all you could think about was him reading it. What he would be wearing when he graded it at home. Comfortable clothes, surely, hair messy and uncouth. What he would think of it, whether he would smile at your words and add little notes when he agreed with what you were saying. Whether he truly thought as much about you while reading it as you thought of him while writing it.

You’d fucked up. You’d gotten too close, irreversibly so, and now, you had to see him today. You knew he would have something to say about your grades dropping. It was getting too obvious. You just hoped he would accept whatever bullshit you managed to invent on the spot. Your knuckles rapped against his office door, heart stuck in your throat.

She had caught his eye the minute she stepped into his lecture hall that first day of term. He wasn’t sure what it was exactly about her, whether it was her eyes, or hair, or lips. Or maybe it was just her. The confidence she seemed to exude, her sense of style, the studious and determined look she always seemed to have on her face. She was the most active participant in his classes, and every time he called on her, she would answer with such enthusiasm and excitement. He could tell how much she genuinely enjoyed the subject from the very first lesson, and even as the term continued, her passion didn't waver like some students’ did. She hadn’t missed a single lecture - always there in the same spot on the third row, and he was grateful for her choice of seat. It was close enough to see her, not too close to make it obvious that he was staring, and it was also far enough into the classroom that he had time to admire her while she made her way to her seat. To watch her while she was focussed elsewhere - namely, walking down the stairs without falling over. He enjoyed the time it gave him to work out how she was feeling on a day, whether she seemed dejected or excited, shy or outgoing. He liked how easy it was for him to read her.

And, if he was honest with himself, he liked the attention too. The first time he saw her, he knew he would be head over heels for a little while, and he accepted that. She was his student, and nothing could happen, so he buried it and got on with his lectures as usual, with only a few extra glances thrown her way when he knew she wouldn't be looking. But then he noticed it. The coy smiles, the extended glances, the occasional time he caught her biting her lip or pen. The way she blushed furiously if he ever caught her in the act. The first few times, he wrote it off as coincidence and wishful thinking, but eventually, it clicked that there was something there. Something charged. And he thrived off that energy.

That was why he had put forward the idea of being her advisor. If he was honest, he knew it was a terrible idea. That it could get messy, that he could get too close, that he would hurt his own feelings. But ultimately, he wanted to be near her as much as possible, and at the end of the day, in every scenario of shit hitting the fan, he was always the one that got fucked over. His feelings were clearly stronger than hers - something he had noticed recently swelling in his heart unreciprocated - and he was the one with his job on the line. He was the only one at risk, and he was willing to take that risk to be closer to her.

Recently, though, she’d seemed different. Distracted. Stressed. Avoidant. Her grades were dropping, she was barely talking in class and when he spoke to her one-on-one, he would catch her shrinking back into herself if she laughed too much, as though she was second guessing everything she did. He’d done everything to hide his feelings, and honestly, he thought he was doing a good job, but maybe she felt uncomfortable around him. Maybe he was being obvious and he’d misread her feelings. Or maybe she was just going through a rough patch in her personal life.

He had a meeting with her today, and he couldn’t think of anything but seeing her for the whole day. What she would be wearing, how or if he would broach the topic, what he should even say to her… He was struggling to concentrate on his lectures, mind wandering to her.

The relief washed through his body when he heard her knuckles softly knock against the door. He was worried she wouldn’t even come.

“Come in.” She opened the door cautiously, small smile on her lips. She looked more beautiful than she ever had somehow. She wasn’t wearing much makeup, just some natural blush and mascara, and her hair was down and framing her face perfectly. Her outfit was simple but classy; all black, simple satin skirt and skintight tee, chunky knit cardigan over the top.

“Hi Professor.” She replied cheerily, but there was a hint of something unreadable in her voice. Weariness, maybe? Stress? “How has your day been?” He smiled as they fell into their usual chatty routine, mind slightly at ease.

“Not too bad, thank you, although a few too many lectures for my liking. How was yours?” She laughed lightly, the sound warming his heart.

“Same problem for me too. A lot of lectures, none of them particularly interesting…” it seemed as though she wanted to say something else but bit her tongue, and he couldn’t help but feel himself deflate. He wanted her to be able to feel more comfortable around him, but she was holding herself back.

“That’s because I wasn’t teaching them…” The words fell from his lips before he could stop them, but to his relief, she smiled, a small chuckle escaping from her.

“Something like that.” She paused for a beat, seeming awkward and unsure. “Look, Professor, before we get into the stuff about my dissertation, I just wanted to talk to you about something…” The serious nature of her tone made his heart lurch, and he wanted to reach out and hold her hands, to drain away her evident nerves. She wasn’t even meeting his eyes, just wringing her hands in her lap as she tried to say what she needed to.

“Of course, my office is always an open space to talk about whatever you need to.” He hoped his words were comforting, and by her small smile, they had at least offered some small reassurance.

“I just wanted to apologise. I know my grades have been slipping a little the past few weeks, and I just wanted to make sure you knew that I’m on it and I’m doing everything to get them back up. I think I’ve just been a little distracted, and I don’t know really…” She was rambling, and his heart hurt for her. Yes, he had noticed her grades slipping a little, but it was from an A to a B for maybe two papers and a quiz. It wouldn’t affect her overall grade, and it certainly wouldn’t affect his opinion of her. He couldn’t help but wonder why she felt the need to apologise or explain herself.

“You have no reason to apologise. Everyone has better weeks than others, and it’s not going to affect your performance in my class or anything like that…”

“But…” she looked confused, as though she was genuinely trying to figure out why he wasn’t annoyed with her. “You’re Professor Hwang. I mean, you’re the best in your department, maybe even in the whole university. You pick your students that you want to advise because they’re the best, and I’ve not been…”

“First of all, I definitely am the best Professor in the *whole university*, thank you, but more importantly, that’s not why I pick people to mentor. I pick people based on their passion, talent, and work ethic. Not because they’re a machine who churns out A* papers every single week and has nothing else going on in their life that might affect that.” Once he’d finished talking, he looked up at her to see her close to tears, still staring at her hands in her lap.

“I, um…” she cleared her throat, finally meeting his eyes with a gratefulness he hadn’t seen in her before. A vulnerability he didn’t recognise, but wanted to see more of nonetheless. “Thank you for saying that. Really. None of my other Professors seem to think in that way.” Then under her breath, barely audible, she added something extra. “Neither do my family for that matter.”

“Well, as I said, my office is always open. If you ever have something you need to talk about, I’m here.”

“Thank you, truly.” She replied earnestly, and found himself struggling to reply as his heart swelled. He hadn’t realised how protective he felt over her until he saw her upset, but now, hand clenched by his side at the thought of someone making her feel unworthy over a few grades, he realised that maybe his feelings had blossomed a little more than he wanted them to.

The day after was another practical class. Just a titration, a check box more than anything with the calibre of his students. They knew what they were doing. Especially her. It would hopefully be an easy half hour; just let them do their thing, tick it off in the system, and be finished with it.

What he hadn't banked on, however, was the student that seemed to spend his whole time flirting with her.

She had been the first in the classroom that afternoon. She seemed tired, the last lesson after a likely busy day, but even more so than usual, her normally flawless makeup doing little to hide the puffy bags under her eyes. Her outfit was clean and put together, but a lot more basic than what she usually wore, just jeans and a baby tee, with none of her usual quirky flourishes. He was about to ask if she was ok, to talk to her more than the perfunctory hello she had thrown his way at the door when another student entered the classroom close behind her. The whole space was empty, but he decided to sit directly beside her. She seemed annoyed, making polite small talk but not much else and he just didn't seem to be taking the hint. He was leaning too close, laughing too loud, looking at her for too long…

His own jealousy surprised him. It was rage, pure and simple, white hot and blinding. He felt inordinately possessive, wanting nothing more than to shove him across the classroom and teach him a lesson about personal space, but as more students piled in to the space, all he could do was glare and hope he got the hint. Eventually though, she solved the problem herself. He had been so close to interfering, so blinded by anger he had started to move towards her bench, but she just stood up, and walked away from him mid sentence, ignoring him completely. The look of shock on his face was priceless, but the joy it brought him was quickly replaced with anger once again as the kid shifted in his seat, blushing red and muttering ‘bitch’ under his breath. If In-ho had a knife, he genuinely could have killed him in that moment. Because how fucking dare he.

But instead, he breathed in deeply before moving over to him calmly and giving him a menacing, tight-lipped smile. The student met his eyes with a perplexed look, but he just spoke over him before he had a chance to say anything else.

“If you ever talk about one of my students, let alone a woman, like that again, you will be barred from my class and the entirety of the chemistry department for the rest of your academic career, both at this school and wherever else you may choose to study. Is that crystal clear?” He said it so calmly, so coldly, that the kid just sat there in stunned silence for a moment, and he had to raise his eyebrow to prompt him to answer.

“Um… yes… yes Professor.” He stammered, and he smiled again without any warmth.

“Good, now find a new desk and complete your practical, or else you’ll have to retake my class, and you really don't want that, do you?” He shook his head frantically, scrambling away with his things and finding a space near the back of the room.

She looked confused for a moment when she got back to the now empty bench, but on glancing around the room and meeting his eyes, she smiled warmly at him in gratitude, blush spreading across her cheeks. He would do anything if it meant she smiled at him like that.

It had been an hour, and apart from one broken conical flask, there had been no major mishaps, and almost all of his students had finished their titrations. Except for her. She was on her fourth attempt now, the last student apart from her silently filing out of the classroom, and she was getting increasingly frustrated each time. He was trying to be subtle, to not make her feel pressured at all, but he couldn't help but watch as she turned the stopcock so slightly, letting a single drop fall into the flask, and he watched it turn colour perfectly… until the stopcock wasn't closed properly, another few drops sneaking through and pushing it past the end point colour.

“Fuck!” Every other attempt, it had been a quiet frustration, hidden under her breath, but this time she couldn't help it, cursing loudly and slamming her hand on the table. He could hear her heavy breaths even from across the room, her hand dragging through her hair in annoyance. She almost looked close to tears, just staring at the failed experiment. He muttered her name in concern, standing up ready to help her, but she just shook her head, grabbing the flask and heading to empty it.

“I’m so sorry for my outburst, Professor, my language was completely inappropriate…”

“No that’s not it at all, curse all you want…” He moved over to her desk as he spoke, but she was busying herself setting up again, not meeting his eyes. So he said her name again, firmly but kindly, garnering her attention without upsetting her. It worked, and she stopped moving for a moment, slightly out of breath in frustration. “Are you ok? You don’t seem yourself at all…” She was grinding her jaw as he spoke, trying to hold her emotions back, but a tear fell from her eye regardless, rolling down her cheek. She huffed loudly, wiping it away quickly and looking to the ceiling, trying to blink back the other tears that were threatening to spill.

“I’m fine.” She insisted, but her voice cracked as she did, another tear escaping as she muttered another curse under her breath. “Sorry, I’m just wasting your time today…”

“Never.” He said firmly, moving to her side of the desk. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what going on, I just can’t seem to…” another tear rolled down her cheek, his heart broke for her.

“Hey, take a second, just breathe, ok? Sit down, cry if you need to, just take a moment.” She nodded, sitting down on the lab stool with a snuffle. He sat down too, tucking his stool slightly closer to her and waiting until she was ready.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m just overwhelmed. I didn’t sleep too well last night, so I’ve been exhausted all day. One of my professors gave me shit for being late even though the bus broke down on my way here, and that ruined my mood. Another lecture turned out to be some surprise test thing nobody had prepared for so that was horrible. And… well I’m just rambling now and I don’t know if I’ve told you this yet but I might as well at this point because I guess it’s something you should know as my advisor - I have general anxiety disorder and…” she paused, catching her breath and scoffing slightly as she continued speaking quickly, “well, and a whole host of other things I don’t have time to go into but I’ve spent most of the afternoon warding off panic attacks hence the…” She trailed off, holding up her hand which was shaking like a leaf. “So I can’t focus, I can’t control the equipment even though I’ve done at least 30 titrations in my academic career and I was honestly just looking forward to seeing… to doing something practical with my day but…” He didn’t think she’d even noticed the tears starting to fall, but he did immediately. He also noticed the way her voice was getting breathier, and the increasingly frantic look in her eyes. He was worried. She seemed worn out, way too thinly strung and now here she was, crying over an experiment he knew she could do in her sleep. She needed to take care of herself for a bit, to take it easy. But right now, maybe he could help.

His hand moved to her face, brushing the tears away before moving to her shoulder and squeezing.

“Hey, slow down. Look at me. Breathe.” He took a long deep breath, his eyes fixed firmly to hers as she copied, repeating the action a few times. He watched as she slowly seemed to calm, shoulders dropping and tears drying up. “That’s better.”

“I’m so sorry, this was only supposed to take like half an hour. I’ve derailed your whole afternoon, I just don’t know what’s come over me today.” He sighed. The way she felt she had to be sorry for being human made him feel so protective of her, so willing to hurt anyone who made her feel this way.

“You’re stressed, you didn’t sleep well and your anxiety is flaring up. None of that is something you have to apologise for. And you definitely don’t have to apologise for derailing my day - my evening consists of grading papers and getting an early night. Both of those things can wait even if this titration takes all night.” She laughed, wiping away the last of her tears with a grateful smile.

“Thank you.” Her hand moved to rest atop his, which was still sitting on her arm, squeezing slightly. His breath caught briefly at the contact, and it took all the self control in his body to not lean into her touch, to kiss her then and there.

“Always…” he muttered, smiling softly, and after another beat, he slid his hand away, feeling cold at the lack of warmth from her. “Now,” he took a deep breath, grounding himself to reality. *Student, teacher, do the maths - not a good idea.* “Let’s finish this practical.”

His presence was so calming to you. After four failed attempts, you were already doing a lot better - hands steady, breaths even, a serenity you hadn't felt all day. He wasn’t even helping you; just being nearby was enough. He’d grabbed a few papers from his desk and was quietly grading while you worked, the occasional turn of paper and scratch of pen relaxing you. It was starting to get to the difficult part now, but your hands didn't fail you, adding the titrate drop by drop, swirling the flask until… it stayed pink. Just enough, a soft wash of magenta, and you couldn't help but grin.

“See…” he muttered, not once looking up from his papers, “I told you you could do it.” You smiled even wider, holding back every urge within you to hug him.

“Thank you.” You settled on the sentiment instead, jotting down the final measurements. “And…”

“I swear if you try to apologise again, I will kick you out of my class once and for all.” God he knew you so well. You chuckled lightly, biting your tongue to stop you from apologising for that as well.

“Never again, I promise.”

You had packed up, moving as quickly as possible to ensure you didn't waste any more of his time, but honestly, you wanted to be around him just a little longer. Today had taught you that maybe your ever-growing feelings might not be a problem, but a help. He was so calming to be around, so good at putting your doubt and anxiety at ease, and talking to him was easy, terrifyingly so. His company was soothing, and on bad days, at least you knew you had a place to go.

And now, you had to face the long bus to your off-campus apartment, followed by an evening alone with your thoughts.

You had sorted your things, putting on your coat and pulling up the hood, bracing yourself to head out in the dark and rainy evening.

“Thank you again for everything, Professor, I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Wait…” he called out your name as you opened the door, and you paused, internally sighing in relief. “How are you getting home?”

“Just the bus from campus, its not far to the station from here…”

“I’ll take you, I’m leaving here anyway.”

“No, I couldn't ask you to do that, Sir…”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering. Where am I taking you?” You blushed at his comment, heart leaping at the authoritative tone, but telling him anyway. “That's only a few streets away from me, it’s not out of my way at all.”

“Only if you’re sure…”

“I wouldn't have offered otherwise.”

You had made it to the awning of the building, the last moment of peace before you were bombarded by the rain. He followed you out, sighing slightly.

“Do you smoke?” He asked, and the question surprised you slightly. He’d never struck you as the type, but now, as you turned around to see him standing with a cigarette dangling between his lips, you couldn't believe how natural it looked.

“Yeah…” You were relieved. You had been desperate for one all afternoon, but hadn't had a chance. You moved to open your handbag, unsure of where you'd left them, but he had already extended his pack out towards you. You smiled.

“Thank you…” He lit yours first, shielding it with his hands for you, and you couldn't help but notice how close he was to you. He lit his own, and you watched it awe at his beauty as the lighter illuminated his face. His first drag was long and desperate, the deep sigh he let out when he breathed echoing your own relief. You wondered if that's what he’d be like when you were on your knees for him quiet but needy, hand running through his hair and…

“What are your plans this weekend?” You blushed, not at the question but what it had distracted you from, taking a drag while you composed yourself.

“Not much, just studying, finishing a few papers, the usual.”

“No plans with friends? A boyfriend?” He asked almost shyly, then blushed profusely. “Or girlfriend, or partner… sorry I didn't mean to assume.” You laughed at his embarrassment.

“No, no plans. Friends are all out of town or doing the same as me, and no boyfriend to have plans with.” You weren't sure why you felt like you had to clarify that. It was an instinct more than anything, something in you felt like he should know. “What about you? Any plans?”

“Nope, no plans either. Friends are all married with children, so they don't have weekends anymore. And my brother is out of town with work, so that just about rules out everyone.” Your heart sung at the lack of a girlfriend or wife mentioned, but you somehow managed to control your face. “I got a new jigsaw I might try…” You couldn't help but laugh out loud at that, and he laughed with you. “Sorry, I know thats like the oldest old person thing I could've said…”

“No I just… I was thinking the same thing but didn't want to seem old.” His turn to laugh loudly, a sound that warmed you through.

“You don't have to worry about that…”

“Neither do you.” You had replied quickly, without thinking, and suddenly the air was charged. He was looking you in a way that was unreadable, almost curious but there was something else brewing just under the surface. His eyes were locked onto yours, and you found yourself unable to look away, not letting yourself to be the first to break contact. You weren't sure what it was about today - maybe just because of how shitty you’d felt the last few days, how kind and caring he had been, how many times you’d been in touching distance of him - but you wanted him to know you were an option. Even if it was a bad idea, if it could ruin both of you, if it could destroy everything you'd ever worked towards… you suddenly didn't care. You needed him to know you were here, arms open and waiting, if he ever wanted you.

The car ride was quiet, silence only broken by the occasional attempt at small talk. It was as though the look you had shared earlier had shattered your ability to speak to each other normally, a cloud hanging over the both of you, threatening to pour. Eventually, you pulled up outside your building, and your heart broke that it was over. You had to leave now, to be alone in your flat, to try and relax without thinking about him. His touch, his laugh, his smell.

“Thank you for the lift.” You managed to croak out after sitting silent for a moment, voice laced with disappointment you didn’t have the energy to hide.

“Anytime.” He muttered back, and your hand moved to the door, eyes glazing over at the sight of the raindrops hitting the car window. You weren’t sure why you didn’t just leave, open the door and run inside, out of the rain, out of the tension. Maybe it was the weather, pushing you to take comfort somewhere warm and welcoming. Or maybe it was the scent of sandalwood and cigarettes that clung to the leather surrounding you. Or maybe it was the way your arm was still tingling where he had touched you earlier, his hands warm and expansive and calming. It didn’t really matter though. Regardless of the reason, you still chose to open your damn mouth one more time.

“I don’t want to wait until Monday to see you again.” Your voice was barely a whisper, barely audible, but from the way he muttered your name warningly, he heard. You flushed furiously, feeling so fucking stupid. You’d ruined everything. He was your advisor, your professor, your whole support system felled in one swoop. God, you were an idiot. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I’ll go.” You reached for the handle again, tears springing to the corners of your eyes.

“Wait.” His voice was… well, you weren’t sure. It sounded frustrated, sure, but also, there was a desperation in it. A need. He didn’t want you to leave either. “God, I’ve thought about how this might go so many times and never once landed on what I’d want to say.” There was a lump in your throat, and your hands fell back into your lap, turning to see the slightly pained expression on his face, almost pleading. His hair was messy, one hand raking through it as his eyes met yours. “There’s obviously… I mean it’s undeniable the way I… but I just…” He was so nervous, eyes scanning across your face frantically. “I’m your advisor. I’m your Professor. I’m in a position of authority here, its a power imbalance and I’m old enough to…” You had sat calmly listening to him ramble, so grateful that your feeling weren’t unrequited that you didn’t care what other excuses he would try to come up with.

“I don’t care.” He whispered your name again in warning, but softer, and you could see his resolve eroding with every second he was in your presence. “I mean it. You said it yourself, it’s undeniable. And now we’ve addressed it… what’s the harm in trying?” He still looked confused, pain wrought into his features as his eyes locked onto yours. And then, it was like you could see him accept that he couldn’t stop this now. That he didn’t want to. The fear gave way to longing, his hand cupping your jaw in a way that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I need you to…” The nerves were still clear in his voice, but his hand was definite, thumb brushing your lips and you leant into the touch, body naturally caving towards his. “Please tell me your want this. I need to be sure.”

“I want this.” You were so firm in your response, so final, he had no choice but to believe you.

He leant in, cupping your face in his hand, touch so strong, so definite, that any residual doubt melted away as his lips touch yours. It was fleeting, unsure, but not a moment before he had pulled away, you pressed back into him. Your kiss was desperate and bruising, hard and needy and full of months of pent up desire. He returned so fervently you sighed into his mouth, relief and arousal washing over your body. His hand moved to grip your hair, keeping you close, and you cursed internally that you were still in the car, centre console blocking your body from his. You were desperate to touch more of him, to feel his skin under your fingers, to run your hands across the ridges of his chest and up his arms. His grip was still strong in your hair, but you broke for air, watching with a smile as his lips chased yours. His evident need spurred you on, hand moving to rest against his chest and grip the pressed fabric of his shirt as you shared the air in the space between you.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.” He muttered half-heartedly, but his blown pupils and subtle smile told you differently.

“Do you want to come upstairs?”

The elevator ride was tense, hand gripped in his, half expecting him to run away, but as soon as your door was open, his lips smashed into yours once more. His hands explored your waist, pressing you to the now closed door, body touching yours slightly. His mouth was saying something different to his body language: lips hungry and needy, body cautious. You were more confident, hands falling to his back and pulling him as close as possible to you. He groaned in response, a low guttural sound that left you panting into his hot mouth. You wanted to gasp his name, but you realised you didn’t know it, embarrassment clouding your mind. You pushed it away immediately, hands snaking round his solid form to his tie, loosening it like a woman starved and throwing it to the side.

“Hey…” he muttered alongside a pant of your name, fingers tracing your face in a tender way, “are you sure you want this?”

“More than anything.” The answer fell from your lips without you even thinking about it. You needed him. He smiled against your lips, hands trailing from your waist to your hips, an invitation. You started to undo his shirt buttons, hands finally coming into contact with his warm skin, hips bucking towards his. A moment of insecurity washed over you. You were young, younger than him by a long way, and while it didn’t bother you, you couldn’t help but wonder if being with someone with so much less experience would bother him. He’d asked for your assurance twice now, and you had just assumed he wanted the same. Maybe he was just here so he didn’t lose his job…

“Is this what you want too?” You whispered, so shy and unsure you could feel the blush spreading across your cheeks.

“More than anything.” His fingers traced your lips, eyes meeting yours, and he must’ve sensed their slightly hesitant nature. “Since the minute you walked into my classroom, I’ve wanted this.” He smiled slightly sheepishly then, eyes flitting down to scan your form. “You were wearing cord flares and a white tee, leather jacket slung over your bag. You looked so confident, so excited to be in my class… you weren’t even looking at me yet, but I saw a glint in your eye that reminded me of myself in my youth. Everything about you intoxicated me from the moment I locked eyes with you. I want this.” The last statement was so final, so raw, you gave in fully. You smiled, looking deep into his eyes to see them unwavering.

“In that case..” you muttered, puling away from his just slightly, pulling your shirt over your head before unbuttoning your jeans, letting them fall to the floor. He stepped back while you were undressing, eyes darkening as they scanned your whole body with desire.

“Fuck…” he muttered the word quietly to himself, continuing to look you up and down in a way that made you blush profusely. He followed suit quickly, slowly undoing the rest of your shirt buttons with a slight smile. You couldn’t help but gaze half-lidded at his bare form, muscles rippling with every deep breath he took. “Where’s your room?”

Your bra and his trousers were long discarded, your bare form pressed to his as he laid above you, hand resting by your head, holding him up as he devoured your mouth. His kisses were getting lower, pressing against your neck and chest as you could do nothing but pant at his every touch.

“Sir, are you…” you didn’t even finish your question, words lost in your tongue as he bit down softly against the pillowy flesh of your breast, a groan escaping his lips against you at the name you had chosen in the heat of the moment.

“Shh..” the soft sound escaped his lips as he continued to move his lips lower until his fingers hooked your pantries, pulling them down slowly, savouring your squirming.

“What are you…” your words were lost yet again as his mouth enveloped your bare pussy, tongue pressing a firm stripe through your folds. You moaned loudly, the sensation enveloping you as you pressed your hips further towards his mouth. He hummed in satisfaction at the movements from you, hands gripping your hips tightly as your thighs surrounded his head. His tongue was expert, circling your clit with perfect precision and you bucked into him again with a whimper, desperate for some direct contact. He chuckled against you, smiling up between your thighs and you could’ve cum there from the sight of him.

“Relax…” he muttered, surly tone immediately forcing your muscles to loosen, pressing into the bed. His tongue flicked across your clit, and you squirmed, pants and whines filling the room as he continued his assault on your sensitive nerves. “Good girl…” his voice rumbled against your cunt, almost pushing you to the edge there and then.

“Please…” was all you could force out, words jumbling in your mind as the pleasure started to take over. One hand released from your hips, and you barely registered as two fingers pushed inside you, thick and deep. You groaned, an animalistic noise drawn from the back of your throat as he hit the spot inside you that made you sing. Every inch of your body was on fire with need as his fingers filled you, tongue continuing its relentless attack on your clit. You were all but an incoherent mess of moans and pants as he kept going, pleasure building and building close to the point of being too much, nerves burning with desire as he feasted on you like a man starved. It didn’t take long for your orgasm to arrive, fast and brutal, blinding you as your thighs squeezed around him, sobs and whines falling from your lips as you rode out the waves on his tongue.

By the time you had caught your breath, his face was an inch from yours, pressing sloppy kisses your jaw and neck. You whimpered softly, feeling the slick he had left between your thighs. You wrapped your legs around his, blinking up at him stupidly.

“I want you…” his lips cut you off, deep and passionate as your words were swallowed by hood’s mouth. He tasted like you.

“You have me. Body and soul.” Your heart leapt at the sentiment, hand brushing through his hair with affection.

“Then fuck me.”

He was pressed against your back, and was impossibly deep inside you, hitting that spot that made your back arch. His hand was tangled in your hair again, lips to your neck as he somehow pressed deeper, and your hand found his thigh, holding him there.

“You feel so good.” You whispered, fucked out and satisfied, already multiple organs in from his perfect cock.

“I’m close baby,” he muttered against your ear, grinding against your ass as you whined for him so beautifully. He fit so perfectly inside you it felt handcrafted, and he groaned softly as he pulled out quickly, slamming back inside as his hips started to stutter. “So pretty, so perfect for me…” his hand reached around to your used clit, pressing gentle circles as you cried out. You would do anything for him, but you were exhausted and overstimulated, a few tears brimming in your eyes at the bliss and pain it provided.

“Please..” you whispered for the uncountable time that night, hips backing into his as he groaned, deep and animalistic. Your orgasm washed over you as he finally came, moaning against your neck as his teeth clamped down carefully.

“So fucking perfect…”

You felt so effortlessly relaxed beside him, sleep encroaching quicker than it ever had. You were exhausted and spent, but happy. Everything you’d wanted for months but refused to admit to yourself had come true, and tomorrow, you’d have to face the reality of it all. But for now, you were at peace, head rested against his chest and feeling the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. Your slumber had started to take you, eyes fluttering closed, when you heard his voice speak softly, as though trying not to disturb you.

“I hope this moment last forever.” You thought confirming his sentiment would somehow diminish him, or scare him off, pretending your sleep had pulled you under, but your heart swelled in agreement. You never wanted to leave this place.

#hwang in ho #hwang in ho x reader #hwang inho #inho x reader #in ho x reader #hwang inho x reader #fanfic #in ho squid game #squid game s2 #squid game #professor au #student x professor #lee byung hun

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kriticalmaniac03 · 1 month ago

Note

Okay but here me out, henry elsner is transgender man btw just a headcanon btw

That’s cool!

#ask box #nicki’s ask box #answered asks #ghost and pals related things

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covenofagatha · 5 months ago

Note

author, can you make agatha x reader, where agatha as the head chef at the high-end restaurant and us reader as the new worker in the kitchen?

Another one from November finally done 😅 also thank you so much for the picture GOD she looks good as a chef

I have also never worked in a restaurant and I know absolutely nothing about cooking/the culinary world so I apologize for any inaccuracies just roll with it lol

Under her knife

You finally get the job of your dreams working at Agatha Harkness's restaurant

Word count: 3.9k

Warnings: spanking, fingering, Agatha is a mean boss, slight dub-con, praise kink, manipulative chef!Agatha

Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly

It was a dream come true when you got the call that you were hired at Agatha Harkness’s restaurant, Nicky’s Steakhouse.

She was a celebrity in the food world and getting an audience with her was near impossible.

As luck would have it, she came into one of your classes at The Culinary Institute of America a few days before your graduation for a demonstration on how to make gateau saint honoré, a French pastry dessert and one of the most difficult to make.

She had asked a question and you were the only one out of fifty students who raised your hand. Your voice shook as you answered and she looked surprised when you said the right thing.

Throughout the rest of the assembly of the ingredients, she kept looking over at you, like she was making sure you were paying attention. After the lesson, she asked to speak with you in private. You had never been so nervous in your life and you would never forget the way her blue eyes burned into yours when she told you that she saw something special and wanted you to come in for an interview.

At the high-end restaurant that she owned.

Just because you answered a question correctly.

But you were disappointed when you went in for it and you were met with just the sous-chef. Part of you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Agatha and was hoping you’d get to see her again.

She asked you questions, both about your experience and school, and how to make specific dishes. And then she put you in the kitchen and told you to make lobster thermidor.

She watched you intensely the whole time and when you were done, she took one bite and told you that you would find out within the next week.

A day later, you got a call from Agatha herself, who told you that she wanted you on board and that you start in a week.

And the day is finally here.

The first day of the rest of your life. You take a deep breath in your car and count to ten to calm your nerves. Your stomach is twisting in knots and you’re not sure you’ve ever been more anxious in your life.

But you’ve got this.

You were put on the evening shift and the moment you walk through the door, your nose is hit with the most delicious of smells. The restaurant is packed, like you’ve heard it is every night.

You’ve never actually eaten here before; it costs an arm and a leg and culinary school wasn’t cheap.

Winding through the tables to the kitchen, you catch sight of some of the most delectable food you’ve ever seen and your mouth waters.

You give yourself a tiny pinch just to make sure you aren’t dreaming, but it stings. This is real. This is happening.

The kitchen door swings open and you’re immediately almost knocked to the ground by three waitresses bustling out of the kitchen, carrying steaming bowls of pasta and platters of meat and towers of croquembouche. You jump out of the way, muttering a quick “Sorry” before carefully entering and staying close to the wall as you look around for Agatha.

It doesn’t take you long to see her, or rather, hear her.

“Are you incompetent?” Her voice rings out over the clambering of pots and pans and line cooks shouting to each other and you see Agatha Harkness on the other side of the kitchen glowering over a cowering man, a waiter by the way he’s dressed. Her white uniform is form-fitting and her dark hair is neatly tucked in a bun under her chef toque, her blue eyes filled with a dangerous heat. She’s wearing little gold hoop earrings and her lips are painted slightly pink.

The man standing in front of her visibly trembles. Fear twists in your stomach even though you’re not the one in trouble. What did he do? “Chef Harkness, I’m sorry,” he stammers but she slams her hand down on the countertop to shut him up.

“Oh, you’re sorry?” She scoffs and holds up a fork. The man gulps. “What kind of fork is this?”

“A salad fork,” he answers immediately.

Agatha drops the fork and it clangs on the floor. “So then why,” she hisses, leaning in closer, and you can feel the fear radiating off the man, “did you put it on the right side of the dinner fork in the corner booth? Did you forget that salad forks go on the left?”

He shakes his head furiously. “It was a mistake, I’m sorry!”

“I don’t have time for mistakes. Get out of my kitchen. You’re fired,” she barks and your jaw drops.

What have you gotten yourself into? You didn’t realize how ruthless Agatha was going to be. What if you mess up tonight?

Will she fire you just as quickly?

The man, to his credit, doesn’t put up a fight. He takes off his name tag vest and hands it to her before stalking out of the kitchen, brushing past you on his way out. No one else has even looked up from what they’re doing. Is this just a standard routine?

You swallow roughly and turn back to Agatha and find, with a jolt, that she’s already looking at you, a throbbing vein prominent in her forehead.

She beckons you forward, and as if in a trance, you make your way over to her, stopping every now and then to let someone with food slide past you.

“There she is,” Agatha says when you get to her and she studies you like she’s judging if you know where a salad fork should go.

You offer a shaky smile. “Hi, Chef Harkness, I just want to say thank you so much for this opportunity and I’m going to do my best with every single meal. I promise I won’t let you down.”

Agatha snorts and thrusts the fired man’s name tag and vest into your hands. “Easy there, y/n,” and a thrill runs through you at her knowing your name, “Your uniform is in the backroom. Put it on and get to work.”

Nodding, it becomes clear to you that she doesn’t want to talk anymore, so you rush back and find a double-breasted coat, checkered pants, apron, and toque neatly folded on a bench with your name printed on them. The uniform fits you perfectly which you’re a little surprised about.

You’re not exactly sure what to do with the fired man’s stuff, so you just leave it there.

Even though you’re a bit weary from the display you just saw, you can’t help but feel incredibly excited that you’re actually here. You have worked so hard, spent so many hours pouring over recipe books, gotten so many burns on your skin from boiling water, cried over dishes that didn’t turn out well no matter how hard you tried — it finally paid off.

Emotion rushes through you but you tamp it down with a deep breath. You need to focus. You need to be at the top of your game and show Agatha that you do deserve to be here.

It starts out easy enough. Roast prime rib au jus. Grilled yellowfin ahi. French onion soup.

Every so often, Agatha comes over and stands over your shoulder, close enough that you can feel her hot breath on your neck. It gives you goosebumps and you have to remind yourself to keep working.

“Good girl,” she says into your ear after you put a plate down of lobster bisque and that particularly makes a shiver run through you.

You find yourself getting a little distracted after that, your eyes following her across the kitchen wherever she goes and hoping that she comes back over to give you some more praise.

Agatha yells at someone else for using too much salt on a dish, dumping it off the plate into the trash and demanding the cook make a new plate, and you duck your head down when she looks over at you so she doesn’t see you watching. Too late.

You can almost feel her coming over to you, dread filling in your stomach as you wait. Is she going to get mad at you for not minding your own business? Everyone else here has seemed to learn how to.

Her front brushes against your back. “You seem a little on edge,” she murmurs and your heart skips a beat. “Don’t worry, hon. I won’t punish you — unless you deserve it.”

It makes your cheeks heat up and your hand shakes just as you’re carefully scooping a teaspoon of garlic salt out of the container. The spoonful drops onto the counter and Agatha chuckles from behind you before reaching around and swiping it onto the floor, effectively getting rid of the mess from your workspace.

If it was anyone else, would she have gotten mad? Maybe she’s just taking it easy on you because it’s your first day.

“No harm done,” she remarks and then she’s gone and you let out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.

It’s almost fascinating to watch her work, to watch her sweep through the kitchen and check out everyone’s dishes, sprinkling in some advice and ingredients every now and then. She doesn’t hesitate to make someone redo something because it’s not good enough, but it surprises you that no one complains. If anything, they agree.

You suppose that’s the sign of a good Head Chef. They make you better. And when you’re blending all the ingredients of butternut squash soup together and Agatha comes over and wraps her arms around you, her hands on top of yours, to show you how to more effectively stir, you really do feel like you’ve learned something.

“She’s being really nice to you,” one of the other line cooks says while you’re both waiting for new orders to come in.

You shrug. “It’s my first day. Guess she’s just showing me the ropes.” The cook doesn’t look convinced, but there’s no time to think about it as you have to start making stuffed gnocchi.

The next few hours pass quickly. You barely have a chance to think as you’re running back and forth, grabbing things and throwing them into a pan and making sure they’re perfect. You’ve worked up a sweat and you find a few seconds to wipe the beads from your brow before you’re back to work.

But as the night stretches on, the orders come in less frequently as the rush dies down and soon you only have about twenty minutes left. Your final dish of the night is a raspberry walnut torte.

Because it’s almost closing time, about half of the cooks finished their shifts a while ago so it’s an intimate setting, just you, Agatha, and four others, everyone quietly moving around and trying to finish up the food they have left. You are absolutely exhausted and you cannot wait to go back to your apartment.

You’ve just finished your dessert and placed it on the rack at the window, finally feeling like you can relax.

And then Agatha’s voice cuts through the relative silence. “Who just made this torte?”

Your stomach drops and you sheepishly raise your hand. What did you do wrong?

She grabs a fork and pokes the slice and the center sinks down almost in slow motion. Fuck. “What temperature did you cook it at?” She asks and you think you could just combust with embarrassment on the spot.

“Three-sixty,” you rasp, and the moment you say it out loud, you realize your mistake. Tortes should be cooked at three-hundred and fifty degrees, and if they’re cooked too hot, the outside of it cooks faster than the inside.

Leading to a cracked or sunken torte.

“Chef, I’m sorry, it was a mistake,” you plead, panic and terror spiking through your blood. You were doing so good — now she was certainly going to fire you.

Agatha sighs, closes her eyes, and pinches her nose like she’s trying to decide what to do with you. When she opens them, the steely blue frightens you. “Make another one,” she says.

Your mouth drops open. “But it won’t be done in time,” you protest and she smirks.

“I know. I’m going to go out there and tell them that there was a mishap and that we won’t be able to get them their raspberry walnut torte that they were so looking forward to,” she says and it makes you feel even worse. “It won’t be pretty. You’ve just lost yourself and your fellow line cooks their tip. So the least you could do is show me that you do in fact know how to make a torte and that I shouldn’t fire you on the spot right now.”

She storms out of the kitchen and you make a tremendous effort to not look at any of the other cooks while you go back to your station and pull out the ingredients to make it again.

By the time Agatha comes back into the kitchen, it’s time for everyone else to go home. Shame burns your cheeks as they leave without saying goodbye to you and Agatha quietly sits on a stool and watches you work to finish the torte.

When you pull it out of the freezer where it’s been cooling for a few minutes, you feel like you could pass out on the kitchen floor right there.

Agatha pokes it with a fork again and you almost sob with relief when it doesn’t crack or sink. But it’s not over yet.

She takes her first bite and chews thoughtfully like she’s tasting for every single ingredient. “Adequate,” she says after she swallows. “But you’re still fired.”

“What?” You gasp, your heart skipping a beat. “No, please, Chef, it was an accident, I can make it, look!”

Agatha puts her fork down. “You fixed it this time. But how can I be sure it won’t happen again?”

“I promise, please — I’ll do anything,” you say desperately. “I’ll be careful, I won’t mess up again!”

Her perfectly shaped eyebrow raises and a slow smirk spreads over face. “Anything?” She asks.

You nod earnestly. “Anything!”

Agatha stands up so quickly it makes you step back from where you’ve been standing next to her. She cups your cheek and then slides her hand down to tap under your chin. “How about…” she muses, eyes looking you up and down. She looks hungry. “I give you ten spanks.”

“What?” Did you hear her wrong? Is she joking? She doesn’t look like she is.

“One spank for each degree hotter you cooked the torte at. It’s the only way you’ll learn,” she explains like it’s the most logical thing in the world. “Bend over on the counter.”

Despite the sheer insanity at it, a heat rushes through your body. You wanted her attention earlier, didn’t you?

Seems like you have it now.

So you try to slow your racing heart and obey. Your forearms rest on the cool metal from where you pushed your sleeves up to work earlier and your head slightly hangs downward, waiting. There’s a little voice in the back of your head that says this is wrong, but you shut it down. You can’t get fired.

She unties the apron and lets it fall to the floor at your feet and you let out a small gasp.

“I’m a little disappointed in you, to be honest, hon,” she says as she pushes up your coat. It tears at your heart a little. “But I know that you’re going to make up for it. You’re about to take your punishment like a good girl and show me that you’re really committed to being here. Isn’t that right?”

You nod and try to ignore the burning in your stomach. What is she doing to you? “Yes, Chef,” you answer hoarsely and let out a little whimper when she yanks down your pants. You curse yourself for deciding to wear a purple thong. “What—”

“Shh,” she says and rubs your now-bare ass. You hate that you can feel your underwear sticking to you. Can she see it? “Count for me.”

And then she spanks you and it makes you jump. For some reason, you thought she’d at least ease into it a little, but the impact reverberates through you and makes you gasp.

“One,” you breathe and she chuckles.

The next three follow in quick succession, with Agatha waiting only long enough to hear you count.

After the fifth one, you’re squirming, head resting on your forearms to hide your tears, but the sting has ebbed into pleasure. You’re getting off on this.

And when Agatha makes a surprised sound and cups your pussy through your underwear, making your hips rock forward instinctively, you know that she knows. Her hand disappears quickly and you let out a little whine.

“All the best chefs like a little pain,” she remarks conversationally, spanking you again. You gasp out a “six” and she keeps talking. “It’s the only way to get better. To strive for greatness is to accept that it will hurt. I see your potential, I see how good you can be. Just keep working with me, honey, and I’ll get you there.”

She spanks you again but you can hardly feel it with the fuzziness that has crept into your mind at her words. Agatha Harkness, the best chef in the world, believes in you.

“Seven,” you remember to say after a moment and she tuts in your ear.

Agatha soothes the red skin and you relax for a moment before she slaps your ass again. “You’re doing so well for well, honey. Keep going to these lengths to impress me and rectify your mistakes and you could be my sous-chef in no time.”

The promise makes your head spin. “Eight,” you count when she slaps you again.

“Such a good girl,” she coos and you are aching. You need her to touch you more than anything.

Never in a million years did you imagine your first day would look like this.

She spanks you again. “Nine,” you croak, the feeling spreading throughout your body almost unbearable.

“Last one. And then I think you deserve a reward,” she purrs and slaps both your asscheeks at the same time, making you yelp.

Agatha gives you a moment to recover before pulling you up by your coat collar and turning you around and you gasp at how flushed she is. Her cheeks have a red tint to them, her bottom lip swollen — she must’ve been biting it — and her eyes have a heat that you saw earlier, when she fired the waiter.

But this is a different heat.

You’re sure you look the exact same.

She steps even closer to you and slides a hand into your underwear, making your jaw drop.

“God, you’re wet,” she taunts and you can’t even argue. She wastes no time shoving a finger into you and rubbing at your clit with her thumb and your arms wind around her shoulders for leverage.

“So I’m not fired?” You ask, and obviously there were a million other times that would’ve been better for that question, but it seems fitting.

Agatha laughs breathless and fits a second finger into you, making you moan. “You’re not fired, honey. We’re going to do great things together. Knew it the moment I saw you.” She curls her fingers roughly and you keen, tightening your grip around her. Your walls spasm around her and try to draw her in.

Her fingers feel absolutely delicious inside you, filling you just the way you needed to, and you can already feel the tension building in your lower stomach. The spanking got you close, her praise got you closer, and now the great hands of Chef Agatha Harkness are going to finish you off.

Your head falls back when she scissors her fingers, stretching you out and you hiss at the burn, and she chuckles while she takes in your thoroughly ruined state.

“What temperature do you cook a torte at?” She asks and you almost don’t hear it over the wet sounds coming from your pussy every time she thrusts inside you.

It takes you a moment to answer, but when you at last moan out “Three-fifty,” she smirks and bends down to nip at your neck over your collar. You tilt your head to the side to give her more access and she takes it all. She flicks her tongue against your clavicle and sucks, pulling another moan from your mouth.

You’re so close, the pleasure almost overwhelming, and your breathing has gotten faster, your heart rate through the roof.

The kitchen has been where you’ve felt most alive your whole life, nothing better than creating something from scratch and carefully curating it to make it into something new — is that what Agatha is doing with you? She plucked you out of your classmates from culinary school, gave a freshly graduated chef a job at her high end restaurant, turned up the heat, and is promising that under her, you’ll turn into a great chef.

Agatha twists her fingers and you moan, babbling something incoherently, and she rubs your clit harder.

“Cum for me,” she growls into your ear and thrusts her fingers inside you as far as they can go and you do — a whine falling from your lips as your pussy walls clench uncontrollably around her, tension exploding through your body.

She keeps fucking you through your orgasm and doesn’t stop until your breathing has evened out and you start to squirm away because of how sensitive you’ve become. And yet, you still whine when she pulls her fingers out of you.

Agatha lifts her fingers to her mouth and sucks on them, holding eye contact and moaning like she’s a world-class chef and you’re still the best thing she’s ever tasted.

You awkwardly adjust your underwear, pull up your pants, and clear your throat. Should you thank her for the fact that you still have a job? Or that she just fingered you in her restaurant?

“Well, guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” Agatha says before you try to break the silence. “You’re not going to make any more mistakes?” Her tone is teasing — you smile and shake your head.

“No, I promise.” Your voice is still a little raspy and it makes her smirk.

She grabs her purse and wraps an arm around your shoulders to lead you out of the kitchen and to the entrance of the restaurant. Her head tilts down and her forehead presses against your temple. “Good, cause I’d hate to have to punish you again.” Except Agatha doesn’t sound like she means that at all and it sears through you.

At least it seems like you have a little bit of job security, even though you don’t want to mess up any more. You’re going to prove to Agatha that you do deserve this job, that you can be as good of a chef as she thinks you can be.

She stops at the bottom of the stairs at the entrance and takes her arm around you, immediately missing the warmth it brought you.

“Good first day, honey,” she says with a wink and it makes your cheeks heat up.

And then she’s walking away and you stumble to your car while trying to figure out what the hell you just got yourself into.

#agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x reader #agatha x reader #agatha x you #agatha harkness x you #agatha harkness smut #agatha smut #agatha all along #covsfics #under her knife

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