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gf2bellamy · 4 months ago

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Hi i was wondering if you could write a fic where bau!reader is cheering spencer on at his baseball game?

softball — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of a guy throwing sort of rude remarks at spence ( just like in the scene ) a/n: i rewatched the scene to write this and omg i forgot how silly it is i love them all so bad theyre literally family ( also i miss blake ) i had so much fun writing this i hope you like it !! <3 ( also i literally know nothing about softball so if anything is wrong i'm vv sorry </3 )

The warm afternoon sun bathed the softball field in golden light. You walked beside the bleachers, your sneakers crunching against the gravel path, with JJ at your side. Her son Henry skipped ahead, his tiny hand clutching hers, his excitement obvious as he pointed at the players warming up on the field.

Ahead, Spencer stood by the chain- link fence, deep in conversation with Derek, who was already dressed in his baseball uniform, adjusting his grip on his glove.

Spencer, in contrast, looked hesitant and nervous.

His eyes darted toward the field, where players were tossing balls and stretching, and you could see the uncertainty written all over his face.

“Hey!” JJ called, drawing their attention.

Spencer turned, his brows furrowing slightly before his expression shifted into surprise. Practically the entire BAU team was gathered behind you—Hotch, Rossi, Garcia, Alex and even little Jack standing beside Henry.

“What are you all doing here?” Spencer asked, his voice laced with disbelief. His eyes flickered over each of you.

You stepped forward, grinning up at him as you held out a black cap. “Came to support you, of course.”

He turned it over in his hands, examining it, before slowly placing it on his head. The cap sat awkwardly over his curls at first, but he adjusted it carefully, pulling it down until it fit snugly.

“There,” you said, tilting your head as you studied him, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Now you look the part.”

Spencer huffed out a small, amused breath but didn’t argue.

Ten minutes later, the game was in full swing. Derek was already at bat, sending the ball flying across the field with a powerful hit. The crowd erupted in cheers as he sprinted toward first base.

You clapped from your seat on the bleachers, sharing an excited glance with JJ.

You watched as Spencer stepped up to the plate, his movements hesitant as he selected a bat from the rack. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles whitening as he took his position. His stance was awkward, his feet too close together, and he shifted his weight nervously from one foot to the other.

Just before the pitcher threw the ball, Spencer turned his head, searching for something—someone.

His eyes found you.

You gave him an encouraging look, your lips curving into a soft, reassuring smile as you nodded.

Spencer swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he tightened his grip on the bat. He squared his shoulders as he turned back toward the pitcher.

The opposing player wound up and threw the ball.

Spencer swung—and missed.

You bit your lip, fingers curling around the edge of the bleacher.

It was okay. He just needed to get a feel for it.

The second pitch came. Spencer adjusted his grip, focused his gaze, and swung.

Missed again.

The sound of the bat slicing through empty air was met with a few sympathetic murmurs from the crowd.

You exhaled softly through your nose, feeling a twinge of nervousness for him. You could see the frustration creeping into his posture, the way his shoulders tensed and his jaw tightened.

Rossi, stood up from the bleachers as he clapped his hands together. “It’s all right, kid. You got this. Just keep your eye on the ball.”

Spencer rolled his shoulders before repositioning himself. The third pitch came. He swung—and missed once more.

A sharp whistle blew, signaling the end of his turn. Spencer sighed, pushing his hair back under the cap as he stepped away from the plate.

Time passed, and the game continued. The team erupted in cheers when Derek hit a line drive into the outfield, sprinting around the bases with that signature confidence of his.

You clapped along with everyone else, letting out a light laugh when he slid into home base, grinning like he owned the field.

Your attention drifted back to Spencer. He stood off to the side, a bat in his hand, tossing it lightly into the air as if trying to distract himself.

Except, instead of landing smoothly in his grip, it fumbled and hit the dirt with a dull thud.

You had to bite your cheek to suppress a laugh, not wanting to embarrass him further. He bent down quickly, picking it up like nothing had happened, his cheeks tinged with pink as he went back into position.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight. There was something so endearing about Spencer Reid—genius, FBI profiler, and yet utterly out of his element on a softball field.

You stood up from the bleachers, brushing off your jeans as you made your way over to the chain-link fence that separated the stands from the field. Leaning against it, you called out to him, your voice light and teasing.

“Need a hand with that bat, or are you just practicing your juggling skills?”

Spencer’s head snapped up, his eyes widening slightly as he realized you were watching him. He straightened, brushing a stray curl out of his face as he walked closer to the fence, the bat dangling loosely in his hand.

“I, uh, didn’t realize anyone was paying attention,” he admitted, his voice tinged with embarrassment.

“Oh, I’m paying attention,” you said with a grin, resting your arms on the top of the fence. “And I have to say, your juggling could use a little work. Maybe stick to profiling for now.”

He let out a small, self-conscious laugh, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again. “I’m not exactly cut out for this,” he said, gesturing vaguely to the field. “I mean, I can calculate the trajectory of a ball in my head, but actually hitting it? That’s a whole different story.”

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Hey, you’re doing better than you think. It’s just a game, Spencer.”

He glanced over at Derek, who was currently showing off with a series of exaggerated practice swings, much to the amusement of the rest of the team. “Yeah, well, Morgan makes it look easy,” Spencer muttered.

“Derek’s had years of practice,” you pointed out. “You’re just starting. Cut yourself some slack.”

Spencer sighed, leaning against the fence on his side so that you were face to face, only the metal links separating you.

Your heart softened. “You don’t have to be good at everything, Spencer. It'’s okay to just have fun.”

He looked at you for a long moment, his brown eyes searching yours as if trying to find some kind of reassurance. Finally, he nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Fun, huh? I guess I can try that.”

“That’s the spirit,” you said, reaching through the fence to give his arm a playful nudge. “And hey, if nothing else, you’ve got the best cheering section here. We’re all rooting for you.”

Spencer’s smile widened, and for the first time since the game started, he looked genuinely relaxed. “Thanks,” he said, his voice warm. “That… means a lot.”

Just then, Derek’s voice boomed across the field. “Reid! You’re up again! Stop flirting and get over here!”

Spencer’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and he quickly straightened, adjusting his cap. “I, uh, should probably go,” he said, glancing back at you.

You laughed, waving him off. “Go on. Show them what you’ve got.”

Smiling you went back to your seat. When he stepped up to bat, he glanced over at you one more time, and you gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up, earning a small chuckle from him.

JJ, Penelope, and Alex all exchanged knowing glances.

When Spencer turned his back to get into position, you caught them looking and furrowed your brows. “What?”

JJ smirked, leaning in slightly. “Oh, nothing.”

“Absolutely nothing at all,” Penelope added, eyes twinkling.

Alex just shook her head, biting back a small, amused smile.

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest was undeniable.

And when Spencer stepped up to bat once more, he stole one last glance at you before squaring his stance. His eyes lingered for just a moment, and you could see the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

But then, from the opposing team’s dugout, someone called out, “This guy can’t hit.”

You frowned, your expression twisting in annoyance.

That was unnecessary.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who noticed.

Derek, standing near home plate, lifted a hand and called for a time-out. He turned on his heel and strode toward Spencer, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in to say something.

You let out a small breath of relief.

Rossi, seated just below you on the bleachers, leaned back slightly and smirked. “Shoot him another one of your good luck smiles. Maybe he won’t miss this time.”

Your eyes narrowed, heat creeping up your neck. “Funny,” you muttered, crossing your arms in an attempt to keep yourself composed.

Rossi chuckled, clearly enjoying himself, and the rest of the team exchanged knowing glances.

Derek finally walked back to his position, and Spencer turned around once more—his eyes searching for you almost instinctively. You met his gaze, and despite the slight nervousness still lingering in his stance, you smiled at him, giving him an encouraging nod.

“There you go,” Rossi muttered under his breath, and you shot him a glare, though it held no real heat.

You ignored him, keeping your eyes on Spencer as he adjusted his grip on the bat, exhaled, and squared his stance once more.

The pitcher wound up.

The ball came flying toward him.

Spencer swung.

And missed.

You bit your lip, fingers curling slightly as you watched him adjust.

The second pitch came.

Another miss.

You swallowed hard. You could tell he was getting in his own head.

And then, just as the pitcher lined up for the third throw, that same player from earlier muttered loud enough for everyone to hear, “This guy’s got nothing.”

Your head snapped toward him, irritation bubbling up in your chest. Oh, shut up, you thought, resisting the urge to march over there yourself. You shot the player a glare, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care.

Then, the third pitch came.

For a split second, time seemed to slow.

Spencer swung—

Crack!

The unmistakable sound of the bat making solid contact echoed across the field.

The ball shot into the air, soaring far past the infield.

For a second, Spencer just stood there, wide-eyed, almost as if he couldn’t believe it himself. He blinked at the bat in his hands, then at the ball still sailing through the air, as if trying to process what had just happened.

He didn’t move an inch.

“Spencer, run!”

Everyone was shouting now—Derek, Rossi, JJ, Penelope,Alex even Hotch. But it was your voice that seemed to snap him out of it. His head jerked in your direction, and when he saw you standing, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheered, something seemed to click.

He ran.

Derek was smacking his hands against his knees. “C’mon, kid, move it!”

Spencer rounded first, then second. The outfielders were still scrambling to recover, and the team’s cheers only grew louder.

By the time he made it to third, you could see the determination set on his face. His cap had slipped slightly, his curls bouncing with every stride, and his cheeks were flushed from the effort.

“Go, Spencer!” you yelled, clapping wildly.

The second the opposing team threw the ball toward home plate, Spencer took one final, desperate sprint—

And then slid.

It wasn’t the smoothest slide, and judging by the way he grimaced as he skidded across the dirt, it definitely wasn’t something he had ever practiced before. But when the referee threw his arms out and called, “Safe!” the entire BAU team erupted.

Derek was the first to reach him, pulling Spencer to his feet and clapping him on the back so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what I’m talking about, kid!” he shouted, his grin wide and proud.

JJ and Penelope were cheering loudly, their voices carrying across the field, while Rossi let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. Even Hotch, who was usually so stoic, was cheering.

But your eyes were on Spencer. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath, but there was a look of pure triumph on his face.

His cap was crooked, his shirt was covered in dirt, and his hair was a complete mess, but he looked happier than you’d seen him in a long time.

When his eyes found yours, he smiled—a real, genuine smile that lit up his entire face. You grinned back at him, giving him a thumbs-up, and he shook his head, laughing softly as he adjusted his cap.

After a few moments, as the team’s cheers began to subside, Spencer finally managed to wiggle free from Derek’s grip, stepping away from the celebratory pit.

His teammates continued to pat him on the back, offering congratulations and words of encouragement, but Spencer’s attention was already drifting.

His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for you.

When he finally spotted you, his expression softened, and a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

You walked up to him, your smile growing wider with every step.

Spencer was still slightly breathless, his chest rising and falling with adrenaline , but all he could focus on was you.

The noise of the cheering team, the occasional slap on his back from his teammates—it all faded into the background the moment your arms wrapped around his neck.

His fingers instinctively tightened around your waist, his grip warm.

“You did great,” you said, your voice full of excitement, as you pulled back slightly, your smile so wide it felt like it could light up the entire field.

Spencer’s lips parted slightly, his mind struggling to catch up with what was happening. You were so close.

He could see the way your cheeks were slightly flushed—whether from the excitement of the game or something else, he wasn’t sure.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

You nodded, smiling brightly. “Yeah.”

His heart stuttered at the confirmation, at the way you were looking at him like he had genuinely impressed you.

It wasn’t often that Spencer Reid felt cool, but right now, standing here with you, he kind of did.

The way you were looking at him, your arms still loosely draped around his neck, made him feel like he’d just accomplished something extraordinary—even if it was just a lucky hit in a casual softball game.

“See, pretty boy? Told you you had it in you,” Derek called, clapping him on the shoulder as he walked past, effectively snapping Spencer out of his daze.

You giggled, finally stepping back, though Spencer hesitated before letting you go.

Garcia practically skipped over, phone in hand. “Oh, don’t mind me, just capturing all these adorable moments,” she teased, wiggling her fingers at her screen.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the warmth creeping up your neck. “Garcia…”

“What? This is gold,” she argued, waving her phone. “The genius hits a home run, and his biggest fan is the first one to congratulate him? I live for this.”

Spencer, still trying to recover from all of this, rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks burning.

You reached up, gently adjusting his cap.

Your fingers brushed against his forehead, and for a moment, Spencer froze, his breath catching as he looked down at you.

“There,” you said softly, smoothing the brim of the cap. “Now you look like a proper MVP.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but no words came out. He just stared at you, his mind racing as he tried to process the way your touch made him feel.

Rossi, who had been watching from the bleachers with an amused smirk, leaned toward Hotch and muttered, “I give it two months.”

Hotch merely sighed, shaking his head. “They’ll be the last to realize it.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x you #spencer reid x you #spencer reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fic

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wetpussyju1ce · 5 months ago

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Alpha!König x Omega!fem reader (smaller than König)

original post

for @ohdrey89

+18. mdni.

könig and his tiny soon to be heat partner are a cute pair. since the day König shoved his whole knot inside her, his brain chemistry shifted and he's been stupid for her ever since. absolutely awe struck w her. he can't help it. now when she's all calm, asking him if he'd be willing to help her fix some fences to keep foxes away from her chickens, as if the day before his mind and whole being wasn't blinded with so much pleasure he felt reborn. she can't be asking him that so… so casual when he feels like he'd die if he stays away from her for too long.

he definitely knows he has some underlying issues if he's feeling this affected by them having sex for the first time. or maybe it's love. he'd like to think it is. because she's funny, smart, kind and pretty, and her pussy is the wettest, warmest and tightest he's ever been in. so yeah, she's definitely a catch. and she seems like she likes him to a degree, because even after their little excapade at the cottage, she still smiles at him and holds his arm or squeezes his thigh when they're all gathered up before dinner in his pack house.

his heart hammers in his chest and he feels his balls throb whenever she bats her pretty eyelashes at him or teases him. she asks him to help her with the most random things, things that require heavy lifting around her own little garden and cottage. and he does it. because why the fuck would he say no?

and she knows what she's doing too, sits on a bench with her chin resting on her palms as her elbows rest on her knees, watching the massive Alpha chop enough wood to last 3 winters, just because she asked. and he's sweating through his t-shirt, the fabric sticking to his freckled and scarred skin under. and she's just taking it all in. the bulging biceps, the big hands, the massive shoulders, his thighs that are as thick as trunks and the bulge between his legs, her absolute wet dream, live in the flesh.

when he's done, he's panting and his t-shirt is drenched, so he takes it off and she grins like the cat that got the cream. She offers him water off her cute pink pitcher, and he drinks like half of it. when he's done. she takes the water back inside the house, with him following her, his t-shirt in his hands. he stands in her small kitchen awkwardly, too big, too out of place for her soft and cozy home. that is until she tells him to leave the t-shirt on the floor, she'll wash it later. and he's about to disagree because he can wash it himself but then she's slowly lifting her tiny t-shirt over her chest, and he chokes on his spit.

His eyes immediately land on her small breasts and he can't breathe.

König doesn't even realise he's already crossed the kitchen and now has her flat down on her dinner table, his mouth licking and sucking, taking his fill out of her chest. And he's moaning, big warm rough hands holding her still as she laughs and moans on the table.

He frantically unbuttons her shorts and pulls the zipper down, before he can pull down her shorts and underwear in one go he remembers his manners and looks up, “Can– Can I eat you out? Please?”

“Yes,” She grins and he doesn't waste another second, pulling her clothes down in one go. he gets his head between her legs, buries it as far he can go, his nose nudging her clit as he licks broad stripes over her wet lips, then shoved his tongue in.

One thing the Omega learned about König is that when he wants something, he does it fully, wholeheartedly, he doesn't waste time with pleasantries. If he wants to eat her pussy, he will, with everything he's got.

The Omega quickly startes to trash under his filthy mouth, she grips his hair and pulls, her legs shaking as he messily drinks her slick between her legs. The noises he makes are loud and wet. She gets momentarily worries he may drown down there, considering she leaks a lot, like so much, especially when he's involved. But all König does is feast on her sweet cunt, drinking out of her as if she was the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, and she may as well be considering his dick is about to rip through his jeans, his knot tingling and ready to swell.

Her mind is foggy, her eyes are rolling at the back of her head as he eats her out and thumbs at her nipples with one hand at the same time, he's not giving her time or space to breathe. With every exhale she moans, and when he ears finally stop ringing she realises he's been speaking to her. Or at least saying something and she makes a small confused sound, looks down her body and tries to listen over the sound of him loudly and sloppily drinking everything she has to offer, and finally picks up something. König is another planet, his brain shut down and all he can repeat over and over again are praises for her, and her pussy; "You taste so good, so good-- So sweet and warm and tight-- Please come on my face, please I want it--"

That's it. That's all it took for her to squirt all over his face, shouting in her small cottage, writhing on her dinner table that she definitely needs to clean later. König is over the moon, unashamedly moaning with his head between her legs, he doesn't give a shit about breathing when she's covering his whole face with her slick, marking him up. He doesn't even realise he's also coming in his trousers, ruining his boxers with a horrifying amount of cum, but he'll deal with that later, after he gets his fill.

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basketonthedoorstepofthefbi · 1 year ago

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“hungover” - hotch x fem!reader

after a girls’ night in, you wake up next to your boyfriend.

1380 words - FLUFFY FLUFF

cw; mentions of alcohol and food, implied age gap?, typical hangover, jemily agenda (sry not sry)

a/n: I wrote this on my phone on vacation bc I have a serious problem

———————

The first thing you notice when you wake up is that you are not in your clothes.

You aren’t in your clothes. And you only realize it because of the scent wafting up your nose. Sea Salt Breeze - the cologne you’d gotten him for Christmas last year - emanates from the t-shirt that envelopes your upper half. You dip your chin for another whiff, breathing him in deeply. You want the smell inscribed into your brain.

You feel the bed dip and creak and you instinctively shut your eyes, playing possum as Aaron pads into the bathroom. The door whines as he shuts it most of the way, not totally closing it because he thinks you’re still asleep and that the sound of the door shutting will wake you.

Each of your senses turns on one at a time, like your brain waves run on dial-up Internet. You open your eyes and the room is mostly dark, save for the sliver of light creeping in through the outline of the curtains. You run the palm of your hand along Aaron’s sheets and marvel over how soft they are - Egyptian cotton, he’d told you once before.

Your head hurts, but only mildly. You’d certainly been drunker before, but last night was still up there. Penelope made her mojitos strong.

You slowly sit up in the bed as Aaron opens the door, flicking the bathroom light off in the same motion. Your eyes meet his and he cracks a small smile. “Thought you’d still be asleep,” he muses. You love his pale blue boxers and seeing the hair on his legs. His calves are crazy defined - he’s a runner, after all, but still. You rarely see him in anything but a suit and tie, so it’s always a treat. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

You shake your head, wincing slightly at the movement. Maybe you’re a little more hungover than you thought. “I was already awake,” you mumble, running a hand over your face. “Did you put me in your own clothes last night? I have pajamas in my drawer,” you point out, gesturing to the second drawer of Aaron’s dresser, the one that contains your set of pajamas, a few spare pairs of underwear, and a couple of emergency outfits, just in case you end up sleeping over at his place.

It happens more often than not, so you keep the drawer decently stocked at all times.

“You insisted,” Aaron climbs into the bed, reaching for you. He tugs you to him and you roll over onto your side, and then halfway onto your tummy so that your leg drapes over his and your palm rests flat on his chest.

You can hear his heart beating. It’s like a metronome, steady and guiding and calm. You feel his pointed chin nuzzle into your hair and then, his lips, quick yet effective, against your forehead.

Flashes of last night run through your head. You, Emily and JJ, over at Penelope’s apartment. A symphony of girlish giggles, talking about Emily and JJ’s upcoming wedding date, drinking at least three pitchers of mojitos among the four of you. Watching Dirty Dancing and gabbing the entire time, realizing it’d be a bad idea to drive yourself home, and calling Aaron to come get you.

When he arrived, you called him Hotch and apologized for him having to come get you, and he reminded you that he was Aaron and he was your boyfriend and he would pick you up anytime you needed it. You were determined to play the Dirty Dancing soundtrack on the ride home, fumbling with his phone until you found it.

You belted out (I’ve Had) The Time of My Life and demanded Aaron sing along. He admitted that he didn’t know all the words and you gave him a stern lecture until you started laughing so hard that you were in tears. Traffic lights reflected Christmas ornament colors in Aaron’s brown eyes as he drove, occasionally glancing over at you.

You swore you saw the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as you berated him for not knowing the words to such a classic song.

And then, once you were back at his place, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at your shoes dumbly until Aaron offered to help you take them off. “Laces too hard,” you mumbled, and Aaron just hummed in agreement before kneeling down to help you.

And then he helped you out of your clothes. He went for your drawer, and you threw a pillow at him. “The college t-shirt,” you demanded with these Bambi-esque eyes.

“Arms up, baby,” Aaron said as he slid his law school t-shirt onto your upper half. He saved that specific term of endearment for times like these, when he was taking care of you, when he himself was exhausted. You could tell he was, too, not only because he kept yawning, but because of that glazed-over look in his chestnut eyes.

You glance down at the words George Washington University, printed over your chest.

Aaron’s arms around you tighten for just a moment as he embraces you, and you dig your face a little further into his chest. “No Jack today?” You ask, your voice coming out croaky.

“At his grandparents’,” Aaron murmurs, and you yawn. He strokes your hair. “How’s your head?”

“I haven’t had any complaints so far.”

Aaron’s hand freezes in your hair, and you lift your head, smirking at him. His mouth has formed a straight line, but you snicker and you can tell he’s trying not to smile at your dirty joke. “Degenerate,” he calls you.

“Prude,” you tease back, inching closer to kiss his jaw briefly before laying your head back down. “It hurts,” you answer his question. “But not as bad as it could.”

“That’s good,” Aaron comments, his hand running through your hair again, gently, the world’s most relaxing and least effective hairbrush. It feels nice, but his hands are so big that his fingers snag on the tangles, accomplishing nothing but making you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Nothing wrong with that, though.

“Do you want some Tylenol for your headache?” Aaron asks, and you just curl up into him even more. He’s so warm, and sturdy, and it’s so rare that you get mornings like this. Either you’re both working or Jack has a soccer game or there’s something else going on. It’s nice just to lay around with him, to be mildly hungover and pretend like that’s the only thing going on in either of your lives.

“That would require getting out of bed,” you protest, and feel Aaron’s arms tighten around you. He’s a very doting boa constrictor.

“How about I get it for you, then?” He offers, and you shake your head and shift all your weight onto him. He chuckles, a deep, throaty noise you know you’re only privy to for about twenty minutes right after he’s woken up. “So that’s a no.”

“That’s a no,” you confirm, settling back in to your original position.

You lay like that with him, in comfortable silence, for a few minutes. Until it feels like you’ve melded into one being. Then Aaron finally shifts under you. “Honey, my arm’s asleep,” he whispers, as though he’s afraid to disturb you.

You slither off of him, then clamber out of bed with no amount of grace, going so far as to trip over the corner post of the bed. As Aaron sits up, you exclaim, “I’m okay!” and hold your hands out to steady yourself.

Aaron stifles a laugh and you watch him stand from the bed and he walks towards you, steadying you with one of those gargantuan hands on your shoulder. He then lifts that hand to tip your chin up. You step forward in a silent dance, wrapping your arms around his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him. “Oh, shit,” you murmur. “I bet I have really awful morning breath.”

He just blinks a few times, and then offers you a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, honey, you kind of do,” he admits. You lightly punch him in the pectoral and then head to the en suite to brush your teeth.

#aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #hotch fluff #hotchner x reader #hotch fic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner fluff #hotchner #hotchner fluff #basketonthedoorstepofthefbi #criminal minds fluff #criminal minds fic

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quinnsdesk · 11 days ago

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vulnerable.

tim bradford x fem!reader

cw: mdni, pining, angst?, no use of y/n, SLOW BURN, choking kink, unprotected p in v, oral (f!recieveing)

wc: 5.8k

AN: I know this one is long, but I just want to give @sleepymissy a special thanks for her tips for writing smut here.

The bar was bustling with life, a murmur of voices rising over the clink of glasses and the beat of some classic rock tune in the background. Warm light bathed the wooden walls, catching on half-empty pitchers of beer and the gleam of freshly wiped tables. You sat wedged between Lucy and John, barely listening as Lucy animatedly recounted a new crime drama she had been watching with Tamara.

"Mind you, Tamara thought he was the killer, but it was his wife all along!" She laughed knowingly, "Being a cop comes in handy." She took a sip of her margherita, "Spoilers!" John teased before taking a swig of his own beer, "Oh please, it's not like you have time to watch the show now that you have a sexy firefighter on your hip." You winked at him, making Bailey blush slightly. "Oh, I know." He smiled before leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek, the distance between them emphasizing the large and adorable height difference.

"So, how has it been being Tim's go-fer?" John turned his attention towards you; Tim was just out of earshot. Out of pure coincidence Tim, Nyla and Angela were at the same bar you, Lucy, John and Bailey decided to go to. You glanced at Tim before turning back to John. "Good, but I feel like a rookie all over again." You snorted earning a chuckle from Bailey. "I'm sure he wouldn't want anyone else in that seat." Lucy reassured, you nodded.

Flashbacks consumed your mind, the thought of Tim almost seeing you naked, it was embarrassing, shameful and dare you say you kind of liked it.

It all started when your apartment had no water, it was 4am and you needed to shower before work. Of course, Tim wasn't your first call, you thought you weren't close like that.

You tried Lucy first, no answer.

Then Tarmara, still sleeping.

Then John, who was in the shower, so once again, no answer.

And then, finally, reluctantly, you called Tim. It had taken a lot of convincing yourself to even dial his number. He was your superior. Your sergeant. And your relationship was not particularly close. Professional, yes. Friendly at times, sure. But you never really crossed into personal territory. The line rang a few times before a groggy voice picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey uh- my water is out Sarge, mind if I come shower at your place?"

Silence, he's thinking.

"Sure."

He didn't sound sure.

"Ok I'll be there in 15."

Awkward doesn't even begin to describe how you felt knocking on his door. And when the apartment door opened you were met with one of the most gut-wrenching, drool inducing sights ever.

Tim Bradford, in low-slung grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt stretched over his chest like it could split at the seams. His hair was unkempt, tousled in a way that screamed just-rolled-out-of-bed, and it was a strange contrast to the buttoned-up, clean-cut man you were used to seeing at work.

"Morning." You smile, as he purses his lips -his way of smiling- and lets you in. "Towel is on the bed." He pointed to the bedroom door.

Oh… it was an adjoining bathroom. Nothing wrong with that, right?

Wrong, so fucking wrong.

The hot water felt like heaven running down your body, the bathroom smelt familiar, like him and you had the sudden urge to relieve the throbbing sensation between your thighs, but you couldn't, not here, in his personal space, where he could hear you.

As you got out, it dawned on you. That you're a fucking idiot. You got your towel from the bed but of course your dumbass left your bag on the bed. Goosebumps began to spread all over your body from the sudden change in temperature before you sighed and built up the courage to walk out of the bathroom.

He wasn't in the room, you walked over to the bed, the lily-white towel clinging to your body, and just when you thought you were safe, the door swung open. "I'm making coffee, how do you-" He stopped right in the tracks. He didn't dare look down, his eyes glued to yours, he's so respectful you thought. "Sorry I should've knocked." But instead of running out the room like any boss would if they saw their employee on the brink of bare, he continued, "I'm making coffee, how do you take yours?" you were stunned, he didn't glance down, his eyes were locked on yours and he stood there, like nothing was wrong. "Uh- I- Uh. Black, 2 sugars, please." You managed to get out before he walked out, closing the door again.

You hadn't spoken about it since. You haven't spoken beyond work period. So, when Tim chose you to be his go-fer, you were truly baffled.

After about twenty minutes of light conversation and drinks, the noise of the bar faded slightly as Nyla, Angela, and Tim made their way over from their corner. They slid into the remaining seats at your table, casually joining in like this had been the plan all along.

Angela was mid-story, her hands animated as always. “I kid you not, the guy straight-up stole her panties. From the washing line. Broad daylight.”

Bailey burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she leaned into John, who was grinning into his beer. Her laugh was loud, unfiltered, and so contagious that even Tim let out a rare, genuine smile. It tugged at the corners of his mouth briefly, like he was allowing himself that one break from his usual stoicism.

“Man, patrol was the best,” Angela added, raising her bottle before taking a long swig.

You laughed too, not just at the story, but at the ease of it all, the familiar comfort of shared history and inside jokes.

Tim was seated on the opposite side of the table, angled just enough so that every time you looked up, your gaze met his. Or would have, if he looked back.

He wasn’t. Not anymore. Not tonight.

His attention was focused elsewhere, on his bottle, the condensation running down the glass, anything but you.

“So,” Lucy chirped suddenly, eyes glinting with mischief as she leaned forward, “tell us about your date on Saturday, girl.”

The conversation froze for a moment, and you swore the ambient noise of the bar dulled just enough to make the silence at your table more noticeable. All eyes turned to you, Nyla leaned in with a smirk, Angela raised an eyebrow, and Bailey looked positively thrilled. Even John tilted his head slightly in curiosity.

All eyes, except his.

Tim’s fingers tightened slightly around his beer, knuckles paling just the tiniest bit. He didn’t look up. Didn’t even shift in his seat. Just kept staring ahead like he didn’t hear a thing. You knew better.

You forced a smile, even though your stomach flipped with nerves. “It was… fine,” you offered vaguely, twirling your straw in your glass.

“Oh, come on,” Lucy groaned dramatically. “You can’t just drop a ‘fine’ and leave it at that. Was he hot? Did he make you laugh? Did he kiss you?”

You laughed lightly, not from amusement, but to buy yourself time. You could feel the weight of unspoken tension creeping across the table, like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

“He was sweet,” you admitted, shrugging casually. “Took me to this little Italian place downtown. We had wine, talked a lot. He’s a paramedic.”

“Ooooh,” Bailey crooned, nudging you playfully. “Saving lives and breaking hearts.”

Angela smirked. “Those guys are usually intense. In a good way.”

“Yeah,” you nodded slowly, your voice softer now. “It was nice. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodnight.”

“Yesss,” Lucy hissed, like she had just won a bet. “Okay, now we’re talking.”

You smiled again, but your eyes, ever the traitors, flicked up on their own. Just to check. Just for a second.

Tim was still not looking at you. Still holding that bottle like it grounded him. His jaw was tense now, and though he was not facing you, there was something calculated about his stillness. Too deliberate. Like he was focusing hard on not reacting.

You looked away quickly, cheeks warming.

“You seeing him again?” Nyla asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.

“Maybe,” you said, trying to sound lighthearted. “We texted earlier. He asked if I wanted to grab coffee later this week.”

You didn’t mention that you hadn’t replied yet. Or that you probably wouldn’t.

Tim shifted in his seat slightly, enough that your eyes flicked toward him again out of instinct. This time, his gaze was on his beer, but the muscle in his jaw ticked. A subtle thing, almost imperceptible, but you noticed. Of course you noticed.

Angela leaned back in her chair with a grin. “Well, I say go for it. He sounds like a catch.”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly, nodding. “He is.”

The words tasted strange coming out. Like you were admitting something you didn’t quite believe.

There was another pause before conversation picked back up. Lucy started talking about something Tamara had done at yoga class, Bailey began sharing a TikTok trend she wanted to try, and the group shifted easily into that familiar rhythm again.

But you weren’t really part of it anymore. Not fully. You were too aware of the man sitting just across from you, silent and withdrawn. You wondered if anyone else noticed how quiet he had gotten. How he hadn’t made a joke, or rolled his eyes, or teased like he usually would.

He was still holding his bottle, now nearly empty. Every so often, he would glance toward Nyla or Angela, nodding when prompted, but never once did his eyes stray to yours.

And somehow, that silence felt louder than anything else in the bar.

You caught John watching you. He raised a single eyebrow in silent question, but you gave him a tiny shake of your head, enough to tell him not to push.

Tim finally stood, murmuring something to Nyla before heading toward the bar. You watched him go, unable to stop yourself. He was all lines and tension, the usual easy confidence in his step now replaced with something tighter, like a cord pulled too far. You could feel it even as he walked away.

You slipped away from the table. No one really noticed. Not Nyla, too busy laughing with Angela. Not Lucy, who was showing Bailey a photo on her phone. John glanced up briefly, but he didn’t stop you. He probably knew exactly where you were going.

He hadn’t noticed you approach. He was too focused on the bartender in front of him, fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the bar as he ordered another beer.

“Tim?” you asked, your voice just loud enough to catch his attention over the low hum of music and conversation.

He turned slightly at the sound, glanced at you over his shoulder. His face was neutral, unreadable. But he didn’t push you away. He hummed in acknowledgment, a soft sound in his throat, and went back to watching the bartender pour his drink.

“Can we talk?” you asked again, stepping a little closer.

Another pause. The bartender handed him the fresh bottle, and Tim wrapped his fingers around it, taking a long sip before responding. “Talk about what?”

You hesitated, choosing your words. Your heart was already thudding too hard, too fast.

“The towel… situation,” you said quietly, the words tasting ridiculous in your mouth.

Tim’s jaw flexed. Subtle, but there. That tiny movement gave him away. He took another sip before placing the bottle down a little too firmly on the bar top.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, voice low and clipped.

"Bullshit."

You studied him, really looked at him. His eyes were darker than usual, the edges of his pupils just slightly blown. His stance wasn’t completely steady, though he masked it well. His words were a little slower, a little looser around the edges. Buzzed. Not drunk. But getting there.

“Then why are you avoiding me?” you asked. The second the question left your mouth, you regretted it. It sounded desperate. You hated how vulnerable it made you sound. Like a clingy ex. Like someone who had imagined something that never existed. You almost winced at yourself.

Tim turned fully now, his body angled toward you. His eyes flicked across your face for the first time all evening, unreadable but sharp. You weren’t sure if he was annoyed or amused or something else entirely.

“I made you my go-fer,” he said simply, voice firm. “I’m not avoiding you.”

You rolled your eyes. “Come on. You know that’s not what I mean.”

He didn’t reply, just held your gaze.

The bar around you felt suddenly too loud, the air too thick, like the world had faded except for this moment, this conversation that you’d both been avoiding since that morning.

You let out a breath and softened your tone. “You didn’t even look at me tonight. Not once.”

Tim’s lips pressed together in that familiar way of his. Not quite a scowl. Not quite a frown. Just… restraint. As if he was fighting a war behind his eyes and refusing to let you see the casualties.

“I looked at you,” he murmured.

You blinked. “When?”

He hesitated. “When you were laughing. When you weren’t looking back.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the confession. Your heart kicked a little harder in your chest.

Tim rubbed the back of his neck, glancing away for a moment before bringing his eyes back to yours. “It’s not about the towel,” he added finally.

You raised a brow, silently asking him to go on.

He didn’t.

You took a step closer, enough to close some of the space between you. “Then what’s it about?”

He didn’t answer at first. He looked down at his beer bottle instead, then to the floor. And for a moment, you saw something raw in him—an emotion he didn’t know how to name, or maybe didn’t want to.

“It’s not professional,” he said quietly, voice low. “None of this is. I’m your superior. You work under me.”

“That didn’t seem to bother you when I was in a towel,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His eyes snapped back up to yours, his expression hardening, jaw clenching again.

You sighed and looked down, regretting the sharpness of your words. “Sorry. That was-”

“It did bother me,” he interrupted, his voice soft but edged. “That’s the problem.”

You froze, your eyes locking on his.

Tim ran a hand through his hair, a rare show of unease from a man who always seemed to have it together. “You think I didn’t want to look?” he said. “You think I didn’t want to do more than just stand there like some idiot while you stood in my room like that?”

You were too stunned to speak. The room seemed to blur around the edges, voices and clinking cutlery fading into a hollow silence. Your lips parted slightly, and when you finally managed to say something, it came out broken, breathless, almost a moan.

“Tim…” His name left your mouth like a prayer and a plea wrapped into one fragile syllable. He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it in frustration. “Stop. Don’t ‘Tim’ me.”

There was a beat of silence as he looked away, and then back at you, eyes steeling with resolve.

“Look,” he said, drawing a sharp, invisible line in the air between the two of you. “This-” he gestured between your bodies “-this can’t happen. Whatever you think there might be between us... there isn’t.”

His words sliced through you like ice water dumped over your head. Cold. Final.

Your stomach dropped as if gravity had turned against you. The sting was instant, a sharp burn behind your eyes as your throat tightened. Your heart pounded against your ribs. You blinked rapidly, trying to fight the tears welling up.

Tim’s face fell when he saw your expression. “Wait- I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know exactly what you meant, Sergeant Bradford,” you snapped, venom seeping into every syllable.

His title came out like a curse. Something in his face flinched at that.

Good.

You turned on your heel before he could say anything else, before he could try and soften the blow with pity or regret. Each step back to the table felt heavier than the last, like your legs were made of lead.

"I'm gonna call it a night, guys."

A pathetic excuse for a smile spread across your face. It was tight, forced, and entirely unconvincing. You tried to mask the ache tightening in your chest, swallowing it down like a bitter pill.

"Aww, already? It's only eight," Lucy slurred, her head lolling slightly as she sipped from a half-empty cocktail glass.

Her inebriation worked in your favor. She didn’t notice the strain in your voice or the way your eyes darted toward the exit like it was a lifeline.

You picked up your phone and purse, tapping the screen to check the time. The soft glow read 10:36 p.m.

You reached into your bag and pulled out a few bills, careful to leave more than enough to cover your share. You placed them gently in front of Angela, who gave you a knowing look, far too perceptive. She was the most sober one there, unsurprisingly. Having a baby at home tended to do that. “Night, babe,” Angela said softly, her eyes lingering on you just a second longer than usual.

You turned to the group, gave a general wave paired with another hollow smile, and muttered a series of goodbyes. But your steps faltered when you felt the weight of a gaze pressing against your back.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Tim hadn’t moved from his spot at the bar. He stood there, stiff and unreadable, a half-empty glass in his hand. His eyes were locked on you, the same way they’d been since you walked away from him earlier.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t try to stop you.

------

Back at your apartment, the silence was suffocating. You kicked off your shoes at the door, your body moving on autopilot as you peeled off your jeans and blouse, tossing them onto a chair you hadn’t sat in for weeks. The hoodie you pulled over your head was oversized, worn, and smelled faintly like old detergent and memories. You didn’t even remember the last time you'd washed it, but somehow, that made it feel more comforting.

You padded barefoot to the fridge and opened it, the cold air brushing your skin like a half-hearted apology. Inside: two slices of congealed pizza from two days ago, clinging to a paper plate like they knew their time was up. You stared at it for a long moment.

Appetizing.

With a sigh, you closed the door, leaning your forehead against it for a second longer than necessary. The humming of the refrigerator filled the room, a low, vibrating kind of loneliness.

You reached for your phone on the counter, heart tugging with a small, stupid hope. Maybe, there’d be something. A message. A missed call. One of those three-dot typing bubbles from Tim.

Your lock screen blinked back at you.

Nothing.

Not a single notification.

No I'm sorry, no Are you home?, no Can I come over? Nothing to ease the pressure that had been sitting on your chest since he’d drawn that damn line between you.

You stared at the empty screen for a moment longer, then unlocked your phone with a sigh. You didn’t want the pizza. You didn’t want to cry either, but here you were doing both: rejecting comfort food and fighting back tears like it was your full-time job.

You pulled up the number of your favorite Chinese place and hit call. When they answered, you didn’t hesitate.

"Hi, yeah… can I place an order for delivery?" you rattled off your usual order. Then added more. A lot more. Enough for two people, even though you knew damn well you were alone.

Why are you acting like this if you weren't even dating? Tim wasn't wrong for saying what he said, why are you upset?

The words consumed your mind, as you sat back down on your couch, glancing over at your kitchen island, contemplating opening a bottle of wine you'd been saving for a special occasion.

This is a special occasion, a guy, who saw you in just a towel, who also admitted to the fact that seeing you in said towel 'did something to him', who also happens to be your superior at work just basically told you to get out of fantasy land and stop thinking there's any future to your relationship.

You decided against it; Lucy isn't here to make sure you don't do something dramatic or regrettable if you had one too many glasses of wine.

After what felt like an eternity of scrolling through Netflix, you finally gave up, the glowing TV screen casting flickering shadows across your living room walls. Nothing looked good. Nothing felt good.

You were about to settle for background noise when a knock echoed from the front door.

“Coming!” you called out, grabbing your purse off the kitchen counter, mentally calculating the total for the food.

But when you swung the door open, it wasn’t the delivery guy.

“Tim…”

His name left your lips colder than you expected, dipped in something between disbelief and fury. You didn’t even try to hide it.

There he stood, six feet of contradiction, looking like a man who hadn’t stopped tormenting himself since you walked out that bar. His hair was slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His jaw was clenched; lips parted like he was still catching his breath. And his eyes...

God, his eyes.

Bloodshot. Glossy. Guilt-ridden.

You didn’t need to smell the faint trace of beer on his breath to know he’d had a drink or two, his stance gave it away. The way he shifted from one foot to the other, like his body was holding the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

“I-” he started but stopped himself. His voice cracked before the second syllable could escape.

You crossed your arms instinctively, leaning your weight against the doorframe like armor.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No,” he said hoarsely. “You shouldn’t have been.”

"I'm losing my fucking mind here."

His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unwavering, stormy. Something in his tone was shaking loose all the walls you’d spent the evening building brick by brick.

Still, you stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in with a pointed look rather than an invitation.

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered, sarcastic and flat. Your arms stayed crossed, your voice carefully leveled, anything to keep the vulnerability buried beneath the surface.

He turned to face you once the door clicked shut behind him. His shoulders rose and fell with the weight of something simmering beneath his skin.

“I was in my car for twenty fucking minutes contemplating coming here,” he growled, hair even more of a mess now as he shoved his hand through it again. “Don’t fucking call me dramatic.”

The words weren’t shouted. But they landed heavy, strained, edged with frustration. Maybe more than frustration.

You arched a brow, not backing down. Not now. Not when he'd been the one to draw the line. “You know, for someone who told me to get rid of any thoughts of this-” you gestured between the two of you, your arm cutting through the air like a blade, “-not happening, you really are being a bit hypocritical.”

He scoffed. A bitter, almost mocking sound. Finding your composure amusing.

I know what I said,” he bit out, jaw tight. “Doesn’t mean I liked saying it.”

“Then why did you?” you snapped, the mask finally cracking, your voice sharp with the pain you couldn’t choke down anymore.

Tim looked at you like he didn’t know how to answer.

“You think I like this?” he asked, a bitter laugh escaping. “Feeling like this?”

He gestured to himself, messy, wrecked, full of regret. He stepped closer, not quite invading your space, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him radiating.

“Seeing you cry…” His voice dropped lower, more broken. “God, it made me want to slap myself across the face for being such a dickhead.”

You flinched slightly at the memory, the heat rising in your cheeks. The sting of embarrassment still fresh. You hadn’t wanted him to see that, how hard his words had hit.

You gulped, arms tightening around your chest, hoodie sleeves bunched in your fists.

“You don’t get to say that now,” you said, voice quieter but not softer. “Not after making me feel like a pathetic needy girlfriend.”

He stepped in again, slower this time, his eyes searching yours, more desperate than defiant.

"Tim," you began, voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions storming beneath the surface, "back when I was your rookie, I told you whatever you wanted to hear."

He shifted slightly, eyes narrowing as if bracing himself.

"But now," you continued, arms uncrossing as you let the words come naturally, freely, “I’m going to tell you the truth. Because my job no longer depends on whether or not you're having a bad day."

You sighed and glanced at the clock on your stove. 11:42 p.m.

Where the fuck is that food?

“I’m tired, Tim,” you said, softer now, but not weak. “Every fiber in me wants to fuck you right now.”

That made his brows twitch, his lips part slightly. His whole body stiffened.

“But I can’t- not because I don’t want to,” you pressed, stepping a little closer, standing your ground. “Because back at the pub, I made myself vulnerable to you. I put it all out there, and what did you do? You shut me down."

You paused. The silence between you buzzed, thick with emotion.

“I understand the complexity of the situation. I understand the job. The expectations. Hell, I understand you better than you think.” Your voice cracked, just a hair, but you didn’t backpedal. You let it hang there. “But as a human being, you embarrassed me.”

Tim’s jaw clenched so hard you could almost hear the tension grinding behind his teeth. His eyes never left yours. Not once.

“I’m not upset because I can’t fuck you.” he blurted almost scoffing.

He took a breath and let the rest spill from his chest.

“I’m upset because I can’t take you out to dinner. Because I can’t buy you flowers or annoy you with some cheesy teddy bear.”

He motioned toward your bedroom. You followed his gesture, eyes landing on the collection of stuffed bears neatly placed on your bed, little pieces of comfort, pieces of you, exposed without warning.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I want those dinners,” you admitted. “The bears. The flowers. You annoying the shit out of me just to make me smile.”

He blinked, stunned by the quiet sincerity bleeding into your voice.

“I told myself I was protecting you,” he continued. “But really… I was just scared you were the one thing I’d want that I couldn’t compartmentalize. Couldn’t control. Couldn’t walk away from if it went south.”

The room fell quiet again. The only sound was the low hum of the fridge and the thundering rhythm of your heart.

And then, finally, a knock at the door.

You both froze.

The damn food.

Tim blinked, clearly startled by the knock, then muttered, “I got it,” as he strode to the door like a man on a mission. He opened it, exchanged a few quick words with the delivery guy, and handed over the cash without even checking the total. Closing the door with one hip, he turned to you, arms full of steaming takeout bags. “Jesus,” he said, eyes wide as he scanned the containers, “Did you order enough to feed the entire precinct or just emotionally prepare for a week of avoiding me?” A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, an offering, a crack in the tension, and maybe, just maybe, a chance to start again.

You couldn't help but crack a small smile. "Baby, I'm really sorry, can I make it up to you?"

Baby? "Baby?"

He took your hand and walked you to your bedroom, sitting you down on the edge of the bed. "I like it, it suits you." he smirks as you blush. "Look at me." It was a command, but it came out as a request, as he got down on his knees in front of you. Your lips parted, your pupils dilated, your pussy soaked. "I want to eat you out, not because I want to fuck you after, but because I want to assure you that I'm in this for the long run, not some one-night stands." Your chest heaved as he looked up at you through his lashes, his teeth gripping the hem of your shorts, slowly pulling them down. Painfully slow.

"Tim." you finally moaned, and it sounded like heaven, his jeans were getting tighter and tighter by the second, he didn't know how long he was going to last like this. "I'm here to make you feel good. I'm all yours." His breath tingling against your clothed pussy. He slowly pulled your panties down, eyes blown, he felt like he was dreaming.

"Anything-" a kiss on your inner thigh, "you-" another on your hip, "want-" another on your panty line, "is-" another on the other inner thigh, "yours" a final kiss on your clit, causing you to arch your back.

Your hand jolted to his hair, a slight tug as he lapped on your swollen bud, "All for me?" You whined, looking down at him as he smirked, your juices coating his stubble. "All for you, baby."

That nickname was growing on you too.

You arched your back as his large, calloused, index and middle fingers stretched you out. "Tim... 't's too much!" You whined tugging on Tim's hair a little harder, turning him on more. "C'mon baby, it's only one, you can handle it." He sucked on your clit, you saw stars.

"Cum on my face, baby. Can you do that for me?" God you were going insane, your hips jolting to unintentionally grind on his face. "Mhm." You nodded looking down at him, his eyes were closed, he looked gorgeous, he was a starving man, and you were his last meal.

"Tim, oh God! Tim yes! Don't stop!" Your legs were shaking, your orgasm came rushing over you like a wave, a wave you wanted to drown in.

His face was soaked, and he loved it. "I could do that for the rest of my life." He smirked crawling up so that your lips met his. You chuckled, "What?" He arched his brow, "I can't wait to tell Lucy that you ate me out before you kissed me for the first time." His eyes widened. "You wouldn't dare." He smirked with an evil glare in his eyes, "And if I did?" You challenged him, straddling him.

A pause, he was thinking. "Then I guess you won't be able to walk for a week." He shrugged making you blush. "Let's test that theory, shall we?" You bit your lip unbuckling his belt, he sat up a little but not for long since you pushed him back down to lay flat on the bed. Your eyes widened slightly as you removed his throbbing cock from his boxers, long, veiny with a leaking, angry tip, he was certainly not lacking in length and girth. You smirked before stroking him, getting ready to ride him.

His eyes didn't leave yours as you sank down on him, his lips parting slightly as your face contorted in slight pain and lots of pleasure. "Oh fuck." You hissed as he gripped your hips. As you adjusted to his size, you slowly began to lift yourself up before sinking back down on him. He filled you up completely.

He couldn't handle this, his balls tightening in frustration as he gripped your hips harder and began fucking into you. "Tim!" You yelled throwing your head back as your hand made its way to his neck. You began to move it away, but he grabbed it and placed it back on his neck. "Do it, baby, don't be shy." He smirked as your grip tightened on his neck, your eyes began to roll back as Tim continued to relentlessly fuck you.

"Tim I'm gonna-" you couldn't finish your sentence, "C'mon baby, cum for me." He was close too, you could feel it, the way he throbbed inside you. "Cum inside me." You panted breathlessly as you whined, your second orgasm of the night rushing over you. "Want me to fill you up?" He smirked, the sensation of you choking him, driving him insane, a milky ring now formed at the base of his cock. You nodded vigorously, "Please, Tim." You begged as he grunted, holding you in place as he came inside you.

You panted as he slowly helped you off him. Your legs still shaking from the stimulation. It hurt, yes, but a good hurt. Tim got up and made his way to your bathroom to clean himself up before bringing you a towel, to clean you up. "Thank you." You sighed and smiled, as he placed one final kiss on your calf before getting up.

A few minutes later, he came back into the room with your takeout on a tray, balancing it carefully. “I meant what I said,” he murmured, setting the tray down and easing beside you. His voice was soft but steady, like he’d thought about those words a hundred times before saying them. “I’m in it for the long run,” he clarified, eyes fixed on you with that quiet intensity only he could pull off.

Then, just as the moment threatened to get too serious, that familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “And that paramedic, do you think you’re gonna see him again?”

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up. Typical. You rolled your eyes, smirking right back. “Tim.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying himself. “What? I’m just asking.”

You nudged him playfully with your shoulder. “The only man I plan on seeing again is the one who brought me chow faan and declared his undying loyalty in the same breath.”

His smirk softened into something warmer, something real. “Good,” he said quietly, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because I wasn’t kidding. I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch, the tension that had lingered between you both finally dissolving. Maybe things hadn’t started perfectly. Maybe they never would. But in that moment, with takeout in your lap, the TV playing quietly in the background, and his hand resting lightly over yours, it felt like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be.

And for once, that was enough.

#divider by v6que #tim bradford smut #tim bradford x reader #the rookie #the rookie smut #tim bradford

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austinbutlerslovers · 23 days ago

Text

What Are We?

Label Mature 18+ Summary after frequent hook ups and feeling a lack of commitment, you ask Hank the question you’ve been ultimately guarding with your heart. ❤️‍🔥Passionate Smut❤️‍🔥 Hank friends with benefits • angst • possessiveness• claiming • pining • conflicted feelings • friends to lovers • sweet talk • dirty talk • body worship • clit play •nipple play •p in v • size kink • simultaneous orgasms •aftercare

✨ Heavy Inspo from clips of the Caught Stealing trailer

What Are We?

The late afternoon sun spills through the windows of Hank Thompson’s Brooklyn apartment, painting the hardwood floors in warm, golden streaks.

His space is open and lived-in, olive green walls, mismatched rugs, and a cluttered bookshelf stuffed with worn-out sports magazines and baseball memorabilia.

A faint hum of traffic drifts up from the street below, blending with the low beat of Ace Frehlys song New York Groove playing from the radio on the kitchen counter.

Hank lounges on the edge of his weightlifting bench, seated ceremoniously in the living room like a monument to his perfected physique.

He’s wearing a fitted black T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and sculpted chest, light blue jeans, worn just enough to look effortlessly cool, and a black backward Giants cap, his sandy blond hair peeking out from under the brim, curling just slightly at the nape of his neck

He’s holding a beer bottle loosely in one hand, his long fingers tapping against the glass in time with the music, while his other hand tosses a baseball lightly, catching it with a soft smack against his palm.

His motions are casual, almost absentminded, but it makes him look calm and confident, like he’s got the whole world figured out.

Bud, his tabby cat, darts across the room, chasing a balled up stray sock and Hank chuckles, a low, genuine sound as takes a swig of beer, placing the baseball next to him watching the action.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, fingers fidgeting with the buttons of your dress, trying to focus on pouring yourself a glass of water from a pitcher.

But your eyes keep drifting over to Hank. He looks good…too good. The kind of good that makes your chest ache and your thoughts spiral. His blue eyes, bright and piercing in the soft light, catch yours for a split second, and you feel like you’re drowning in them.

His full lips curve into a half-smile, and you swear he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. He’s the most boyfriend you’ve ever seen him look, like he stepped out of a daydream you’ve been having for weeks.

And that’s the problem.

It has been several weeks of this—sneaking into his apartment after late-night texts, hooking up tangled in the sheets, whispering conversations after in the dark.

You’re falling hard, obsessed with the idea of him as yours.

But he hasn’t said a word about commitment, and the secrecy is starting to eat you alive. You want to be more than just his late-night hookup, more than the girl he texts when he’s bored. You want him, all of him, and the fact that he’s sitting there looking like that, so relaxed and unbothered, is starting to piss you off.

You slam the water pitcher down on the counter a little harder than you mean to, and Hank’s head tilts toward you. His brows lift slightly, and he sets his beer on the bench beside him.

“Yo, you good over there?” he asks, his voice warm but laced with curiosity, and Bud leaps onto the windowsill, tracking a bird with laser focus, his tail twitching, completely unaware of the tension behind him.

You force your composure, gripping the edge of the counter. “Yeah, fine. Just… thirsty.” It’s a lame excuse, and you both know it. You take a sip of water, but your hands are shaky, and you’re hyper-aware of his gaze on you.

Hank leans back bracing his hands on the work out bench, his knees spreading wider parting his thighs like he’s beckoning you to sit on them.

“You don’t seem fine,” he says, his tone gentle but direct. “You’ve been pacing around my apartment like you’re about to rob the place.” He teases with a sly grin, but his eyes are on yours searching, like he’s trying to read you.

You huff, setting the glass down and crossing your arms. “I’m not pacing,” you mutter, but you know you’re lying. You’ve been restless all day, your thoughts a tangle of want and frustration. You want to scream at him, to demand why he hasn’t made this real, but the words stick in your throat, and instead, you turn away.

Hank watches you for a moment, then stands, his steps confident as he crosses the room in a few easy strides, stopping just behind you.

You can feel the warmth of him, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the hoppy tang of his beer. “Hey,” he says softly, his hand brushing your elbow. “Talk to me. What’s got you so wound up?”

You tense at his touch, your heart thudding. Part of you wants to lean into him, to let his warmth melt away this anger, but the other part, the louder part, is fed up.

You turn to face him, and those damn blue eyes are right there, locking onto yours, making it hard to think. His full lips are slightly parted, and you have to force yourself not to stare at them.

“I’m just…” You trail off, searching for the right words. “I’m tired, Hank.”

His brow furrows, and he tilts his head, “Tired of what? Me?” He asks, and there’s a playful curiosity in his voice, but you catch a flicker of something else…worry, maybe.

“No,” you say quickly, then sigh, running a hand stressfully over your forehead. “Not you. This. Us. Whatever this is.” The words spill out before you can stop them, and you feel a rush of adrenaline, like you’ve just jumped off a cliff.

Hank blinks, his hand dropping from your elbow. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies you, and the silence makes your skin prickle. Finally, you nod toward the couch. “C’mon,” you say, your voice cautious. “Let’s sit.”

You grasp Hank’s hand like a lifeline, his calloused fingers grounding you as you follow him to the couch. You sink into the soft cushions, the worn fabric yielding under you both.

Hank sits close, his knee brushing yours, his presence warm and solid. He flips his Giants cap forward anxiously, the gesture betraying a flicker of nerves, before focusing on you.

His blue eyes are deep and impossibly pretty, like a clear summer sky as they lock on yours with quiet intensity.

“Okay,” he says, his tone calm but attentive. “What’s going on in that head of yours?”

You take a deep breath, your fingers twisting in your lap. The words are right there, but they feel heavy, like they might break something if you let them out.

But you’re too far in to back down now.

“I want to know if I can take this seriously,” you admit, your voice quieter than you mean it to be. You meet his gaze, and it’s like staring into the ocean—beautiful, overwhelming.

“Us…I need to know what this is to you,” you ask, your voice quiet but firm, holding his gaze.

Hank looks into yours eyes with an unspoken understanding, and there’s a low lilt in his voice when he speaks, a mix of curiosity and something deeper.

“What do you need to take us seriously?” he asks directly. His tone isn’t defensive, but it’s not entirely open either—like he’s testing the waters.

You let the words slip out, your voice soft. “I need to know you’re in this for real,” you say your resolve gaining strength. “We’ve been sneaking around, hooking up, whatever. But I don’t just want to be some girl you call over anymore, I want more Hank. I want you. And I’m scared you don’t want the same thing.”

His expression softens, and he reaches up to take off his cap, placing it on to the coffee table. His hair is slightly messy, making him look less intense and more vulnerable as he runs a hand through it, then he leans closer, his knee brushing yours.

“I want you to know something, …” he starts, his voice low and steady. “I’m not …trying to play you, okay? I like you, a lot….more than I probably should.” He admits, and his words make your heart skip, but you’re not ready to let him off that easily.

“Then why haven’t you said anything?” you ask, your voice sharp. “Why does it feel like I’m the only one falling here?”

Hank exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not great at this stuff,” he confesses, his eyes flicking down to the floor before meeting yours again. “The whole… relationship thing. I’ve fucked it up before. And I didn’t want to rush into something and mess this up with you. But I’m not just screwing around, either. I think about you all the time. Like, all the time.” He says giving you a small smile, and it’s so disarming you almost forget you’re mad.

“Really?” you ask, your voice lighter now, searching his face for any hint of a lie.

“Really,” he says, his hand sliding from the couch to rest on your knee, his thumb brushing absentminded circles. “I didn’t know you were feeling like this. You should’ve said something… I’m not a mind reader baby.”

The pet name sends a spark through you, and you bite your lip, trying to hold onto the last of your resolve. “I didn’t want to scare you off,” you admit, your hands unclenching in your lap. “But I’m scared of getting hurt. I’m already so into you, Hank. It’s freaking me out.”

He laughs softly, a warm, endearing sound, and his hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin. “You’re not scaring me off,” he says, his eyes locked on yours. “I’m right here, and I want you, too. Okay?”

You exhale slowly, and for a moment, you just stare at him, letting his words sink in. His hand is warm against your face, his blue eyes so earnest they’re like a tide pulling you in—raw and unguarded, mirroring the longing building in your own.

You lean into his touch, your eyes searching his, and before you can overthink it, he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours in a deep, consuming kiss, neither one of you able to deny whats building between you anymore.

His kiss is gentle and persistent, his lips soft and warm, tasting faintly of beer as his hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you even closer as he guides you to climb on his lap.

You straddle him, your hands sliding through his sandy blonde hair as the kiss deepens. His fingers dig into your hips as he groans feeling your tongue sweep into his mouth, and the sound sends a shiver through you.

The tension you’ve been carrying for weeks fades away as he keeps you close, his strong embrace and searing kisses erasing every wavering thought, every lingering doubt.

You pull back just enough to catch your breath, and his eyes are lidded, his lips red and kiss-swollen as he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters in his world.

“We good?” he breathes, his voice husky, and your thumb brushes along his jaw as you smile, your heart full and light for the first time in days.

“Yeah, Hank,” you whisper, pressing a kiss against his warm lips. “We’re good,” you confess, aching to feel him prove it.

You grab the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it up and over your head, baring yourself to him in only panties, your breasts level with his face, and his blue eyes darken as his hands slide down your sides, warm and possessive.

“Fuck, you’re unreal,” he says, his voice filled with awe.

He leans forward, cupping your breasts, his eyes fluttering closed as he indulges himself placing slow kisses along your collarbone, then down to your nipples.

He pulls one into his mouth, his tongue swirling, warm and wet, and you sigh, your fingers gripping his sandy blonde hair, holding the back of his head.

You’re so aroused by him, every sensation feels sharper, more urgent, and in between soft kisses and gentle sucks of his mouth, he whispers, “You’re so damn pretty.” his breath warm against your skin.

The heat of his praise, and the worship in his touch, fuels the ache inside of you with a need for more of him…all of him.

He tilts his head up kissing you hard, his tongue sweeping over yours, and you feel his cock, thick and hard, pressing against you through his jeans, the rigidness of his length brushing against you with every move.

He stands, lifting you effortlessly with him, and your legs wrap around his waist, his lips never leaving yours as his hands grip your thighs and he carries you to the bedroom.

The room is dim, blinds casting soft shadows over the bed as he lays you down, his hands claiming your breasts, your stomach, your hips, sliding your panties off with ease.

His black shirt is pulled over his head and tossed to the floor revealing his sculpted muscles, and you reach for him, but he’s already on you, his hands spreading your legs apart.

“I want you so fucking much,” he breathes, one hand gripping your hip as he shoves his jeans and boxers down in one motion. His cock slides out, thick, long, veined, the tip incredibly flushed pink, and the sight makes you desperate for him.

He slicks the head against you, teasing you open slowly, then he pushes in, the stretch intense, his size overwhelming.

You moan, nails digging into his back, urging him deeper and his blue eyes lock onto yours dark, reverent and filled with want. “You feel so fucking perfect on me.” he whispers.

His hand traces the curve of your jaw as his mouth finds yours, kissing you through the tightening pressure, until his pelvis presses flush against you, his cock filling you completely.

He grinds, the thick tip rubbing deep, and you moan, arching into him. His thrusts start slow heavy, raw, each one claiming you as his lips graze your neck, your jaw, his hand caressing your throat with a gentle squeeze.

His fingers slide down to your breasts cupping each one, his thumbs bushing your nipples until you sigh, your eyes closing lost in pleasure, his rough attentiveness in every move proving his desire for you.

“You feel how much I want you,” he breaths, his voice low, thrusting harder, and you nod, breathless, needing him to know you’re his.

His hips snap forward, biceps flexing, hair falling into his face as he drives into you, the length of his cock brushing every sensitive spot within, and your hands grip his back, urging him on as he groans, his face flushing pink.

“Gonna ruin you for anyone else” he rasps, his voice strained as you tremble, the pleasure building faster, and he feels it, thrusting harder, his hand slipping between you to rub your clit. “Say it,” he demands, eyes burning into yours. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, your voice breaking off as he pounds into you. “Hank, I’m yours.”

“Yeah?” he groans, his hair falling forward, his muscles taut. “Fuck, say my name.”

“Hank,” you moan overwhelmed, and he groans deeply as he starts to unravel, his thrusts turning erratic, his cock pulsing harder, and you shatter, your orgasm ripping through you, crying out his name. He follows moments later, groaning deeply as he comes hard, filling you with warmth as you tremble taking him.

Your bodies stay pressed together and his hips roll against you grinding out the last of his release, your hearts pounding in sync, the connection between you undeniable.

Slowly he slides his cock all the way out and collapses beside you breathless. He pulls you to his side, both of you naked and spent, and his hand glides over your back, tracing soft patterns as he stares into your eyes, quiet, content, and completely yours in the moment.

“You’re everything I want,” he says, his voice low and certain, and you nod pressing closer into him, your heart full. His warmth anchors you, and in his strong embrace your doubts slip away, his words a quiet promise keeping you satisfied and calm …for now.

END 🧢

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nullicaput · 22 days ago

Text

skinner and the rat. I

Pairing: Han Su-gang x Reader

Tags: Canon-Typical Violence, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Behavior, Obsession, Teacher-Student Relationship, Power Imbalance, Reverse Power Imbalance, Age Difference, Dark, Su-gang being deranged as hell

Summary: Familiar faces and familiar violence—you thought after almost ten years, the kid you left would never remember you, but you were wrong.

Word count: 1898

"Spell the word 'onomatopoeia' and give me the meaning of it."

"Onomatopoeia," he mimicked your pronunciation. "O-N-O-M-A-T-O-P-O-E-I-A, refers to the vocal imitation of a sound."

He then wrote the word on the white board using the blue marker, whispering the same letters that he recited to you not long ago.

"Your handwriting is getting better, Little Su-gang."

Hearing you refer to him in that nickname again, he sulked and mildly kicked you under the table.

"I'm not that shorter than you, Miss," the eleven-year-old boy protested.

Miss.

It has been a few years since you started being his tutor, but the boy never knew your name and only referred to you by that word. Although it sounded rather distant for him not to call you by your name, you could say that he has warmed up to you more and more. Of all the paid individuals working for and under him, you were the only one he has not treated in that particular way. His mother, too, appeared to like your presence so much she continued hiring you to teach his unteachable son English lessons after his normal classes despite you being in your teens and from a humble background in financial terms.

"Still not taller than me, though." You smirked, demeanor full of mirth. "You can complain when you're a head taller than me."

He blew you a raspberry—an act unbeffiting for a wealthy couple's only son—but being the childish girl you were, you stuck your tongue out at him as well.

"Shouldn't you be mature?" he taunted.

"Shouldn't you be tall?" You rummaged into to the big pocket of your backpack. "Here, have a candy."

"Miss, why do you keep giving me this?"

He looked at the cheap sweet treat pointedly. With his expensive palate, it was understandable that he would not like and artificially flavored poor-people food, and yet, he twisted open the plastic wrapper and popped the candy inside his mouth. He shoved the plastic inside his short pocket, his red-hued ears betraying the act of nonchalance he was trying to showcase.

"Why not?" You smiled, finding his behavior similar to your younger brother's. "Everyone should be rewarded for their excellence from time to time. Besides, it's the only thing I can afford."

You rubbed your hands onto your clothed shoulders, mentally chastising yourself for not remembering to grab your jacket. Your skin pricked, and when you checked your arm, you saw circles potruding until they formed lumps of shape.

Your hives just got triggered.

"Reward?" he said, taking his wristwatch off and handing it to you.

"Why are you—"

"Here. Your reward."

Is this one his ploys where he gives you something valuable and then accuse you of stealing?

"I can't wear jewelry," you reasoned, holding his wrist and wore the watch around it, which he calmly let you do. "They make my skin itchy."

His dark, lightless eyes traveled from your fingers to the area on your arm where your hives were located, and he ran his own hands on the reaction.

"Maybe it's because you're wearing fake ones."

You deadpanned and stopped him from touching your skin. It was bad as it was; you did not want them to be worse.

"How honest." You shook your head in amusement, never seeming to be offended that he was making fun of your financial situation. "Your good grades are enough reward for me."

Even in his younger age, he could feel that the actual reason for your refusal of his offer was something else. However, he did not care enough for him to pry the answer from you.

"Juice, young miss," a maid excuses herself, carrying a tray of pitcher and two fancy glasses.

You refused, not wanting this act of goodwill to be used against you in the future.

"Are you going to drink that terrible tetrapack chocolate drink again?" Su-gang mocked.

"Oh, please. You love drinking that terrible, terrible, choky-milk."

When you said that, his usually dull, expressionless eyes widened. A faint pinkness crept its way onto his cheeks, making his pale face look almost alive.

"I'm firing you."

"You can't." You reached a hand and ruffled his neatly combed hair. "You love me teaching you."

As the maid placed down the tray, you whispered, "Be careful."

As though she did not hear your words, she shakily poured her employer a glass of juice. Her grip on the glass pitcher slipped, and then—

You gasped, the icy-cold liquid biting your skin. You scrambled to stand up, wincing at the sight of your favorite blouse and only pair of trousers being drenched with orange juice. The juice soaked up into your every single article of clothing, causing you to tremble even more.

"I'm—I'm so sorry, Miss!"

Through chattering teeth, you smiled and dismissed her by saying, "It's okay."

You felt like crying, knowing that you would need to go home looking like this and that the stain the liquid would leave could never be removed by ordinary bleach. You, however, did not show this looming breakdown, because you knew what would happen to the maid if you were to ever show the slightest sign of displeasure toward her.

"I need a towel," you muttered.

"I apologize, Miss!" the maid stuttered, desperately searching for a way to fix the issue.

"What's with the screaming?"

The mistress of the house went down from the stairs with her high heels clacking. Each beat of her steps was multiplying the dread that was pooling the maid's guts.

She knew that she was done for.

"Madame—Madame! Please don't—"

"My god!" Missus Han exclaimed. "What's happened to you, dear?"

"I accidentally poured juice on my clothes," you lied.

You knew that it was a futile move to do so, especially when the maid was behind you, kneeling while holding the pitcher of juice.

"I didn't take you for a clumsy type." She rose an eyebrow, her cold eyes sending shivers to her employee and the other ones around her. "I'll give you new clothes."

Shortly, she beckoned you to come with her to a room that you were sure you have never seen being opened before.

Inside the room was a queen bed with sheets of your favorite color. The curtains, the carpet, the decorations—everything inside screamed of you, as though you were the one who designed the interior. Missus Han entered the walk-in wardrobe and looked through the hangers and hangers of clothes herself, even offering you you to pick what you want from them. In the end, she chose a pair of shoes surprisingly your size, a tailored cream-colored blouse, a long, silk skirt, and—

A pair of undergarments.

"Don't return these to me. I specifically bought them for you."

You nodded, your brain finding for an explanation as to why she would have an entire room seemingly dedicated for you. Nervously, you accepted her so-called gifts personalized for you, your eyes downcast.

"Are those rashes?" she suddenly brought up.

"Hives, madame."

"Hives?" she repeated with a tone so tender you almost forgot who you were talking to.

"Cold urticaria."

"Are they caused by the juice?"

"They get triggered when I'm in a cold place for too long."

"We can turn down the air-conditioning, dear."

"Your son likes it when it's cold," you replied. "This is his house. It's not like I could just change things just from my personal comfort. As long as he's being cooperative, I don't think there's anything else I could ask for."

A flash of jealousy appeared in your madame's eyes, and her smile shrunk.

She caressed your face with a look that could only be described as bitter yearning, as if you were a thing she wants but could not have.

"I wish you were my daughter."

After changing, you opened the door, and you heard a sob. The source was a person from the first floor of the mansion.

"Young master!" a maid shrilled on the top of her lungs while a eleven-year-old boy kept dragging her by the hair. "I beg of you!"

"Shut your mouth!" He slapped her face repeatedly before pushing her into a wall. "Give me a pitcher. Give me a pitcher!"

In fear, a male household staff leaped to get to the refrigerator and brought him a pitcher. Without hesitation, Su-gang poured all its contents onto the quaking woman screaming from her dear life. You averted your eyes, your heart sinking with each hit of his fists making contact with her skull.

"That is what happens to dogs who couldn't serve their masters properly."

Your eyes pricked, knowing damn well you belonged to these dogs the Han's were spitting on. Your mama, before that incident happened, was a dog in this bright, elegant cage, too.

How could you be so different from them, then?

The aftermath of the Han's heir was disastrous. Blood spilled on top of the floor, mixed together with juice and tears. Glass shards glinted, reflecting the light from the two-meter long chandelier that hung silently. Muffled cried from the untouched staff could be heard bouncing back from the walls, slow to travel due to how large the gaps are between parallel walls.

"It seems that our session for the day has ended," you quietly said, even your voice was afraid to get out. "I'll be going."

"Where's my hug?"

You bent your knee to match the level of his eyes and wrapped him around your arms. You did not embrace as tightly as you used to, and you were grateful to whoever was there that he remained stiff. You could not stomach the idea of him hugging you back when your mind was being plagued by thoughts of his hands hitting you.

He was terrifying when he was harming his employees, and the fact that he looked like nothing was wrong was even more terrifying to you.

"Take care," you mumbled.

"Come back, okay?" he said, with an underlying threat. "I'll give you candy. Better—no, the best—brand."

"Oh, you're early. What a diligent young lady," an older woman said as she wiped her face with the sleeve of her top. "I'm Jae-Kyeong Lee, and you?"

"[Full Name], Teacher Jae-Kyeong Lee," you answered as you bowed, helping her with her things. "I dislike taking the subway during rush hours, so I left home early."

"Your first day, right?"

The skies above rumbled, and the light rain became stronger, loud enough to be heard inside the teachers' lounge.

"Yes, Teacher."

"You look quite young." She smiled at you, which you gladly returned. "How old are you?"

"I'm twenty-four." You put her bag down carefully. "Freshly graduated."

"Oh, you took an academic break?"

If academic break is what they call stopping to save money in order to attend a decent college, then yes.

"Mhm, I took a year off."

"What's your first class?"

You told her what it was, and to your surprise, her pleasant disposition died down. Her small smile was replaced with a grimace, and you could sense the fear permeating through her clothes.

"That's Su-gang Han's class, no?" she checked, swallowing thickly.

"Yes, it's the one."

"Is there something wrong with the class?" you inquired, feigning ignorance regarding the obvious cause of her horror.

She attempted to send you another smile, yet this time, it did not reach her eyes.

"Just do your best."

next chapter.

#han su gang #han su gang x reader #han su gang x you #x yn #x y/n #x you #x reader #brave citizen #psychology #operant conditioning #dark fanfiction #lee jun young

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