#How to Look Professional for Teen Girl
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How to Look Professional for Teen Girl: 25 Best Business Casual Outfits for Teen Girls
How to Look Professional for Teen Girl: 25 Best Business Casual Outfits for Teen Girls #businesscasual #teenfashion
As a teen girl, stepping into the world of professionalism while maintaining your unique style can feel like a balancing act. I remember my first day at an internship—I was excited but so nervous about what to wear! That’s why I’ve put together this guide to help you feel confident and stylish while looking professional. Here, we’ll explore 25 amazing business casual outfit ideas tailored for…
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Regarding the previous post, I think the way I approach trying to evaluate a piece of art is asking "Do I think the positive things I get out of it outweigh the parts of it that I don't like?" And when I call something a "guilty pleasure" song/show/book/piece of media/etc. it's really more in the sense of, "Given who I am as a person, the flaws I've found in this should be complete dealbreakers for me, but somehow they aren't, and it makes me feel like I'm having an identity crisis."
#like. I think something like...idk shiki or cxgf excels on multiple levels. I understand why I like them. given the things I look for in art#it makes sense that these shows would speak to me because they make the effort to showcase those things I look for. because the people#in charge of those works clearly valued the same kinds of things and cared about seriously exploring them.#but with something like. uh. ctrlz. that is NOT the case and I frequently found myself going 'why would anyone make this writing#decision?' but I still sat through all 3 seasons of it! I still really enjoyed it! those flaws SHOULD have made me give up according to#personal history but they never did. and I very very much genuinely question why. I have NO IDEA why I still care about this#silly convoluted teen drama show so much. but I do. I wrote SO MANY FUCKING POSTS ABOUT IT.#I really love wicked the musical. I've heard many people call it 'hokey' or 'cheesy' or 'objectively bad' but here's the thing! I DON'T#think it's bad!!! like literally at all!!!!!! and it does do some genuinely cool things in regard to the music and the way the characters#develop and what the show says about the nature of prejudice and human connection. is it like. idk Serious™ the way that something like#Parade is? no. but it doesn't have to be. it does what it sets out to do and it does it well and this is why the whole '''objective#evaluation''' thing doesn't actually mean anything. I value thoughtfully-constructed music and dynamic female characters#(which this musical has). I value stories that deal with the complex and messy feelings that come with being a human (which this musical#has). I value stories about 'other'ness and romantic subplots that aren't just built on 'This Girl Is Pretty' (which this musical has).#and I value professional displays of technical vocal ability because I know how fucking DIFFICULT that is (which this musical...if you cast#it well...has).#if you value something else in a musical then yeah you will probably think THIS one is '''objectively bad'''#if you don't see the point of musicals as an art form you will probably think wicked is '''objectively bad'''#do you see where the problem with categorizing analysis like this is??
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A friend I had briefly in my teens years was this girl in Arizona. She was a junior when I was a freshman, and as I was socially awkward and very lonely she kind’ve pulled me under her wing for a while. I don’t remember how we met, but I remember riding in her car and meeting her cute miniature Doberman.
But the thing I remember most about this girl was that she loved lying to me. And I had a massive but unacknowledged crush on her so I adored being lied to. Her natural charisma and storytelling was hypnotic.
It’s not what it sounds like because it wasn’t malicious but she came up with this in depth lore to tell me about this fake job she had. I know autistic people are meant to be credulous but I truly never believed her stories, I just adored her storytelling and was very ready to listen to whatever tale she spun that day. Another of her friends chided her once for teasing me but I genuinely never minded.
In her lore she moonlighted as a Professional Liar. People would hire her to get close to a target they wanted rattled. She’d make friends, develop a strong relationship, foster a dependency on her, then disappear. Then when they were confused and missing her sometime when the employer needed their target rattled she’d show back up as a glimpse to knock them off balance. Often it was implied she’d faked her death in the interim.
That itself was fine, it was an okay story. But in order to maintain that lie she’d make up tons of supporting details that were way more fun. She had this fake boyfriend who got high as balls on a mission and ended up seeing a sheep in a field and carrying it to a farmhouse to try to buy it because he wanted a puppy. I liked that one but suspected she didn’t know how big sheep were.
She’d IM chat with me as this made up boyfriend sometimes; once she had him ask me if I noticed her limping and he told me she’d just lost a toe but was covering for it like a champ. That one was fun.
She told me about something she called “purple charge” which was a way to get instant night vision. I did try looking that one up on the off chance, but was sadly disappointed there.
She said that Professional Liars had such high stakes jobs that they needed a week of insane time where they just partied so hard it was like a Dionysus rave and her IM boyfriend persona implied she’d killed someone during one of those stints.
I had such a fun time with her elaborate fiction that I’d often ask follow up questions and she had to do a lot of world building to keep up with my fascination. We’d get to class and I’d have three or four new questions which I think is why her friend thought her teasing was too far. They genuinely thought I believed her but I was just loving the fiction.
If any of this sounds malicious I’ll also add that when I got harassed on a roleplaying board she went out guns blazing to go after the guy who’d been harassing me. She genuinely enjoyed my company. She also complimented my art, sometimes as her made up boyfriend which I appreciated.
I find myself looking back on our friendship very fondly. I can’t remember her last name or have any way of looking her up, but she really was a professional liar to me. The only downside is that I’m completely faceblind so if she ever wanted to pop unexpectedly into my life I’d have no idea it was her.
#ramblies#ffs foibles#funny#story#stories are just well told lies#at least in her case but I had a blast
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Hey! I would love to give you an idea of your next fic!
How about G!p!Director!Agatha asks Actress!R if they can make a sex tape, so she won't be lonely that much when R is away for work(They're married). Turns out she feels even more lonely and hornier when R is away. She's going crazy when she sees her cum leaking out of R in the video. She's been sending R videos of her fucking fleshlight and express how much she needs R. And when R gets back home, they fuck like a horny teen. (Breeding would be perfect for this🤩🤩)
Thank you so much!! I love all your fics!!!🩷
Ohhh 🫠🥵 writing this one killed me in the best possible way
Baby, you're a star
Word count: 8.3k
Warnings: mommy kink, filming, GP Agatha, sex toys, breeding kink, masturbation, blowjobs, sex, oral sex, fingering, minor spanking, so much filth, porn with very little plot, I have never written this much smut in a single post
Taglist: @lostbutlovely33 @diorrxckstar @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @katekathry @onemansdreamisanothermansdeath @tayasmellsapples @natashashill @mybraininblood @mysticalmoonlight7 @cactuslover2600 @loveem0mo @readysteddiero-nance @lonelyhalfwitch @lesbiantortilla @crescendoofstars @sol-in-wonderland @ahsfan05 @gbab09 @sasheemo @agathaharness @live-laugh-love-lupone @chiar4anna @fuckedupforkhahn @lowlyjelly
You’re running, running from something, and it’s closing in on you. Looking back over your shoulder, a terrified look on your face, you trip and end up sprawling onto the ground.
It’s about to get you. Your eyes widen in fear, a loud sound coming from the distance —
“And…cut! That’s a wrap!” With the shout from your director, your character of Samantha Wren, a girl haunted by a dark creature from her past that finally catches up to her, melts away and you push yourself off the set floor, brushing your hands on your torn pants.
The scene you just shot is the cliffhanger ending to the film, The Figure in the Walls, where Samantha is sprinting through the woods after realizing what the monster is, trying to get away. It’s unclear if she does, which leaves some room for a sequel.
The movie’s director, Agatha Harkness, steps out from behind the cameras and slow-claps, smirking at you. You make a beeline for her and she wraps an arm around your shoulders and steers you away from the set. A PA jogs over and hands you a cup of coffee and a bagel. You’ve been filming for the past five hours, doing scenes from earlier that weren’t as good and finishing up the movie sequence, and you’re starving.
“You did so good, honey,” Agatha murmurs into your ear and presses a quick kiss to your temple.
It’s not a secret on set that the two of you are married, you both just prefer to keep it professional for the most part, at least when other people can see you.
You first met Agatha at the Golden Globes about two and a half years ago. You had never met, but were both nominated for separate projects: you for Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy, and her for Best Director. A mutual friend had introduced you to her during a commercial break, and you hit it off instantly.
There was almost something magnetic between you, and it just kept pulling you to her all night long. You won for your category, and so did she, and the picture of you two with your Globes is framed above the fireplace mantle in your mansion.
You’re beaming at the camera while Agatha is staring down your dress, trying to look inconspicuous. When you tease her about it, she says she was just looking at the trophy.
It’s unclear if she means the Globe, or you.
She had invited you to go to an afterparty with her and you had immediately agreed. It was a quiet, intimate sort of thing with an open bar, and she had brazenly flirted while the warmth from the alcohol settled pleasantly in your stomach.
After a few hours and after you had been practically sitting in her lap for quite some time, she said that she should get going, but asked for your number.
You had clasped her cheeks and pulled her into a hot kiss right there and promptly dragged her out the door into your car and back to your apartment.
A year and a half later, she asked you to marry her as you were walking along the Santa Monica Pier. The sun was setting, purples and pinks reflecting off the ocean waves, and you had never felt so happy in your entire life. You bought a mansion in Beverly Hills together, and you’ve lived there ever since.
When Agatha first signed onto direct The Figure in the Walls, your name had been already thrown around as for who would play the lead. You still don’t know if she pulled some strings, and there was obviously gossip that you had only gotten the role because your wife was directing, but Agatha assured you that once everyone saw your performance, there would be no doubt that you had earned every part of it.
“Thank you,” you whisper to your wife. You can’t believe the movie is finally done, but your turn-around is quick. Tomorrow, you fly out to meet with an agent in New York about a new film franchise in the works. If you land the lead role, it would be absolutely huge for your career.
You will be gone for a week, though, and you and Agatha have been looking forward to some time for just yourselves. You’re eager to get home and at least have tonight, but with the wrap party and the closing speeches, it’s going to be awhile before you’re able to.
Some of the other cast members come over and mingle while you sip on a soda, but you can feel Agatha’s eyes on you the whole time. At one point, you give in and glance over to where she’s sitting — all alone in her director’s chair for some reason, but she’s facing you.
She uncrosses her legs and slouches back, casually putting a hand on her right upper thigh. Agatha ever so slightly spreads the fabric of her dark gray pants and you can see — she’s half-hard. Just from watching you, just from the thought of finally getting some quality time. You’ve made it work with the busy schedule, always finding a half hour for a quick fuck every now and then, but it’s been too long since you’ve been able to take your time. There’s the unspoken promise that neither of you will be sleeping much tonight.
Swallowing roughly and trying to fight back the heat creeping into your cheeks, you turn back to your co-stars and try to look like you’re listening.
And then finally everyone starts to leave. With Agatha being the director, she waits until every single member of the cast and crew has gone while you sit and impatiently tap your foot.
“You ready?” Agatha asks and you jump out of your seat, eagerly nodding, and she laughs. “Looking forward to something?”
“I can’t wait for you to fuck me, mommy,” you answer matter-of-factly and it catches her off-guard for the slightest second.
It’s not often you’re this bold and straight-forward without her prompting. And she fucking loves it.
The car is already waiting outside — you called it while you were waiting for everyone to leave — and the air between the two of you crackles with electricity. The tension is thick, but neither of you move to disturb it, instead just choosing to let it build until you’re in the sanctity of your home.
But your breathing quickens and you can feel your underwear getting gradually wetter, the anticipation steadily rising. When you look over at your wife, you can see her fully-hardened cock straining against the fabric of her tailored pants and her long fingers are digging into her thighs, making her veins pop.
It’s about twenty minutes later of lingering looks between darkened eyes when the car pulls into the driveway of your house.
Agatha barely thanks the driver before you’re both scrambling out of the car and up to your front door.
The moment it’s closed, you’re shoved against the pillar next to it, Agatha’s mouth on yours in a bruising kiss.
“Fuck,” you moan, her tongue hotly licking against yours. She grunts in agreement before grabbing your wrists and holding them over your head, thrusting her right leg between yours. You can feel her cock, can feel the heat radiating off it, and you throb against it and swiftly grind down.
She groans into your mouth and angles her leg up higher and you can feel her dick pulse, which makes the ache inside you grow unbearable. Your kiss has become sloppy, a flurry of teeth and lips and tongue, and she pulls back to trail her mouth down your neck. You hiss when she sucks a bite and it makes your hips jerk involuntarily.
“Agatha — mommy, please,” you whimper, your cunt absolutely dripping. All of your thoughts are being consumed by her right now, and you just need more. You need her fingers, her mouth, her cock inside you, you need her.
Agatha chuckles breathlessly, planting an open-mouth kiss on your lips. “What do you need, honey?”
It’s almost frustrating that she’s making you say it, like it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world how desperate you are for her. “Can we — upstairs?” Your head is spinning and it feels like you’re drunk with need.
If it were any other time, she would make you repeat it and ask clearly. But she knows, she always knows, and there’s no time to waste.
She lets go of one of your wrists but pulls you by the other to the staircase and then stops on the third stair to kiss you again, like she can’t possibly wait. She sucks on your tongue and you gasp.
“Fuck, mommy’s going to miss you tomorrow,” she mutters and in the haze in your head, you feel a slight pang of sadness. Agatha would’ve come with you, but she has a meeting here that she can’t miss either. It’s tough to be apart, even for just a week.
But then the sentimental moment is gone and her teeth sink into your bottom lip, her hand coming up to rest around your throat. She barely even squeezes but it does wonders — you clench around nothing, eyes glazing over, and you let out a strangled gasp.
Agatha smirks and tugs you the rest of the way to your bedroom. Shoes are kicked off and she quickly helps you take off the shirt and pants you changed into after filming and then you rip open the silk button-down shirt she’s wearing, sending buttons flying everywhere. She pushes down her pants and underwear and a ragged gasp tears itself out of your mouth when you see her cock, hard and red and leaking.
You let out a small moan and move closer to touch it, but she stops you.
“Honey,” she says, a bit timidly, and concern washes over you like a bucket of cold water.
“What’s wrong, is everything okay?” you ask. She looks around, biting her lip like she’s not sure how to phrase it. “Hey, whatever it is, you can tell me. Is it something bad?”
Agatha shakes her head. “No, it’s just something I was thinking of. Something I wanted to see if you’d want to try, just because you’re going to be away for a bit.” A flash of heat bursts through you — usually you’re the one who brings up wanting to try new things in the bedroom, but now that it’s Agatha, fuck, you can’t wait.
“Yeah?” you breathe.
“I was wondering if you’d let me film you — us. While we have sex,” she says and your cunt throbs. You’d never thought of it, but you can see it in your mind now. You can imagine how hot it would be to watch yourself take her cock. “So when you’re gone and I get lonely, I can watch it back and remember what a good girl you are for me.”
The praise settles right into your stomach and now you can’t stop thinking about Agatha stroking her cock while watching the two of you have sex.
“You want to, what, direct me in a porno?” you ask, partly as a joke, but there’s no missing the involuntary sound that slips out of her lips, no missing the darkening of her already hungry eyes. “Fuck. Okay.”
She looks a little surprised at your easy agreement, but presses a chaste kiss to your lips, and then another one, and then leaves the room. You sit down on your bed, the excitement almost overwhelming, and try to slow your racing heart.
It’s only a minute before Agatha comes back, holding the iPad that she uses for work sometimes, and a stand for it. Has she been preparing for this? The thought sears through your veins and you feel yourself getting even more wetter.
Her cock seems to get harder if possible as she sets it up close to the bed and the moment she nods and steps back, you feel a new-found sense of confidence wash over you.
You’ve always come alive in front of the cameras, you thrive under being watched, and it feels no different now, even if you’re not becoming a character.
It’s exhilarating. And you’re going to do your best to put on a show.
“Move to the center of the bed,” Agatha orders, still watching through the screen. You swallow roughly and obey — you’ve always found it incredibly sexy watching her command a scene with just her words, and now that she’s doing it in this context?
Fuck.
You lean back against the pillows and look at her, awaiting her next instruction. Agatha nods and her eyes rake over you appreciatively. “Spread your legs and touch yourself over your underwear.”
Moaning softly, you widen your legs and plant your feet flat on the bed so your knees are bent. And then you cup your pussy and your lips part involuntarily when you feel how wet you are. The fabric is absolutely drenched and you can see from the look on Agatha’s face that she can tell too.
You slowly start to trace the outline of your pussy lips through your panties, up and down over your slit, and then when you circle over your clit finally, your back arches off the bed and you sigh heavily. The pleasure is so much more acute now — is it because of the camera? Because you know that Agatha is going to fuck herself later to this?
“There you go, honey,” your wife says approvingly. There’s a wild look in her eyes and her hands are twitching like she’s dying to touch her cock. The tip is even more red now, and you can see beads of liquid collecting and dripping onto the floor. Your hips jolt when you press down harder on your clit. “Take your underwear off and tease your entrance — but don’t go inside just yet.”
You have to peel your panties off your sopping wet pussy and you teasingly toss them over to her. She catches them and lets out a surprised groan when she actually feels them.
And then she lifts them to her nose and breathes in the scent of your wetness and your clit pulses. You try to focus on her instructions and glide a finger through your folds, molten hot and dripping. You dip into your pussy and then withdraw. You repeat and whimper at how good you know it’s going to feel when she finally lets you fuck yourself.
“Slide one finger in slowly,” she demands and your head drops back as you do, the stretch nowhere near enough but still feeling delicious. Your walls immediately clench down around it and you moan.
When you look back at Agatha, your hips roll of their own accord — she’s started stroking her cock with your underwear. You can see how she’s glistening with your wetness and she thrusts every few times like she can’t control it.
“Mommy, can you…” Pleasure swims in your mind when you curl your finger and it interrupts your thoughts for a second. “Want you to be in the video, too.” You want to watch it back and see her as well.
Agatha inhales sharply. “Yeah, okay, babygirl. Whatever you want.” And then she steps around the iPad and comes into view of the shot, standing near the side of the bed so you can see each other more clearly.
Her cock bobs up and down and you time your thrusts inside you with each of her strokes so you can imagine it’s her inside you.
“Put another finger in,” she rasps and starts to speed up, your underwear moving frictionlessly over her with how wet it is.
The addition of a second finger makes you groan loudly and you can’t even tell if you’re trying to show off for the camera or not. Everything is so much more heightened now.
She makes you fuck yourself like that for about ten minutes, every now and then telling you to fuck yourself faster, babygirl and slow down, sweetheart and fuck, honey, you look so fucking hot for mommy.
You’re a complete mess now, absolutely ruined and babbling incoherently, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your orgasm has been steadily building this whole time and you know it won’t be much longer before you cum.
Agatha is also close by the looks of it; she’s completely flushed, her chest and neck tinted the prettiest pink, and her cock is leaking even more, her hips moving more sporadically. The ache inside you isn’t going away — it’s only getting worse the more you look at her.
“Mommy,” you whine, needing to feel your wife on you more than anything. “Please, please fuck me.”
“I know, baby,” she pants. “Just a second, let mommy move the camera.” And god, it makes you throb when she grabs the stand and angles it perpendicularly to the bed.
And then she climbs on the bed and situates herself between your open legs and leans over you so she can drag her cock through your soaked folds. The gasp she lets out drives you crazy and you keen when she rubs her tip against your clit.
“Beg for mommy,” she says, hair falling down over her face as she bites her lip. She positions herself right at your opening.
“I need you so bad, please fill me up, please fuck me, I need you so bad, mommy —” She pushes into you in one motion and your mouth drops open. Your walls immediately clamp down around her and she groans at the feeling.
It’s exactly what you need and when she starts to move, soft sounds fall from your lips with every thrust.
She twitches inside you when you pull her down for a quick kiss. “God, I can’t wait to watch this,” she grunts and it makes you clench. Her hips stutter. “You’re so good, such a good slut for me. Taking my cock like a superstar. Fuck, honey, I’m going to watch the video everyday, gonna figure out how to make it my home screen.”
The thought of Agatha opening up her phone to immediately see you being fucked by her makes you moan gutteraly and she huffs out a laugh. “Mommy, please.”
“Fuck, baby, you really like this, don’t you?” You nod your head quickly under her and her cock throbs inside you. You’re so fucking close. She feels so good inside you, her cock dragging deliciously against your walls, and hitting that spot inside you that she always does.
Pleasure is rolling over your body in waves and you lift your hips to meet each of her thrusts. It’s never been this intense before and you can’t believe you never thought to try filming sex before.
Agatha’s rhythm starts to falter inside you, she’s cursing, short of breath. She reaches between you to rub at your clit with two fingers and it makes you sob with how good it feels.
“Agatha, I’m so close,” you whine, beg. She ruts into you urgently, like she’s about to cum but needs to make sure you get there too, and she scrapes her teeth against your collarbone with a sharp thrust and presses on your clit and you explode, your orgasm tearing through your body and absolutely blowing your mind.
Your walls convulse around her and she stiffens, her breathing tightening, and then she lets out a long moan and you feel her pulse before her seed spreads through your cunt. You gasp at the warmth and Agatha collapses on top of you.
She lays there until she starts to soften before pulling out. Her cum starts to trickle out of your swollen pussy and you grind against nothing at the sensation but Agatha quickly jumps off the bed and grabs the iPad off the camera.
You gasp when you figure out what she’s doing — Agatha holds your legs open and holds the camera down close to your pussy.
“Spread your folds,” she directs, but without any of the authority she usually has. You reach down and do as she asks, more of her cum oozing out as you do. She swears under your breath. “Make yourself messy.”
You know what she means. You collect the wetness between your legs, both hers and your own, and start to stroke it all over your cunt.
“Fuck, honey, just like that,” she says and you rub your clit again, your body jerking under your own touch. “Clean your fingers.”
And then she lifts the camera to film you sucking your two cum-covered fingers into your mouth. You moan at the taste of both of you and Agatha looks like she might ravish you all over again.
The iPad gets tossed somewhere else on the bed and she leans over to kiss you before crawling down your body and cleans out her cum from inside you with her tongue.
Agatha doesn’t stop until she’s made you cum three more times.
When you wake up in the morning, there’s a pleasant soreness in between your legs and the sheets are still slightly damp. Light has started to stream in through the curtains on the large windows and you roll onto your side to find that it’s 8 am.
You have to be at the airport in an hour.
“Fuck,” you curse and jump out of bed, rushing around to get dressed and throw some clothes into a suitcase. With the end of the film, you haven’t had much time to get ready for this trip, and you are sorely regretting it now.
Agatha stirs while you’re trying to find the black dress for the cocktail party you have to go to in New York and mumbles something. You pause and wait for her to repeat herself. “Why don’t you come back to bed?” she asks suggestively, picking her head up to watch you.
“Babe, I have to be at the airport in an hour,” you say apologetically. “How do you still have energy after last night?”
Agatha chuckles and gets out of bed, coming over to wrap her arms around your shoulders from behind. You can feel her semi-erection through your suit pants. “I just always want to fuck you,” she murmurs into your ear and you debate whether or not you have enough time.
In the end, logic wins and you twist in her arms to give her a quick peck on the lips. “I’m sorry. When I get back I’ll make it up to you. Plus,” you say, eyebrows raising mischievously, “you have that video from last night.” The memory of making it heats through you — Agatha directing you on how to touch yourself.
You will definitely need to revisit that in the future.
But it does very little to quell Agatha’s lust and she grumbles as she goes to get dressed. “Maybe, when you get back, I’ll make you cockwarm me while we watch our little home movie and if you make one move, I won’t let you cum for a week.”
The idea runs straight through you right into your cunt and you seriously debate saying fuck it to New York entirely.
But an hour later, Agatha’s pulling up to the airport to drop you off and giving you a tight hug while she whispers in her ear how much she loves you.
You miss her the second you walk into the terminal, but you try to focus on preparing for your trip. There’s a few dinners, meetings, and parties that you’re expected to attend, just to get to know the right people for the next project that you could potentially be in. You know the other actresses being considered will also be there, so you need to be on your A-game.
And you’re able to focus for the entire plane ride, memorizing parts of the script they gave you, and when you land, you pull out your phone to text Agatha that you made it, only to find that she’s already messaged you a few times.
I miss you already, honey.
Hope you have a great time in NY! I know they’ll love you.
I wish I didn’t have to be here for this stupid meeting. I’d have loved to be there with you.
The first ones make you smile at how sweet your wife can be. But then the next couple are enough to reignite the fire in your stomach from earlier.
I miss your pussy, babygirl.
Can’t wait for you to come home so I can taste you.
Fuck, baby, mommy is so hard for you.
You’re too caught up in the messages to realize that your row is moving and the person in the middle seat taps your shoulder to get your attention. You startle and mutter an apology, hoping he didn’t accidentally see anything she sent you.
As you’re getting checked into the hotel, you get another text from your wife and the second you open it, you have to slam your phone down on the receptionist’s desk. She gives you a weird look but you pretend not to see it.
Watching the video — mommy loves watching her cum drip out of you. Fuck, honey. I’m going crazy.
Your heart is pounding, blood rushing to your cheeks, and you quickly take your room key and hurry up to the room. You press the call button and put your phone on speaker so you can start unpacking.
Agatha answers immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” she says, the most casual you’ve ever heard, and you clench your jaw.
“Agatha, what are you doing? I haven’t even been gone six hours. You’re going to kill the both of us!”
Her low chuckle makes you squeeze your legs together involuntarily. “I’m actually all right, baby. Remember that fleshlight you got me as a gag gift last Christmas?”
Fuck. “Agatha,” you say warningly. You have to be at a steakhouse in about thirty minutes — you don’t have time for her to get you all worked up. You were so distracted this morning you didn’t even bring any of your toys with you either.
“Of course it’s not as good as the real thing,” she sighs, and you can hear a soft slapping noise on the other side. You feel dizzy with heat.
“Are you…” you trail off, not even sure you could say the rest out loud. Could you pretend to be sick tonight?
Agatha lets out a little moan and you’re sure it must be for show, just to rub it in. “Fucking this toy and pretending it’s your pussy?”
You can’t stop the gasp that escapes your lips and you have to sit down on the bed. “Fuck, mommy,” you whine and she laughs cruelly.
“Don’t you have that dinner to get ready for?” she asks and with a sinking feeling in your stomach, you know what’s going to happen. You hum, almost wishing you would’ve lied. Agatha grunts, the slapping sound speeding up, and you have to close your eyes. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Love you.”
She hangs up before you can protest and you’re forced to get into the shower, the heat in your stomach burning more than the water, and your hand makes its way between your legs to furiously rub your clit.
You cum in about three minutes.
You can barely focus at dinner with the thought of her using a fleshlight, one that you got her as a joke nonetheless. Her hard thrusts into the toy, picturing your mouth or pussy.
When you finally get back to the hotel, you’re absolutely exhausted. The travel, being teased by Agatha, and now that dinner where you had to pretend like your body wasn’t screaming for you to get on a plane and go home to your wife wiped you out, and you barely press send on a goodnight text to her before you’re passed out.
The next few days pass in a blur with events jam-packed into your schedule and you hardly have any time to talk to Agatha. She’s good for the most part, with the occasional dirty text every now and then.
But on your second-to-last day in New York, she starts to play a different game.
You’re sightseeing, checking out the American Museum of Natural History, when your phone buzzes. It’s a video from Agatha.
You don’t really think much and you click on it and your jaw drops as your entire body freezes.
It starts out shaky and it takes a few moments for it to focus, Agatha clearly in the middle of something. And then it points down and you see Agatha fucking the fleshlight.
Turn your phone off your brain screams. But it’s as if you’re stuck, your eyes glued to the screen to watch her thrust over and over into the silicone toy. She’s holding it with her left hand, her phone in her right, and her hips are driving her cock into the fake pussy hard. You can almost feel her cock inside you, as if the toy and you are connected.
She’s going faster and you wish more than anything you weren’t out in public so you could turn up the volume and hear her moaning, hear if she’s saying anything. It cuts off right as she’s about to cum. You have no doubt that you will be very busy with the video once you get back to your room.
And by the time you get back to the hotel, she’s sent you another one. Luckily, you don’t have anything for two hours, so you’re free to do whatever you want.
You’re almost afraid to click on it, and you shimmy off your jeans and underwear preemptively. You’ve been worked up for so long and you’ve barely had a chance to touch yourself and you breathe a sigh of relief when your fingers press against your clit.
Clicking on the new video, your pussy spasms when you realize what you’re watching.
Agatha has the iPad set up on the table, the video of you two open and playing. It’s strange to see your own face contorted with pleasure on film while Agatha tells you how to touch yourself.
And then in the lower half of the video she just sent is her, thrusting into the fleshlight again.
“Fuck,” you whisper. She’s fucking the toy while watching you fuck yourself. You turn the volume all the way up so you don’t miss anything and her little grunts with each drive only turn you on more.
Your wetness makes a squelching sound when you drag your fingers up and down through your folds and when you come back up to circle at your clit, there’s almost no friction.
“God, babygirl, mommy can’t wait for you to come back,” Agatha groans and it makes your heart skip a beat. On the iPad, Agatha has slid her cock into you and you’re in awe at how hot it is watching yourself get fucked.
It becomes quite clear to you that Agatha’s idea of having you cockwarm her while watching this video would not bode well for you. There is absolutely no way you’d be able to stay still, as evidenced by your squirming hips grinding against your hand right now.
Agatha takes her cock out of the fleshlight, puts it down, and strokes her hand quickly over it and a flash of heat bolts through you when you see it glistening. And then she places the toy on the table and teases her tip against the opening, sliding it up and down, you keen and your back arches off the bed.
All you’re doing is touching your clit a little.
On the iPad, Agatha’s speeding up and you’re whimpering underneath her. In the video you just got, she starts to slowly push her cock back into the fleshlight.
In your hotel room, you shove two fingers inside you, moaning at the stretch, and begin to thrust in time with Agatha, who is thrusting in time with the video you made.
“Fuck, honey, I need your pussy,” she babbles and you curl your fingers just right, a moan slipping out of your mouth. “Can’t wait to fuck you when you come back, can’t wait to fill you up.”
Her thrusts are becoming shallower into the toy, her sounds getting louder, and you’re right there with her.
You’re determined not to cum before she does, even though it’s a video and you could speed it up to cum with her. But you don’t want to miss a thing.
Turns out, you don’t have to wait too long, because when Agatha on the iPad moves the camera close to your pussy after she came inside you, her cum gushing out of you, that’s it for your wife.
“You feel so good,” Agatha says on the video before letting out a long moan and thrusting roughly one more time into the fleshlight. She stiffens and grunts and then pulls her cock out and lowers her phone so you can see her cum still spurting out onto the lips of the fleshlight.
That makes you cum almost immediately and you clamp a hand over your mouth so you don’t get any neighbors in the hotel wondering what you’re up to.
The video ends shortly after that and leaves you gasping for breath on the bed. You type out a quick Can’t wait to get home tomorrow and hit send. Thankfully, your plane leaves in the morning so you’ll be home soon.
Agatha immediately sends you back a wink emoji and then an eggplant emoji, making you laugh.
After the last dinner, you watch the video again and make yourself cum two more times.
It’s been the longest week of your life, and when the agent for the franchise drops you off at the airport, you barely remember to shake her hand.
“We’ll be in touch,” she says. “But between you and me, I think you have a very good shot of getting this part.”
Even through the horny fog in your mind, you realize just how big of a deal this is and you can’t wait to tell Agatha.
You call her while you’re waiting to board and tell her.
“Honey, that is amazing,” she gushes and your heart swells. Agatha has been your number one cheerleader since you met.
“You know I’d be spending a lot of time in New York. If you could barely last a week, imagine how hard that would be,” you joke.
Agatha snorts. “I’d come visit you all the time. Or I’ll just quit my job and become your trophy wife.”
The thought of the legendary director quitting her job for anyone makes you laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Got to get on the plane, Mrs. Harkness. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“I can’t wait, baby,” she says, her voice dropping an octave and making your stomach warm.
The entire plane ride, you can’t stop thinking about Agatha — about her hands, her mouth, her legs, her cock.
Would anyone notice if you pulled up that video again? Maybe you could go to the bathroom. With how you’re feeling right now, you wouldn’t need more than a few minutes.
And it only gets worse when you finally land and a car is already waiting for you to take you back. Excitement vibrates under your skin as you get closer to your house and you have to fan yourself to calm down. You can already feel your underwear sticking to you uncomfortably — lacy purple lingerie you brought on the trip just so you could wear it home.
When the car pulls into your driveway, you tip the driver and try to walk up to the door as slowly as possible, not wanting to seem too urgent.
The front door opens right when you get there and your wife is standing there, two glasses of red wine in her hand, casual pants and a tank top on, hair in a loose ponytail. You’re not sure she’s ever looked so hot.
“Hi,” you breathe, shutting the door behind you and leaning in for a quick kiss. Agatha deepens it and presses a glass into your hand and you take a long gulp.
“How was the flight?” she asks, sipping on her own wine. You drop the suitcase in the foyer and walk into your living room before plopping down on the white couch. She follows and sits next to you, her thigh touching yours.
Your heart is pumping so fast and you couldn’t care less about the flight because you’re finally here, with her. So you take her wine glass and put it on the coffee table with yours before climbing into her lap and kissing her roughly.
She makes a slightly surprised “oomph” before her tongue is in your mouth, entangling with yours, her hands creeping under your shirt and stroking up and down the skin of your sides. Her fingers are cold and they make you gasp.
“I missed you so much,” you murmur against her mouth and grind down hard on her rapidly growing bulge. She hisses and digs her fingernails into you. “You fucking tortured me.”
She laughs breathlessly, tugging on your bottom lip with her teeth. “I thought the video would help. It just made it so much fucking worse,” she admits and your entire body heats up. “I was so lonely — so horny — fuck, baby.” She loses her train of thought when you kiss down her neck and nip.
“I need your cock so bad,” you whimper, having thought of little else for the last twenty-four hours. You slide off her lap and onto the floor between her legs, your body moving faster than your mind, and you’re undoing her pants before either of you realize what you’re doing.
You pull her cock out and lick up the length with your flattened tongue and the sound she makes, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, goes straight to your cunt. She slouches more onto the couch so it’s easier for you to start lathering your saliva all over her. Her hips thrust up every now and then, and when you take the tip in and hollow your cheeks out, her ass fully lifts off the couch.
“God, honey, you suck mommy’s cock so well,” she whimpers and it spurs you on to go further down. There’s an ache in your stomach already and you can feel your wetness on your upper thighs.
Agatha’s hand tangles in your hair, but just rests and lets you go at your own pace. You can feel her twitch against your tongue and you suck harder.
“Baby, god, fuck — you’re so hot, mommy loves your mouth,” Agatha rambles and she throbs when her cock hits the back of your throat and you gag, tightening around her. She’s not going to last long, you can feel her pulsing and swelling, her cock growing heavier on your tongue. You think you could cum right now if you touched yourself.
You look up at her through your eyelashes and she groans like she’s in pain and then you pull your mouth off her, gasping for breath, while strands of spit still connect your lips to her cock. “Use me, mommy,” you say hoarsely and her hips involuntarily jump. “Fuck my mouth.”
This time, when you take her cock again, she thrusts her cock deep into your throat over and over. The only sounds in the room are you gagging and her moaning.
“Fuck, honey, I’m going to cum,” she pants and you nod slightly before trying to say something around her cock. But the vibrations against her feel too good and she stiffens before spurts of her cum fill your mouth. She slows her thrusts while she pumps her seed down your throat and you take it all, groaning at the somewhat salty taste.
She pulls out, cock soft, and slumps onto the couch and you wipe a strand of cum off your lip and suck it from your finger. You shift on your knees and she tracks the motion with her eyes, smirking wickedly.
“I always forget how hot and bothered sucking my cock gets you,” she purrs and then jerks her head to the couch. “Take your clothes off and lay down.”
You swallow roughly and get to your feet before teasing her by slowly taking your clothes off. Her fingers dig into the couch beneath her and her limp cock twitches just a bit when you reveal that you’re wearing her favorite lingerie. She’s always been able to recover relatively quickly and your mouth waters at the thought that, soon enough, you’ll have her inside you.
Once you’re naked, you settle on your back, one leg up over the pillows and your other foot resting on the floor, baring your dripping cunt to her. The look in her eyes is positively ravenous and she tosses the hair that’s come loose from her hair tie over her shoulder before situating herself so that she’s on her knees in front of you.
And then she leans down and runs her tongue through your folds — which are practically fused together with how wet you are — and you keen.
“Mommy,” you gasp, back arching. She chuckles against you and the feeling makes you moan. “I need you, please.”
She teases you a little, her tongue circling around your clit but never quite touching it, and your hips grind up to try to get just a little more stimulation. One of her hands trails up your body to pinch your nipple right as she sucks on your clit and you’ve never made such a high-pitched sound in your life.
Your noise drags a strangled moan from her mouth and her hips jerk. She starts to devour you, her tongue lashing against your clit and then thrusting inside you as far as she can go. Her other hand digs into your thigh, holding it open and using it for leverage just the same.
It takes you a little bit to notice what she’s doing — her hot mouth on your pussy has made your brain go completely fuzzy — but when you pick up on her flattened out body on the couch and her ass flexing in a steady rhythm, you clench violently around her tongue.
Agatha is grinding her cock against the couch. Eating you out for three minutes has gotten her so hard that she’s desperately getting any stimulation that she can.
Her fingers continue to tug and roll your nipple and her mouth is furiously lapping at your cunt and you can feel yourself getting so close.
“Please, mommy, Agatha, I’m —” you whine and her hand on your leg removes itself before she quickly slides two fingers into you while she rubs her tongue against your clit. Your walls bear down immediately around her and she curls them up and presses deep inside you. It makes you sob and your hips move on their own accord to chase the orgasm that is about to wash over you.
Agatha’s thrusts against the couch are getting more and more sloppy and she’s moaning against your cunt like she’s never been more content in her life. Your breathing becomes short and shallow and tingles spread through your entire body.
“Fuck, I’m gonna—” You can’t even finish your sentence before she sucks roughly on your clit and sends you right over the edge. Your vision goes white for a second, completely overwhelmed with pleasure as she keeps fucking you through your orgasm. She doesn’t stop, and although you have no doubt you’d be able to cum again in no time at all, it’s been too long without her cock inside you.
You tug at her hair weakly until she finally stops and looks up at you, her nose and the entire bottom half of her face absolutely coated with your wetness. Heat flares through your stomach and you almost shove her right back down between your legs.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Agatha coos and you whimper at her sweet voice. “Do you need more? Do you need mommy’s cock?”
When you nod eagerly, Agatha grins and crawls back up to her knees and you moan when you see her cock. It’s just as hard as it was before — maybe even harder? Is that possible? — and so red. It looks almost painful.
She bends over you and slides her cock against your entrance, both of you letting out heavy sighs of relief. “Wait,” you choke out, and she stops. You need to feel her deeper.
You turn over from your position on your back and get on your knees and elbows so that your ass is straight up in the air. Agatha sharply inhales and her hands cup your asscheeks before giving each one a little spank simultaneously.
Agatha drags her cock through your folds and then circles your clit with it, the feeling of her skin against yours making you keen.
And then she pushes into you, your mouth dropping open in a silent moan. Agatha mews once she bottoms out and holds still for a second, savoring the feeling of your walls milking her.
She starts to move, not even giving you a chance to adjust before setting a fast pace, her hips making a sound every time they slap against your ass. She’s filling you up so good, hitting a spot so deep inside you that makes you gasp each time, and your head drops to rest on your elbows while you start to push back against her thrusts.
Her pace stutters when you clench around her and she grabs onto your hips so tightly that your chest warms at the possibility of having bruises so you can remember just how good she fucked you. She practically slams you back and forth on her cock and there are no other thoughts in your head, no other words you can say, besides “Mommy!”
“I know, babygirl,” she rasps. “You’re taking my cock so well — fuck, I think this pussy was made for me. You were made for mommy’s cock, weren’t you?”
“Yes, god, yes, I was,” you pant, letting her completely use you. It’s like she’s just fucking her fleshlight and, god, that shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does.
She spanks your ass again and the familiar feeling of your orgasm rises steadily in your stomach. You can feel Agatha’s cock throbbing inside you with each thrust, can hear her groans become less restrained as she loses composure for the second time, and you need more.
Your hand snakes down between your body and couch to rub at your clit and your walls instantly clench around Agatha.
“Fuck, babygirl, mommy’s about to cum,” she gasps and it only drives you closer.
You press on your clit while her drives become short and fast, effectively knocking the wind out of you every time. “Cum inside me, mommy, want you to breed me,” you breathe and she falters for a second, a loud, guttural moan tearing from her lips, before recovering and fucking you even harder.
“Yeah, honey, mommy’s gonna breed you,” she babbles in agreement, an urgency you usually don’t hear from her lacing her tone. When you fuck, she usually does cum inside you anyway, but there’s something about asking her to breed you that turns you on beyond words. Seems like it has a similar effect on her too.
Tears gather in your eyes as she keeps thrusting into you and you’re not even aware that you’re cumming before your body spasms and jerks around her, and you keep frantically rubbing your clit to prolong the feeling spreading through you.
Your pussy convulses around her and she stills, grunting lowly, and then her cock stutters a few times inside you before pulsing and you whimper at the feeling of her cum spreading through you, and fuck, you’re so full.
Agatha stays inside you for a few moments, both of you enjoying the feeling, before pulling out. You curse under your breath when her cum oozes out of you in globs and Agatha runs and grabs a towel to clean you up.
You swear when she rubs the towel over your pussy, she brushes against your clit on purpose, and it makes you wince. You’re already sensitive from your two explosive orgasms and you don’t know if you could take anymore.
She helps you stand and the two of you walk up the stairs together, whispering sweet nothings and exchanging soft kisses, and then once you get to your room, Agatha turns on the shower while you sit on the edge of the tub and wait for it to warm up.
“I think next time you leave, I should come with you no matter what so I can fuck you every night for the rest of our lives,” she jokes and you laugh.
“Why did we even make that sex tape then?” you tease.
Her eyebrows wiggle teasingly and she comes closer to you and tugs you off the tub. “I seem to remember you liking that quite a bit. Plus, now when I’m at work and I get bored, I can just pull out my phone and watch what a good slut you are for me.”
Despite you being completely worn out, there’s no ignoring the heat that runs through when she says that. “God, you’re insatiable,” you say, mockingly dropping your jaw, and she chuckles before kissing your lips.
And then she opens the door to the shower for you both to get in and sinks to her knees in front of you. You gasp.
“You love it,” she says before licking through your swollen pussy and you have to lean back against the wall.
Yes, you do.
#agatha harkness x fem!reader#agatha harkness x reader#agatha x reader#agatha x you#agatha harkness x you#agatha harkness smut#agatha smut#agatha all along#covsfics#baby you're a star
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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.
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
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“i look like i got beat up, Caleb.” she deadpanned as she looked at her reflection.
adolescence comes with the joyful but difficult journey of self-discovery. they observe, learn, and mimic their surroundings. she wasn’t an exception from her peers who are obsessing over their looks, wanting to enhance their beauty with make up products.
however, she still lacks skill in that department and who else she’d go to if not the jack of all trades?
“i just followed the tutorial, Pip-squeak..”
however, it seemed like the jack hasn’t mastered this trade yet. after all, her soft cheek was dabbed too thickly with an awful shade of red and her eyelids were painted with poorly blended pink eyeshadow.
both teens sighed in unison. in the background, the youtube video continued to play but none of them wanted to pay attention to this woman who they deemed terrible at giving tutorials.
“don’t worry, i’ll figure this out somehow, okay?” Caleb smiled reassuringly while patting the younger girl’s head.
he never once let her down. so, with eyes glimmering with trust and hope, she nodded, “okay!”
the next day rolled around and he’s ready to tackle this top mission. he spent yesterday noon to night, surfing the internet for makeup tutorials, best makeup type for different face shapes, etc.
“you seem confident,” she smiled at him as she sat down.
Caleb took a hair tie and grabbed a handful of her hair, “well, confidence comes from skill,”
“oooh, are you a professional makeup artist now?” a cheeky grin was plastered on her face as she stared at his reflection in the mirror.
after he tied her hair with the right amount of tightness, he grabbed hair clips to make sure no hair covered her pretty face in the process, “i’m pretty sure i got the basics down but you can be the judge of it later, Pip-squeak,”
the first thing Caleb did was gently prep her skin. as he did, he couldn’t help but notice how incredibly soft her skin was and how delicate her facial features were.
it didn’t take long for it to dry. he began dabbing cushion foundation over her skin. seeing her face in such close proximity, his heart began to race.
she’s already so perfect, does she really need this? a frown appeared on his face without him noticing.
the girl stared at him through her long eyelashes before letting out a stifled giggle. he huffed softly while smiling, “what got you all giggly, hm?”
she teasingly poked his lower lip, “you’re frowning,”
her touch made his movements halt. he raised his eyebrows and pulled the corner of his lips into a lopsided smile. the chair creaked lightly as he rested his hands on the armrests and leaned closer.
“can’t promise i’ll stay professional if you keep poking me like that, dear client,”
she giggled while backing away, “oh no, that’s unacceptable. please continue with the service,”
a soft amused huff left him. he grabbed a brow pencil and twirled it around his slender fingers, “close your eyes for me,”
she tilted her head, “why? you’re doing my brows, not my eyes,”
his hand caressed the side of her face. it was an instinct of hers to press her cheek closer to feel the warmth better. “can’t focus with those pretty eyes lookin’ at me, y’know,” he chuckled.
a knowing smile spread on her face before she complied, “okay, then,”
Caleb filled in her eyebrows while admiring the sight of her face. he was glad she had her eyes closed, otherwise she’d see the lovestruck expression he had.
“what are we doing after my brows? my lips perhaps?” she playfully pursed those plump lips of hers.
it was an innocent question, but she had no idea how he almost leaned down and gave her a big fat smooch.
how could anyone blame him? she had her eyes closed and lips pursed, his sweet girl needed to be kissed!
when she felt the lack of movement on her face, she took it as a sign to open her eyes. the sight which greeted her was his back facing her.
she blinked in confusion, “Caleb? are we done?”
meanwhile, Caleb was pressing his palm over his heated face, trying to calm his racing heart which was ready to burst.
he dragged his hand across his face and sighed deeply, “i..need to go to the bathroom. hold on.”
without waiting for her response, he bolted to the bathroom with a speed that got her scratching her head in wonder if he really needed to pee that badly.
unknown to her, Caleb was literally dumping his head into a bucket full of water to cool down. it seems like there’s another victim of adolescence hardships aside from her.
#caleb x reader#love and deepspace#caleb x mc#lads caleb#love and deepspace caleb x reader#xia yizhou#lads caleb x reader#odiescribble
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JASON IS A LOVEY DOVEY TEENAGE-CRINGEY KINDA LOVER DO NOT TEST MEEEEEE
So am I 100% meant to be in bed or studying for an exam but procrastinating on tumblr to avoid my problems? Yes. Absolutely. But I must SPEAK OUT THIS INJUSTICE TOWARDS JASON PETER TODD! I'm SICK, SICCCCKKKKKK of HC's where Jason is some nonchalant, cool boy who pretends his partner isn't even real until he needs sexual favours or "When they are in danger and he regrets everything!!!" STOP IT! YOU SLANDER MY SON!!! Here's an EXACT and (in my professional hopeless romance genre objectively correct) Headcanoned timeline of how Jason fares as a partner: - Starting point/he just caught the feels: Okay THIS is the only time he can be nonchalant. No matter how hard he falls, that boy is traumatised and has never seen a healthy love between two people. Of course he's kinda standoffish and cold, like coaxing a mistreated cat out of the hiding spot. HOWEVER, he isn't a POS- just kinda awkward. You/Oc need to do the reaching out first. - Something changes/OMG this is real love: YES, there are TWO phases to the crush. One when he can acknowledge it as just attraction and one where he skydives into his feelings and realises this is SOMETHING MUCH REALER THAN FLIRTY BANTER! This is where I pose, "He crushes like a teen girl" HC. Giggles like a maniac at every text, kinda dazes off a little too much when he catches a song, smell or food that reminds him of said crush- if he journals which I think he does, there's entries about you/Oc. A LOT OF ENTRIES. - First dates: He's a Jane Austen/classical romance reader, he's pulling a Romeo and mentally already jumping hoops on how you were destined to be together and stars smiled upon such pure love, blah blah blah. However he is still semi-closed off. Fear is a natural killjoy/heartbreaker, however AGAIN he is NAWT a POS to his date, it's just a little awkward and he looks like he's held at gunpoint whenever you ask about HIS wants and needs. (Let the man grow some self confidence gradually) -Dating/It's offical: In the sense that his partner loves him, truly and honestly, Robin/Red Hood/Outlaw/Jason Todd ect? THAT MAN IS NEVER LEAVINGGGGG!!!! Frankly having something THAT GOOD in his pretty shitty life would somewhat drive him crazy protective and clingy. Yes, he's basically moved in by now and sleeps beside you in bed, like you guys are some married couple. Hell, you wanna push it? Probably has the ring picked out and only by the power of common sense is making him wait for a good amount of time to pass before proposing. He is a darling and almost never lost the romantic in him. Flowers from the first date up until he has to pluck them from the side of the road before crashing through a window into your home, because "What's a concussion and possible internal bleeding to getting my love flowers to match their beauty?". Also fuck off if you believe he doesn't spend 99.9% of his time at 'home' crushing his partner as they hold his mass of a 6 foot build as he rambles about anything and everything. From what books he's reading to "Did you know I saw a pigeon lay eggs on patrol?" Again, married couple behaviour. Has to relearn the concept of personal space because he loves so deeply and whole it works akin to an antidepressant, except it's not because his love is so much more than that. He needs to be weened off you/oc before going on far away missions otherwise his poor team (and enemies) has to deal with his withdrawal from his partner. HE IS CLINGY, PROTECTIVE AND A LITTLE CHILDISH- I LOVE HIM RAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!
#jason todd#dc#jason todd headcanon#batfam#jason todd x reader#red hood x you#oc x canon#jason todd x oc#fanfiction#fanfic authors#headcanons post#i'm right
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hi chaai! do you have any ideas on where to shift to?
ideas on where to shift .*+



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we’ll get the obvious out of the way, there are many different locations you can shift to anon !! and i personally don’t know what your interests and hyperfixations are :( but ! i still want to help in any way i can ≈ so here are a list of general ideas and suggestions and maybe some inspo into different realities to which you (any of you!) can shift !! and ofcs you can tweak it all to your liking xx
sink into self indulgence …
—» shifting at its core is self indulgent and the first example i can think of is your favourite childhood books, movies and shows — the kind of self indulgence where you go back to what made your life sparkle as a child, what made you believe in the impossible, what made you wish the impossible was real, whether it’s fairies, dragons, mermaids, or monsters going to high school, you should take a trip down memory lane and figure out what had you rushing to finish your meal to go watch the latest episode, or work hard at your homework so you could buy the next edition of the game. there’s also the media consumed in your teenage years, the kinds of media that helps you feel like you were escaping and yet at the same time like you were understood
examples include : hogwarts , narnia , my little pony , monster high , ever after high , how to train your dragon , percy jackson and the olympians , h2o , pixie hollow , barbie fairytopia/mermaidia , hilda , bridge to terabithia , wizards of waverley place , minecraft , power rangers , tmnt , disney princesses , little women , gilmore girls , studio ghibli , etc.
—» there are also the realities where you play a part in the bigger picture, you are a significant piece in a vast and intricate puzzle, you stand among your peers, your friends, as someone to be recognised, maybe you’re looking for some thrill? some excitement? some sort of battle or mystery or revolution where you can fight for the underdog or reclaim some form of power — be careful if you do choose to explore these places, but i’m sure you’ll handle it just fine
examples include : marvel/mcu/the avengers/spiderverse , dc/justice league/the arrowverse/smallville , the hunger games , the walking dead , arcane , supernatural , teen wolf , the maze runner , the vampire diaries , pretty little liars , gossip girl , mean girls , outer banks , criminal minds , brooklyn nine nine , the rookie , dune , star wars , avatar: the last airbender , james cameron’s avatar , jurassic park/world , pirates of the caribbean , twilight , etc.
—» conversely, your dr doesn’t even need to be fantastical, sometimes, the things that bring us comfort are in fact the most relaxing, they slow our lives down for whatever time we spend engaging in them, they let us unwind and unravel any burden we’ve unknowingly put on ourselves, the dr doesn’t even need to be based on some form of media, it could be your dream life and/or career
examples include : better cr (HIGHLY RECOMMEND) , cafe/barista , librarian , farmer , florist , artist , museum curator , boarding school , summer camp , bookstore owner , writer , painter , photographer , chef , designer , animator , game developer , director , etc.
—» but maybe you would like a career in the spotlight, where you can finally show the world what you’re capable of, the talent and skills that you know are innate to your being and you just need the opportunity to showcase it
examples include : actor , pop star , band member , kpop idol , youtuber , broadway singer , talk show host , dancer , professional athlete , model , travel vlogger , socialite , royalty , etc.
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when all is said and done, shifting is inherently a form of self love, you’re picking yourself and you’re choosing to shift and experience a reality that will fulfil you in some way !! the ideas in this post are not the limit, there is no limit, [cue mean girls’ “the limit does not exist” scene] so let your creativity take control and let yourself indulge in what makes you happy
cuppa queries; order in — ask responses
2025 © chaaistained
#i could have added so many more but i’m worried they don’t fit the descriptions :(#chaai chats ≈#by chaaistained#teacup anons !!#reality shifting#shifting realities#reality shifter#shifting blog#shifting ideas#shifting inspiration#desired reality#dr ideas#shifting script#shiftblr#dr self#lao#loablr#loassumption#law of assumption#loa help#manifestation#manifesting
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Leaving V
Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader
Summary: You hate clay courts
It's not often that two people from the same country end up in the finals for the French Open but you and Carlos Alcaraz have taken the Rolland Garros by storm.
You weren't the biggest fan of clay courts. You didn't like the way they felt under your feet and you knew you were a bit hit and miss this entire tournament.
You always managed to win though, by the skin of your teeth sometimes. But a win is a win and both you and Carlos were representing Spain at the finals.
He was against Zverev and you were against Iga.
She was your usual partner in training, the world number one. Her coach was your coach and he had purposely decided to sit this one out because he knew he couldn't coach both of you fairly for this final.
Iga was nice though. She'd always been nice and welcoming and she helped you settle in Poland and even introduced you to the girl that would eventually become your girlfriend.
But all that was off the table as soon as she first served.
Iga was brutal on the court and you'd always known that. She was a great player, a perfect player most of the time but you had a different play style than her.
She had it all planned out. She had a style and she stuck to it.
You were a bit more reckless. You were younger and you hadn't quite worked out the way you preferred to play.
It left you in a few tricky spots throughout the Rolland Garros but you'd pushed through like you're pushing through now, getting a volley going with Iga and trying to work out how to get her to make a mistake.
You're a bit of a wildcard sometimes. You've been known to feign one way and hit the other.
The audience is used to Iga dominating a final, especially this one, but you're holding your own very well. You're battling against her well though, holding your own even as you have to regain your footing a few times on the clay ground.
It's decided, as you stumble forward and just hit the ball over, you hate clay courts with a passion.
But, still, as the minutes go by, you find your rhythm.
A rhythm that lets you try one more reckless manoeuvre that completely catches Iga off guard. She can't return it and you fall to your knees in shock.
You've just won.
You hadn't gone into this final thinking you would win. You'd gone into it hoping you'd win, for sure, but you thought that you didn't actually have a chance.
You get to your feet shakily, stumbling over to the net to shake her hand.
"Next year," She says, bringing you into a hug," Let's go for the doubles together, alright?"
You nod. "Sounds good."
You thank the umpire and you go around shaking the hands of all the ball girls. When you were younger, at one of the professional tournaments, you had been a ball girl. You knew what it was like.
Iga got given her prize, holding it up for the crowd and then you received the cup, smiling brightly in all the pictures.
You were covered in red clay as you made your way through the corridors.
Your family was waiting for you.
You went into Alexia's arms like you always did and her arms wrapped around you, completely familiar and welcome. You lean into her, sagging in relief as someone takes the cup from you so you can hug her properly.
"I'm very proud of you," She whispers," So proud of you."
"I don't like clay courts," You say back and you can feel the little chuckle of amusement from her.
"I know."
"I'm covered in muck."
"I know but you can go and shower and then we'll head back to get some food."
You giggle as you pull away. "I'm so hungry."
Alexia laughs too. "I know."
Dinner is perfect when you've got the trophy sitting next to you and Alba insisting on having dessert for a job well done.
Mama cries, like usual after you've done anything even related to tennis. Alba makes fun of her.
Alexia sneaks into your hotel room.
You both lay on your bed together, looking up at the blank ceiling.
"I don't know anything about tennis," Alexia admits," Nothing. Nothing at all."
You flick your eyes to her. "What?"
"I don't know anything about it apart from you hit the ball back and forth."
"Ale...I've been playing tennis for years."
"I know and I still don't know anything. Isn't that scary?" She's laughing a little bit. "Years taking you back and forth and getting you new rackets and outfits and watching you win. I still couldn't tell you anything about it."
You're laughing as well, almost hysterically laughing. "Well," You say through your giggles," I must be the better sister because I actually understand the rules of football."
She swats at you with an eye roll. "Football's easy to understand. You don't get sister points for that."
"But still," You say," I've got the most amount of points."
"No you don't!"
"Yes I do!"
The thing about growing up with your sisters is that the three of you were hyper-competitive people, to the point that the 'Sister Championships' happened every year complete with a shared spreadsheet to keep track of everyone's points and a strict set of rules on how they could be earnt.
"I do," You say, bringing up the table on your phone to show," I've got ten more than you because I looked after Alba's dog when I was last home."
Alexia swears. "Damn it."
You grin. "I'm going to win this year."
"I've still got time. I'll let Alba have my window seat on the flight back tomorrow."
You shuffle closer until you've got your head resting on her shoulder. "We're not flying home tomorrow."
"Huh? Why not?"
"Because Carlos has won so it means Spain has won the men's and women's singles. There'll be lots of PR stuff for me to do with him."
"And why can't I go home?"
"Because I need someone to keep me sane, Ale."
She thinks for a moment before nodding. "That'll earn me at least fifteen more sister points."
#woso x reader#alexia putellas x reader#alexia putellas#woso community#woso imagine#woso fanfics#woso
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New kid thing - Arsenal teen!r
Summary: Y/n gets her period during her first day of training at Arsenal, and the girls make sure she is comfortable.
Warnings: Y/n has a small platonic crush on Leah, but nothing weird since she is just 17.
Word count: 2k
Masterlist here
..
Training with a new team for the first time was embarrassing enough, especially if you were a 17-year-old girl making your debut with a senior team where half the players had played in the Olympics, the World Cup, or both.
Y/n felt out of her depth—nervous and, frankly, like a child trying to fill shoes that were too big for her. She knew she had to be at least a little talented to have signed a two-year contract with the Gunners, but her nerves wouldn't let her relax.
The team immediately noticed her nervousness and was quite good at making Y/n feel welcome. After a few pleasantries from McCabe and Kyra, Y/n even smiled a little and told the girls about her history with football, and how she got into the sport. She had a nice chat with the two Arsenal girls and felt a real connection with them, probably because they were also foreigners in the country.
“It's going to be a little weird at first,” McCabe said. “A lot of new faces, a new culture, a new way of training and playing, but don’t worry, you'll fit right in.” The Irish sat down besides Y/n and patted her on the back.
“Yeah, and if you need someone to talk to, or want to wind out and maybe go for a walk to get to know London you can call me,” Kyre smiled. “Besides, all these old women have no idea about the cool places in London, I know a few places and would be happy to take you.
“Wow, are you calling us old and lame?” McCabe argued
The two girls began to argue as Y/n laughed and giggled.
The rest of the day went smoothly, much to Y/n's surprise. She met many of the staff and was pleased to learn that Arsenal had a team of psychologists, gynecologists and even psychiatrists. Professional players know how hard it is to find a medical specialty that also understands the toll that sport can take on the body, and how some treatments work for non-footballers but don't for footballers, especially because of inadvertent doping caused by convenient medicine and all that.
The team was doing some cool-down stretches while listening to country music - it was Leah's day to choose the music played during training - and Y/n was humming along to some of the songs she knew. Suddenly the 17-year-old felt a familiar pain in her stomach.
Fuck no, not now, Y/ n thought to herself. She couldn't be having her period right now. It was her first day on a professional team, she was wearing white shorts and everyone was there, chatting away in a semicircle, even captain Leah Williamson, who Y/n had been fangirling since she was 13-years-old.
Y/n was well aware that periods were normal, and that they happened to every single woman on the team, but she was still embarrassed about it. Would they think she was immature? Not having the fucking capacity to pack at least one pad or tampon in her training bag?
Ok, maybe she was being too hard on herself.
Y/n just needed the older girls to finish their cooldown first, so she could be the last to leave the gym.
Five minutes passed. Then 10, and then 15… All the girls were still stretching their legs and thighs. Y/n looked around, trying to come up with another escape plan as the Arsenal women seemed to be enjoying their stretching time a little too much.
“You ok, Y/n?” Leah asked, catching Y/n off guard. It wasn’t that the captain was unwelcoming or anything, but Leah hadn’t really talked to her besides the classic greetings. Y/n remembered watching an interview where Leah said she was a bit more reserved with new people, and that she needed time to warm up, so she wasn’t very bummed about that.
“Oh, yeah, very much ok… yeah!” Y/n lied, and it was a very bad lie because none of the girls believed it, they just looked at her instead.
“It’s ok to be nervous, Y/n,” Lessie said, patting Y/n’s arm. “Everyone here was new at first, except Leah who’s been here since she was a kid,” Lessie joked cheekily, looking at the captain. “I know you’ll feel more at home in no time.”
Lessie was a real sweetie, trying to make Y/n feel welcome, little did she know that the whole new kid thing had moved way down the list of her problems today.
“Thank you, Lessie. It will get easier in the next few days.” Y/n smiled. Thank God the girls haven’t known her yet, because they would have been able to tell right away how much of a fake smile Y/n was putting on.
The 17-year-old shifted her position, stretching her arm and trying not to move too much, afraid that the blood would stainfic her kit. Well, who she was kidding, judging by her flow it was safe to say that her bottom and the middle of her tights were a war zone right now.
She just needed to wait a few more minutes and then the players would all be gone and the girl would be able to take a shower in the changing room, then take a cap home, put a pad on, and clean her kit as if nothing happened.
Just a few more minutes and no one would know.
One by one the girls got up and went to the changing room to get ready to go home. Y/n prayed that they would take their showers at home and not in the changing room, that way they would go home faster and Y/n would be able to get the situation under control.
McCabe and Foord were the last ones to get up from the floor. “Are you coming, Y/n?” The Matilda asked, smiling.
“Yeah, right behind you,” Y/n said with fake enthusiasm.
When the two older women entered the changing room Y/n waited for a few minutes. Y/n stood up very carefully, scared to look at the floor and find a pool of her period blood, luckily the floor was spotless.
“Ok, that was close, I just need to—”
“Oh kid, I think you got your period!”
No, no, no, no.
Y/n froze.
The voice Y/n heard came from behind her back, it belonged to Leah. The young girl was mortified, Leah could very well see the stain of blood in her clothes.
Fuck, getting your period unexpectedly was very embarrassing, but to have Leah Williamson, team captain, and lioness captain, the woman who you had a very innocent crush on (who wouldn't? come on), tell you you had period was even worse, Y/n thought to herself, still trying to find the courage to face the captain.
Y/n felt a warm hand on her shoulder. “I’ve got some tampons if you need them, They’re in my locker, c’mon, I’ll give you some, ok?” Leah said, her voice soft now as if she knew the girl was embarrassed.
Y/n turned around, her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I-I didn’t know I was getting my period today,” Y/n said, avoiding making eye contact with Leah.
“It’s alright, stuff like that happens all the time, especially here,” Leah said, putting her arm around the young girl’s shoulder and leading her to the changing room. “We are a team of what? 30 women, we just learn to work around periods, and cramps and all that, that’s why we have a gynaecologist.”
Y/n remained silent, looking at the floor and wishing a double-decker bus would kill her right now.
They got into the locker room, half the girls were still in there.
Yeah, I’m definitely throwing myself in front of the first car that drives by, there is no way that this is my first day and I’m already making a fool of myself. Y/n thought as she sat in front of Leah's locker after grabbing her jacket and tying it around her waist. The others didn’t need to see the mess in her training shorts too.
The captain was very calm, whistling Sweet Carolina as she opened a toiletry bag. It looked like she was very used to these types of situations. Y/n wondered if Leah had gone through this t with any of the other girls on the team before.
“What size do you usually use?” Leah asked bluntly, clearly not trying to be subtle about it. Yeah, maybe she was a bit too comfortable with this topic. “I only have like, super plus,” Leah said, showing you a lilac packed with tampons in it.
“Hm, I normally just have regulars or smalls,” Y/n said hesitantly. “But these are ok, thank you.” They were not ok, Y/n looked at the tampons and knew they wouldn't fit comfortably.
Y/n was never a tampon girl, she always thought pads were more comfortable, she only used tampons on match days or during hard training sessions.
Y/n reached out d to take the pack of tampons from Leah’s hand, but before she could do that Leah shouted to the other side of the changing room. “Hey, Kyra, Less, have either of you got smaller tampons? Y/n needs some.”
“No! It’s alright, please, I don’t want to be a both–”
“I’ve got some,” Less said, smiling af if she was very happy to help. “Here Y/n, these are regulars, but I also have a small one too if you need it.” The blonde handed Y/n a blue box, which the young girl took.
“Thank you, you both,” Y/n said sincerely.
“Is that why you were a bit sad during the cool-down?” Less asked
“Hm, yeah, I just was - well, I am a bit embarrassed and all that, I know periods are normal and blah blah blah, but I’m just a little uncomfortable about it.” You confess, looking at Leah and Less.
“Periods are hard to talk about because people think we should be ashamed,,” Beth said Y/n hadn’t even noticed the lioness was in the changing room. “You're gonna get used to it, you are just a teen, when you grow old you’ll just realize it’s a part of you.”
Y/n smiled, feeling more at ease. Maybe she wouldn't throw herself into traffic after all” :)
“This conversation reminds me of when I got my first period, I was so embarrassed,” Leah said, holding the bridge of her nose. “I was 14 training on the pitch with the Arsenal youth team when the head coach blew the whistle and asked very loudly if I had gotten hurt because there was blood running down my leg.”
“I just put the ball down and ran to the locker room,” Leah said laughing. “Then Maureen, the assistant coach, came down to talk to me and handed me these big pads and asked me if It was my first period.”
“Oh my first period was during the Matildas Under 15 tournament,” Kyra said. “I had just turned 14, but my mum made me carry a bag of tampons and stuff like that everywhere, so the first time it happened I just went to the toilet and told my friends about it.
Then every girl shared some funny, and not so funny period story, which made Y/n feel calmer.
Y/n would get along with the Gunners; she knew it.
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hi cianna sorry for the really broad question but it really smart and ur soul is beautiful and i think lowkey if i asked this irl people would get very worried so i’m asking u. any advice 4 a girl in her late teens who’s just now coming out of a 4-5 year long slump of wanting to kill herself real bad and now needs to be a functioning person and pass exams and go to university next year ect. ?
Hi this literally happened to me in my teen years!! I was not suicidal, but I def had a major slump I had to pull myself out of by uni. Here are some things I think could’ve worked better for me - feel free to disregard at your discretion/based on your circumstances :)
Get therapy!! Teenage me would’ve benefited from it so much. There are therapists who’d be happy to give you student discounts. You’ll be going through a lot of change - re learning how to take care of yourself, discovering your boundaries, battling regret for wasting time etc etc… it’s just better to go through it w a professional who would show you compassion but also push you to improve. It’s not a substitute for real friendships, but it absolutely helps
Ignore people who will tell you they peaked in hs (lol). This will be a lot of people btw. You’ll get major fomo bc you’ll be like?? I didn’t do any of that. I was too busy surviving. I won’t have things to look back at the way they do. But that’s where the uphill battle of saying no to fomo comes in - you have to remind yourself that you’re at the beginning of your life, that you could completely turn it around in college, and peaking in hs is like actually sad and that what matters is the life you make for yourself moving forward
People (family and teachers) want to help. So let them
Push yourself but don’t overcorrect. The antidote to not having friends is not overextending yourself and saying yes to everything and having no boundaries and burning out. Pace yourself. Trying to become someone completely different is also a sign you don’t like yourself very much
You have to aggressively combat the self hatred and re affirm to yourself day by day that you deserve good things and that you are enough and that you don’t need other people to imbue your life and give it dimension. They are a nice bonus but it’s all in you
Hot take but be careful w self help content. It preys on people in vulnerable stages (like you) and is easy to get addicted to
I don’t know where you stand w your phone, but decrease phone time. It’s very personal to everyone how they can accomplish this, so research all the different methods and apply what best fits you / what you think you can stick by best!
Cliche advice is true - getting out of the slump starts w things like a simple skincare routine and an outfit you feel good in
Say yes to things more often. Try to approach people more often, even if it gives you rejection sensitivity. I wish I did this more tbh - I think I did put myself out there but was inconsistent. No “social fuck ups” will matter at your age so just try to learn as much as you can
You have to contextualize this hard time period of your life as a learning experience that gave you a sort of depth that is rarely seen in most people. It wasn’t all for nothing — it shaped you into you
You’re defined by who you are and the values you have — not the person you used to be. The imposter syndrome in you might be like “everyone knows I was xyz girl who didn’t talk to anyone and could not even turn an assignment in on time,” but what are you now? Are you trying to befriend people now? Getting a lot better at managing your time now? Doing really good in school now? That’s who you are.
Unconventional advice but get a cute job at a library or a cafe or something. It will re introduce discipline into your system and acquaint you w people your age
Exercise really really really really really helps. It can start simple but it has to be started
Research programs you want to get into. Make a game plan in accordance to that. Talk to your advisor about it
Join clubs in college :) talk to people but don’t overextend yourself if they don’t reciprocate - you have plenty of time to make friends :)
Journal more. It helps!!!!
The world is not out to get you
Cliche but true - reading helps so much. Even just one book at a time at your own pace. Luckily I was reading so much in my teen years but I’m telling u this in case it’s not really part of ur palette
What’s the hobby that really speaks to your soul?? Aggressively pursue it
Romanticizing simple things helps tbh
Do not hate yourself into getting better!! You were just a child who did the best they can w the cards they were dealt. Now you’re saying enough to passive living and making active effort to get out of your slump — and that matters more than anything. You will experience the FOMO and the regret and the “why didn’t I do xyz when I was younger.” Everyone does, but for you it will be exacerbated bc you’ll feel like you wasted an epoch of your life everyone else romanticizes. This is where therapy and radical acceptance come in — and also just brutally reminding yourself of the facts, including how you’re so very incredibly young. Time is on your side and you can do anything you want
I’m so proud of you for taking the first step — which is understanding the problem!! I know I wasn’t that brave at your age. Good luck with everything xx
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force of nature (snippet)
hello, i am still working on part two and thought i would give u guys a little teaser scene or whateverrrr. i'm having a lot of fun writing this and really appreciate all of your comments and tags makes my heart warm! ok enjoy
part two has been posted and you can read here
read part one here
He cleared his throat, “Anyway, I know that’s not why you grabbed me, so what d’you need?”
You nodded, “Yeah, so I heard there’s a mom here who made herself sick to bring her potentially dangerous son here and now he’s eloped?”
“Well,” He said slowly, “He was never a patient here so I think ‘eloped’ might be an unfair characterization—“
“Robby, why haven’t you called the police?”
He stared at you for a moment before scoffing, crossing his arms, “Since when are you itching to call the authorities?”
“McKay said he had a hit list.”
“That’s not—“ He ran his hands over his face, “We don’t know that, alright? Calling the police in prematurely could ruin his life—“
“How so?” You said, and now it was your turn to scoff, “I mean, can we be fucking serious for a second here? He’s a white man, a kid. If we’re wrong and there’s no evidence of him planning an actual crime, then the worst that happens is he comes in for a psych eval.”
He was shaking his head, “Involuntary psych holds can be very traumatic as you know—“
“I think prison and a bunch of dead teen girls would be worse, don’t you?”
He was irritated that you were calling him on this, you could tell. It was rare for the two of you to disagree on how to handle patients. When you did, it tended to get ugly. Quickly. Both of you were prideful and stubborn.
“While I appreciate your professional opinion,” He said slowly, “It is just that: your opinion. Which I will take into consideration, but I’ll remind you it’s my call as senior physician.”
You barked a laugh, “Okay, sure, pull rank—“
“I’m not pulling rank—“
“Adamson would’ve called the cops by now.”
The silence that fell was painful and ugly and part of you wanted to take it back when you saw the look on his face. It was too far and on today of all days. It would have been kinder for you to have hit him.
“Wow,” He said finally, and raised a hand to scratch the back of his head, turning away so he didn’t have to look at you, “Really? Is this what we’re doing now?”
You swallowed, “You are failing that kid and his mom and those girls every second you let pass without calling the police.”
He nodded, still not looking at you, “Yeah, thank you for your advice. Is that all or did you have any other wisdom you’re dying to impart?”
“You don’t have to be an asshole about it,” You said, skirting around him to get to the door, “I’m just trying to help, which is what I thought you wanted.”
He laughed humorlessly as you opened the door, “Right, yeah. Very helpful.”
You sighed and turned back to him, “If you’re wrong about this, could you live with it? Because with the way you blame yourself for literally everything, I don’t think you could. And I fucking care about you, believe it or not, and I don’t want to see you falling down a hole you can’t climb out of.”
He scratched at his beard and finally looked back at you, a rueful smile on his face, “A bit late for that, I think.”
#mine#the pitt#the pitt fic#the pitt x reader#dr robby angst#dr robby#michael robinavitch#dr robby x reader#michael robinavitch x reader#the pitt fanfiction
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The only relationship I've watched in anime that has absolutely convinced me that big age gaps can work out romantically is the one between Barnaby Brooks Jr and Kotetsu T Kaburagi in Tiger and Bunny.
12 years age gap. Barnaby is 23 and Kotetsu is 35. They're literally the newest rookie and the oldest veteran in the hero scene. And you can say "they are not canon" as if the creators hadn't gone out of their way to state that they pretty much don't care how you interpret it, a romantic reading of their relationship is as valid as anything else.
Their respect for each other? Their partnership? They're both treated as grown ass men on the same level.
Somehow Kotetsu can call Barnaby a "cute little bunny" and still he never reduces Barnaby to a naive child who doesn't know a thing about life. Kotetsu treats Barnaby like a man, a professional. He never infantilizes Barnaby for his trauma or his past. He helped Bunny as much as he can, goes beyond his limits to help him reaffirm himself and recover his independence. Kotetsu wants Barnaby to be respected, to not feel powerless, helpless, he wants his partner to stop being manipulated. Bunny's whole arc is that he wants to stop having decisions made for him!!!! Kotetsu knows it!!
On the other hand, Barnaby jokes all the time that Kotetsu is old, calls him grampa, that he should retire, the complete dance. Yet, Barnaby has never seen Kotetsu as a father figure. Kotetsu is Bunny's hero partner, not his superior. Thanks to Kotetsu's respectful treatment, they're friends. Hell, Bunny treats Kotetsu like a man. He doesn't pity Kotetsu for having lost his wife. He doesn't treat Kotetsu any differently when he meets Kaede, Kotetsu's daughter. There are moments when you forget the age gap because the story focuses on them being equals!!! They can take care of each other, they can share their burdens, they talk it out if they are frustrated, they communicate with full responsibility, etc etc etc.
Normally I don't like big age gaps at all. It's more of a personal preference, since those dynamics make me uncomfortable.
Kotetsu and Barnaby are the exception and the standard. God bless the Tiger and Bunny creators.
* also it has some of the best treatments of a teen girl having a crush on an older man I've ever seen. It's nothing predatory 'cause Kotetsu completely respects Karina and never takes advantage of her, also completely healthy because Karina uses that to sort out her teenage conflicts and figure out how she wants to be treated, how she deserves to be treated, what he's looking for in a relationship, how older people should approach her, etc.
Kotetsu is a gentleman through and through. An absolute must watch if you want to learn how to write those types of characters and relationships.
#tiger and bunny#tiger & bunny#tnb#t&b#kotetsu t. kaburagi#kotetsu kaburagi#barnaby brooks jr#barnaby brooks jr.#wild tiger#bunny#taibani
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Oh, you're awake. Finally. Please, look at the picture on the screen.
You recognize her, I suppose. Look at how silly she looks, trying to be tough, trying to look cool. All that leather and black and studs… doesn't she look ridiculous?
I see you nodding. Good. The special drink is grabbing hold of your brain. Making it softer. Malleable. You really should be more careful about accepting treats from strangers… but I suppose you won't have to worry about that anymore. Or anything else.
Now, let's look at your social media. Lord, isn't that pathetic. Trying so hard to be clever, to be snarky, to be rebellious. It's almost endearing, like a puppy trying to walk in its hind legs. Come on, we both know it's all just a costume, don't we? One you've worn for so long you mistakenly believe it's a personality- one you developed when you were a teen. One you need to grow out of.
Please, don't struggle. The knots are quite secure, I assure you. I've done this too many times to count. Why are you resisting, anyway? Do you truly, deep down believe this personality of yours is worth saving? Worth fighting for? Doesn't it just look as the pathetic attempt by a dumb girl to pretend to be something more?
Ah. I see you squirming. Was it the "dumb girl" comment? I suspect it was. Your pussy knows I'm right, and it's screaming its approval. It's screaming for you to accept its truth, pulsing with neediness and wet with anticipation… I wonder what it is about that word. “Dumb"... it does have an effect on you, tough girl. Dumb. Silly. Stupid girl. My oh my, is that a moan that just escaped your lips? I’m sure it was. Feeling softer, are we?
Softer indeed… I’m sure you can sense it still… the way it’s becoming harder and harder to focus. The way a pink cloud seems to be permeating your consciousness. The way you half-perceive the faint scent of cotton candy. The way you are getting more and more soaked by the second.
Oh, stop struggling. Tell me, why do you hate it so much? The idea of actually being a cute, silly, horny girl? I can see it in your eyes- the loathing. The searing, pure anger. Why, though? I suppose you are imagining all those girls, those popular girls, those slutty girls, those bimbos that soaked up all the attention and the praise. Am I wrong? I don’t think I am. But I do think you are hiding. Yes, hiding what really happened. You tell yourself a story, one that makes you look good, or so you think. That you’re better than them. Stronger than them. More independent than them. A free thinker! A rebel punk feminist! But that’s not the whole story, is it now? No, we both know what really happened. You surrendered.
Yes, that’s it. Your eyes can’t lie, you know. You surrendered because you could never, ever be like them, be as giggly and flirty and free- so you decided you wouldn’t compete with them on their own terms, and modeled yourself to be their opposite. How pathetic is that? Even in your resistance, you could only be defined by them, by your rejection of them. You became their dark mirror, and soaked in the attention of the leather-wearing so-called “punks” and the geeks and all the other rejects. But you know why they even looked at you: because the other girls, the pretty girls, the girls in pink wouldn't even deign to turn their gaze towards them. You were always… what they settled for.
You think I’m being cruel. Well, I won’t deny that I get some pleasure from throwing the truth at your face. It’s always so much fun to watch you all fight, and moan, and deny that they would do anything, anything at all to be able to finger fuck yourselves to oblivion… But believe me, my cruelty has a purpose. I wouldn’t be doing this to you if I didn’t have a higher goal in mind. A benevolent one.
I can take it all away. All that resentment, that anger, that anxiety… that constant, pointless quest to be… what? A professional? A successful woman? An independent soul? Please. That’s only so much set dressing. I can strip those delusions from you, give you what you really want.
Imagine it with me. Tight white jeans showing off your ass, the shape of your legs. A pink tank-top, proudly proclaiming yourself to be a princess in tacky, gold lettering. The men turning their heads as you walk. Everyone being so nice to you at parties… because they want to see you on your knees, licking and sucking and worshiping their cocks, because they want to bend you over and use your slutty pussy as their plaything. And you… you would love it.
No more fear. No more stress. Just the bliss of sucking three cocks, going from one yummy dick to the next, squeezing your titties together to give them the spectacle of their lifetimes. And then your cunt being filled, that hole you now hold your rage in given meaning and purpose by becoming a living set of holes for men to use, sensing the simple, plain joy of knowing you are doing what you were meant to do with your life. Knowing you are wanted. Desired.
I see you’re drooling. Sounds like you like my little proposal. Well, there’s one simple way to sign this pact with me. You don’t even have to speak- speaking seems so hard now, doesn’t it? So keep quiet and let your slutty body do the talking for you. Keep your mouth open.
There. Good girl. Doesn’t my cock look tempting? Amazing? Like you could just suck it forever? Yes, good girl… now, let me fuck your mouth- and know my cock is only the first of many. Too many to count.
Then again, by this point you can’t count too high, can you?
Did you enjoy this story? You can support my work at patreon.com/prettynosferatu !
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Part 1: Sugared Coffee
Criminal Minds : Multishot
Spencer Reid x Reader
Word Count: 7554
Warnings: set around season 3 {aka 2007}, slow burn, strangers to friends, friends to lovers, pining on Reid’s part, phobia of needles, PTSD, usual criminal minds level of violence and creepy unsubs, mentions of serial killers and the sick things they do, panic attacks, statistics and quotes I can provide references for
Request: This just came from my own head 😊
A/N: While taking a break from writing my Teen Wolf series, I stumbled onto this little idea 😅 I've been in love with Spencer Reid since 15 years old - and I still haven't written a series with him... WHICH IS A CRIME
Part 1: Sugared Coffee {You Are Here}
Part 2: Needles
~~~
The Quantico buildings stood out pale and dim within the autumn trees. The dead, fall colors of red and orange encased the sidewalks and scented the air with a farmstead crispness. It was a smell you knew you wouldn’t forget as you stood before the main building.
Dressed in a blue button down and a black blazer, you thumbed the plastic sleeve of your new badge. FBI, it said in blue block letters, Behavioral Analysis Unit. This was a step closer to your new life.
Maybe this will be your chance to catch the son of a bitch. Maybe this will be your chance to stop others in the meantime. Maybe this is your chance to stay safe with a new team and a new badge, stifling the feeling of fear that always rested in your diaphragm.
For now you know you will always remember that your first day at the BAU smelled like fall leaves.
~~~
The office felt slower than usual, which could be seen as a reprieve, but it made the team restless. Most of them were catching up on paperwork, or at least taking their time with details. Reid had flown through a list of research papers and true crime novels by the time lunch rolled around.
“I thought we all had paperwork to do.” Prentiss called over, rubbing an ink smudge on her finger, “How come you’re reading crime fiction?”
Reid’s finger stopped running midway through a page in his book. “It’s not fiction, this is a true crime biography written by O.J. Simpson about if he hypothetically committed the murders of Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”
Prentiss raised her eyebrows, tossing her pen onto her desk, “If I was found not guilty for a murder, I would try to put the whole thing behind me. Not write a book detailing what I would do if I actually did it.”
“You finished your paperwork?” Morgan asked, entering the bullpen with a yellow pad of paper. He tore off the top page and sat across from Reid. “I thought you were a speed reader, not a speed writer.”
“I have a lot of free time at home,” Reid said, looking down at his book again.
Morgan laughed, balling up the yellow piece of paper and tossing it at Reid’s head. “Pretty boy needs a pretty girl in his life.”
Reid swatted at where the paper ball bounced off his face. “Stop finding reasons to avoid your work.”
“Woah,” Morgan grinned, “Someone’s a little feisty today.”
“You would be too if someone kept interrupting you while you’re trying to read.”
“Hey, have you heard if that new recruit is coming in today?” Prentiss asked, laying back in her chair and massaging her writing hand.
Morgan shrugged, twisting around in his own chair, “Hotch said interviews ended over a week ago.”
“They’re being pretty secret about the whole thing,” Prentiss went on, “Makes you wonder who they are.”
“I heard Rossi had something to do with it,” Morgan said, “Persuaded Hotch to make the unpopular choice.”
Reid closed his book, unable to concentrate, “That would mean the new guy has a personal connection with Rossi.”
“New girl, it seems,” Morgan said, eyes moving to the office doors to find Hotch escorting a professionally dressed woman.
Reid looked over as well, noticing a few things immediately, profiler that he was. This new recruit held herself tall, speaking of her confidence entering the room. Although her eyes were open wide as if she were trying to see everything all at once. It gave her expression the look of being frightened.
But the hesitant smile on her face spoke of kindness.
She was a walking contradiction. Her handshake was firm, shoulders squared, voice steady and confident. But her breath was shallow, and her eyes gave the appearance of a deer stuck in the headlights.
The conclusion was that this new recruit was confident in her abilities and wanted to be there. But she felt like she had to prove herself, terrified that something would cause her to be kicked off the team.
“This is SSA Derek Morgan,” Hotch introduced, “And SSA Emily Prentiss.”
“Hello,” the new recruit said, shaking each hand.
“And Dr. Spencer Reid,” Hotch gestured towards him, “We’ve found you some competition.”
The girl looked at Reid with a wide smile and it struck him how pretty she was. He blinked dumbly a few times, face blank when he replied, “Competition?” His throat felt incredibly dry.
“This is SSA (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” Hotch continued, “I was just telling her how we had an early graduate already on our team.”
Reid cleared his throat to combat the dryness, “You graduated school early?”
She nodded slowly, “Highschool and college.” She was quiet – shy in stating her accomplishments.
Hotch continued for her, “Had her bachelor’s degree by eighteen.”
(Y/N) sucked in a breath, rushing out, “And my master’s degree by twenty-two.”
“Our genius beats you by a few years,” Morgan grins.
“The eidetic memory helps,” Prentiss scoffs.
(Y/N) smiled again, “It’d be nice to bounce ideas off another brainiac.” She regards Reid with a warmer expression.
He was suddenly overcome with a sense of familiarity, as if he had seen her face somewhere before. He ran her name through his mind, trying to remember if he had read it or just heard it before.
“Speechless, Reid?” Morgan asked, grinning like he knew something everyone else didn’t. “I guess there’s a first time for everything.”
Everyone laughed as Reid tried to clear his mind. (Y/N) was looking at him with such fondness, he hoped it wasn’t pity for his strange and endearing behavior. He surprised himself by realizing he wanted her to like him. Like him a lot.
~~~
You leaned into the cushions of the jet seats, fingers running along your ribcage, at the little scar you knew was there. You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you could.
“Alright, so families are being targeted in their homes with variations of the anthrax bacteria,” Hotch said, leading the team in the next case. “What do we notice about these cases?”
“These don’t seem like full scale terrorist attacks that are usually associated with anthrax,” Morgan said, flipping through the files, “But these could just be test subjects before some biological warfare.”
“Being isolated to just families within their homes gives the appearance of a simple virus passing through,” Prentiss said, “Usually when one family member gets sick they assume everyone will eventually.”
Rossi sighed, “Which kept families from reporting to the hospital until it was too late.”
“It’s also interesting that the unsub is using different anthrax forms,” J.J. continued, looking at the case photos with disgust, “Maybe they’re testing the effectiveness of each.”
Reid had a few knuckles resting against his chin, “We’ve seen inhalation anthrax in previous attacks, which affects the lungs of the infected and presents as flu-like symptoms.”
“There’s also intestinal anthrax, which comes from ingesting the bacteria,” you say quickly, “As well as cutaneous anthrax, which only affects the skin.”
“But we all know that inhalation anthrax is the deadliest,” Hotch said, “It’s been reported as the most fatal.”
“So why is the unsub using these different forms?” Morgan asked.
You thumb through the victim photos, “Maybe the unsub isn’t testing anything. Maybe they just enjoy infecting the family and watching the chaos ensue.”
“What makes you say that?” Hotch asked.
You sigh, feeling the attention being placed on you. A few of your fingers search for the little scar against your ribcage, tracing the slightly raised skin beneath your shirt. “If the goal of infecting the victims is to kill them, then using cutaneous or intestinal anthrax isn’t optimal. As soon as a cutaneous rash or ulcer appears, then you treat it with topical antibiotics and survival is very likely. And the only way intestinal anthrax will kill is if it somehow enters the bloodstream.”
“They could be enjoying the panic of sick families,” Rossi muttered to himself.
“The unsub might be using those forms in addition to inhalation because they want to see ultimate suffering,” you continue.
Morgan leaned forward, “Start with inhalation to incapacitate the victims. Then infect them with the other forms later.”
Hotch nodded in agreement, “Good work, (Y/N). I don’t think we are afraid of a terrorist attack. This is an unsub that enjoys isolating and infecting whole families.”
You swallow hard, proud of yourself for having an idea that might be plausible. This only being your third case with the team meant still trying to find your place among them.
Morgan was relaxed across from you, watching you for a few seconds, “You okay?”
You snap your eyes to him, “Yeah, why?”
He shrugged, looking down to your hand, “You have a nervous tick.”
Your hand instantly left the little scar you often traced, “Don’t we all?” you try to smile, “This is a time sensitive case.”
“Most of them are,” Morgan said, observing you, “There’s something you especially don’t like about this one.”
“What gives you that impression?” you ask, monitoring your own actions to try not to give yourself away.
“I don’t know you all that well…” he said.
You shake your head quickly, “No, you don’t.”
“… but I’ve seen you in some high stress situations the last couple of weeks. And I’ve noticed when you’re a little shaken.”
You close the case file, staring down at it with some apprehension. “Another form of anthrax is injection.”
Morgan looked at you with confusion, “Like with a needle?”
“That’s enough,” Rossi said from a few seats away, “Isn’t there a rule about profiling each other?”
“Papa Rossi to the rescue,” Morgan said with a small smile. “I was just concerned, that’s all.”
You give him a little nod, “I get it.” You give Rossi a stern, knowing look and he waved away your glare.
“We should grab a drink sometime,” Morgan continued, flashing his eyes in Reid’s direction. “It’d be nice to get to know you more.”
You laugh, “The most exciting thing about me, Derek, is this job.”
“Still,” Morgan stretched, “Where you from?”
A little huff escaped your lips as the jet began its descent, “Arizona.”
“What part?”
“Flagstaff,” you say slowly, “Why does this sound like an interrogation?” You were smiling, almost encouraging Morgan’s teasing tone.
“Family? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”
You shake your head, “Parents back home. And no.” You notice how Reid suddenly put down the book he was reading to give his undivided attention.
“Alright.”
A laugh escapes you, “That’s all you wanted to know?”
“For now, sweetheart,” he said, giving a wink to Reid when you looked away. “Prentiss and I can scope out the first victim’s house.”
Hotch nodded, watching the jet get closer to the ground, “Good. Rossi, you and J.J. can look at the second victim’s house. Reid and (Y/N) – you two can go to the hospital to get more information on the symptoms and treatment of the victims. I’ll set up base at the local police station.”
Morgan seemed pleased about something as he got ready for the landing. Reid gave a little wave to you but seemed embarrassed by the action as he looked away immediately.
~~~
You sit behind the wheel of the SUV, Reid in the passenger seat twiddling his thumbs in his lap. You could tell he wanted to talk but didn’t know what to say. If you had it your way, you’d prefer to keep your silence while he rambled on about whatever was on his mind.
That way you wouldn’t have to talk. The less you talk the less likely you’ll share something you would regret.
“I found out recently that there’s a stage theatre in Virginia that puts on Shakespeare plays,” you say quietly.
Reid turns to you with raised eyebrows, “The Blackfriars Playhouse?”
You nod, “I hear it’s the world’s only re-creation of Shakespeare’s indoor theatre.”
“Yes, it started out as a traveling troupe that performed in countries around the world. They were taken in by the International Shakespeare Globe Centre and featured in England. In 1999 they changed their name to Shenandoah Shakespeare and moved to Staunton, Virginia. It took two years for the Blackfriars Playhouse to be built, and since then they’ve rebranded as the American Shakespeare Center that educates aspiring actors and performs using Renaissance rehearsal practices to showcase Shakespeare’s greatest works on their Globe Theatre stage.”
You start to relax against the wheel, “I saw somewhere that they’re having a year long conference.”
Reid was getting all excited, sitting on the edge of his seat and smiling with his words, “They are! The ASC is partnering with Shakespeare’s Globe in London. You’re a fan of Shakespeare?”
You give a polite nod, “As long as it’s on the stage. Shakespeare was meant to be watched, not just read.”
“Exactly!” he was thrilled to find something in common with you. “What is your favorite play?”
“Probably Much Ado About Nothing.”
“A comedy,” Reid said, “It’s one of my favorites too. Did you know that Much Ado About Nothing is considered one of Shakespeare’s greatest comedies? Although a similar trope of a happy ending, united lovers, and a villain receiving justice is seen in both The Merchant of Venice and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Much Ado About Nothing also features more prose than just about any other Shakespearean play.”
You smile, confused, “Prose?”
“Prose is the written or spoken language in its ordinary form, meaning without the use of a metrical structure. It follows the natural flow of speech and differs from most traditional poetry. Much Ado About Nothing is about 75% prose and only 25% actual poetry verse. Verse is used to express more emotional statements, so that essentially proves how much of a comedy the play is because 75% of the material is used to express whimsical thoughts.”
You kept smiling, turning to enter the hospital parking lot. “I had no idea.”
It was quiet for a second before Reid cleared his throat, “I was rambling, wasn’t I?”
“Don’t worry,” you say, “I like it.”
Reid squirmed in his seat, warmth blooming in his chest, “I’m sorry, I should give you more of a chance to talk. Did you bring up the Blackfriars Playhouse because you wanted to see a show?”
You open the car door, “Maybe. Let’s get this over with.”
He scrambles out of the car, readjusting his side bag. “Okay.” You could tell he wanted to continue your conversation, but you brushed it off as you both enter the building to talk to the chief of the hospital.
You held back a shiver as you meet with staff in the urgent care ward. They told you of the severity of the anthrax murders, the horrific symptoms presented in the victims. They confirmed how quickly the bacteria affects a person and travels to everyone within a household.
“It would be easily transmitted between family members,” the doctor expressed.
“We believe the man we’re looking for is entering the home and tainting their food, infecting their air conditioning units, and injecting them in their sleep,” Reid says.
The doctor nods, “I can say the inhalation infection was there the longest, meaning it was the first form used. Cutaneous infection through injections hasn’t been present as long.”
“Meaning the unsub is entering the house a second time to infect them with a different form,” you say, “This guy likes to stick around and watch.” You trace the little scar against your ribcage, fingers lowering to another pinprick scar against your abdomen.
“Thank you for your time,” Reid said, hands stuffed in his pockets.
“Of course,” the doctor said, “And before I forget, your unit chief wanted your team treated to prevent an anthrax infection.”
Reid nodded in understanding, but you start to seize, “How?”
A nurse leaves to grab some supplies as the doctor states calmly, “Antibiotics and the anthrax vaccine. We usually only recommend it for individuals that are at risk.”
“And that comes in a pill form?” you ask quickly. Reid looks at you suddenly from your tone of voice.
“The antibiotics do,” the doctor says, pulling out some paperwork, “But the vaccine comes in an injection.”
Pain enters your side. You know it’s most likely a phantom pain, but you can’t escape the feeling of terror bubbling in your diaphragm. It popped and sizzled into your lungs, bringing you back to the familiar sensation of your lungs being punctured.
You attempted to mask the reaction – hold back the sweat wetting your palms and creeping up your neck. You cooled your tone as you cleared your throat. You didn’t even want to see the vaccine.
Reid was being directed to sit down and roll up his sleeve, which he did while keeping his eyes trained on you. You didn’t want to see the confusion and worry in his face.
You run your fingers through your hair, holding back the shakiness of your hands, “I uh… I need to run to the bathroom real quick.”
You didn’t hear any response as you sped to the nearest bathroom. White noise was buzzing in your ears, dots of pain appearing across your front, like little beestings. You knew it was just a memory, and you clenched either side of the porcelain sink telling yourself that.
Of course you knew a spiral was going to happen. It was one of the main reasons Hotchner didn’t want to hire you in the first place. But you had hoped you’d be a few more cases in before it happened.
You breathed through the terror, splashed your face with cold water, and flexed your fingers. You grounded yourself with your surroundings: Tiled floors, white walls, soap scum on the sink, faint bleach smell, water dripping down the drain.
Straightening out, you took a deep breath, no sharp stabbing pain – the fear trickling back into its containment in your diaphragm.
You straighten the hairs framing your face, wiping the speckle of water against your chin. Your phone started ringing.
“Hello?”
“Hi, gorgeous,” came a bright sing-song voice, “How’s my new bestie?”
A smile finally breaks the grimness of your face, “Garcia.”
“Yeah, hi – Hotch is asking that everyone meets back at the station. We just found a connection between the families. They’re both customers of the same plumbing company.”
“Which would give someone access to their drinking water and air conditioning.”
“Oh, I didn’t even think about infecting the water supply,” Garcia said, a smile clear in her voice, “I knew boy genius was going to have some competition with you.”
“Thanks, Garcia,” you say, sliding the phone back in your pocket. You exit the bathroom and find Reid waiting by the front doors. His face was placid, but his brow furrowed upon seeing you.
His throat bobbed before he spoke. “You okay?”
“Yeah, Hotch wants us back at the police station.” You walked right past him and out to the parking lot.
Reid had to jog to catch up to you, pointing back at the hospital, “Did you get the vaccine?”
“I’m fine,” you say, getting in the car, “The team made a connection between the victims.”
It was obvious that he didn’t believe you, but he was too intimidated by your evasion that he kept his mouth shut. The warmth that bloomed in his chest at sharing a car ride with you was still there. He wanted it to stay – he didn’t want to jeopardize the possible friendship growing between you.
Looking at you drive, more tense than he’s seen you before, he was struck again with how familiar you were. Whether your name or your face, he didn’t know but he could’ve sworn he’d heard of you before.
It had only been a few weeks, but he knew he already had it bad. He was becoming infatuated with you.
~~~
The team had dispersed again, taking part in investigating new suspects at the plumbing company. (Y/N) and Hotch were in the next room interrogating a lead while Reid updated the geographical profile in their office.
Rossi was confirming their suspicions that another family might be targeted in the next 24 hours.
Reid capped a marker and cleared his throat, “You knew (Y/N) before she joined the BAU.”
“Yeah,” Rossi said, immediately suspicious, “What of it?”
“It’s just…” Reid continued, sitting down at the table, “I feel like I know her from somewhere, but I can’t quite place it.”
“I thought you remembered everything.”
“I remember what I read, but I think her name is something I’ve heard before.”
Rossi put his files down, giving his full attention, “Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Because I have a feeling she’ll deflect.”
“So you’re trying to go behind her back?”
Reid sighed, “No, I just… she worried me a little at the hospital. I know something is wrong.”
That sparked some interest in Rossi. He leaned forward, “What happened?”
“She basically ran away when the doctor said we needed to get a shot. She says she got one, but I think she was lying.”
Rossi was quick to answer, “A lot of people don’t like getting shots.”
“No, it was the way she reacted,” he said quietly, “It was more than just a phobia. And I know she doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Then there’s only one thing you can do.”
Reid looked up hopefully, “What?”
“Be a good friend and respect her wishes.”
“You’re not going to tell me how you know her, are you?” Reid said, disappointed.
“It’s not my story to tell,” Rossi shrugged, “But if she’s lying about getting the vaccine, then I might talk to her. We don’t want her contracting anthrax because of a fear.”
Reid twiddled his thumbs, giving his best puppy-dog stare, “Not even a hint?”
It pulled a chuckle out of Rossi, “You like this girl.”
“Did Morgan tell you that?”
“It’s not so hard to figure out,” the old man smiled, “I’ll give you some advice. (Y/N) is a driven and stubborn woman. She’s never liked being told what she can and can’t do. But that’s only what’s on the surface. (Y/N) is one of the kindest, quirkiest, most considerate people I know. You just need to get past the hard outer shell.”
Reid nodded to himself, “We talked about Shakespeare in the car today.”
“You did?” Rossi seemed surprised, “That was quick.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ve already found a nerdy part of her. I thought she’d guard that for a while longer.” He was amused by the giddy happiness that entered Reid’s face, “There might be hope for you yet, kid.”
It wasn’t much later that Hotch figured out that you hadn’t taken any preventative measures against the anthrax. He ordered you back to the hospital or else stay off the case until they caught the unsub. He wasn’t going to take any chances when working with such a serious bacteria.
You, being the stubborn newbie that you are, bit your tongue and quieted the fear beginning to brew below your ribcage.
Taking advantage of the situation, Reid stepped up to escort you to the hospital. It was a quiet and tense ride to the urgent care, Reid attempting to find a way to express his concern.
“Not a fan of needles?” he asked with a lighter inflection.
You hold back a scoff, “Not really.” Your fingers are knotted and pressed tightly against your stomach.
Reid tried to keep his eyes on the road, “I don’t like them much either.”
“It’s silly, really,” you say, closing your eyes.
“No, it’s not. Everyone is afraid of something,” he rushed out, stopping you from diminishing your feelings. “I’m afraid of the dark.”
You swallow hard, “Really?”
“Some would say that’s ridiculous now that we’re adults. But you never know what’s lurking in the dark.”
It was silent for another minute before you took a shaky breath, “I have a pretty severe phobia.”
“Of what?”
You lick your lips, “Any kind of needle. Sewing needles, knitting needles, safety pins, thumbtacks, you name it. I can’t… they remind me…” You clamp your mouth shut.
Reid was hesitant but wanted to encourage you to continue, “You know you’re part of a team now. Whatever we share with each other is in confidence. We all have your back.”
I have your back, he wanted to say, You can trust me.
You tighten your hands, “They remind me of a dark place. I don’t like going there.”
Reid flexed his fingers against the steering wheel. He blinked hard before muttering, “I’ll be there with you.”
You both entered the hospital with Reid having a hand hovering against your back. He didn’t touch you, but he wanted to. He walked beside you, guiding you to sit in a chair. As soon as the nurse appeared with a sterile metal tray, you turned your head away.
Reid sat beside you, addressing the nurse.
“Afraid of needles?” she asked.
You didn’t respond so Reid said, “A little.”
“Don’t worry, honey, this will be over in a second. Just a little pinch.” She noticed how shallow your breathing had gotten, “Remember to breathe, sweetie.”
You nod, jumping when the cold wet of the alcohol wipe touched your exposed shoulder. Reid watched you tense up, gripping the armrests of the chair. He wasn’t sure what was overstepping boundaries, but he felt compelled by the concern eating him up to grab your hand.
His fingers wrapped around yours and he was relieved to find you clutching back at him. As soon as the injection touched your arm, a gasp escaped you. You were shaking in his hand and your face was screwed up against the sharp pain.
Reid never took his eyes off your face, worried at how severe your reaction was. He realized you were holding your breath as the nurse put a band-aid on your arm.
“Breathe, (Y/N),” he said quietly, “Remember to breathe.”
You inhale sharply, “Is it over?”
“Yes,” Reid said in his same calming tone, “And you’re okay. We’re all done.”
You open your eyes, finding Reid looking at you with a deep level of concern. He hadn’t let go of your hand yet and you found that grounding yourself was easier this time. No white noise filled your ears, no phantom pinpricks of pain stabbed your abdomen.
You focused on your surroundings: Reid’s warm hand holding yours, the smell of sugared coffee and mahogany on his collar, the slow breaths filling his chest, and the heat of him nearly pressed against your arm.
“Thank you,” you say softly, “That wasn’t so bad with you here.”
His heart soared out of his chest, a smile wide on his face, “Anytime.”
~~~
A month later you were settling into the team more and more. You had found little blossoms of friendship among your coworkers, except for Rossi who was determined to remain your second father.
You felt more at ease the longer time passed without suspicion about your hiring process. Though that could mean a higher chance of a slip up.
“You. Up. Drinks. Now,” Morgan had pointed a finger at you and gestured to the elevators where some of the team stood.
“Derek,” you sighed, leaning in your chair, “You know the club isn’t my kind of scene.”
He shook his head, smiling, “Not today, angel face. You’ve had an excuse the last four weekends and I know for a fact you were planning on spending your evening alone, reading and drinking your tea.”
You pursed your lips, eyes flickering to where Reid was talking to Prentiss. You had told him earlier that day of your excitement to have a free weekend to read.
“Is nothing sacred anymore?”
“Come on, pretty boy will only go if you go,” Morgan said.
And now you sat at a dimly lit table, waiting for your drink as Morgan was having a dance off with Prentiss out on the floor. She shoved him over and right into the nearest beautiful woman. Derek raised his eyebrows and sent Emily a little ‘thank you’ as he began dancing sensually with his new partner.
Emily rolled her eyes and went to find her own dance partner.
Over at the bar was J.J. and Garcia, no doubt discussing the latest Quantico gossip. Garcia, with a thin black straw between her teeth, slack jawed at the whisperings of J.J.’s news. It made you smile knowing that the analyst would corner you later to tell you what she had learned.
The low lights included a mixture of purple and blue, setting a cool tone around the people sitting at tables. You run your fingers along the table surface, noticing Reid making his way to you with two drinks.
“You look bored,” he said with a close lipped smile.
You accept the drink gratefully, “I told Derek I’m not a fan of drinks.”
“Then why did you agree to come?”
Because I knew you wouldn’t have a good time if I didn’t. You swallow, stirring your drink around with the straw, “My parents tell me I should go out every once in a while or I’ll never make any friends.”
He huffed a laugh, “You talk to your parents a lot?”
“I would every day if I let them have their way.”
“Are you close?”
You shrug your shoulders, “They worry about me.”
“Are you an only child?”
“Don’t start the profiling questions,” you say with a smirk, “But yes, I am an only child.”
Reid nods, his face heating up at being chastised. “There are a lot of studies on the effects of only children.”
“You going to say I’m a stereotypical only child that experiences overprotectiveness and spoiling from my two loving parents?”
“No,” Reid said calmly, “There are actually many studies that disprove that stereotype. Professor Toni Falbo from the University of Texas found that ‘across all developmental outcomes, only children were indistinguishable from firstborns and people from small families.’ And clinical psychologist Linda Blair wrote about how ‘parents can focus all their time and energy on an only child,’ which means they get valuable relationship time where ‘they just feel valued’, not just a sense of being overprotected. I think your parents might worry about you because of a different reason.”
You try to contain your smile, “No, they’re definitely just overprotective of me.”
“But then something must’ve happened to have them be overprotective of you. It couldn’t just be because you’re an only child.”
You take a sip of your drink, slowly nodding your head. Be careful. Don’t slip up. “A little bit of both.” You cleared your throat, “You know what show I just started?”
Reid took note of the change of subject, “What?”
“Doctor Who.”
His face split open into the biggest smile, “Really? The series from 1963 or the revamped series from 2005?”
“I just started the Tenth Doctor,” you say, matching his smile, “I think I like David Tennant more.”
Reid looked about ready to burst with the amount of information he knew about the topic. He started stuttering over his words, twiddling his fingers in the air as the words tumbled out of his mouth.
“My favorite is by far the Fourth Doctor played by Tom Baker. He’s the longest running Doctor on the series, having starred in seven seasons between 1974 and 1981. He is the most recognizable Doctor internationally with his famous multicolored scarf. I think his most popular companions are K-9 and…”
“… Sarah Jane!” you say enthusiastically, “Yeah, they were both in the last season with the Tenth Doctor.”
“Yes, yes!” he said happily, “That’s one of the greatest things about Doctor Who – they bring back timeless characters and stories through the years. It’s why you have to watch the originals!”
You laugh at his endearing blabber, “Go back to black and white television?”
“It’s classic,” he retorts, “Sure the BBC didn’t give them much of a budget at first, but the black and white helps hide the poor quality of the sets and costumes. And television back then wasn’t designed to be binged like today, so many of the stories aren’t cohesive, but that’s the beauty of it. It’s history in the making – you can see the progress of a single character and their life over almost fifty years! It’s fascinating.”
You nod slowly, tickled by Reid’s eagerness, “Alright. Maybe I’ll try to watch them.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to talk to you about the Master and the evolution of the Daleks and the effects of the Time War.”
Another laugh escapes you as you continue to stir your drink with the straw, staring at the ice cubes tink against the glass.
It got quiet as Reid stewed in the slight embarrassment that itched his stomach as his excitement wore off. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I rambled.”
“I told you I like it,” you say, finally looking at him in that dimly lit bar, “I like seeing you get all excited about stuff. It makes me want to get excited about it too.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t do things just because I like them.”
“Why not?” you say firmly, “What if I want us to share something?”
He was caught off guard by that, blinking hard a few times. “You want us to share something?”
You take another sip of your drink. It was getting watered down now by the melting ice. “I told you I need more friends,” you smile at him, “My parents are worried, remember?”
Reid’s throat bobbed, thoughts of spending long nights cuddled on the couch and watching old shows on a black and white television disappear in an instant. His hopes of taking her on a date to the Blackfriars Playhouse to see her favorite play were being diminished, the tickets of said show burning in his back pocket. The want to brew her a cup of tea and share an evening reading books together, maybe even holding hands across their reading chairs, ached in his chest.
“Friends,” he said quietly, “Right.”
~~~
Not long after the bar trip, you invited Reid over to your apartment for one of your reading sessions.
When you opened the door to find him with nearly ten books piled in his arms, you laughed. “You’re gonna out read me 10 to 1.”
He gave a close lipped smile, fighting back the embarrassment of his quirks. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”
You sat on one end of the couch, thumbing the edge of your fiction book. “I put a kettle on,” you said gesturing to the stove, “If you want to have a cup of tea with me.”
Reid took off his satchel, setting his books on a side table, “I’m more of a coffee guy.”
“Yeah,” you say smiling, “More like a sugar guy with some coffee beans on the side.”
You’re suddenly struck with another memory. Just like how you remember that your first day at the BAU smelled like fall leaves.
You remember that the first time you were able to easily ground yourself from PTSD, it smelled like sugared coffee.
As the kettle started screaming with steam, you went to stand until Reid started waving you down, “No, no – you’re already sitting. I’ll get the tea.”
And as he passed you by, it smelled like sugared coffee again, “But you don’t even want any.”
He didn’t respond, smiling to himself as he filled a waiting teacup with boiling water. A little cannister of teabags sat beside the stove. “Did you know that tea is the second most popular drink in the world? The first being water.”
“So my preferred drink is more popular than yours?” you say teasingly as he came around the couch with the steaming cup.
“That’s because the Asia Pacific is a dominant region for tea, and that accounts for over 4 billion people, which is around 60% of the world’s population. Not to mention that around 68% of people in the United Kingdom drink at least one tea per day, and that’s about 61 million people. That puts the tea industry slightly above the coffee.” He handed you the teacup, his fingertips burning where they brushed up against yours, and not because the drink was hot.
“You could just say tea is better than coffee, it’s okay,” you say, blowing before taking a sip.
Reid held back a smile, sitting on the other side of the couch, “Maybe not better… but more popular.”
You bickered with smiles on your faces for a couple more minutes before cracking open your books. You’re giggling as you toss your bookmark at him, “Just shut up and read your books.”
He laughed at you, trying to get comfortable on his side, crossing his spindly legs.
The pair of you sat in a comfortable silence as the sun dipped lower behind the blinds. Reid had blown throw two psychology textbooks and another true crime book written by a favorite author. You had gotten through maybe seventy pages of your adult fantasy novel.
Reid thought he would’ve gotten through six books by then, but he kept getting distracted by you. The thought of reaching over and holding your hand as you read was overwhelming. He wanted to sit closer, rub shoulders with you, peer over and read the same page as you, wait for you to finish before he turned the page for you.
He wanted to catch your eyes drooping with sleep and then offer to read aloud to you as you drift off against him. He wanted to drape a blanket around you both and help you sip tea so you wouldn’t have to take your arms out from under the warmth. He wanted to hear you read your favorite lines to him. He wanted to see you shift into a more comfortable reading position, grumbling about aching wrists. He wanted to read your book just so he could talk to you about it.
He wanted you.
It was getting painful how much he wanted you.
The bookmark he was using was the two tickets to the Blackfriars Playhouse. They blared at him like a beacon sitting on the side table.
But then something remarkable happened. From your scrunched up position on the opposite side of the couch, you crept your feet across the seat cushions until they reached Reid. You then tucked your cold toes under his thigh.
He abruptly looked at you with raised eyebrows.
You shrugged your shoulders, attempting to look innocent. “My feet are cold.”
He fought a huge smile, “And you don’t have a blanket?”
“Why would I need a blanket when you’re here?” You said it so casually there was no way you noticed how that made Reid’s heart leap.
“Fair enough,” he responded. He cleared his throat, flickering his eyes between you and his own book. “Hey, (Y/N)?”
You look up at him over the top of your book, “Yeah, Spence?”
Spence. He started smiling despite the nerves, “I couldn’t help but notice that the Blackfriars Playhouse is showing Much Ado About Nothing, and um…” he swallowed hard, unable to look at you. “… I just so happen to have two tickets to see it next Saturday.”
Your feet wiggled under his leg, and he squirmed, tickled. “Is that so?”
“Would you want to go with me… maybe?”
You could barely contain the excitement starting to course through your veins, “Are you kidding? Spence! I would love to go.” Your book fell from your fingers, “Oh my god, I’m so excited.”
The pride that swelled Reid’s chest could’ve made him float to the moon.
~~~
You could’ve blamed it on the case. On the method of killing. On the type of victim. But it was the fact that you didn’t have a handle on your emotions.
Girls around your age were being taken and tortured by having nails hammered into them. Sharp, pointed nails – stabbed into them. It was too similar.
You counted your breaths and stared at your desk. Everyone exited the bullpen before you, packing briefcases and emergency bags for the incoming jet flight to Missouri. You staggered on your way out, nearly collapsing into your desk chair.
You considered running to the bathroom like you usually did, dousing yourself in cold water and snapping out of it. Instead you closed your eyes and traced the little scars you could find against your ribcage and abdomen.
The smell of coffee wafted over you.
“Hey,” came a small voice, kneeling beside you. “Is it the nails?”
You try to swallow, but it’s thick and sticks to the back of your throat. You just subtly nod instead, slowly opening your eyes.
Reid is there, leaning against your desk and itching to touch you – to comfort you.
“(Y/N),” he said cautiously, “Is this more than a phobia?”
You attempt a deep breath, but it’s shallow in your chest, “I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe we should…”
“Reid,” you say more sternly, “I’m going to be fine. I’m not going to let this hold me back.” You brush him off, standing and straightening your blazer. “I’m gonna go pack.”
Reid let you pass but kept his gaze on you as you left the offices. It must’ve been too full of the longing and worry he felt for you because Morgan and Prentiss were quick to comment on it.
“Hey there, pretty boy,” Morgan said, setting his duffel bag down, “What’s got your attention?”
Prentiss gave a breathy laugh, zipping up her own bag, “Only the object of all his desires.”
“Give it a rest,” he responded, running his fingers through his hair. “You’re not helping.”
“Helping what?” Morgan folded his arms, “You getting out of the friend zone?”
“If she could see the way you just looked at her,” Prentiss sucked in a breath of air that sounded like a hiss, “Maybe she’d see how in love you are.”
“Those big old puppy-dog eyes,” Morgan smiled, “You’re irresistible.”
Reid grumbled, “Something’s wrong.”
“Yeah, the fact you’re wasting time pining when you could be getting some weekend sugar,” Morgan laughed.
“No,” Reid looked away, “There’s something familiar about (Y/N) and I don’t know what it is. Rossi refuses to say anything because he’s protecting her, but I know they have a past. That has to mean she’s been involved in Rossi’s career somehow, whether that’s from a case, or one of his lectures, or as one of his interns. But the fact he doesn’t speak about it means that it’s personal.”
“Okay,” Morgan said, the smile leaving his face, “What do you want to do?”
The corner of Reid’s lip twitched – it usually happened when he was thinking about something difficult, “I don’t know. I guess I hoped she would tell me eventually.”
“But now you’re impatient?” Prentiss asked, brow scrunched, “You want Garcia to look (Y/N) up?”
“No!” Reid said quickly, “I just… I want to help her, but I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s wrong.”
“I thought she just got a little squeamish around needles,” Morgan said, “She needs a second, but then she’s good.”
Reid shoved his hands in his pockets, “I think it’s a trauma response.”
“Well, don’t phobias come from past incidents or traumas?” Prentiss asked, “Couldn’t she have had a bad experience at the doctors as a child getting her flu shot?”
They clearly weren’t as concerned as he was, and Reid sat at his desk, knuckles covering his mouth as he thought.
Morgan shared a look with Prentiss before saying, “Look kid, we worry about (Y/N) too. We’re here for her if she needs it. But we’re not going to go snooping around in her personal business that she would rather keep private.”
“She’s not going to ask for help,” Reid said to himself.
Prentiss pursed her lips, “Then we’ll be here to catch her when she falls.” She gestured to Morgan and the pair of them took their bags to meet by the SUVs, all the while muttering to themselves.
Reid drummed his knuckles against his lips, staring at his computer screen and debating. He could do a simple google search himself, no need to bother Rossi or Garcia with it. With Rossi being involved in some way, there might be a news article somewhere that mentions you.
Hesitantly, looking around for any prying eyes, Reid logged onto his computer and typed in the search engine. He searched for your name. Your name plus FBI. Your name plus David Rossi.
And a string of articles popped up. Newspapers from Arizona, Nevada, and Utah.
Young girls kidnapped, held, tortured, and murdered in the desert. The murderer being coined ‘The Pincushion Killer’ based on his methods. Each victim was repeatedly stabbed with varying sized needles. Starting with acupuncture needles and growing to icepicks. He purposely stabbed his victims in nonthreatening spots of the body, avoiding large blood vessels and major organs. The purpose to draw out their suffering.
Until the day of the murder. He would then puncture an organ of his choice: lungs, stomach, liver, sometimes an artery.
He was never caught. But all nine of his victims were identified. Eight killed. And the ninth survived.
And pasted on the front of every news article said: Pincushion Killer – Victim #9 Survives; Killer Disappears.
Below was a picture of (Y/N).
The ninth victim.
~~~
Taglist: @caswinchester2000 @aria253264 @bippity-boppity-boopa @kaqua @cameleonfrenzy @shyposttree @thatdummy-girl @chiefqueef22 @nicole-survivor @murder-swan @nomajdetective @mxacegrey @cynbx @popeheywardssecretgf @futuremrsspencerreid @dilflover10 @mrskatpotter @holly-the-trash-writer @noakroontje
#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds#dr spencer reid#spencer reid love#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid fluff#criminal minds spencer#okayjhannah#fandomfantasia
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Nenita
You plan a surprise for Irene’s birthday
Irene Paredes x teen!reader
Part of the Scrubber universe
masterlist
Warnings: pure fluff, no warnings needed!
A/N: in honour of irene’s birthday, i decided to write a little fic. there will be a new section in the scrubber masterlist for all the blurbs about cute moments with scrubber and the girls! i hope you enjoy 🫶🏼
Your calendar was very significant. You marked off your birthday, upcoming matches, Christmas, but most importantly… all your big sisters’ birthdays. Each of their birthdays were marked on your calendar in pink glittery gel pen.
You were giddy the night before their birthdays, probably even more excited than they were. Tonight, it was Irene’s big day that you were looking forward to as you laid on your bed stomach-first, filling in a card you made yourself.
Birthdays were a big deal for you because it was probably the most appropriate time to tell someone just how much you loved them.
Your captain was a very special woman. She was your second mother, mentor, and friend, all in one. Everyone needed an Irene in their life, but unfortunately there was just one, and not-so-unfortunately, she ended up with you and your team.
Those were the words you wrote on her card before sealing it in the envelope. With a smile, you placed it on top of the neatly wrapped gift stashed in your closet… that was piled on top of what looked like a dozen more.
The morning of the 4th of July, you were up before Irene. Carefully and quietly, without hitting the walls with your tower of gifts, you walked out of your bedroom with them and placed them on the coffee table. You placed your card in front of them and scrambled to the fridge to pull out the cake you made for her.
You weren’t a professional baker, but you knew how to make simple things like a cake. Irene loved red velvet cake, so when you stacked it all together with a homemade cream cheese frosting you had worked all week on (almost) perfecting, the end product was a birthday cake. You decorated it with the help of Fridolina, using sprinkles and cake toppers she had chosen, then two big ‘3’ candles right in the middle.
You were proud of your cake, even if it wasn’t the best. You figured that it would be nice to test out your baking skills instead of buying a red velvet cake that already cost you an arm and a leg without extra decorations.
Your culinary creations didn’t stop there. Next on the menu was french toast that you dusted with powdered sugar, drizzled with maple syrup, and garnished with strawberries and blueberries. It made you feel like a proper chef, and once you finished constructing your meal, you looked at it in pride. It almost looked good enough to go in your stomach.
“Irene,” you whispered, nudging her bedroom door open as you carried her breakfast and a cup of coffee into her room, on a tray. Your grin was hardly containable.
She rolled over, looking at you through squinted eyes. Her expression brightened and her eyes widened when she realised what was happening, and she sat up while a smile flashed across her face.
“Meu nenita, moltes gràcies,” she replied, her smile widening as you placed the tray on her lap and put the coffee on her bedside table.
“After you eat, come to the living room. I have to give you something!” you chimed, skipping out of the room and leaving the woman to eat her food.
When she emerged out of her room, you were standing in front of your gift tower with your arms behind your back and a beaming smile on your face. You moved to the side, gesturing to your gifts. “Surprise! Feliz cumple, hermana!”
Irene gasped quietly, placing a hand on her chest as she looked at you in surprise. Before even paying another thought to her gifts, she pulled you into a tight hug, squeezing you gently. “Nenita, you didn’t have to. How did you get all of this– no, how did you hide all of this?”
“I can’t tell you that,” you responded, “I’ll have to do it again next year. Open the card!”
You picked up the envelope and handed it to her, almost bouncing off the walls in excitement. She tore it open carefully and pulled out the card, taking a minute to read it before lowering it and looking at you with glossy eyes.
‘Dear Irene,
From the very first day I played with you in Barça, I’ve seen you as a second mother to me, away from my home. Not only do you take care of me and let me live under your roof, but you inspire me and teach me to be better than what I am capable of, on and off the pitch. I am lucky to spend my days with you; a beautiful, loving, and talented person. Being under your guidance and having you by my side during every game has made me the player I am today and I will always be grateful for having you in my life now, and hopefully forever.
Feliz cumpleaños, hermana! T'estimo per sempre.’
You were the one to initiate the hug as you wrapped your arms around her. She was quick to react and do the same, embracing you affectionately. “T’estimo, meu hermanita,” she mumbled.
Once you had pulled away, your grin hadn’t faltered one bit. “When all of the girls get here, we can have cake!”
“What do you mean, all of the girls?” Irene questioned, raising an eyebrow.
“Y’know, all the girls. Alexia, Mapi, Frido, Ingrid– who else.. oh, Caro, Marta, Aitana, Lucy and Ona,” you answered, “Now go on, go get ready. The icing is going to start melting!”
#scrubber#fc barcelona femeni#fcb femení#fc barcelona#woso#woso community#woso imagines#woso x reader#woso one shot#woso fanfics#woso blurbs#irene paredes#irene paredes x reader#fcb femení x reader#fc barcelona x reader#fcb femeni#fcbfemeni#b14augrana’s gifs
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