#construction work uniforms | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

knightjpg · 8 months ago

Text

Brick by Brick

And like a dog who's learned a new trick Simon rings your bell the next day. Wasn't happy with how he left it, and wasn't that faucet leaking? He's got plenty of spare wood in his shed, don't you worry. What's that about the boiler making a weird noise? He'll take a look at it, might have something for the draft in the hallway too. Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

tags: construction worker simon/neighbour reader

part 1 | part 2

Summer is the worst time of year for construction work outside. Up early before the birds are awake to try and beat the heat, arriving on site at six or earlier with bleary eyes and creaky joints from the day before. It means coming home at four or five with lots of day left to get through yet without the will or energy to do anything beside shower, eat, watch some telly, and sleep.

The pay is good and it beats sitting in a cramped office all day, but when Simon gets home with aching knees and the thrum of a headache at the back of his skull it's hard to remember why on Earth he chose the career he's in. He's drenched in sweat, large dark patches adorning his pits and back.

It's one of those days where very little can make him stray from his commute straight to home to collapse into his big falling-apart chair, but today it's not really up to him. A large moving truck blocks his driveway. The faded company logo against dirty white overtakes the entire view of his windshield, though Simon can see the back doors are still swung open. No one to attend to it, though.

Simon noticed the FOR SALE! sign had gone, of course. Remembers feeling vaguely pleased, even, that the home next to his wouldn't be empty anymore, because he of all people knows exactly how quickly places can fall apart without anyone tending to it. But right now all he feels is tired, and hot, and really fucking annoyed. Just when he's clicked his belt loose to get out of the car and see if the dolt belonging to the truck is anywhere to be found, voices carry from the open front door.

“...last. I'm afraid it's a little heavy, though, so maybe we should get the boxes out first?”

And out steps the sweetest little thing he's ever seen. Hair tied up, tight little top, and shorts that give him ample view of your legs.

Maybe summer's not so bad after all.

You're talking to a bloke wearing a uniform that matches the moving truck and who looks flushed in the face from exertion. As soon as you clock Simon's car, though, you stop mid-sentence in surprise, and then quickly walk to him, brows furrowed apologetically.

“Oh, I'm so sorry—you're trying to get past us, aren't you?” Simon gives you a nod, and you turn back to the mover. “Would you mind moving the truck up a little? I don't want it to be in the way.”

There's precious little parking space ahead, so Simon rolls down his window and calls out to you, “Jus’ backing up a few yards s’fine.” He gestures to his driveway so you know that's where he's headed, and you flash him a smile and a thumbs-up in understanding.

The truck is moved, Simon parks his car, and you pull another heavy-looking box from the cube. You never reach your new doorstep with it; Simon steps in and lifts it from your hands. You blink up at him, lashes fluttering sweetly with surprise. “Oh—are you sure? It's heavy...!”

One corner of Simon's mouth tugs up. Tired as he is it weighs next to nothing, and he can't resist holding it with one arm, holding out the other.

“Can take ‘nother if you need.”

You laugh and assure him this is quite enough, then jog back to the truck while Simon pushes past the half-open door to his new neighbour's home.

It's a mess, of course. Piles of boxes, scattered furniture, rolled-up carpets. Simon puts the box down in the living room, then saunters back outside to lift another from your hands. He does the same with the couch; the mover is struggling and Simon doesn't trust him not to let it fall and crash. And you're such a little thing. Just doesn't feel right, watching you rush around and struggle without stepping in.

With Simon's help it's quick work. The mover thanks Simon before driving off, but he's not really listening. There's much more important things to pay attention to.

You're pretty. Cheeks flushed from exertion, breathing hard, flyaway hairs from your ponytail sticking up in odd directions. Simon has to suppress the urge to smooth them away.

"Thanks so much for the help,” you tell him earnestly. “I'm sorry we were in the way—we thought we'd have a little more time before people started coming home from work.”

“S’alright,” Simon says. It's nearing evening, now, the sky above you glowing in pale pink and oranges hues. The little smatter of trees across from you rustles with a gust of summer wind.

You introduce yourself and insist on giving Simon your number “in case there's ever anything you need.” Simon's more concerned about a young woman living all on her own but takes your number all the same, watching your pretty little fingers tap it in on his phone.

“I mostly work from home, but I'm very quiet and boring,” you tell him with a smile. “You don't have to worry about noise.”

For some reason that isn't the selling point it should be. When Simon stands inside his hallway, house empty and dark and quiet, he wishes he still lived in a shitty apartment with thin walls on the bad side of Manchester. Maybe then he'd hear your footsteps, or better yet, your voice. Instead the only thing waiting for him at home is silence. Heavy and thick, where he's ripped away from sweet sunshine and plunged underwater.

Simon is halfway to falling asleep on the couch when the bell rings. He groans, drags a hand over his face, and glances up at the TV. The football match is still going. The camera pans over a cheering crowd, their cries distant and quiet.

He mutes the thing entirely and heaves himself up to open the door. Swear to God, if this is the fucking salesman again...

“Hi there.”

You give Simon a little finger wave, your other hand cradling a round oven dish. When you shift on your feet the protective foil on top rustles noisily.

You look a little more put together than you did yesterday—rested, showered, fed. Just as pretty.

Although, speaking of fed...

“Alright?” Simon asks, eyes on the oven pan. He's only catching a faint whiff of something, but whatever it is smells really fucking good. His stomach reminds him that the only thing in his fridge are a couple cans of beer.

You nod and lift the dish with a shy little grin. “Yeah. Um. I wanted to say thanks again, for yesterday. And I wanted to test out my oven, so...”

You hold the dish out for him to take. Simon's fingers brush yours, large meaty paws easily twice the size of your own. When he peels back the foil you add, “Shepherd's pie. I thought about cookies, but I wasn't sure if you'd like those.”

The scent hits him, then, rich and hearty and buttery smooth. The dish is still a little warm.

Fuck. When was the last time he ate something homemade?

“No, I'll eat anything,” he says, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. He hasn't showered yet. Must look a nightmare. Does he stink? “Thanks.”

Your whole face lights up, and Simon's neck feels hot. He averts his eyes to avoid your gaze and pretends to inspect the pie instead. Jesus, what is he, twelve? “I'm glad. I'll leave you to it, then.”

D’you want to come in for a drink?

It's on the tip of his tongue, but he can't get the words out quite right and gives you a brusque nod, watching you walk back to your own home before closing his door all the way.

He eats at his kitchen table and finishes the whole thing in one go. Chases bits of flakey crust with his finger, licks up every leftover crumb. The meat is tender and juicy and for a while after the only things he smells is golden-brown potatoes seasoned with rosemary.

He mourns it when it's gone, of course. Has half a mind to go over right now and ask if your cooking is for hire—Simon can't remember the last time he felt satisfied. When he ate not just for the sake of fuel or convenience but because someone wanted him to have something nice, something special. Is it special? Is he special? Are you going around the neighbourhood handing out cookies and pies to just anyone?

Simon's sigh is loud in the silence and sticks to the kitchen walls.

The pre-made frozen meals are fine, of course. Empty plastic containers fill up the rubbish bin. They're easy and cheap and most days Simon's glad just to have something warm in his stomach.

And yet.

The next day Simon stands at your door at six in the evening sharp, holding the clean dish in his hands. You invite him in for a cup of tea, because unlike him you have good manners, and you sheepishly apologise for the stacks of boxes everywhere.

“S’alright,” Simon says, carefully manoeuvring around a large pile of books. “I don't mind.”

And he doesn't, though he does feel like a bull in a china shop. Large and much too coarse for the little tea cup you hand him while the kettle whistles on the stove.

“I'm afraid I don't have much to go with it,” you say with a flutter of your hands. “Do you like ginger snaps? I think I've got a pack somewhere.”

You don't wait for his answer and pry open one of the cupboards. First come the ginger snaps, then the box of Earl Grey, which you hold up to him with a triumphant smile. “Unpacked the important stuff first.”

Simon frowns and jerks his chin to the cupboard. “S’it stuck?”

“Oh—yeah. They all are.” You give the wood a little knock. “It'll take me some time to get to fixing everything. The house went for a good price, but only ‘cause it needs some love.” You give him a rueful smile and get up, wiping your hands on your thighs. “I'm not all that handy, so I'll have to take it bit by bit.”

Simon rises before you finish your sentence. "Let me see.”

“Oh, no, it's okay. It's not a big deal, really—”

Simon crouches down, slowly, to spare his knees, and tests the hinges. The wood is rotten in certain places, the hinges old and rusted. Rather than fixing it up it should be replaced entirely. You really better had gotten this place for good money, because this will take more than a bit of elbow grease to repair. He prods at the hinges, tuts, and looks up at you.

“Ready to fall apart, this one. You said they're all like this?”

You nod, worry creasing your brow. “I—yes. Well, the kitchen is. The bathroom seems alright. Is it worse than I thought?”

“Might be. You have anyone look at this?”

You shake your head. “I'm starting to feel silly about it now, but I was going to look up how to do it myself.”

Simon straightens. “I'll go get my kit.”

It's not as bad as he feared. Two cabinets need tearing down completely, but the others are worth saving. Simon warns you the repair job will fuck the wood, but you tell him it's no problem; you'll paint over it anyway.

You feed him tea and ginger snaps while he works, asking him several times if he wouldn't like a break, hasn't he done a lot already? You feel terrible about having him work on his day off. Didn't he say he worked construction? He must be so tired, poor man. You insist he stay for dinner. “You've been so helpful—it's the least I could do.”

Simon takes a breather to watch you cook. Chicken, pasta, summer salad. The sun sinks lower and hits you straight on from the kitchen window, painting the edges of you a dazed red-gold. An angel's halo.

“You big on reading, then?”

You turn down the heat and put a lid over the pan to join him at the table. Simon's eyeing the many books strewn about on top of boxes that say “pans” and “kitchen supplies”. Le Morte D’Arthur. Histories of the Kings of Britain. Beowulf. There's even one that prompts a vague, long-forgotten memory from his school days— The Canterbury Tales.

“I am. Always have been.” You nod to the books. “I teach at university—medieval literature. But I'm working on my own research on the side.”

Simon lets out a low whistle. His pretty bird is a clever one. Smarter than him, that's for sure. He might be big and strong but he's got bricks for brains.

That's what his dad always used to say, anyway—that he's stupid. Those always were his kinder moments.

“That explains all the books y’got.”

“There sure are a lot of them, aren't there? I swear moving really makes you realise just how much stuff you own...” You shake your head. “I'll have to get a bigger bookcase.”

“Think it's impressive.”

Your eyes crinkle with a smile. “Not as impressive as knowing how to fix my cabinets! I don't know how I would've managed by myself.” You hop up from your seat to check the food, then ask over your shoulder, “Is that something you do a lot for work, too? Carpentry and the like?”

Simon shakes his head. “We do the heavy lifting. Clearing a place out, laying the foundation. Johnny—my coworker, he's mostly on machinery. Kyle does transport and plumbing. I do the heavier handiwork.”

You hum and start plating the food while asking him more questions. Is the pay good? Is his boss fair? Are his coworkers nice?

Price's fairly strict is what he is, Simon answers, and you laugh again. He likes that. Likes that he gets you to do that.

He wolfs down a plate of his pasta and devours the chicken. It's fragrant, roasted with lemon and thyme, bursts between his teeth. He tells you more about Johnny, that he's a cocky bastard who likes playing with electricity way too much, but that he's also a loyal friend. That he's a hard worker—that all of them are.

When his plate is empty and he's eyeing what's left in the pans you push them closer without saying anything, and prompt him to tell you about that time a plumbing line exploded and Kyle got soaked from tip to toe in disgusting gunk. He smelt like sewage water for weeks.

Simon doesn't even realise how much he's talked until his throat starts feeling rougher than usual. You make it easy somehow. If he'd thought you would look down on him because of your own job he needn't have worried. You're not at all like what he imagines when he thinks of professors, none of the stuffy superiority complex he's used to weathering when people find out all he does all day is chafe his fingers on hard cement.

Maybe you're just good at faking it, but he doubts it. The sparkle in your eyes when you listen to him so intently has to be real.

You send him home with a warm thanks and dessert, and Simon feels something in his chest lurch when you peer up at him through your lashes in the doorway, smiling and sweet. Can't remember the last time he went out for dates. Can't remember having the time or energy for it.

Pay him? What are you talking about, he does stuff like this for fun. Don't sweat it, love. Just hand him that wrench.

There are days when it's hard, of course. Simon is only human, and spending days and days on sizzling hard concrete would wring anyone dry. The project is coming along nicely, but at the height of summer there's plenty of times when even the promise of your smile isn't enough to keep him from falling asleep on his couch—often on an empty stomach.

But during the weekends he rings your bell dutifully. Six o’clock becomes something sacred in his mind, sweet relief after praying on his knees for hours smoothing out cement. It gets to the point where he turns down Friday drinks with the guys more than once because he's got something to go home for now, his pretty little bird that's never once mentioned a boyfriend of any kind.

“You really should let me pay you.”

Simon gives you a look before pushing his large shoulders further into the cabinet under the bathroom sink. “Should be the one payin’ you. I know I'm doubling your grocery bill.”

He eats more at your place than his own these days. It gives him incentive to rush through a shower, dress like something resembling a human, then wait at your doorstep to be let in. Wagging tail and everything.

Your cheeks darken and you duck your head. “No, um... It makes me happy. To see you eat my cooking, I mean,” you confess a little shyly. “I feel like I'm the one getting everything out of this. I hope I'm not keeping you from—from spending time at home, or with your family.”

“S’just me, love.” Simon pauses, pretends to inspect the pipes. “Less you don't want me coming ‘round anymore.”

“No, no,” you say hastily. “No, I like—I like the company. Really.” Your voice softens. “And I'm not just saying that because I appreciate the help.”

Simon exhales, shifts a little to accommodate the strain in his boxers, and holds his hand out for the screwdriver.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader #if you saw me post this to the wrong blog. no you didnt.

2K notes · View notes

goldfades · 2 months ago

Text

in her younger days, they called her delta dawn; prettiest woman you ever laid eyes on

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 8.7k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (requested: Paige Bueckers x Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader reader since she might be going to the Wings) when paige is drafted to the dallas wings, she knows her life is about to change, but she doesn’t expect you. as a dallas cowboys cheerleader with your own set of rules and boundaries, the last thing you need is a distraction—especially not in the form of the star wnba player who seems to turn every gaze in the room. but as the season progresses and paths cross under the texan sun, paige's world of fast breaks and buzzer-beaters collides with yours, leaving neither of you the same.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | fluff! paige teasing the hell out of reader, description of homophobia, the dcc being sweet(? whoa), one mention of man flirting w reader (EUGHHH), nothing else!

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | here's 8k of a tease!paige fic for yall... i hope yall forgive me for the last 3 soulcrushing fics 🫶🏼😘

You’ve always said you’d never date an athlete.

It’s a rule born of practicality, not bitterness. Athletes move fast—on the court, on the field, and in life. Your job as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader already demands a fine balance of composure and charm. The last thing you need is the whirlwind of someone else’s high-stakes career bleeding into your own meticulously crafted routine.

But tonight, standing under the hazy glow of the American Airlines Center lights, that rule wavers.

You’re here for one of those PR crossover events—a meet-and-greet between the Dallas Wings and the Cowboys organization, complete with forced smiles and photo ops. It’s the kind of gig you’ve done a hundred times, one where you’re used to being admired at arm’s length by players who rarely look past the sparkle of your uniform. You’re used to their lingering glances, their empty flirtations, and their assumption that you’ll fall in line with the rest of their carefully constructed narrative.

Paige Bueckers doesn’t look at you like that.

You notice her the moment she walks in, an air of effortless confidence preceding her like a tidal wave. She’s all sharp cheekbones and easy laughter, blending seamlessly into the room while somehow standing apart. Her presence feels unintentional, like she didn’t mean to be so magnetic but couldn’t help it anyway.

You try not to stare, but when her eyes catch yours—crystal-clear and curious—you know you’ve already lost.

"You're with the cheerleaders, right?" she asks, her voice low enough to feel like a secret, despite the bustling crowd around you. There’s no pretense in her tone, no undercurrent of ego or assumption. It’s disarming, the way she asks like she’s genuinely interested, not just making small talk.

"That’s right," you reply, lifting your chin with practiced ease. "And you’re with the Wings."

Her smile tilts, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like you’re the only two people in the room. "Guess that makes us teammates now. Sort of."

You tell yourself it’s just a conversation. Just an introduction. But deep down, you already know—it’s the kind of beginning that doesn’t let you walk away unchanged.

The noise of the event fades into the background, dulled to a steady hum that makes it easier to focus on Paige’s voice—and the way she leans just slightly toward you, as if shielding the moment from the room around you.

“Teammates, huh?” you reply, arching a brow and forcing a practiced indifference into your voice. “I don’t know if standing in the same room counts as teamwork.”

She chuckles, low and warm. “Guess we’ll have to work on our chemistry, then.”

It’s a simple remark, delivered with the kind of ease that shouldn’t make your cheeks feel warm. But it does, and the sensation creeps up faster than you can stop it. You glance to the side, pretending to check on one of your teammates who’s caught in a conversation with a reporter, but the smirk on Paige’s face tells you she’s already noticed.

“You’re blushing,” she says, not bothering to hide her amusement.

“No, I’m not.” You shoot back quickly, the denial sharper than you intend. You straighten your posture, willing the heat in your face to cool. “It’s warm in here. Lights and all.”

“Sure,” Paige says, drawing the word out like she doesn’t believe you for a second. Her grin widens, and she takes a slow sip of her water, somehow managing to make even that look like a calculated move.

You cross your arms, trying to steady yourself. “Do you always do this?”

“Do what?”

“Flirt with strangers at PR events.”

Paige lets out a soft laugh, her head tilting slightly as she considers your words. “Only the ones who pretend not to notice.”

The nerve of her. You fight the urge to look directly at her, keeping your gaze focused on the crowd instead. “I’m not pretending anything.”

“Right. And you’re also not blushing.” She leans in just enough for her voice to lower, her next words meant only for you. “But you are.”

Your resolve cracks slightly, enough for a small, involuntary laugh to escape. You quickly recover, shaking your head as you fix her with a look that you hope reads unimpressed—but the way Paige’s smirk deepens makes you think you’re failing miserably.

“You seem awfully confident for someone who just got here,” you say, trying to steer the conversation back into safer waters.

Paige shrugs, her shoulders moving in an easy rhythm that matches the cadence of her voice. “I’m just observant. And, you know, good at reading plays.”

“Plays?”

“Yeah,” she says, her grin turning almost playful now. “Like how you keep crossing your arms when you talk to me. Defense mechanism.”

You uncross your arms immediately, regretting the move the second her smirk shifts into something closer to triumph.

“See?” she teases. “I was right.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, though the words come out more like a laugh.

“And yet,” Paige says, leaning back just enough to give you a moment’s reprieve, “you’re still talking to me.”

She’s not wrong, but you don’t let yourself linger on that thought. Instead, you square your shoulders, offering her a saccharine smile that feels like a small victory. “Maybe I’m just being polite.”

“Maybe,” she agrees, though her tone suggests she doesn’t believe that either.

Before you can respond, one of your teammates waves you over, motioning for you to join the rest of the group as the event shifts into its next stage. You give Paige a tight nod, as if to signal that the conversation is over, and turn to walk away.

“Hey,” she calls after you, her voice cutting through the din like it’s meant just for you.

You glance back, already halfway across the room.

“See you around, teammate.”

It’s casual, almost lazy, the way she says it. But the spark in her eyes as she meets your gaze makes it feel anything but.

You don’t reply. Instead, you turn back toward your teammates, heart pounding against your ribs in a way that you’re certain Paige Bueckers has no right to cause.

The next day dawns like any other—a pale sliver of sunlight spilling through the blinds, the soft hum of your alarm shaking you from sleep. Your phone buzzes with a notification as you swipe to silence the alarm: a practice reminder from the squad captain, a half-hour earlier than usual.

You groan quietly, already feeling the weight of the day settle onto your shoulders. Between your nine-to-five at the PR firm and cheer practice, your days rarely allow room for indulgence, let alone distractions.

Except today, there’s a distraction.

She flits through your mind the way sunbeams catch on the windshield during your drive to work—brief but impossible to ignore. Paige’s teasing smile, the easy way she leaned toward you as if she had all the time in the world to figure you out. You shake your head as you merge onto the freeway, cranking up the music to drown out the thought.

You’re good at focus. You have to be.

By the time you clock in, you’ve managed to push Paige into the back of your mind, hidden behind the mountain of emails that demand your attention. Meetings stretch into the afternoon, punctuated by a working lunch where you barely taste your food. Coworkers buzz about the latest office gossip, but you’re laser-focused on the client presentation you’ve been perfecting for weeks.

The hours blur together, and when you glance at the clock, it’s already 4:45. Just enough time to dart home, change into your uniform, and make it to practice.

The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader practice facility is a world unto itself—bright, sterile, and unforgiving. The walls echo with sharp counts, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, and the biting critique of your coaches.

“Sharper arms, everyone! This isn’t a yoga class!”

You’ve been here long enough to tune out the tone and focus on the instruction, but it doesn’t mean the sting doesn’t hit when it’s directed at you. “You’re late on the second count, [Y/N]! Fix it, or you’re doing it alone!”

“Yes, ma’am,” you reply automatically, forcing the strain out of your voice. You adjust your footing, throw yourself into the next routine, and pretend you don’t feel your muscles screaming in protest.

Cheerleading at this level is a game of precision and endurance. Perfection isn’t just the expectation—it’s the bare minimum. Your coach’s voice drills into your head like a metronome, keeping you in line as sweat drips down your back.

And yet, even as you push through the routine for the third, fourth, and fifth time, Paige creeps back into your thoughts.

Her smirk, her voice, the way her laugh felt like a secret just for you. You bite your lip, snapping yourself back to the present. Distractions like this could cost you—your spot, your reputation, everything you’ve worked for.

“Alright, that’s enough for today,” the coach finally calls, her sharp tone softening just enough to feel like a reprieve. “Clean up the routine and be ready to run it full-out tomorrow. Dismissed.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and head toward the lockers, shoulders heavy with exhaustion.

“You’re quiet today,” your teammate Dana says as she falls into step beside you.

“I’m always quiet,” you reply, but she shakes her head.

“Not like this. What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” She smirks knowingly, bumping your shoulder with hers. “I saw you talking to Paige Bueckers last night.”

Your heart skips, but you keep your expression neutral. “It was nothing. Just small talk.”

“Oh, really?” Dana drawls, clearly not buying it. “She looked pretty interested for it to be just ‘small talk.’”

“She’s friendly. That’s all.” You tug open your locker, keeping your voice steady, but the blush creeping up your neck betrays you.

Dana’s grin widens. “Uh-huh. Friendly. Right.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. “What do you want me to say? She was just being nice.”

“Sure. And you weren’t blushing at all.”

“I wasn’t,” you mutter, brushing past her, but Dana catches your arm, spinning you around just enough to read your face.

“You totally were,” she says, laughing. “I knew it. You’ve got a thing for her.”

“I don’t,” you insist, though the words feel flimsy even to you.

Dana studies you for a moment, her grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I think you should go for it.”

“Go for what?”

“Her. Paige. She seems cool, and you...” She pauses, shrugging. “You deserve to let someone in for once.”

You open your mouth to argue, to insist that you’re too busy, that it’s not practical, that Paige is just a passing thought. But the words don’t come. Instead, you nod absently, murmuring a quick, “See you tomorrow,” before heading out into the cool evening air.

As you drive home, Paige’s voice lingers in your mind, weaving through the cracks of your carefully constructed resolve. You don’t want to admit it—not to Dana, not to yourself—but something about her feels different.

And no matter how hard you try to focus on the road, the echo of her teasing smile keeps pulling you back.

Paige’s day started like most others: early alarms, cold showers, and an endless loop of drills designed to sharpen her skills to a razor’s edge. Practice with the team wasn’t just a routine—it was a second language, something she could move through on instinct alone.

But today, instinct wasn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering.

She tried to focus on the sound of sneakers squeaking on the court, the coach’s whistle cutting through the air, and the weight of the ball in her hands. Still, her thoughts kept drifting—back to the sharpness in your voice, the way your eyes flitted everywhere but her when she leaned in, and that faint blush you tried so hard to hide.

“Paige!”

The sharp call of her name jolted her out of her thoughts, and she turned just in time to see Aariyah toss her the ball. She caught it, but not without a stumble.

“Yo, where’s your head at today?” Aariyah asked, crossing her arms as Paige dribbled toward her.

“Nowhere,” Paige lied, attempting a casual shrug. She passed the ball back, forcing herself to stay in the present.

Her teammates weren’t convinced. Throughout the rest of practice, they kept stealing glances her way, whispering to each other when they thought she wasn’t looking. Paige pretended not to notice, but she could feel the weight of their curiosity as the session dragged on.

By the time practice ended, her nerves were frayed. She slung her bag over her shoulder and followed her team into the locker room, the sound of banter and laughter filling the space.

“So,” Aariyah started, leaning against a row of lockers. “What’s up? You’ve been weird all day.”

“Nothing,” Paige said, but Aariyah raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it.

“It’s not nothing,” Nyla chimed in, pulling her hoodie over her head. “You’ve been distracted since last night. What happened at that PR thing?”

Paige hesitated, debating whether to say anything at all. But the memory of your blush, your quick-witted deflections, and the way you seemed both intrigued and guarded all at once—it was enough to push her over the edge.

“Alright,” she admitted, leaning against the lockers. “There was this cheerleader there.”

“Ohhh, a cheerleader,” Nyla said, grinning. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

“She’s… interesting,” Paige said, her voice casual but her mind racing. “What’s her deal?”

“She who?” Aariyah asked, curiosity piqued.

“I don’t know her name,” Paige admitted, running a hand through her hair. “She was there last night. Tall, sharp eyes, kind of guarded. You know her?”

Nyla’s expression shifted slightly, like she was putting pieces together. “You mean [Y/N]?”

“Yeah. That’s her.”

Aariyah let out a low whistle. “You’ve got your sights set on [Y/N]? Good luck with that.”

Paige frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She’s… complicated,” Nyla said, choosing her words carefully. “She’s been with the team for a while, but she’s always kind of kept to herself. No one’s ever seen her with anyone. Ever.”

“Like, dating?” Paige asked, intrigued.

“Yeah,” Aariyah said. “As far as we know, she’s single. Always has been. And, uh… probably straight.”

Paige tilted her head, unconvinced. “You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Bueckers,” Nyla said, rolling her eyes. “Just because you’re into her doesn’t mean she’s into you. Don’t get your hopes up.”

Paige shrugged, though the flicker of doubt in her chest was quickly overruled by something stronger. “Maybe you’re wrong. My gay-dar’s never failed me.”

Aariyah snorted. “Your gay-dar is not a superpower, Paige.”

“Feels like it sometimes,” Paige said with a grin, though her mind was already wandering back to you—your sharp tongue, your quick wit, and the way you seemed to light up just a little when you thought no one was looking.

She couldn’t explain it, but something about you felt… different.

“Alright,” Aariyah said, shaking her head. “You do you. But don’t say we didn’t warn you.”

Paige just smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder as she headed for the door. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.”

As she stepped out into the cool afternoon air, she felt a spark of determination settle in her chest. You might’ve been guarded, but Paige wasn’t one to back down from a challenge.

And something told her that getting to know you would be worth the effort.

The energy inside AT&T Stadium was electric, a sea of navy and silver filling the stands as the Dallas Cowboys prepared to kick off their first game of the season. The buzz of excitement was contagious, spreading through the crowd and spilling onto the field where you stood, stretching and loosening up with your team in preparation for the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders' first performance of the year.

Your routine was set to "Thunderstruck"—an intense, crowd-pumping track that had been drilled into your muscles and memory over countless rehearsals. The choreography was sharp, demanding, and thrilling, and as the minutes ticked down to showtime, you could feel the adrenaline beginning to build.

Stretching your hamstrings, you focused on controlling your breath, locking in. This was your ritual—shut out the noise, shut out the crowd, shut out everything except the beat and the moves.

But then you saw her.

Paige Bueckers, dressed casually yet effortlessly stylish, strolling into the VIP section with a small entourage. Her golden hair caught the stadium lights just so, and her signature self-assured smirk tugged at the corners of her lips as she scanned the crowd.

Your focus cracked, just a little, as her gaze passed over the field. You could’ve sworn she lingered on you for half a second longer than necessary, though it was probably your imagination.

“Oh, look who it is,” one of your teammates teased, nudging you playfully. “Miss Basketball’s here to watch you.”

“Shut up,” you muttered, trying to refocus.

“Someone’s blushing,” another teammate chimed in with a grin.

“I’m not blushing,” you shot back, but the warmth spreading across your face betrayed you.

“Alright, ladies,” your coach barked, clapping her hands. “Let’s lock in. Showtime in five!”

You nodded, shaking off the distraction as you straightened up. This wasn’t your first time performing on such a massive stage, but tonight felt bigger somehow. Maybe it was the buzz of the first game or the fact that Paige Bueckers was now seated comfortably in the VIP section, her eyes occasionally flicking toward the field.

You couldn’t afford to think about that. Not now.

When it was time to step onto the field, the roar of the crowd hit you like a wave. The drumline started, the booming bass syncing with your heartbeat as you marched into position with your squad. Your eyes locked forward, face set with a determined smile.

As the opening riff of "Thunderstruck" blared through the speakers, the adrenaline hit you full force. Every move was sharp, every beat perfectly timed. The routine was fast and furious, filled with high kicks, sharp turns, and intricate formations designed to wow the crowd.

You didn’t just dance; you performed. You poured everything into every move, channeling weeks of hard work, sweat, and discipline into the routine.

For a moment, you forgot about Paige entirely. You forgot about the teasing, the crowd, and even the VIP section. It was just you and the music, your body moving instinctively with every beat, every accent.

And when the final pose hit—arms stretched high as the crowd erupted into cheers—you felt a rush of pride. You’d nailed it.

As you walked off the field, your teammates high-fived and cheered, hyping each other up. “You killed it out there,” one of them said, slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you replied with a small smile, glancing toward the VIP section despite yourself.

Paige was still there, leaning back in her seat, clapping along with the rest of the crowd. But unlike the rest, her gaze wasn’t on the team—it was on you.

The Cowboys had won, and with victory came celebration—a tradition as ingrained in the culture as the game itself. Even if it was meant to be a “lowkey” night, the so-called party still overflowed with boisterous laughter, the bass of music vibrating through the room, and the steady clink of glasses.

You stood in the corner of the dimly lit lounge, nursing a sparkling water. The oversized, lavish venue was packed with players, cheerleaders, and a smattering of VIPs. It was a mandatory-unspoken-rule sort of thing; showing face after a win was just part of the job. That didn’t mean you enjoyed it.

The football players were the worst of it. Sure, most of them were decent enough, but there were always a handful of rookies and cocky veterans who treated the cheerleaders like part of their post-game spoils. Your smile was polished and your patience saintly, but the constant attention grated on your nerves.

Tonight was no different. A rookie wide receiver with a too-white smile and a swagger far outpacing his résumé sidled up to you as if you’d been waiting your entire life for this moment.

“Hey,” he drawled, leaning in too close. The smell of his cologne—something aggressively woody—made your nose twitch. “You look incredible tonight.”

“Thank you,” you replied politely, sipping your drink and taking a half-step back.

He didn’t notice, or he chose not to. “So, what’s a girl like you doing standing all alone at a party like this?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. “Just enjoying the night.”

He took that as an invitation to lean closer, his grin widening. “Well, maybe you need someone to enjoy it with. How about I—”

The hand on your arm made your skin crawl.

You turned, polite facade dropping as you said firmly, “Back off.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, his grin faltering but still holding onto a thread of misplaced confidence. “Don’t be like that. I’m just being friendly.”

“I said, back off,” you repeated, stepping out of his reach.

“Hey, no need to get all uptight—”

“Is there a problem here?”

The voice sliced through the noise, cool and edged with steel. You turned your head, and there she was. Paige Bueckers, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her jeans, exuding an aura of calm dominance that was impossible to ignore.

“Who the hell are you?” the rookie asked, puffing up slightly, his bravado clashing with her unbothered demeanor.

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige said, her eyes narrowing. “What matters is she told you to back off. Twice.”

The rookie opened his mouth to retort, but Paige cut him off, her voice dropping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I suggest you listen, or I’ll be happy to explain it louder.”

The rookie hesitated, looking between you and Paige before finally muttering something under his breath and slinking away into the crowd.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Paige smirked, her hands still in her pockets as she leaned casually against the bar beside you. “Yeah, I did. Looked like you were about to throw a drink in his face.”

You snorted, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Would’ve been satisfying.”

“Bet it would’ve,” Paige replied, her grin widening. “But then you’d have to deal with the PR fallout. Figured I’d save you the trouble.”

“Chivalrous,” you teased, trying to hide the fact that your cheeks were burning.

Paige tilted her head, her grin softening into something quieter, more genuine. “You alright?”

The question caught you off guard. You nodded, still holding her gaze. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime.” She glanced at the drink in your hand, then back at you. “So, are you always the life of the party, or is tonight a special occasion?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Definitely a special occasion.”

Paige’s smile deepened, her gaze lingering just long enough to make your heart race. “Well, in that case, consider me honored to witness it.”

Paige stayed by your side after the rookie incident, the two of you easing into a conversation that felt refreshingly unforced. For the first time that evening, you didn’t feel the need to wear the polished, ever-smiling Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader mask. You didn’t have to calculate every word, every laugh, every polite sidestep.

It surprised you how quickly you relaxed around Paige. Her humor was sharp but warm, and the way she listened made you feel... seen. The kind of seen that wasn’t about the uniform or the role you played. She wasn’t looking at the cheerleader. She was looking at you.

“You seem different,” Paige said at one point, leaning on the bar beside you, her fingers tracing the edge of a napkin.

You quirked an eyebrow, feigning offense. “Different? Is that your way of saying I’m weird?”

She laughed, her head tipping back slightly. “Not what I meant. You’re... real. It’s nice.”

That comment stuck with you, warming you from the inside. You weren’t used to people looking past the glossy, larger-than-life image you were expected to maintain.

As the conversation flowed, you found yourself craving something sweet and light to cut through the night. You turned to the bartender. “Can I get a Shirley Temple, please?”

Paige’s eyes lit up. “No way. That’s my favorite.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Really?”

“Swear on it.” She held up two fingers in a mock scout’s honor pose. “No judgment, but it’s kind of perfect. Sweet, nostalgic, doesn’t try too hard. Exactly my vibe.”

You smirked, shaking your head as the bartender slid the drink over. “Didn’t peg you for the Shirley Temple type.”

“What can I say? I’m full of surprises,” she said, flashing a grin that made your stomach flip.

By the time the party began winding down, the room thinning out, you realized just how much you’d enjoyed yourself. You weren’t even sure when the usual edge of tension had melted away, replaced by a lightness that felt foreign yet welcome.

Paige cleared her throat, her hands slipping into her jean pockets. “Hey, um... before you go.”

You looked up at her, noticing a slight shift in her demeanor. She wasn’t the effortlessly confident star athlete now. There was something endearingly hesitant about the way she scratched the back of her neck.

“Can I, uh, get your number?” she asked, her voice dropping just a fraction, as if saying it too loud might scare you off.

You tilted your head, lips curving into a teasing smile. “You? Nervous?”

She chuckled, the faintest hint of pink coloring her cheeks. “Is it working?”

With a laugh, you pulled your phone out and handed it over. Paige entered her number quickly, double-checking it before passing it back. “Don’t leave me hanging, alright? Text me sometime.”

You nodded, feeling a strange flutter in your chest as her fingers brushed yours during the exchange.

As you turned to leave, you glanced back and caught Paige walking toward her teammates. She glanced over her shoulder at you, a cocky smirk spreading across her face as she mouthed, “Told you so.”

One of her teammates groaned and swatted at her shoulder, while another rolled their eyes, clearly unimpressed with Paige’s triumphant swagger.

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. Somehow, you had a feeling this was going to get interesting.

A few weeks had passed since that night at the party, and in the time since, Paige had somehow woven her way into the fabric of your life in ways you hadn’t expected. It wasn’t anything dramatic, nothing earth-shattering. But you couldn’t deny it: she had become part of your routine.

Despite the whirlwind of your schedule—DCC practices, games, and the usual duties that came with being in the spotlight—the texts from Paige came often, little moments of respite during your otherwise hectic days. Sometimes it was a simple check-in: “How’s practice?” or “How’s the Shirley Temple holding up today?” Sometimes it was just something random, like a meme or a quote that had made her think of you. Every time you saw her name pop up, your heart did that little flip again, that same flutter that had been there since the first night you met.

The dates were simple and casual, which was just how you liked it. A quiet dinner, a walk in the park, the occasional movie, and for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself. You weren’t the cheerleader. You were just you. No performance. No expectations.

You thought you had the balance down, figuring out how to make it work despite the craziness of both of your lives. Paige was patient, always understanding when you had to cancel last minute or cut the night short. She didn’t pressure you. And, for once, you didn’t feel like you had to live up to an image for anyone, especially her.

It surprised you how easy it was to be with her. You hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected her—but Paige was like a steady rhythm in the cacophony of your life. You found yourself looking forward to her texts, the way she’d always send a good luck message before your performances or a stupid meme to make you laugh on a rough day.

You didn’t mean to, but Paige was quickly becoming part of your routine.

But then came the photograph.

You hadn’t noticed the photographer—probably a fan at the café where you and Paige had been sitting, sipping iced coffee and laughing about some story she was telling. You only found out when the photo popped up on social media, your notifications blowing up with tags and mentions.

The picture was innocent enough: Paige leaning back in her chair, mid-laugh, while you rested your chin in your hand, looking at her like she was the funniest person alive. It was candid and warm, the kind of photo that screamed chemistry.

The next thing you knew, the photo of the two of you smiling, laughing, and holding hands was all over social media. The caption? "Paige Bueckers and the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader: New Couple Alert!"

You didn’t think it was that big of a deal at first. After all, both of you were public figures in your own rights, and being seen together wasn’t exactly a crime. But as the hours passed, the post went viral. Comments flooded in. Some were supportive, some not so much. And as the days went on, you started seeing more articles and posts about the two of you, your names being linked in headlines everywhere.

It felt like a dream at first—something light, playful. But then reality sank in.

The next morning, as you walked into the DCC practice facility, you could feel the weight of it. You hadn’t even spoken to your coach yet, but you could tell. She was watching you as you walked in, her gaze sharp, calculating.

Coach Anderson didn’t waste any time. After practice, she called you into her office, her expression hardening as soon as the door clicked shut behind you.

“Close the door, please.”

You did as instructed, your heart beginning to race as you tried to brace for whatever was coming.

“Listen,” she started, her tone measured but firm, “you’re one of our best, and I don’t want this to come off as harsh. But... the photo. It’s everywhere. And it’s not great for the team’s image.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Not great?”

She leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. “You know how this works. The Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders represent a certain... ideal. We have an image to maintain, and this? People are already making assumptions. It’s distracting.”

The knot in your stomach tightened, anger starting to bubble beneath the surface. “What assumptions?” you asked, your voice steady but edged.

She hesitated. “You know what I mean. People are speculating. And it’s not... on-brand.”

You stared at her, disbelief mingling with frustration. This was exactly what you’d feared—the constant balancing act of being what everyone expected you to be. But as much as you hated confrontation, something inside you refused to back down this time.

“I’m not straight,” you said, the words clear and unwavering.

Your coach froze, clearly not expecting you to address it so directly.

“And I’m not going to pretend to be,” you added, leaning forward slightly. “I’ve given everything to this team. I’ve worked my ass off to be here, to be the best. My personal life doesn’t change that.”

She blinked, visibly stunned. You’d always been a “yes, ma’am” kind of girl—polite, compliant, eager to please. But now, your voice was steady and your gaze unyielding.

“This.” She sighed, gesturing vaguely, her lips curling into a tight line. “The public—our fans—they have an image of you. And this”—she motioned to the photos on her phone—“does not fit that image. You’re part of the Dallas Cowboys brand now, and I need you to understand that.”

You felt your stomach drop. You knew where this was going. This wasn’t just about the photos. It was about the implications.

“You’re a cheerleader, and you’re expected to maintain a certain image. You can’t just… throw that away because of a relationship,” Coach Anderson continued, her voice harder now, almost condescending. “This is about professionalism. Your image. Do you understand?”

You stared at her for a moment, feeling the familiar, suffocating weight of expectations pressing in on you. For a second, you almost nodded, almost let yourself fall back into that mold of obedience, that role you were supposed to play.

But then, you remembered something. You remembered what Paige had told you about being real, about not pretending. You remembered the feeling of being yourself in her presence.

And suddenly, you couldn’t stay silent any longer.

“No,” you said, the word sharper than you intended. Your heart was pounding now, but there was no going back. “I don’t think I do understand.”

Coach Anderson blinked, clearly taken aback by your tone. You took a step forward, crossing your arms over your chest. “I’m not going to pretend. Not for the team, not for anyone. If you think I’m going to sit here and fake being something I’m not for the sake of image, you’re wrong.”

Her eyes widened slightly, clearly shocked by your response. You were the quiet, obedient one. The one who never rocked the boat. The one who followed orders. To see you—to hear you—talk back like this was completely foreign to her.

“You’re talking about who I am,” you continued, your voice gaining strength. “And I’m not going to apologize for it. I’m not straight, Coach. I don’t owe you, or anyone else, an explanation for who I’m dating. If this”—you pointed at the photos again—“is a problem, then I guess I’ll have to deal with that.”

Coach Anderson stared at you, open-mouthed, for a moment, as if processing what you had just said. She blinked a few times, her face hardening into a tight, inscrutable mask. You could feel the weight of her gaze on you, assessing, perhaps judging, but you didn’t flinch.

For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. You felt like you.

Finally, she spoke, her voice cold. “I never thought I’d hear those words from you. You’ve always been… so compliant.”

“Well, not anymore,” you said firmly, not backing down. “I’m not going to play by your rules if they’re going to make me pretend to be something I’m not. I’m sorry if that’s a problem, but that’s who I am.”

The silence that followed was heavy, your coach’s face unreadable as she regarded you. For a moment, you wondered if you’d gone too far, if you’d just tanked your entire career with a few sentences.

But then she sighed, rubbing her temples. “Just... keep it low-key, alright? We can’t afford unnecessary drama.”

You nodded once, standing. “I always do.”

And when you left her office, you felt lighter than you had in ages, like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders. The familiar tension that had always been there when you wore that uniform was gone.

You weren’t just a cheerleader anymore. You were you.

The soft glow of the TV illuminated the room as you curled into the plush couch, a blanket thrown lazily over both your legs. Paige sat at the other end, her legs stretched out, socked feet occasionally brushing against yours. Some random movie was playing, one neither of you had really been paying attention to. The kind that served as background noise more than entertainment. It had been a long day, and this—just sitting together, the world quiet—was exactly what you needed.

You hadn't mentioned the conversation with your coach earlier. It wasn’t worth souring the moment, and besides, the heaviness from earlier had already lifted, replaced by the comfort of Paige’s presence. She had a way of making everything else feel smaller, less significant, like her calm confidence could shield you from anything outside these four walls.

She reached for the bowl of popcorn sitting between you, tossing a piece in the air and catching it expertly in her mouth. She smirked, satisfied, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at her playful display.

“Show-off,” you teased, nudging her foot with yours.

“What can I say?” she replied, her grin wide and unabashed. “Natural talent.”

The movie’s dialogue droned on in the background, but Paige muted it with a flick of the remote, letting the quiet settle over you. She shifted slightly, resting her head against the arm of the couch, and looked over at you with a soft expression that made your chest feel warm.

“You know,” she began, her voice casual but carrying that undertone of something deeper, “when I was a kid, I used to think being good at basketball was enough. Like, if I could just be the best, everything else would fall into place.” She laughed softly, a self-deprecating sound. “Turns out, it’s a little more complicated than that.”

You tilted your head, intrigued. “What do you mean?”

She shrugged, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “I guess… I started realizing that it’s not just about being good. It’s about how people see the game. Women’s basketball doesn’t get the respect it deserves, you know? I want to change that. I want little girls to grow up seeing us on TV, in the spotlight, and thinking, I want to do that too. Not as some second-tier option, but as the dream.”

Her words hung in the air for a moment, and you felt your heart do that stupid fluttering thing again. There was something so earnest, so fiercely passionate in the way she spoke, like the sheer force of her determination could bend the world to her will. You could see it—the little girl Paige, dribbling a ball on some driveway somewhere, dreaming of being a trailblazer, not just a player.

“That’s…” you started, struggling to find the right words. “That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”

Her cheeks flushed slightly, and she smiled, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “It’s just a dream.”

“Yeah, but you’re living it,” you insisted. “You’re out there, doing exactly what you said. You’re making it happen.”

She looked at you for a moment, her smile softening into something more vulnerable. “Thanks,” she murmured, her voice quieter now. “That means a lot.”

The conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, and after a moment, Paige nudged you with her foot. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Your dream,” she clarified. “What was it? Little you, running around in pigtails or whatever, what did she want to do?”

You laughed, leaning back into the couch cushions as you thought about it. “I always loved dancing. I think I was four when I begged my mom to put me in ballet classes. I was obsessed. And when I got older, it wasn’t just about the dancing anymore—it was about the performing, you know? The way it felt to be on stage, like for those few minutes, nothing else mattered.”

Paige listened intently, her gaze fixed on you in that way that made you feel like the most important person in the world.

“The DCC gave me a place to do that,” you continued, your voice softening. “I know it’s not perfect��God knows they’re not exactly progressive—but it’s still a dream. Getting to do what I love, to perform for a crowd… it’s everything I wanted.”

Paige smiled, a small, thoughtful curve of her lips. “You’re good at it,” she said simply.

You raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t even seen me dance.”

“I’ve seen enough,” she countered, her tone teasing but warm. “And besides, you wouldn’t be where you are if you weren’t incredible.”

You felt your cheeks heat, and you ducked your head, pretending to adjust the blanket so she wouldn’t see. “You’re just saying that.”

“Maybe,” she said with a grin, leaning back against the couch. “But I mean it.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything, the quiet between you filled with an unspoken understanding. It was rare, you realized, to have a moment like this—where everything felt easy, natural. Where you could just be.

As the credits rolled on the muted movie, Paige stretched, her arm brushing against yours, and you felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the blanket draped over you.

“You know,” she said, her voice light but with a playful edge, “I think little-you and little-me would’ve been friends. Or at least rivals.”

You laughed, the sound bubbling up before you could stop it. “Oh, definitely rivals. I would’ve wiped the floor with you in a dance-off.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, her smirk returning. “Bold claim, cheerleader.”

“True claim,” you shot back, grinning.

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue, and as the night stretched on, you found yourself leaning into the comfort of her presence, the weight of the world falling away, if only for a little while.

Paige grinned, leaning back against the couch cushions with a kind of effortless charm that made your stomach do somersaults. “What can I say? I’m a woman of many talents.” She winked, and it was ridiculous how easily she could fluster you with the smallest gestures.

You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping before you could help it. “That’s what you’re going to lead with? Popcorn tricks?”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” she shot back, her grin widening. “This could’ve been my party trick if basketball didn’t work out.”

You raised an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah? And where does ‘world-class popcorn catcher’ rank next to WNBA superstar?”

She pretended to think, tapping her chin dramatically. “Probably right under future Hall of Famer and your biggest fan.”

That last bit caught you off guard. Paige said it so casually, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that could make your heart skip a beat. She didn’t even look at you after, just grabbed another handful of popcorn like she hadn’t just said something that would live rent-free in your mind for days.

You tried to play it cool, focusing on the screen and not the way your cheeks felt like they were on fire. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Yeah, but you like it,” she teased, nudging your leg lightly with her foot.

And damn it, she wasn’t wrong.

The sound of her phone vibrating against the coffee table pulled both of you out of the easy rhythm of banter. Paige reached for it, glancing at the screen. The shift in her expression was subtle, but you caught it—the way her brows furrowed just slightly, the ghost of a smirk softening into something more reserved.

“Press conference clips,” she muttered, tossing the phone back onto the table without opening the notification. “Guess they’re making a thing out of it.”

It didn’t take a genius to know what “it” was. The photo, the headlines, the endless speculation. You felt the weight of it again, creeping in at the edges of this quiet moment. But before you could say anything, Paige turned her attention back to you, her expression steady.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, her voice firm but warm. “People are going to talk. Let them. It’s not going to change anything.”

You studied her, the way she always seemed so sure of herself, so unshaken by the noise. It was one of the things you admired most about her—the way she carried herself with this quiet confidence, like she knew exactly who she was and didn’t owe anyone an explanation.

“Doesn’t bother you?” you asked softly, the words coming out before you could second-guess them.

She shrugged, her lips curving into that easy, self-assured smile that felt like a safety net. “Why would it? I get to date you. Let ‘em be jealous.”

And just like that, the tension dissolved, replaced by the warmth of her words and the steady, unflinching way she looked at you. Paige Bueckers, always cool under pressure, had a way of making everything else fade into the background.

The next couple of weeks pass surprisingly smoothly, at least on the surface. Coach Anderson hasn’t said a word about the photos since your last meeting, and it’s not hard to figure out why. You’re the top cheerleader, the face of the squad, and the one she relies on to land those impossible stunts and lead the team’s routines. Letting you go now would only create a whirlwind of drama she clearly wants to avoid.

But that doesn’t mean everything is perfect.

Your teammates—most of them, anyway—don’t go out of their way to make life easy for you. There’s no outright hostility; it’s all subtle, quiet, passive-aggressive. Like when you’re practicing the pyramid, and someone “accidentally” tightens their grip too much on your ankle, or when you call for a run-through and the response is a too-sweet “Of course, captain,” followed by exaggerated sighs and barely concealed eye-rolls.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough that you can feel the weight of it. Even when no one’s saying anything, the whispers just outside of earshot, the exchanged glances, and the forced smiles remind you that the photos are still fresh in their minds.

You grit your teeth and keep going. Every time you land a clean tumble or nail the timing on a routine, you know you’re proving them wrong. Performance after performance, you remind everyone why you’re the one leading this team.

Then, one Friday night after a big game, the dam breaks—but not where you expect it.

The team’s win had been huge, a tight match that came down to the final seconds. The cheer squad had been flawless, their chants and stunts keeping the crowd alive and electric. As you gather with your squad on the sidelines, still buzzing from the game’s energy, the reporters swarm in.

The questions start innocent enough. Someone asks about the routine, another about the game’s atmosphere. You answer them like you always do—polished and professional.

But then a reporter steps forward. A man with a smirk that makes your skin crawl, and a voice dripping with fake politeness. "Great work tonight," he starts, holding his mic out to you. "But I have to ask—given all the controversy around those photos recently, do you really think you’re the right person to represent this team?"

The question catches you off guard, even though maybe it shouldn’t. You feel the weight of it settle like a rock in your chest, heavy and sharp. Around you, the other girls stiffen, and the camera lenses zoom in, waiting for your reaction.

You take a breath, keeping your expression calm even as irritation simmers just beneath the surface. "Well," you say, your voice steady, "those photos have nothing to do with my role here. What matters is the work we put into this team—on and off the field. And if you watched tonight’s game, I think the results speak for themselves."

Your response is measured, professional. But it’s not enough for him. "Still," he presses, his smirk widening, "don’t you think it sets a... questionable example for young girls watching?"

It’s such a loaded, condescending question that the irritation flares into anger. Before you can reply, though, one of your teammates steps forward. "Excuse me," she says sharply, her voice cutting through the tension. "What kind of example are you setting by asking that question? Maybe focus on our performance instead of gossip."

The reporter’s smirk falters, and another cheerleader speaks up, her arms crossed. "Yeah, seriously. We just worked our butts off out there, and this is what you want to talk about? Seems like a ‘you’ problem."

A few of the others chime in, their voices firm and united. For the first time in weeks, you don’t feel like you’re standing on shaky ground. The reporter stumbles over his words, trying to regain control, but someone from the PR team steps in and quickly ends the interview.

When the chaos dies down, and you’re gathering your things, one of your teammates catches your eye. "We’ve got your back," she says simply, offering you a small smile.

The others nod in agreement, and it’s all you can do to keep your voice steady when you reply. "Thanks. That means a lot."

It’s not a perfect resolution, but as you leave the field that night, you feel lighter. For the first time, it feels like you’re not fighting this battle alone.

The atmosphere shifts after the interview ends. The biting coldness that had lingered for weeks, the pointed whispers and passive-aggressive smiles, seems to melt away. For the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel like an outsider among your own team.

One by one, the girls gather around you. At first, it’s tentative—an awkward shuffle of sneakers on the turf as if they’re testing the waters. Then someone breaks the tension by stepping closer and wrapping their arms around you.

It’s unexpected, but the gesture cracks something open inside you. Before you can process it, another cheerleader joins in, and then another, until you’re at the center of a warm, chaotic huddle.

The hug isn’t perfect. Arms bump into shoulders, someone’s pom-poms tickle your cheek, and there’s a faint whiff of sweat and body spray mingling in the air. But none of that matters. What matters is the sincerity in the way they hold you, the murmured “We’ve got you” and “Don’t let them get to you” that make your throat tighten with unexpected emotion.

“Look,” one of them says with a grin as the group hug breaks apart, “we may not always be the easiest people to deal with, but you’re our captain. No reporter or stupid photos are gonna change that.”

Another girl chimes in, smirking. “And if they ask anything dumb again, we’ll handle it. You just focus on flipping in midair like it’s nothing.”

The laughter that ripples through the group is light, genuine, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like part of the team again. The weight of their support, of their acceptance, feels like armor you didn’t know you needed.

When the moment starts to fade and the team begins gathering their things, you feel a familiar hand slip into yours. Paige is there, her grip warm and steady, her smile soft in a way that’s meant just for you.

“Ready to go?” she asks, her voice low enough that only you can hear.

You nod, glancing around at the others. The team is still buzzing, joking and chatting as they trail toward the locker rooms, but a few of them shoot you quick, encouraging smiles.

As you and Paige step out of the arena, hand-in-hand, the crisp night air greets you. The world outside is buzzing, reporters still milling about, cameras flashing as fans cheer and chatter. You know they’re looking. You can feel the weight of their stares, the subtle tilt of a camera lens in your direction, the whispers that follow wherever you go.

But tonight, for once, you don’t care.

You hold Paige’s hand tighter, her fingers lacing through yours in a way that feels unshakable, grounding. You catch her eye, and there’s something fierce in her smile, a kind of defiance that mirrors your own.

“Let them look,” she says, her voice firm but laced with humor. “What are they gonna do? Take more photos?”

The words make you laugh, a sound that feels freer than it has in weeks. Together, you walk through the crowd, the world around you blurring into the background as you focus on each step forward.

People snap pictures, murmur among themselves, and even call out questions, but none of it matters. Not the flashes of cameras, not the speculative headlines that will follow. What matters is the solid warmth of Paige’s hand in yours and the knowledge that, for the first time in a long time, you’re not walking alone.

As the two of you disappear into the night, you feel lighter. Stronger. You’re still the same person who weathered the worst of the storm, but now, you have people at your side who will weather it with you. And that makes all the difference.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

642 notes · View notes

eowynstwin · 24 days ago

Text

professor price

professor price x reader. age gap. older man/younger woman. pining. pre-relationship. jealousy. angst. guilt. voyeurism. mvp alejandro. lightly explicit. - A Christmas gift to my friend @guyfieriii, centered around her own Professor Price au from all the way back in early 2023. I have linked each fic of hers that I reference in this work—highly recommend you check them out.

The first day of class you’re in the front row—center seat.

Old instincts never really retire even if the body leaves the field; a moment’s evaluation opens you like a book. Pencil pouch on your desk, set parallel to the edge. Syllabus in the middle, creased at the stapled corner but otherwise pristine. Water bottle at the corner, solid blue.

You: hair neat. Wearing clean slacks and a knitted sweater like a uniform, ankles crossed, buckled straps of your Mary-Janes intersecting in an obtuse V. Like a flock of birds in formation, flying southwards for the winter. There’s a curated look to you, a careful arrangement of details meant to declare the essence of who you are and what you’re about.

It’s clear immediately; from only a glance.

You’re a good girl.

The eager-to-please kind. The five A-levels kind. The kind who does her bonus assignments because they’re available, not because she needs them. Prim, polished, ironed at the creases.

Straight from a 90s teen drama, or porn of an equal vintage.

You meet his eyes—

And Price knows how it goes.

Boredom and professional stagnancy are the bane of active men. Men with egos. Men who long to fix things. Men who have reached the heights of every achievement now looking for the next peak to summit.

It’s the curse of middle age’s collision with machismo. How does a man prove his masculinity when there’s no proving left to be done? When the panopticon has finally turned its eyes away, satisfied at his self-regulation enough not to constantly surveil it?

Suddenly the performance can end, if he wants it to. Only, if it ends, how does the actor not disappear, when the role is the only identity he’s ever had?

In academia, the answer is—of course—simple:

Fuck a student.

And oh. It’s right there, in those wide, sweet eyes, looking up at him with the reflexive veneration of a star student.

You’re begging to be fucked.

Fucked right. Fucked by someone who knows what he’s doing. Fucked so good that it upends every clean line of you, like breaking furniture, like smashing crystal. Fucked crying, whimpering, groaning beyond recognizable language, sweaty and gross until it’s impossible to tell whether or not his body and yours have begun to fuse.

Fucked the way no snot-nosed twenty-something twat, the age-appropriate kind that sleeps in the back of his lecture hall and then emails him at the end of every semester begging for extra credit to fix his grade, could possibly fuck you.

He holds your gaze for too long. You smile at him, shyly, and he gives you a brusque nod before distracting himself with the papers on his lectern.

You’re too young for him.

Not that it matters.

Price is all about lines. Stark delineations between will and won’t. Before his untimely retirement, the lines had meant everything. They separated the kind of man he was from the kind of man he did not want to be, and they kept those men separate, even when the distance from one to the other narrowed so sharply that the differences between them were a matter of context rather than consequence.

The important one now is the one that splits his lectern off from the rest of the lecture hall. Students are allowed to cross it, of course, or else he would be neglecting his duty to them as their instructor. But they must inevitably leave, and his feet must remain planted squarely on his side of it.

It’s not even a line he drew himself, although he would have if need be. No—professors, at the beginning of their tenure, are warned. Students will construct feelings of intimacy with their teachers, interpreting their passion for academics as passion for the conduit thereof. Close relationships between mentor and mentee, to be sure, can be deeply beneficial for the young scholar’s development—

But they must remain impersonal. The work must be the lens through which student and teacher look at each other. That barrier must never be lifted.

So it doesn’t matter how old you are or aren’t, or that you’re a second-year grad student, or that every time you walk into the classroom Price wants to drag his desk chair over to yours because you’re the only one who seems like she gives a damn about what he teaches.

He may draw his lines, but he never crosses them.

He’s seen it before. Never done it himself. Phillip Graves has a reputation for it.

Of course, as the Americans like to say, innocent until proven guilty, but it’s hard to argue with the pretty girls Graves always seems to have floating around him every semester. Undergrads, even, though to his credit they seem usually to be the older ones.

Price doesn’t think that even Dean Shepherd’s lapdog could get away with fucking freshly legal coeds—mostly because, if Graves tried to pull something like that, Price might actually take matters into his own hands and kill the bastard himself.

As it is, he can’t actually prove that his colleague is sleeping with anyone he shouldn’t be. He’s not in the army anymore; he has no desire to lose sleep over staking out the man’s house.

The only consolation is that no one besides his students and the Dean seem to like Graves—something the man doesn’t seem concerned to rectify, if he even notices. Though Price can’t imagine that he hasn’t noticed. He’s always sitting alone at staff meetings if Shepherd isn’t present, and if he does try to talk to anyone, it’s usually the adjuncts, young women just beginning their careers in higher academia who know the drill by now and merely humor him.

So it shouldn’t surprise Price when, one day, he catches Graves chatting you up.

“Hey, congrats on the election, kid,” he hears him say to you, referencing your recent appointment as president to the student association of his department. Graves smiles, dimpling, all that American charm amped up to the maximum.

And Price sees red.

“Thank you, Professor Graves,” you say politely. You have your arms crossed over your binder, held to your chest, as if a makeshift shield.

“I’d have voted for you if I could’ve,” the other man says. “And hey, I know you Brits like your formalities, but it’s just Phil with me.”

“Erm…”

“There you are,” Price announces from the other end of the hallway.

You turn, and give look you shoot him is so relieved that, almost immediately, it clears the haze from his eyes, like a cool breeze moving through the hottest part of a summer day. Relief of his own floods him, washing the jealousy he’d barely had time to confront completely away.

“Hello, Professor,” you say, “I was just on my way to your office!”

“Good,” says Price, approaching. “Wanted to talk about your last paper. Had some issues with your secondary sources.”

You blanch, and he immediately feels guilty for the lie.

“Ah, go easy on the kid,” says Graves. “I keep telling you, John, no one likes a hardass.”

For some reason, there are two men in the department that Phillip Graves makes a consistent effort to interact with, and Price has the misfortune of being one of them. He’s not sure why—he thinks he’s made his distaste for the man very clear. It’s probably some dick-measuring contest for him; Price’s standing in the department, even despite Shepherd’s favoritism, is secure.

Whether it’s secure enough to withstand this…thing happening between you and him has yet to be seen.

“I hold my students to a higher standard, Graves,” Price says shortly. Then, to you, “Come along, and we’ll talk about it.”

He turns and leaves, and as he hears you hurry after him, an ugly kind of gratification begins purring behind his sternum. The two of you walk for a ways in silence.

“Was it the interviews?” you finally ask him, sounding genuinely upset. “I thought they would be okay, given that they were original transcriptions…”

“Your sources were fine,” Price soothes, unable to take it. “Just needed to give you a good out, didn’t I?”

You falter beside him, but quickly catch up. “Oh no, was I that obvious?”

He looks to you as he walks, catching the anxious expression on your face, and smiles, amused. “Don’t worry, promise you he couldn’t tell.”

Then you laugh. It enter’s Price’s bloodstream and pumps through his veins, all the way to the arteries in his neck. It fills the lobes of his brain, rapidly bringing the world into sharper focus.

“I’ll hold you to that, professor,” you say, and it’s a tether he welcomes, a sting of pleasure as its hook lodges in his ribs.

Price looks over his shoulder, and finds Graves watching the two of you walk away. He doesn’t like the expression on the other man’s face. It’s…knowing. Understanding, in the way of a man having competed for something and lost to the better opponent.

He catches the Graves’ eye, scowling at him; he means for the expression to be disapproving. For Graves to know that Price knows what he’s about, and has no intention of humoring it.

But he knows how it actually comes across.

Back off. She’s mine.

Price’s colleague and friend Alejandro Vargas is the only other man in the department that Graves cares to know, and, luckily for Price, Alejandro shares his dislike.

“He is too young to be acting the way he does,” he says one evening after work. He and Price share a pint at a pub nearby campus on a regular basis.

“Too young?” Price repeats. “What is he, thirty-five? Forty?”

“Who cares,” Alejandro says. “Anyone chasing after his students the way he does should at least be fifty. That way a midlife crisis can at least be a valid excuse.”

Price’s stomach turns. His forty-sixth birthday has already come and gone.

“So you’re sayin’—”

“Man his age can get his ego boost somewhere else,” Alejandro mutters into his tankard. He has a strange way of looking at things, sometimes; as if he were a much older man himself, and not in his prime at thirty-eight. “Don’t they make apps for that nowadays?”

“No excuse for messing with students,” Price agrees, although he tastes the bitter note of hypocrisy in the back of his throat as he thinks of you, and that rainy afternoon.

Driving you home was a mistake, although he can’t think of anything else he would’ve respected himself for doing. He clings to that excuse like a buoy in the ocean—no matter his feelings for you, leaving you on campus to wait until the storm passed, no umbrella, no coat, would have been unforgivable.

He’d played it off as simply doing a favor for his favorite student. A willingness to go beyond his usual responsibilities to you, since you excel beyond what even his high standards demand of you.

Something the two of you should keep between yourselves, for professionalism’s sake, because he has an obligation to treat every student equally.

I can be discreet, you’d said, the tone of your voice playful and also…not.

The way one says something that they mean, while framing it as a joke, just in case it’s taken the wrong way.

Mitigation.

Something he could’ve brushed off, if your hand hadn’t moved toward his.

Good girl. He’d moved his away. Focused on the line. Accepted your apology with grace, determined not to embarrass you for feelings that are only natural—

That are reciprocated, even though they shouldn’t be.

“That is less the problem to me,” Alejandro muses.

“What?” Price exclaims. “Mate, we have a responsibility to these kids. We can’t go treating classrooms like bloody Love Island.”

“It is about the man,” says his colleague. “If a man shows respect in his relationships, then it is not so important where they happen. Graves, he is not a respectful man.”

“No one his age should be with girls that much younger than him,” Price growls.

Alejandro fixes him with an intense look, a serious expression tightening the sharp lines of his face.

“This is what I mean by respect,” he says evenly. Purposefully. “Knowing who is right and wrong to be with. Girls that young? No. They do not know themselves, and Graves will try to tell them who they are. But not every girl is that young.”

Price shifts uncomfortably on his barstool, remembering one late afternoon—when Alejandro had stopped by his office, to find you sitting on the small couch there, studying, as Price finished grading essays.

Innocent, he’d thought. A mentor and his student, sharing space, making room for scholarship to flow between them.

He realizes now, chagrined, that Alejandro has always been too perceptive to accept what he merely observes.

“Mate,” Price says, measured, “It isn’t like that.”

“No,” Alejandro agrees, “it isn’t. That does not mean it can’t be.”

“Alejandro—”

“You are not your father, hermano,” his colleague says, knowing exactly where to strike. “That is the end of what I will say.”

And he sips his beer while leaving Price to seethe.

You’re seeing one of the twats.

Price convinced himself the first couple of times you walked out with him—Will—that you were taking on a charity case. You’re a student leader, after all. Helping a classmate with their ailing grades falls under your purview. You’ve hosted tutoring sessions before, and the pride of it had nestled glowing in his chest so warmly that he couldn’t help bragging about your academic promise to his colleagues.

Even outside of the ache for you that sits in his gut every time he sees you, Price could not be prouder. The students’ Historical Society’s fundraiser last month had gone off beautifully thanks to you, and everyone who had attended was still talking about it: from the brilliant idea for a fifties dress code, to the truly impressive array of antiques you’d convinced donors to contribute to the silent auction.

You’d looked so beautiful in your little red dress, too. The sharp lines of your burgundy lipstick had made your smile so bright all evening that he’d fallen asleep thinking about it.

His student. His protege, really. Of course you’d notice someone struggling, and make an effort to help.

Except, Price has never been very good at fooling himself. The truth is too valuable an asset for him to disregard.

The first time you leave with Will, he feels it clench around something in his gut. He has to remind himself he has no right to feel anything about it at all.

The second time, it starts burrowing deeper. Gnawing a hole in his stomach. The look on the twat’s face, as he follows you out like a lost puppy, is too smitten to allow Price his illusions.

Then one day, you take that twat’s hand in yours at the end of class, slotting your fingers between his.

It descends again. That film of red over his eyes. He stares at the two of you as you make your way to the door—and you throw Price a look, Price, aimed straight for his center.

You’re his. His.

And what has he done about it?

The accusation is in your eyes. It’s honed by everything he’s done—and hasn’t. The late-night chips after fundraiser planning. The cigars between classes, and the scotch in his office he pours every time you stop by to discuss your thesis.

The cufflinks he wears for every single class you’re in, and the box you wrapped them in sitting open on his beside table. Like a conduit for bringing the warmth of your touch into his home.

The same warmth, in his weakest moments, that he imagines wrapped around his cock. As his fingers find the soft give of your cleft. As his tongue meets yours, and tastes the liquor he now only drinks in your company.

Imagines, but never pursues.

Why had he believed you wouldn’t search for the same elsewhere?

The anniversary comes up faster than Price would have liked, despite the fact that the calendar isn’t missing any days.

He goes to the cemetery alone. Bouquet of English roses clutched in the vice of one hand. It feels like a day it should be raining, but the sky betrays him, the gray covering of clouds thin enough to let the dyed sunlight through.

He buried his mother in the plot she’d bought for herself and his father, Price the elder, according to her wishes. He’d buried his father beside her against Price the younger’s own.

It had happened within a year of each other. The chemotherapy hadn’t worked, after years of fighting it, and the last months of Mrs. Price’s life happened far sooner than it was fair. She hadn’t left any regrets behind, she promised in her will, but young John Price knew it for a lie.

He remembers sitting with her in the mornings as a boy, flipping through old issues of National Geographic. His mum would ooh and aah over exotic pictures of the American west—the Russian steppe—colorful bird’s eye shots of the Taj Mahal or Burj Khalifa.

“We’re gonna go there someday,”she would enthuse, squeezing him around his toddler-belly with one arm as he perched in her lap.

Even then he’d known it was a dream, and not a goal. All he had to do was look around at the yellow tint of their kitchen with its laminate countertops, the scuffs on the corners of its scratch-and-dent fridge, the mismatch of cookware hanging on a smoke-stained wall. Peeling wallpaper they didn’t have the right to tear off, because they needed their deposit back very badly when they moved out.

His father was a tradesman—they could barely afford to visit Wales.

And his mother, at the elder Price’s insistence, did not work.

It’s in a nice place, the grave. Far back away from the entrance, where it can’t be trivialized by passing cars or dog walkers. Price can stand at the end of it and reckon with death without having to think of life going inexorably on right behind him.

Except, it’s the years to the right of the dash that he stares at, not the left. Even as a boy, he’d always noticed the disparity between his mother and father. How, before the younger even turned fourteen, grey streaked Price the elder’s temples, scars of age furrowing deep from the corners of his nostrils— while the decades his mum still had left to face radiated from her so brightly that sometimes people took her for his father’s eldest, and not the baby she bounced on her hip.

Decades she never even got to see.

Price rounds to his mother’s side and lays the bouquet beneath her epitaph—Loving Wife and Mother. He’s almost as old now as she was, in her last year, and he feels the epicenter of it sit somewhere between his heart and lungs. It burns, furious, indignant.

“Got tenured this year, Mum,” he murmurs to her. “Probably pay off the house next.”

He hears birdsong in the tree line beyond the border fence. Tries to feel her fingers running through his hair in the breeze, and fails. It’s just wind.

His father—who he sees in the mirror too often lately—he does not address.

He makes the mistake all men eventually do—

He calls his ex.

“Hallo?” Ada says, after picking up on the second ring. She’s one of the few people he knows to keep a house phone these days. She’d explained she enjoys the novelty, and the surprise on the rare occasions it actually rings.

“Hi, darlin,’” says Price.

“John, hi! How you doin’?”

“I’m alright. How’s the new place?”

He hears a shift in the background, like she’s thrown herself at a haphazard angle into a chair. She’s always been like that; she moves through any space she occupies unafraid of what she might bump into.

“Tidy!” she enthuses. “Got a view of the sea down the hill. And there’s a market on Saturdays! I got the loveliest Gruyère from one of the stalls, says he ages it himself. Can’t wait to put it in a sauce.”

“Sounds nice,” Price says, meaning it.

“Yeah, it is,” Ada replies. He pictures her twirling the cord between her fingers. “Heard about your promotion, by the way, congratulations—you earned it, John.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Have you settled in okay there? Students giving you trouble?”

“Not at all! Bit touch and go at the start of the semester, but you know me,” she laughs. “That’s how I thrive.”

“I know.”

A pause. Long enough for Price’s regret over dialing her to make itself a part of the conversation.

She sounds good. She sounds better than good—she sounds great. Happy with where she is in life, and where she’s going.

Nothing like she did when she lived with him.

“So…” Ada trails. “I know you didn’t just call to chat, John. Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He can hear the sympathetic smile in her voice when she replies, “I can look at a calendar too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just—just wanted to hear your voice. Hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah, it’s alright,” she says. “Didn’t stop caring just because I left, you know.”

He hears the unsaid: just because you didn’t follow.

“I know,” he replies. He leaves the me neither unsaid as well. “Ada, do you—do you regret it, at all?”

“Regret…what?” The tone of her voice edges toward the defensive.

“Being with me.”

“What? John, of course not!” She laughs, tension evaporating. “We had some bad times, sure, but we had some good ones too. I’m grateful for all of them.”

“Even the bad times?” he asks, frowning.

“Yeah, John, even those. They showed me who you were. And I liked that person, a lot. If you had—”

She cuts herself off from the what if John knows had been coming. The speculation about what their relationship might have looked like, if he’d made a different decision. It would only hurt both of them more to think about it.

“If you’d been a worse man I’d have left a lot sooner,” she amends. “But like I said. No regrets. It’s over now, and I’m sad about that. But I’m glad it happened.”

Something happens behind Price’s ribs—something hard, trying to claw its way upward, that he has to draw his lips between his teeth and sniff hard to foil its escape.

“Thanks, darlin,’” he says, hearing the tremor in his own voice, and, for once, not hating himself for it with her listening. “I feel the same way too.”

He catches you with the twat in the library. It doesn’t surprise him—he hadn’t expected anything else. You hadn’t even looked at him this time as you’d pulled Will out of the lecture hall, nor had you noticed him following at a remove behind.

So when he opens the door to the sound of smacking flesh, it doesn’t shock him in the slightest.

You’re on a reading table with your skirt flipped upward, underwear dangling from one ankle as you curl your legs around the twat’s hips. The boy’s arse quivers and clenches as he jackhammers into you with neither art nor precision.

The look on your face is one of concentration. Focus. Like whatever pleasure you could derive from this is something you must actively keep hold of, otherwise you’ll lose it.

Your eyes land on him then, and for a split second—a fraction of a heartbeat—you seem relieved. Pleasure radiates from you, and you begin to roll your hips as you hold him in your gaze—and then, suddenly, horror overtakes it. Your eyes widen. You raise a hand to grab Will—

Price shakes his head.

You freeze. Your chest heaves. (The twat is oblivious.)

He stares you down. Leans against the bookshelf with his hands in his pockets, unblinking.

His.

The thing about lines is that they can be redrawn.

You run your tongue along your parted lips, hands coming up to rest on the twat’s back. Price looks down at the place Will’s body hides yours from his gaze, then back up.

He inclines his head. Go on, then.

And again, you move. Right as his command. Pull the body between your legs closer, brows creasing together, undulating into each thrust as you let Price’s eyes cage yours. You draw up higher and higher, the pitch of your breath thinning as your climax stretches taut inside you—you beg him with your eyes—

He nods.

You seize on the desk, throwing your head back, jaw dropping open. No sound escapes you—he sees the muscles in your throat work to contain it.

What will you sound like when he gets his hands on you?

By the look on the twat’s face next class, you’ve ended it. Price hardly cares. His phone is hot in his pocket, a grenade with its pin nearly out.

In case your memory fails when you find yourself thinking of me.

And, in the center of the photo, the exact thing the twat’s hips had been hiding away.

You’re there, in the front row. Every time his gaze falls on you, you shiver. The same skirt from before leaves the soft expanses of your thighs bare, for him, this time.

His. You know it now, too. It intersects the line, perfect in its perpendicularity.

You have lessons to learn. You’re already a good student; the despondent expression on Will’s face, even now, as he gazes at you like a lovelorn puppy from the back of the hall, proves it.

But you’re not there yet. You’re only just now catching up, after all. And only Price has the duty—the right—to teach you.

You’re too young for him—

Not that it matters.

a/n: If this seems disjointed or missing context, it's because a few things I reference are no longer available on the internet. Ash, I mourn daily what you have withdrawn from us.

Thank you for reading!

#john price #price x reader #price x you #captain price #john price x reader #john price x you #john price x y/n #professor price #does tagging even work anymore or are the tags all just clogged by now #mwritesprice #madi writes #that is in fact a photo of barry

537 notes · View notes

astonmartinii · 7 months ago

Text

i like a girl in uniform | lando norris social media au

pairing: lando norris x fem vet!reader

little leo leclerc needs a trip to the vet, lando was just being a good friend but the vet tech was definitely a plus

based on the request by: @volleygal06

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

charles_leclerc

liked by landonorris, yourusername and 1,304,893 others

charles_leclerc: this dramatic little boy decided he wanted to eat every piece of grass he could find and got poorly, thank you to austin vet clinic for helping us out and getting him back into shape :)

view all comments

user1: leo is so dramatic, he's so me

user2: leo leclerc is the dramatic girl representation we need in the f1 paddock

pierregasly: please word your texts better, i thought someone had actually died

charles_leclerc: he nearly did!

landonorris: he did not, you're just a helicopter parent

pierregasly: wait why was lando with you and not me?

charles_leclerc: he just happened to be there and i needed a lift

landonorris: because he was freaking out

charles_leclerc: but he conveniently he decided he really cared about leo's wellbeing when he saw the vet tech

pierregasly: ohhhhh i see

landonorris: what! no! i'm a good friend!

charles_leclerc: sure, jan.

user3: fuckboy lando has re-entered the chat

user4: his slutiness knows no bounds

yourusername: he's such a precious little guy, i'm glad i could get him back to feeling himself. good luck to both of you this weekend!

charles_leclerc: thank you so much for your time, you definitely were the calm we needed

yourusername: ahahaha you're just a good dad to your fur baby

landonorris: thank you! any chance you can be my lucky charm this weekend?

yourusername: do you flirt with all the vet techs like this?

landonorris: only the cute ones

yourusername: i see...

landonorris: but i can still interest you in a coffee?

yourusername: i'll see if i'm free

user5: that was .... tragic

oscarpiastri: well that was something

alexalbon: you'd think he'd be better at it by now

georgerussell63: i have to have faith he's better at this in person

maxverstappen1: i'm kind of enjoying this show tbf

landonorris: i can read this?

alexalbon: take the constructive feedback

yourusername

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 11,563 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: never a boring day here, leo was just the loveliest boy ever

view all comments

user6: okay turns out i am no better than lando

user7: if you heard barking that wasn't me

landonorris: are you sure he was THE loveliest boy, or are you just being nice because he's a puppy?

alexalbon: bro is jealous of a dog

yourusername: i'm sorry lando, but leo was a very brave boy

landonorris: i can be brave too!

oscarpiastri: you wouldn't let me sit at the same table as you at a restaurant because i ordered salmon

landonorris: well yes but that's also because it's you - when i go on a date with y/n, if she ordered salmon i would live with it

yourusername: when i go on a date with you?

landonorris: our date on sunday?

yourusername: oh really?

landonorris: i'll pick you up, wear something pretty x

user8: i have no idea whether that worked or not

user9: it was a loser move, but i would cave as well

user10: lando is unbelievably lame but he's also a millionaire f1 driver so i guess he can do what he wants

alexalbon: no it was lame and you guys should continue to tell him that

landonorris: trust the process alex

georgerussell63: the last time we trusted the process your dms where you tried to go on a maccies date were leaked

yourusername: i am NOT coming if you're taking me to mcdonalds 🤨

charles_leclerc: he takes after his mother :)

yourusername: awwwww, based on how many times he pissed on you, i think he's definitely a mummy's boy

charles_leclerc: tbf i'll do anything she says too

yourusername: @landonorris take notes if you want a date ^^

user11: american races i will never not complain about you but you have given me entertainment before the cars have even gotten on track

user12: idk this kinda proves my theory that the american races are just one big humiliation ritual for f1

f1tea

liked by user14, user15 and 18,304 others

tagged: yourusername

f1tea: the vet tech, y/n y/ln, who helped leo is in the paddock for qualifying.

view all comments

user16: oh wow she's actually so pretty

user17: also like she just looks like a normal fucking person

user18: that's probably because she is a normal person

user19: okay queen is turning a fucking look

user20: she looks so effortless i love her already

user21: i beg you people don't get parasocial already, she's a vet tech who will probably just be here for the weekend

user22: not if lando has any say in it 😭

user23: i honestly think good for her for having him so down bad but i also pray for her for when the twitter girls catch on

user24: they've already found all of her personal details poor gal

user25: so like which garage is she in this weekend?

user26: she came in with alex and leo so i think it's a safe bet to guess ferrari

user27: i think the 13 year olds would actually have an aneurysm if she was in the mclaren garage

user28: i kinda want to see the meltdown

user29: the way ted kravitz shoved his microphone in her face killed me

user30: girl was so fucking confused

user31: the way she said 'i guess i'm a charles fan? i don't know i met him yesterday and he offered me tickets after i helped leo?'

user32: alex trying not to laugh right next to her when ted was asking her so many questions

user33: lando just fell to his knees in the mclaren garage

yourusername

liked by alexsaintmleux, landonorris and 24,509 others

tagged: f1 & charles_leclerc

yourusername: thanks for the hospitality charles and ferrari! this has been a dream come true x

view all comments

user37: girl rocked up to her job, met THE leo leclerc and got a paddock pass

user38: why does leo never eat a load of grass when i'm on shift

user39: ugh why does this stuff not happen to me :(

charles_leclerc: i'm glad i could repay you beyond leo's vet fees!

yourusername: i did not know this sport was so god damn stressful and it wasn't even the race 😭

charles_leclerc: are you sure you can't make it tomorrow, there's still a ticket with your name on it?

yourusername: just say you and alex want a free dogsitter

charles_leclerc: guilty!

charles_leclerc: no but seriously if you wanna pull a sick day, we have a ticket for you

yourusername: all of my managers follow you on instagram, so i think that might be off the cards now

charles_leclerc: ..... oh

yourusername: it's like you people forget you're famous

user40: she's not here for the race :(((

user41: rip y/n y/ln in the paddock 2024-2024, forever in our hearts

user42: we'll never forget the ted's notebook episode of him being humbled by her

landonorris: you're not here for the race ? :(

yourusername: i have a job babe

landonorris: but but but i never got to take you out

yourusername: i technically never even agreed to that

landonorris: but hypothetically if i happened to be in your vicinity on sunday evening, would you change your mind?

yourusername: i'm sure you'll be out celebrating mr racer boy

landonorris: so you think i'm good 😊

yourusername: well you're starting third so i guess so?

landonorris: don't count out a more lowkey celebration ;)

alexalbon: is this loser son of a bitch actually going to secure a date

landonorris: i told you guys to trust the process

yourusername: i can literally read this right now ?

landonorris: I'M DOWN BAD LET A MAN LIVE

landonorris

liked by danielricciardo, oscarpiastri and 1,429,788 others

tagged: yourusername

landonorris: i told the pretty girl i'd win something for her desk and i did ;)

view all comments

user43: holy moly he did it

user44: this is possibly bigger than his first win

user45: proved he can drive and is not completely sauceless

user46: is he at the vets in his sweaty-ass racesuit?

oscarpiastri: YES HE IS AND HE RAN BEFORE WE COULD DEBRIEF SO NOW I HAVE TO WAIT FOR HIS WHIPPED ASS TO COME BACK TO THE PADDOCK BEFORE I CAN GO TO BED

landonorris: your tone seems very pointed

oscarpiastri: it is indeed very pointed, i am so tired and you're so down bad that i'm going to have to sleep at the track

landonorris: well that sounds like a you problem

oscarpiastri: you are such a failure in this department that i'll let you off but i expect a tow next weekend

landonorris: anything i don't mind

oscarpiastri: this is levels of down bad i have never seen before

yourusername: i happen to like my men desperate and pathetic

landonorris: hehehhehehehhehe :P

user47: i now know way too much about these people

user48: at least all this public humiliation was worth it in the end for lando?

alexalbon: this pizza in the car date is very reminiscent of the proposed hotel maccies date ....

yourusername: why are you always up in our business

alexalbon: i've known this gremlin for far too long, if anything i'm looking out for you

yourusername: please refer to my previous comment about my preferences

alexalbon: you people are perfect for each other 🤨

yourusername: i can't deny a pretty boy when he's worked so hard to impress me

maxverstappen1: pretty sure that's just his day job to drive fast

yourusername: LET ME HAVE THIS FUCK OFF

landonorris: i knew i had one shot for you to take me seriously

yourusername: oh i was always going to say yes to a date, i just wanted to see just how much you wanted it

landonorris: well i wanted it and i want many more SO BADLY

yourusername: we'll see what we can do...

landonorris: HEHHEHHEHEHEHHEHEHE :)))))))))

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, landonorris and 34,109 others

tagged: landonorris

yourusername: someone tell this man he has a job and he has to leave

view all comments

user51: y/n's photography has shown me what the lando girls see for once

user52: i agree i am MOVED

yourusername: 🤨

user53: bro went on one date and thinks she's special

yourusername: more dates than you :P

user54: ugh finally a wag that fights back

landonorris: but i don't wanna leave you 😩

yourusername: i don't particularly want you to go either but somehow zak has gotten my personal number and wants you at the airport and i'm scared he'll get my address next

landonorris: tell him to fuck off next time

yourusername: he's your boss? WHAT IF HE GETS MY ADDRESS

oscarpiastri: not to sound like a sweat but he is actively looking for your address with cartoonish steam coming out of his ears

yourusername: LANDO IF YOU LIKE ME AS MUCH AS YOU SAY PLEASE MAKE SURE YOUR PSYCHO BOSS DOES NOT COME TO MY HOUSE

landonorris: ugh anything for you i guess

user55: i'm not sure how we got here but they're so hot

user56: he is PUNCHING SO BAD

landonorris: she's a literal goddess i know

yourusername: take notes ladies xx

landonorris: no but seriously, i don't want to leave you - can't you come to brazil?

yourusername: sorry babe i have a job i need to go to

landonorris: PLEASE

yourusername: but what about all the sick animals :(

landonorris: i guess :(

user57: what kind of spell is he under it's been THREE DAYS

landonorris: i love a girl in uniform

yourusername: even if it's scrubs covered in cat piss

landonorris: i find you sexy in anything, but preferably nothing ...

yourusername: right back at you xo

fin.

note: babes i am SWAMPED but i hope you enjoyed!

#f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #lando norris insta au #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #lando norris instagram edit #lando norris social media au

3K notes · View notes

leeknow-thoughts · 8 months ago

Text

୨୧ POMEGRANATE

𝝑𝝔 son of Hades!Chris x mortal!fem!reader

𝝑𝝔 cw : forced marriage, coercion, kidnapping, Hades is an asshole, Chris isn't an asshole, Soft!Dom!Chris, Sub!Reader, daddy kink, dd/lg, fingering (r. rec), innocence kink, oral (r. rec), spanking, oral fixation, inexperienced! reader, d/s dynamics, age play (not super extreme), p in v, creampie (use protection!!), pussy spanking, pet names, degrading kink, praise kink, bulge kink, lmk if I missed anything!!

𝝑𝝔 hyung line Greek gods m.list | maknae line Greek gods m.list

You were always too busy to think about having boyfriends and sex and things that were normal for women of your age. You never thought it was weird how you avoided romance, even in your teenage years. You thought romance was stupid, and it would just get in the way of your goals.

You busted your ass to graduate valedictorian in college, countless sleepless nights and study sessions is what your life consisted of for four whole years.

You reminisced about your hard work every single day that you worked this stupid low level job. You worked for the largest construction company in the country, Erebus Construction Enterprises. It was owned by one of the wealthiest families in the nation, the Bahngs, the oldest son of the family being the current CEO and his father being the head chairman of the company.

"Y/n," your coworker snaps you out of your trance, "hey, there you are, the team was going to go get drinks tonight? Do you wanna join?"

"No thanks," you reject, "I have a project I have to complete."

Your coworker gives you a look of sympathy before grabbing her coat and clocking out.

You refocus on your project as the desks next to you become empty, workers clocking out, hoping to enjoy their long weekend. Not you though, you still had to finish typing up a paper for the marketing team and make a slideshow for the next accounting meeting.

Hours passed by as you kept typing on your computer. "You know work hours ended-," a voice begins, you snap your head up to look at the man who said it, you find a man in an all black uniform staring at you, he checks his watch, "- five hours ago," the man finishes.

"I'm just finishing up a paper and a slideshow for a meeting we have next Tuesday," you explain to the man.

You take a moment to stretch, leaning back in your rolling chair. "Your name is?" the man asks.

"Y/n Y/l/n," you introduce yourself.

"Ah, just wanted to be sure," the man says.

It takes you a moment to register what he said and reply with, "wait what do you mean?"

"Follow me," he instructs.

When you don't follow after him he stops in his tracks, approaches you again and gives you a stern warning, "you should do what you're told, now come," he grabs your arm.

He drags you out into the hallway and the more you try to squirm and get away from him, the tighter his grip on your hand is. He pulls you into the elevator and presses one of the red buttons on the bottom.

You watch as the sign on the elevator changes from 'elevator' to 'hellevator'. "You might want to hold onto something," the man in black warns.

"Wha-" you begin.

Suddenly you're falling, well the elevator is falling. You scream as it plummets down. You don't know where it's taking you but your stomach sinks more every second you're falling.

Suddenly the elevator halts, and you have no time to brace yourself as you hit the floor. "Don't say I didn't warn you," the man chuckles lowly.

"What the fuck!" you scream, "what the fuck is this place!?"

"It's just hell, honey," he says the answer like it's obvious.

"What?" You look at him with shock and disbelief.

The elevator dings before the doors swing open, "don't go to the basement unless you want to meet Cerberus," the man gives a final warning before grabbing your purse and pulling out a quarter, "there that covers your fine," he hands me back my bag.

"My fine?" You question.

"You just crossed the River Styx, honey, I'm the ferryman," he says it like it's obvious.

You are given no warning before he pushes you out of the elevator, you try to run back inside, but the doors close before you can. You slide against the wall and cry.

You were in hell?

But why?

Ferryman? Cerberus? Like in Greek mythology, the spirit who helps the dead cross the River Styx, and the giant three-headed dog?

Your head fell into your hands and you tried to make sense of the whole situation. A tap on your shoulder causes you to look up, "please- just let me go home!" you plead through a sob.

The woman in front of you holds out her hand for you to take, when you don't take it she grabs your hand and pulls you with her.

She pulls you into a large dining room, the table is set with a collection of magnificent foods, there are four seats, none of them are full.

All of the windows are covered with curtains and the only light source in the room comes from the many candles scattered around the room.

The woman pulls you to one of the seats, and makes you sit down on the leather surface. "Who are you? Let me go!" you try and push the woman off you.

"Tch tch tch, silly girl," a deep voice scolds, "she's dead, she can't speak."

You look to find where the voice comes from, you find the man who spoke standing in a doorway. He wore a simple back suit with perfectly polished leather shoes and a clean haircut.

"Servant," he calls to the woman holding your wrist, "go fetch Chris and Persephone."

The woman bows to the man and lets go of your wrist before leaving out the door she brought you through. "Y/n Y/l/n," he says your name.

He crosses the space from the doorway to the seat directly in front of the one you were sat in. "Who-what are you?" you stutter.

"Well you could call me the devil, but I am not nearly as evil as him," he looks at you like you should know this like it is obvious and you should've known all along, "did the Ferryman not explain to you where you were?" he asks as he takes off the black blazer, placing it on the back of his chair.

"He just said we crossed the River Styx," you recall to the man.

"I see, still-," he pauses and opens a bottle of what looks like red wine before pouring it into one of the wine glasses, "you're a very intelligent young lady, I assume you realized where you were on your own."

"Why am I here?" I ask the man.

"Well it's a really long story, it started off with my nephew, he was given a message for me by these three old hags- that are referred to as the Fates. So being the messenger God and all, my nephew- Hermes- brought their letter to me," he takes a sip of the win before he continues, "imagine my surprise when that letter tells me the name of my eldest son's fated wife, and it turns out being your name. One of the new accounting hires," he man cocks his head.

"Y-you know me?" you mutter.

He hears you clearly though, "I know of every soul to exist, yes I know of you."

"W-why is this happening?" you inquire.

The man sighs, "like I said, you're fated to marry my oldest son," he replies.

"I-I c-can't be," you choke out, trying not to sob.

"Well unfortunately for you, you are," the man says dryly.

"S-so you're the devil?" I ask.

The man smirks, "Hades actually, Satan works in Tartarus exclusively," he explains.

"Hello darling," a woman says from the doorway.

She is utterly stunning, a small frame and dark brown eyes with red rosy cheeks and plump lips. "Hello Persephone," the man-Hades-greets.

The woman walks to your seat and wraps her arms around you, "hello y/n," she says as she hugs you tenderly.

Your words are caught in the back of your throat, "P-persephone?" you somehow are able to mumble.

"That's me, dear," she breaks away from you and walks to the other side of the table, sliding into the seat next to Hades.

"Where's Chris?" Hades asks her.

"He's in one of his moods, you know he doesn't want to do this, darling," Persephone says softly.

Hades rolls his eyes and whistles, within a millisecond a large wolf with red eyes is sitting beside your chair, "go get Chris," Hades tells the ferocious looking dog.

The dog trots away, out the doorway. "Oh, y/n dear, help yourself to the food," Persephone says gently.

You look at the meal prepared on the table in front of you. "B-but I d-don't want to have to stay here like you do," you confess to the woman.

"Don't worry about that dear, besides that whole myth is just a lie, Hades didn't force me to live down here," Persephone calmly corrected.

"Yeah, but he coerced you, I read the story, you were kidnapped by him and Zeus and they brought you down here and you accidentally ate a pomegranate and now you have to stay down here for 3 months every year," you clear your throat then continue, "and those 3 months are known as winter because your mother, Demeter, won't tend to the crops, that's why they all die."

"You haven't the slightest idea of what truly happened," Persephone says firmly, "I chose to stay with Hades on my own volition, winter happens because my mother takes a break during those three months. And Hades and his brother never kidnapped me."

Your mouth falls slightly agape as you listen to her.

"Oh," you say when she finishes talking.

"Yeah," she clears her throat.

"Dad, I told you," a voice comes from the doorway, you turn to look at the man, he was handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes, "I'm not doing this," he continues.

"You don't have a choice," Hades tells him, "now, sit."

The man reluctantly takes the seat next to you, and gives you a quick glance. "Y/n you really should eat," Persephone insists, "it's very good."

"Do you promise me that if I eat I won't be stuck here for forever," you ask her.

"You won't be stuck here forever," she promises.

You hesitantly reach across the table and grab a serving of the food, putting it on your plate and taking a small bite.

The food was delicious, the best you've had in your life. "It's good isn't it?" Persephone asks.

"The best," you compliment.

"Well, Chris, aren't you going to say anything to her?" Hades asks the man next to you.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I don't want to get married."

Hades' first slams onto the table, "Chris that is enough. You know your fate, she knows hers. There is not a choice in this matter," his voice booms.

Persephone gently rubs circles on Hades' shoulder, trying to calm him. "Y/n," she begins, "once dinner is over, you and Chris will be going back to his house, it's just a short boat ride away, if you would like anything you can write to Hephaestus," she explains.

"What about my apartment? And my job?" you ask.

"This is your home now," Hades says, rubbing his temple, "you can visit Earth anytime you like, but you must come back here before dark."

A clock on the wall chimes ten times, "well it is time for you two to go," Hades instructs Chris and you.

Chris sits up and looks at you before extending his hand for you to take. He senses your caution and smiles at you, trying to make you feel more calm.

"Go with him now, y/n, or else," Hades warns.

You hesitantly take his hand and he swiftly leads you out of the dining room and through the house, he opens the front door and steps out with you, the same man that brought you down here is standing on a boat that is floating in that is floating on a glowing surface.

Chris lifts you up onto the boat before climbing in himself. "Where to?" the ferryman asks.

"666 Hellside lane," Chris says to the man.

Chris pulls a coin out of his pocket and hands it to the man. The ferryman begins rowing the boat and you and Chris just stand in silence.

You take in the scenery, large pits of fire with people burning in them next to large pits with meadows and people running around happily. You look into the large pit of fire, seeing the pain and agony on the people's faces as they burn, you reach out for them, wanting to help but a firm grasp on your extended wrist stops you from being able to reach them. "Don't," Chris warns.

"They're suffering," you try to plead with him, pleading for people you don't even know.

"And for a good fucking reason, they lived evil lives," Chris explains.

"B-but they were still just people," you swallow the lump in your throat.

"Bad people," Chris reminds you, "the morals of your world don't always apply down here, but I know for a fact that all the souls in that burning pit deserve to be down there, burning."

You blink at the man, "is that where I'll go? Will you send me there?"

"Never," he replies immediately, "in no reality would I make you suffer like them."

"W-would your father s-send me there?" you ask with teary eyes at the thought.

Chris gently cups your face, "don't worry about my father, I won't let him hurt you."

You nod and Chris wipes a tear that had fallen with his thumb.

The boat stopped and Chris got off first, he lifted you up and helped you down off the boat afterwards. You looked up at the large house in front of you. Ornate and beautiful on the outside. Chris opened the front door and you walked in before he closed the door behind the two of you.

The living room was magnificent, high ceilings with stained glass windows, a large couch in the middle and a fireplace across from it. "Woah," you gawk.

After a moment of silence, Chris speaks, "your room is down there," he points down the hallway with one door at the end.

"My room?" you ask.

"Yeah," he says softly, "all yours," he smiles.

"B-but what about you?" you ask.

"My room is upstairs, it's the first room on the right," he informs.

"Oh," you say.

"Yeah, just make yourself comfortable and if there's anything you need, I'll just be in my room or in my office," he explains softly.

He starts to walk away, "wait!" you call to him, he turns around and looks at you, "my cats, Cookie a-and Oreo- they're still on Earth, I-I don't want them to be lonely or g-go hungry," you tell him.

"I'll go get them for you," he instantly replies.

"They can come down here?" you ask enthusiastically.

Chris walks to you and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, "of course they can, I do have a dog though, but she's really friendly, her name is Berry, she's probably playing outside," he tells you, "I'll go and get your cats and bring them back here."

"O-okay, t-thank you," you thank him.

He smiles softly and leaves out the front door. You stand there for a moment, not knowing what to do with yourself, before you decide to check out your bedroom.

You open the door and look around, it looked similar to your bedroom back on Earth. You opened one of the doors in the room to see a huge walk in closet. Multiple floors tall and full of any types of clothes you could think of.

You open another door to see a whole on-suite bathroom. With a huge shower and a jacuzzi tub.

You walk back into the closet, looking for a pair of pajamas. You find a key pad with many buttons, you cautiously press the button that says 'sleepwear' and the closet starts to move around.

The many racks of clothing shuffle around for a moment before the sliding doors open, revealing all kinds of pajamas.

You opt for a blue matching silk pajama set, you slip the clothes on and decide to look around the house that was now yours. You opened one of the large doors that lead to a large grassy area that was fenced in with a metal gate. You take a seat on the back porch, close your eyes, and try to wrap your mind around the day you had.

You hear a dog bark beside you and you open your eyes to see a dog with three heads staring at you. Your first reaction is to scream, not used to the supernatural sight. But one of the dog's heads starts licking your face, making you burst into a fit of laughter.

You sit up and look at the small dog, you look at the large collar around it's neck and read the name. "Berry," you say the dog's name out loud.

The dog perks up and jumps into your lap, "hi, Berry," you coo, "aren't you gorgeous," you say as you pet her.

You sit with the three-headed dog until you hear the back door open, Chris leaning against the door frame carrying your two cats, one in each hand.

Berry rushes to Chris' side, her tail wagging a mile a minute.

You sit up and walk to Chris, gently taking your cat, Oreo, from his arms, give Oreo a kiss and gently pet him. "Thank you," you thank Chris again.

"Don't mention it," he smiles.

You step inside and Chris closes the door behind the two of you. You put Oreo down on the ground and Berry begins sniffing the black and white cat. You turn back to Chris and he hands you your Tortoiseshell cat, Cookie.

You kiss Cookie before you put her on the ground, Berry sniffing her now as well. "You really aren't like your dad," you figure, talking about Chris.

"I hope I'm not," he chuckles lowly, he brushes a strand of hair out of your face, "you should get some sleep," he suggests, "we can talk more in the morning okay?"

He walks you to your room, "wake me up if you ever need anything," he says softly.

You step into your room and Chris closes the door. You hear his footsteps as he walks away from the door.

You did try to sleep, you really did. But you found yourself tossing and turning on the large bed rather than sleeping.

You contemplate waking Chris up for a good ten minutes before deciding you would just watch something on the TV in the living room.

You sat up and walked into the living room, you sat on the large, black, leather couch and grabbed the remote, turning on the TV.

You flipped through channels until you settled on a random channel in a random language you couldn't understand.

"Y/n?" you hear Chris' voice.

You watch the man as he walks down a pair of stairs, rubbing his eyes, wearing nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants and a pair of red slippers.

"What're you doing up?" he asks softly.

"C-couldn't sleep," you explain quietly.

"O-oh," he hums, walking back up to his bedroom.

Eventually you passed out on the couch, waking up from a nightmare. It took you a moment to fully realize where you were, but you ruled out the fact that you just had a bad dream when you looked around the ornate living room, remembering all that had happened.

A knock on the door made you snap your head up. You hesitantly walk to the door, opening it to reveal Persephone along with a group of servants. "Oh, hello honey!" she muses before stepping into the house as if it was hers.

"W-what are you doing here?" you ask in the most polite way you can.

"Well it's your wedding day!" she announces like it's obvious.

"M-my wh-what?"

"Oh dear, don't play dumb! C'mon we need to get you fitted for a dress," she hums.

She drags you by your arm to your room before practically pulling your clothes off, only leaving you in your underwear. You try to cover yourself but she is swatting your hands away as the servants begin taking your measurements with measuring tapes. "Do you like the color black?" Persephone asks as a servant shows her different fabrics and colors.

"I-I-it's okay?"

"And do you like glitter?"

"N-not really."

"Dear," she scolds, "you should be serious about this, we have the Christian Dior working on this."

"Christian Dior?"

"Yes the owner and founder of Dior-"

"I know who Christian Dior is b-but why?"

"Well your wedding should be perfect!" she exclaims.

"Mom," Chris' voice comes from the door to your room.

"You're not supposed to see each other before the ceremony!" Persephone whines.

"I understand you're excited, but go easy on y/n m'kay? She is scared," he points out and looks at you.

"Oh, c'mon it's just marriage!"

"Mom," he says more firmly, "it's marriage."

"Oh fine," Persephone huffs, "y/n what are your favorite flowers by the way? My brother is going to make us some!"

"Felix is coming?" Chris asks.

"All of Olympus is coming!" Persephone cackles.

"Olympus!" you shriek, "I'm going to pass out!"

Chris lunges forward to support you and keep you standing while his mother and her servants are whispering and talking amongst themselves. "Here, let's get you in some clothes," Chris figures.

If you were naive you would think he's being kind, but honestly you don't know if you can afford to be naive at the moment.

Chris walks to the closet and grabs a pair of clothes and hands them to you. You swiftly pull them on before Persephone is grabbing your hand and pulling you into a seat. One of her servants pulling out a makeup bag and slapping a primer on your skin. "Chris!" An unfamiliar voice calls.

You turn your head to see a blonde boy with freckles standing in the doorway calling to your soon to be husband. "Felix, hey man," Chris says, embracing the man-Felix.

"Oh hey, you must be y/n! Nice to meet you! I'm Demeter's son! Gosh it is scorching down here!" he exclaims and fans himself with his hand.

"Well it's almost like it's hell," you retort.

"Well yeah, dear Zeus, Persephone how can you love someone so much to stay down here for as long as you do!" he exclaims.

"Well you know how much I love Hades," she chuckles to her brother.

You sit still as the servants begin styling your hair and applying your makeup.

"Is Zeus coming?" Chris asks.

"No! Silly! He is far too busy! But he's sending Hyunjin on his behalf," Persephone announces.

"Persephone, the dress is done!" one of the servants says.

"Oh lovely! Y/n look at this! Isn't it stunning!" Persephone calls and shows you the large black ballgown dress.

"Y-yeah, beautiful," you shrug as you feel tears welling up in your eyes.

"It's so beautiful she's crying isn't that sweet!" Persephone proclaims.

You feel so claustrophobic in the room, as you try to bite down your tears. "Mom," Chris starts, "she is crying because she doesn't want to do this."

"Christopher!" Persephone shouts, "she will deal with it! As will you! This is destiny!"

"You don't have to like your destiny!" Chris' voice booms.

You can't help but mentally compare him to his father, they yell the same way. Chris has a better temper but they both can hate the same way.

"Ok," Felix breaks the tension, "Seph why don't you go and get ready I'll watch over them."

Your eyes go wide as you watch Persephone leave the room in a huff. "Sorry you had to hear that y/n," Felix apologizes for his sister and his nephew, "they both have quite a temper."

You turn your head back and wait until the servants finished your makeup and hair.

Chris and Felix eventually left when it was time for you to put on the wedding dress, saying they'd meet you at the venue.

You slipped on the dress in silence and one of the servants tightened the corset on the back.

The boat ride to the venue was silent, only thanking the ferryman and handing him a silver coin when he dropped you off.

"Hi my dear," an old woman greets you at the gate of the garden you were dropped off at, "my name is Clotho, I'm one of the Fates, my sisters are busy today but they give you and Chris their blessing!"

"Please tell Lachesis to cut my time short, I don't want to do this," you plead to the old woman.

"Dear," she coughs, "you'll be immortal once you marry him, it's not like she can do anything."

"I would rather die," you comment.

"I shouldn't tell you your fate, but you do fall in love with him, may as well let it happen," she whispers to you.

Your eyes widen in shock and she holds your hand walking you down the aisle in the garden.

A piano playing a tune in the background as you walk down the aisle with the woman.

Chris is waiting at the end of the aisle and you see Hades standing at the center.

You cry as you stand up there and Hades pronounces you married. Not wanting this to be your fate.

"You may kiss the bride," Hades instructs Chris.

Chris rolls his eyes before gently cupping your face and bringing you in for a kiss that lasts only a second.

You sob on the boat ride back to your house, mascara running down your face. You run to your bedroom and cry into the pillows. Crying until you feel like throwing up.

You had been living in the same house as Chris for a few days, and you finally were able to sleep in your bed at night.

A knock on your door is what woke you up, you sat up and rubbed your eyes while the door creaked open, "y/n," Chris calls out to you.

"Mhm," you grunt sleepily.

"Hey, I got you a present," he explains.

You rise up out of bed and let Chris lead you to where the present is. He has you sit down on the couch and close your eyes and you feel a weight being put on your extended hands. "Okay, you can open your eyes now," Chris says.

You slowly open your eyes and look at the box in your hands, you look up at him before you open the pretty black box. You look at the ticket stubs for a moment, and read the text. Concert tickets, for your favorite band.

"D'you like them? I don't want this marriage as much as you, but I figured a wedding gift wouldn't hurt that much?" Chris asks.

"Like them? Chris-" the words are caught in your throat, "I love them," you smile.

"I-I got you two, that way you can go with one of your friends on earth," he grins.

"I- thank you," you thank him, you throw your arms around him in a warm embrace.

"Of course, y/n, anything to make you feel a bit better," he says dutifully.

Chris showed you over and over again that he would give you anything and everything your heart would desire.

From making a whole art studio in your shared house because you once mentioned that you liked painting during a dinner conversation.

To giving you a phone so you could talk to your friends who were on Earth.

There was no doubt, he cared for you. And you couldn't help but care for him as well.

"Guess who," you peek your head into Chris' office.

He was sitting at his desk with papers laid out over the surface.

"Hey, sweet girl," he hums when he sees you.

He motions you over and you obey, he taps his thigh for you to sit on, and you do. His arm rests on your waist, and you watch as he works. "What'cha doin?" you ask him.

"Finishing up some paperwork for the company," he explains, "did you need anything, honey?" he asks.

You shake your head, "no, jus' wanted to be close to you," you confess.

Chris cocks a brow, "yeah?" he coos gently.

You nod, "yeah, I like being around you."

A smile breaks out onto his face and he turns his full attention to you. "I like being around you too," he confesses.

Later that night you find yourself in your bed, staring up at the ceiling.

You felt hot all over as you thought about Chris, how caring he was, how handsome he was, how dominant he was.

You hadn't felt that way before, what were you supposed to do? That was the first night you felt the intense wanting for Chris. And it certainly wasn't your last.

Every night for the next week you'd think of Chris, you would feel tingly all over, to the point where it drove you crazy. You didn't know what to do with this feeling that was coming from your cunt.

You knock on the door to Chris' bedroom, you hear footsteps before Chris opens up the door, "honey, hey what's going on?" he asks when he sees the tears in your eyes, concern laced in his voice.

"I feel weird," you sniffle.

"Oh, sweet girl," he coos, he gently pulls you into his room and pulls you onto his chest, "tell me what's going on?" he requests.

"I just keep feeling weird, a-and I d-dunno what t'do," you confess.

"Feel weird where?" he inquires.

Your face goes red and you whisper to him, "my- y'know."

He looks at you for a moment before breaking out into a fit of laughter, you swat at him, "I'm being serious!" you whine.

"You haven't like-" he pauses, "masturbated before?"

You shake your head no, and watch as his face breaks out into a look of realization. You tuck your head into his chest as blush creeps onto your face. "Hey, shh, it's okay honey, don't be embarrassed," Chan reassures.

He tilts your chin up so you're looking at him, "whatever you want, I'll give it to you," he hums, his thumb gently caressing your chin.

"Daddy," the words leave your mouth before you can stop yourself.

Chris groans before pulling you in for a gentle kiss, he quickly pulls away before looking in your eyes again. He only looks at you momentarily before pulling you back in for another, more heated, kiss.

That night Chris watched as you touched yourself, gently talking you through the new feelings and watching as you writhed around on his bed from the pleasure.

You heard the front door open and sprung up from your place on the couch to see Chris walk inside. He had just gotten back from work. He looked exhausted from the day's activities. "Chri-" you begin but he cuts you off by crossing the space between the two of you and slamming his lips onto yours.

"Daddy-" you mumble against his lips.

"Hmm?" Chris hums.

"Wanna help you relax," you mutter.

"Just let me kiss you honey," he insists, "let me give you special kisses."

"Special kisses?"

"Yeah," he hums, he pulls your pants down without warning.

Staring at your cunt, he gently kisses your mound over your panties. "I'm the only one who can kiss you here, you understand?" he growls.

"Yes," you whine.

Chris pulls your panties to the side before placing a tender kiss on your clit.

You moan and your fingers run through his hair, "that's a good girl," Chris hums.

You feel two of his fingers press into your entrance and you squirm around due to the unfamiliar sensation. "Daddy," you whine.

Chris' plump lips keep sucking on your clit while one of his fingers pistons in and out of your cunt. One finger turns into two, two into three, until you're gushing all over his face without a chance to warn him.

"That's it," he coos, "such a sweet little pussy," he groans, fingering you through your orgasm.

He places a kiss above your mound before slapping your pussy. You jolt at the contact and watch as Chris sits up and pulls his pants down.

"Here you go honey, gonna give you a treat for being a good little girl for me," he muses.

He strokes his fat cock in front of you before lining it up at your soaking entrance. "Daddy-" you whine.

"Daddy's here, don't worry babydoll," he hums as he pushes into you.

You squirm around as you feel more and more of his cock enter you. "That's it, take it like the slut that you are," Chris spits.

The only thing leaving your mouth at this point is broken cries of Chris' title. Chris sets a menacingly fast pace, pounding into you with your legs thrown over his shoulders.

You feel as his hands run down your stomach, stopping on your lower tummy, "I can fucking feel myself inside you," Chris comments.

You move your hand down and feel the area where his cock is bulging in and out of you. "Oh my god!" you scream as you cum around him.

"That's it, atta girl," he praises, "let me fill you up, let daddy pump a baby into his sweet little girl."

"Yes," you whine, "f-fuck a baby into me w-wan' you t'fill me up please!" you beg.

Chris' movements become sporadic and you start to feel his hot cum seeping into you. He keeps fucking into you as he cums, making sure you take each last drop of his seed.

Honestly, hell wasn't even hotter than Christopher Bahng.

#bun.writes #bunwritesskz #skz imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz #stray kids x you #skz x reader #stray kids #bang chan smut #christopher bang #bang chan #bang chan x reader #bang chan fluff #bangchan x reader #buns.skzgreekgod!au #bun.writes : channie

1K notes · View notes