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pythonmoth · 2 days ago

Text

cw: anxiety. post-traumatic stress disorder (torture). reader is traumatized. reader is a bit unreliable. military inaccuracies. hurt/comfort (I guess?).

simon riley x f!reader. implied simon riley x soap. implied simon riley x f!reader x soap.

First | Last | Next

Being home is incredibly boring, especially if you can't move much.

Your brother's been taking care of you, making sure you're eating, that you let your injuries breathe, and soon enough, the cuts on your feet allow you to move around on your own. It takes a whole month for your brother to leave you alone for longer than a few hours. It's a good thing, really, because if you want to spend hours just laying in your bed and crying in silence as you stare at the ceiling, you can. He would only come whenever you needed a ride, anyway.

Despite being able to move around and now even managing to use your sensitive fingers, you dread the idea of going outside. You have to wear sandals and loose pants, because your toes cannot, by any means, be touched by any kind of fabric yet, or else you're grimacing in pain. Feeling defenseless hasn't been a thing ever since you became part of the team. Not even your skills could take down Simon, but you could put up a fight with them all, easily; never won, but you were confident with anyone else on the street.

No doubt you could still beat them up, your skills are still there, but the idea of someone somehow restricting your movements felt like torture all over again. The idea of anyone getting a hold of you makes you want to throw up. Your mind and body betray you, making you remember those awful moments, and you don't realize you're pulling a face.

"You're spacing out".

You look up at the therapist, giving her a little nod as an apology, getting comfortable on the seat. Restless, you can't help but look around for a moment again. The office is incredibly white, clean, filled with mirrors for whatever fucked up reason, and the only thing that isn't grey or white is one of the cushions on the couch on the other side of the room. It's deep purple. It looks awful.

Seemingly realizing you won't be of much help with the question she just asked you, she gives you a smile. "How are your nails? I can see you're using your hands a lot more".

"They're healing" you reply, looking down at your fingers instead of focusing on the cushion. "I can use my hands pretty normally now, but I can't use the stove for long".

"Because of the heat". An affirmation. You've already mention it before, and you're not surprised she remembers that. Probably read it on her notes.

"It hurts, yeah".

"And how are your feet?" she asks, looking down at the way you absentmindedly drag your hands on your pants from your thighs to your calves in slow movements. You only realize what you're doing because you can hear the way her pen drags across the paper, distracting you.

"Well... I can only wear sandals. Doctor said I should be okay to move around with real shoes in three months".

"And what do you think?"

"He's the doctor. I want to believe he knows what he's doing, so I can't really question it. I do hope it heals sooner, though".

The therapist writes down on her notebook. With an uncomfortable feeling, you desperately want to know what she's writing, your eyes drifting to the movement of the pen, but you can't make out a single letter.

"So you trust the doctor, right?" she questions, moving one of her erasers to the other side of her desk. Your eyes are fixed entirely on it, on the little thud the eraser makes when she sets it down.

"He knows best, that's for sure. If he's there, must be a reason" you answer, tilting your head as she keeps moving her things around, making them fit somewhere else on her desk. The pencil goes to the left, then to the right, the eraser from top to bottom of the notebook, as if she's as antsy as you are.

"Do you apply that thought somewhere else? Like... at work? Or if you need help at a store and find an employee, maybe?"

The therapist's eyes are on you all the time, your hands, your anxious feet; your little habits coming to light with a single look. The way you bite the inside of your lower lip, the little double blink you make when she moves something in her desk yet again, even if you don't say anything.

"Of course. If they know their way around, it's only right that I ask for help, and trust that" you answer, frowning. You don't think that question is relevant at all, but she keeps writing, and writing.

"I see. Thank you. Now, you mentioned you've been texting G- Simon. Can you tell me how it makes you feel?"

You go silent for a moment, your fingertips dragging across your arm, so softly you can barely feel it. "It's better now".

During the first three months of being home, Simon would text you nearly every single day. He didn't expect a text back and you knew that, because you told him you wouldn't promise to be responsive. Simon would send you pictures of their plain meals, of Gaz sleeping on your bed, Johnny posing next to Price with their thumbs up, or terrible selfies of himself. Always without a mask.

Tuesday

11:27

"Price scolded Johnny because he had crumbs on his uniform. It was hilarious"

Saturday

03:26

"Just got back. Everyone ok"

Even Johnny would text you from time to time. It was mostly memes, awful stickers or ridiculous, random photos of Gaz mid talking, his face weird, or Price smacking Simon's head, or the entire team posing for a picture, Gaz' arm hovering to the side as if to hug your shoulders. You didn't even need to wonder why Gaz hadn't texted you; that man hated technology with a passion.

Still, you never texted back.

You didn't really pay attention to the texts, or the little voice notes, or the selfies. You didn't feel like reading them properly, always leaving them on seen or just grunting to yourself whenever you heard their distinctive tone. Why you didn't change it in the past few months, you don't know. Maybe that's a question for your therapist.

But then, the texts stop.

Monday

16:49

"Tough job"

"We leave at midnight"

23:42

"Text you when we're back"

Only, Simon doesn't text back. For days. For weeks.

You can't pretend you're not worried. It's impossible, really. You're half-tempted to call him, but you can't, you don't know how it will feel to hear his voice again. He said he'd text you and he hasn't, so he isn't back yet, and you don't want to feel vulnerable by opening up. Yet.

You go through Simon's chat, actually paying attention to whatever he sent you. You realize he sometimes sent you long texts, apologizing, accepting what he did, and even a few voice notes that you didn't notice before. They made your heart race as you listened.

"I hurt you, and I'm sorry. I love you, and you don't have to forgive me"

"Garrick told me to tell you that if you aren't eating he'll go and— shut the hell up, Johnny, I'm talking!"

"Tell her we'll go visit her by the end of the month".

That's Price's voice, you realize.

Feeling incredibly choked up, you check Johnny's chat next. You're expecting to find nothing but memes, as you've seen in passing, but when you see he sent you long, long texts, you finally let yourself cry properly.

He's been apologizing since the day you left, too afraid to face you but his texts are so poorly written you know he was in a rush, or crying, or both. His voice notes, however... they just make you break.

"I'm so sorry. I can't undo what we did. You don't owe me anything, I just... really hope you can at least tolerate me. If not, please know I'll always care for you. I love you. Goodnight".

Something inside of your chest eases, maybe moved to the point of forgiveness, even if just a moment. Your therapist has been helping you unveil whatever you missed during that day— during the torture. It's been a tough process, and she insisted you visited twice a week instead of once, but it helped. You could now understand.

Still, understanding the situation only makes your worry grow.

"Text you when we're back"

For two long weeks, there's nothing, from nobody. Only silence and fear. For the first time since you left, you're scared for them. Scared you'll have to open the door one day and it'll be Price, or maybe not even him, telling you the team is dead.

On the second week, your therapist says you can give them a call, or text them if it's more comfortable. When you say you can't, she advices you to write them letters.

"Tell them whatever you wish to say. If you're angry, write it. If you're worried, write it. There's no good or bad feelings, and it's only right to feel them. Write them for yourself, and then you can choose to give them to your team, or not".

And you did.

A whole notebook of messy writing, some tears staining the paper, and your hate slowly turned to understanding. Real understanding. Not forgiveness, not yet, but it's progress.

By the third week with no news, you just can't handle it anymore. You press call without a second thought and your heart squeezes painfully in your chest when it rings, and rings, and rings.

Hopeless, you lay in your bed, your mind working overtime as you stare at the ceiling.

A muffled dinging sound startles you awake, shifting on the bed to find your phone because that's Simon's tone. Adjusting your vision, you realize it fell from your hands to the ground when you fell asleep. You dive for it, grimacing when your sensitive fingertips brush against the carpet, but to see his name there is enough for you to endure it.

Thursday

01:22

"Safe. Couldn't text you earlier"

01:22

"You called me. Are you hurt?"

01:22

"Safe. Call me"

"Now"

His name pops up not even a moment later, his ringtone filling your ears. When you pick up, he's barely breathing, and you wonder if you're about to be told bad news.

Simon explains they were on a very tough mission, and that that was why he couldn't text you, or communicate with you at all. You could hear him shift, move around. Restless.

They got caught in enemy territory, surviving the best they could for two weeks, Simon tells you. Johnny was shot in the leg and Gaz was the one who helped him out, since Simon was too busy dragging Price, who was bleeding out because someone decided it would be fun to put a bullet through his left shoulder.

"I wasn't any better. Dr. Wilson called me a dick, and then made me lay down because I was shaking. Ridiculous" he grunts, his voice hushed on the other side of the line. "Got shot on my side, I just didn't feel it, but I was better than the other two".

He doesn't seem to expect you to speak, huffing and shuffling. You can tell he's in the clinic room, the echo incredibly familiar by now.

Of course, he doesn't tell you that the reason why he didn't text you the whole past week, is because he's been asleep, drugged out of his mind because of the pain.

"Everyone's okay. No risk. Garrick's the only one who didn't get hurt. I think—"

"I was worried, Simon. I'm glad everyone is okay".

There's silence for a long moment. Simon takes a deep breath from the other side of the phone, sighing deeply. You could hear the smile in his tone. "I wouldn't let myself get killed, luv. I'm sorry I couldn't text you before. We're safe now".

You two spend the rest of the night on the call, with you mostly staying in silence and listening. You can't believe how scared you've been for all of them, for Simon. You know it's gonna be hard to fully forgive them, if at all, but you can't help the way your body relaxes as you hear him breathing against your ear. You can't help the way your arms curl around the pillow, seeking his warmth. As before.

The call goes on for long hours. When your soft hums as he speaks stop coming to his end, Simon goes quiet, realizing you've fallen asleep. He sighs and shifts to look at the ceiling, holding the phone against his ear. Focusing on your soft breathing, he let's himself fall asleep, the gunshot wound completely unimportant if he gets to listen to you sleeping again.

He just wishes you were there.

im so sick y'all, my head hurts, but I obviously couldn't resist! also, you guys like Marina? her new song is so good! mowgli's road's vibes.

the therapist's room I'm describing in the story is actually my therapist's old room. I hated it so BAD. the mirrors were a terrible decision. also, if you can't relate to this type of therapy, that's fine. it's just my experience.

again, styling is fully intentional. can y'all tell how our reader is feeling?~

taglist: @euphoricn @lilg101010 @enfppuff @carolchaotic @silas-fanfic-favs @nina-from-317 @an-ever-angry-bi @kittygonap @dorothy-rainbird-deactivated202 @adventurerabby @defronix @sheepispink @iambuttwodaysold @blackhawkfanatic @malevolentghoul @thriving-n-jiving @literallegendicon @echo9821 @angel-bugz @ssc7514 @clickbait-official @hades--baby @blackhawkfanatic @sirbonesly @saki---chan @skeletonsucker @nnsissys @kukavittu @tessakate @honestlymassivetrash @s-a-v-a-n-a-34

(we're so many now, wow! thank you all ♡)

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archangeldyke-all · 1 day ago

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omg hi angel!! I just saw the gym teacher Sev x English teacher reader thing and idk if this was just my middle/high school experience, but I remember at my school during pep rallies sometimes, teachers would divide up into teams and play a sport against each other (usually football or basketball, sometimes softball) as a fun thing to get everyone excited. Sometimes it'd be teachers against students too if you wanna go that route. I dunno maybe you could write something where reader and Sevika are preparing for that?

Maybe a reader who's clumsy/not well versed in sports who already has a somewhat flirty relationship with Sevika asking Sev to help train her alone/teach her about whatever sport theyre going to play so she doesnt embarass herself in front of the entire staff and student body? They could have a whole competitive-flirting thing going on during the one on one training where they end up doing some cheesy shit like stumbling over one another and kissing while they're on the ground lol

KENNIE THIS IS SOOOOOOOOO CUTEEE

men and minors dni

"babe, you're supposed to kick it to me." sevika giggles.

you huff and stomp your foot, stooping over to grab a stick from the field and toss it at your girlfriend. "that's what i tried to do!" you whine. sevika giggles, easily dodging the stick and kicking the ball back to you.

"i can't believe i'm dating somebody who can't even pass a soccer ball."

"yeah, well, i'm dating somebody who refuses to read anything published before 1950--"

"they write so old-timey, i can hardly understand them!" sevika whines, starting up the rant she's perfected in her time with you. you giggle and approach your girlfriend, kicking the ball from its spot between her feet and taking its place. sevika wraps her arms around your waist, smiling down at you. "you're done practicing already?" she guesses.

you giggle and stand on your tiptoes to kiss your girlfriend. she sighs against your lips.

sevika dragged you out to the park today as an attempt to 'train' you for the big students vs. teachers soccer game coming up in a month. in previous years, you've stayed on the sidelines with the other un-athletic teachers, laughing and gossiping and handing out ice packs to your injured co-workers and students. sevika's convinced to get you off the bleachers and onto the field this year, swearing that now that she's your girlfriend, some of her athleticism has to have rubbed off on you.

"i packed a picnic basket in the car... we can set up under that little group of trees?" you ask, blinking sweetly up at sevika. she rolls her eyes and picks up her soccer ball.

"you're lucky you're cute." she huffs, shaking her head as she starts walking you toward the car. you giggle.

"i made your favorite."

"meatball sandwiches?" sevika asks, her eyes lighting up a bit. you grin and nod.

"packed extra napkins too." you say. sevika laughs and kisses your temple.

"so when i asked you to come to the park for training today, you had your own plan this whole time?" she asks. you grin.

"well, duh. did you really think i'd be kicking around a soccer ball for more than thirty minutes?"

"fuck, the teachers are never gonna beat the kids." sevika whines as you open up the car. you giggle, pulling the basket out as she stores all her soccer gear.

"i don't know why you ever think you will, babe. you're a buncha forty year olds playing against kids whose primary food source is energy drinks."

"between me, ran and vander we've got a solid defensive side! we just need somebody fast. with good aim."

"and you thought that would be me?" you tease again.

sevika giggles as she helps you spread out the picnic blanket. "maybe not. maybe i just wanted to see you sweaty and panting." she says with a wink.

you laugh as you sit down on the blanket, dragging sevika to sit next to you. "i can think of much better ways to get sweaty with you than playing soccer, baby." you say. sevika raises a suspicious eyebrow at you.

"last time you said that we spent our saturday in your classroom building bookshelves."

you giggle. "well, we were sweaty weren't we?"

sevika shakes her head and pushes the basket out of the way, before she tackles you and pins you to the blanket. you grin up at her as she gazes down at you. "so lucky you're cute." she mumbles from above you.

you giggle. "are you gonna kiss me or are you just gonna stare?"

sevika rolls her eyes and tries to hide her smile as she ducks down to press her lips to yours. you can feel the curve of her lips against yours, though.

and just as you start to thread your fingers through her hair, the bird noise and wind surrounding you is interrupted by a shriek.

you both jump, and when you sit up on the blanket you make direct eye contact with jinx and ekko, both wearing a pair of rollerskates on their feet and horrified looks of disgust on their faces.

"it's sevika?!" jinx squeals from the sidewalk, not even bothering to greet you.

"i told you you'd never guess." you say with a shrug.

"you're supposed to call me 'coach--'"

"oh janna-- ekko, hold my hair, i'm about to be sick."

ekko snorts, pulls his girlfriends braids into his grasp, and then waves at the pair of you with his free hand. "hey teach. coach. beautiful sunday, isn't it?" he asks awkwardly.

beside you, sevika bursts into giggles.

kofi

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @sevikasllver @runawaybaby3 @lesbones

@chezze-its @lez-zuha @vikashoneybee @shanesevikasfuckdoll @imheadintothemountains

@nanajustnana-a @helaenabugmom

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @artinvain @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette

@ellieslob @xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp

@iamastar @sevikitty @mascdom @nhaaauyen @annesunshiner

@mirconreadzztuff22 @veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @lesbodietcoke

@strawberrykidneystone @vkumi @fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25

@sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ruiwonderz @littlemisszaunite @biblicalcrybaby

@blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion @dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth

#sevika #sevika arcane #sevika imagine #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika

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facultativeactivity · 2 days ago

Text

Okay, reading back Discord from the time this was an issue, what really went down was this:

For a while I was using LibreOffice for my writing. For a while, it was causing an issue when text copypasted from Libre to Ao3's editor would develop weird formatting errors. Specifically, lines with italicized text and quatation marks had spaces in them that weren't supposed to be there. It was annoying but relatively easy to fix.

Then when trying to upload an especially long chapter, I noticed a new problem. After around half of the chapter, all my quotation marks that were at the start of the line, and some others as well, became italicized even they weren't supposed to be. This time the issue only affected the quotation marks themselves.

Again, annoying but easy to fix - or so I thought. After manually de-italicizing the quation marks that werent supposed to be in italics in Ao3's editor and clicked preview I saw that now most of my text got italicized for seemingly no reason.

Checking the affected line back in LibreOffice, I noticed that even though they showed up normally there, if I highlighted them, the toolbar showed them to be italicized, even thoigh they weren't. Like this:

Experimenting, I copied the text into Word as well, where, just like in Ao3, they appeared in italics. After that, I concluded that the issue must be with Libre, as it apparently somehow corrupted my text, normal lines to appear as italics outside of the editor. I was tired of the whole issue and decided to just move to Word since I had it on my coputer at the time anyway.

Later my laptop that had Windows on it broke and I had to switch to Ubuntu. And what's Ubuntu's built-in text editor? Yeah, LibreOffice. Nah, pal, I wasn't going to do that shit again. So for a while, I went to do my writing in GDocs.

Copying text from GDocs into Ao3, while it was less of a hassle, still caused some crap with formatting, mostly with aligning. That's where I became supicious that I might've been too harsh on Libre. After all it's a widely used open source alternative to Word, and nobody seemed to have encountered the same issue. Ao3 on the other hand seemed to had issues with multiple text editors that weren't Word, or its own native editor. I did some experimenting and noticed that copying text from Libre to various online text editors did not cause the issues I encountered, only if Ao3 was involved somewhere in the process.

The only anomlay I could not explain was why that one chapter seemed to got fucked on in Libre itself. It seemed t contradict all my other experiences. It was already a long time ago, and I remembered being pretty frustrated and sleep-deprived while dealing with this, so I decided I probably did something stupid, like copying back the corrupted text from Ao3's editor that caused it. It didin't really make a differenc for me, as I was mostly writing for Ao3, so I needed an editor that was at least mostly compatible with it, so I just silently apologized to Libre for probably being unjust to it, and kept using GDocs, than later went back to Word.

Only now, reading back on The Incident 1.75 years later did I finally manage to Connect The Dots:tm:

You see, I like reusing my OCs in different settings and stories, and also to collaborative stuff with writer friends, where we borrow each other's characters, or write (recursive) fanfiction to each other's works. This monstre chapter I had so much issue with was kinda special because of a segment that took place in its middle, that was meant to be as both a bit of self-indulgance and a gift to my friends.

It had one of my OCs touch and eldritch artifact that caused her to have some weird 'flashbacks' about events that never actually happened to her. At least not in *that* life. Those 'flashbacks' were pieces of dialoge from other stories featuring her different versions, written by both me and my friends.

And all of those lines were copied from Ao3.

So there, after all this time, mystery solved. LibreOffice can, in theory, fuck up your text, but according to my experience, it only happenes if the document has text copied from Ao3. Also if you write your story in Libre, and it have italicized quotes, Ao3 will almost certainly will mess up those lines. Otherwise it should be fine.

Not sure what's going on between the two, but my best bet is Toxic Yuri.

#Ao3 #LibreOffice #writing

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gabseyoo · 2 days ago

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BLANKETS — MIYA ATSUMU

content: msby!atsumu, established relationship, fluff, female reader. word count: 0,7k.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Atsumu asked, stepping into the room with only a towel slung low around his hips, his damp blonde hair clinging messily to his forehead. His skin still glistened with the remnants of steam, and he left wet footprints on the hardwood floor.

After a long, exhausting day, all he wanted was to crawl into bed, snuggle into his beautiful girlfriend’s arms, and drift off to sleep under the familiar blanket you shared.

But something was different tonight.

The first few steps of his nighttime routine went as usual—you were already in bed, reading a book and waiting for him—but the beloved gray blanket was neatly folded on his side of the bed, while a soft pink one covered your legs.

His eyes flickered to yours in confusion. “Why the question?” You asked, glancing up from your book. Then you noticed his stare and let out a quiet, “Oh.”

“You mad at me?” He pressed, his lower lip jutting out just a little, already preparing for the worst.

“I’m not mad.” You reassured him with a small smile. “It’s just an idea I had.” Before he could ask why, you continued, “Remember what we talked about? About, uh… your sleeping habits?”

Atsumu blinked. Oh. That talk.

Of course, he remembered. Two months ago. It had been two weeks after you moved in together, when love and domestic bliss were still new and shiny. You’d sweetly mentioned that his nighttime antics were, well, a little… chaotic. Sometimes throwing an arm over your face, sometimes draping a leg across you like an overly affectionate octopus. Which were completely fine for you, but the one thing you couldn’t deal with was that he was a shameless blanket thief.

He’d promised to work on it. But sleep-logic Atsumu and awake-logic Atsumu were two entirely different creatures.

So, you had tried everything. Tucking the blanket under you, securing it beneath the mattress—nothing worked. And so, you’d come up with a simple solution: separate blankets.

Atsumu, however, was clearly not a fan of this idea.

With a dramatic sigh, he shuffled to the closet, every step a performance of exaggerated woe. He tugged out a pair of boxers, his expression the embodiment of a heartbroken puppy.

“Baby…” You called to him, your voice gentle but laced with an I-know-you’re-about-to-be-dramatic tone.

“If you want to divorce me, just say so.” He mumbled, slipping on his boxers. His shoulders slumped, and he looked as if he might melt into a puddle right there on the floor.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re not even married.”

“Exactly! That’s worse! You could just leave me. No legal ties, no paperwork, just gone—poof!” He flailed his arms for emphasis. “And then I’ll have to fight for the house in court while you take the dog that we don’t even have yet.”

“Atsumu.”

“And before I know it, you’ll find someone who sleeps like a corpse and doesn’t steal blankets, and you’ll never be cold again and—”

You shut your book, the sound soft but definitive. He stopped mid-ramble, watching as you set it on the nightstand and reached for his hand.

“Hey.”

He blinked at you, his expression still a perfect blend of pitiful and hopeful.

“You know it’s not about you being a problem, right?” You said, your thumb drawing lazy circles on his hand.

“...It’s not?” His lip wobbled just a bit, milking the moment for all it was worth.

You shook your head and gently pulled him closer. The distance between you dissolved, and with it, a little bit of his drama. “No, dummy. I just need sleep too.”

He exhaled, all his performative misery unraveling into a dramatic slump of relief. “Fine.” He muttered, dragging his feet as you coaxed him into bed. “But I don’t like it.”

You giggled and he immediately flopped down, half on top of you as usual, his weight pinning you to the mattress like a very clingy, very warm blanket of his own.

“What if we just get a bigger comforter?” He asked, muffled against your shoulder.

You hummed thoughtfully, fingers combing through his damp hair. “That might work.”

“We can go buy it tomorrow.”

“We can.” You agreed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “But until then, separate blankets.”

#𐀔 — mar wrote this.#— hq #— drabbles #miya atsumu #miya atsumu x reader #atsumu x reader #atsumu x you #hq atsumu #atsumu fluff #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #msby fluff #msby x reader #msby atsumu

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hivemuthur · 13 hours ago

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Hii! Thank you for replying. I've read five things and loved it so much I wanted to send another ask, and somehow managed to forget to send it, but never mind here it is now.

I was thinking a viktor×reader who were eachother's first everything (early academy days?) but than the reader had to move away for schooling/work, whatever, but now they're back (sometime after the beginning of hextech) and have to work with jayce and viktor. How would that dynamic look like? They didn't breakup over an argument or because they fell out of love but because that's the way life took them. I'm imagining them knowing eachother so well inside and out to the point people just assume they're dating. (Reader making viktors coffee even better than he can himself, viktor making something to fix a problem reader has but never had a solution for, anything really). And I don't know, maybe, possibly, somehow the tension gets to be too much for both of them and they're both more skilled now and whatnot... (I could live without that part tho, is you feel like it doesn't fit)

Sorry if the ask is too complicated, I've just been thinking about it for so long.

I know it's gonna be a while before you can write it but I can't wait to read all of the other requests in the meantime.❤️

~🍒

Dear sweet 🍒 Janna, hello again! Here's your fic!

Same As It Ever Was

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! a bit of everything - fluff, angst (light), smut

word count: 5,6K

author’s note: this is very freeform, an experiment, kinda? A story told in vignettes, little scenes between Viktor and Reader since the moment she came back to the Academy interwoven with their past, sex included. For this to work, I've written current events in Present Tense and the flashbacks in Past Tense.

artist on X (obsessed at this point)

—

You brace yourself with a deep breath—just as you did all those years ago. With lungs full of air, you cross the threshold, and memories come crashing back. Heimerdinger’s lectures, suspicious cafeteria food, noise complaints from your neighbours when Jayce laughed too loud in your dorm. Your dorm itself—its lumpy bed, not enough cabinet space for your books, scattered notes, and long night study sessions with Viktor.

As promised, he and Jayce are there, waiting to pick you up in the entrance hall. Jayce is as giddy as ever—stretching, chattering, busying himself with the announcement board, occasionally pointing at something to get Viktor’s attention. He looks almost the same.

Viktor, on the other hand—nearly still. He leans on a… crutch? It’s a crutch now, huh. You wince at not knowing sooner. An extra brace on his leg as well. His form is more hunched than you remember. He nods at Jayce’s remarks absently, craning his head toward the door, and his face—oh. It lights up when he sees you, just as it used to. Your heart travels all the way up to your throat.

You have to force yourself not to skip. Jayce reaches you first, nearly crashing into you with his embrace. He’s stronger than before, his shoulders broader. Either he’s gotten taller, or Viktor looks shorter. He pats your back and chuckles a mumbled hi—but your eyes are already on Viktor.

He opens his arms in an inviting gesture, and you slide right in. He still fits. He still smells the same, though there’s a lingering trace of oil on his collar. His hair is longer, and his clothes hang looser on his frame, but he feels the same. His neck is just as pretty, his hands just as strong. They go where they used to—one to your back, the other cradling the nape of your neck. You take one last inhale before he pulls back, a familiar spark playing in his eyes as he says, "Welcome back."

***

You stared at the schedule board, squinting as you tried to make sense of the messy list. You muttered under your breath, crossing out dates in frustration when the door behind you creaked open.

A voice spoke from behind, calm and precise. “Do you need assistance?”

You turned to see him—tall, neat, with a cane at his side. Pretty hair falling boyishly over his forehead, eyes the colour of liquid gold, two freckles decorating his upper lip and a spot under his eye. His voice was thickly accented, and you suddenly felt dumber than ever.

“What gave me away?” you huffed, managing a smile. “Groaning or furious scribbling?”

“Eh, a little bit of both,” he said, leaning in slightly to point at a part of the board. “Let me help?”

You handed him your notebook, and he made quick work of explaining the confusing schedule. “Looks like we’ll be seeing each other,” he hummed, studying your timetable.

Thank the gods, you thought. Feigning surprise instead of relief, you raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

He nodded, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. “I’m looking forward to having class with you. I’m Viktor.”

In response, you muttered your name in one breath.

Without another word, he pressed the notebook into your hand, making sure your hands brushed, then turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, momentarily dumbfounded.

***

You follow Jayce and Viktor through the lab, eyes wide as they show you around. The space is far more impressive than you remember—equipment gleams, wires stretch across the ceiling like intricate veins, and the hum of machinery fills the air. Jayce is practically bouncing with excitement, narrating every little detail with an energy that nearly has you dizzy, while Viktor stays quieter, his gaze focused, occasionally glancing at you as though checking for your reactions.

You’re still trying to wrap your mind around everything when the tour finally ends, and Viktor turns to you with a small smile. “Is there anything you need?” he asks, his voice as smooth and calm as ever.

You consider it for a moment, then sigh dramatically. “I would kill for a coffee.”

Jayce snorts a laugh, “Things don’t really change, do they? Do you want to make it yourself as usual?”

“Of course, as you mentioned—things don’t change, which means I still don’t trust any of you with your coffee-making skills, Jayce,” you reply with a smirk, stepping past him toward the kitchenette area. Viktor watches you closely, but you don’t pay him any mind as you start pulling out the necessary ingredients. “Do you want one?” you throw over your shoulder. And Viktor nods with a smile.

You fall into an easy rhythm, just like old times. Your hands work quickly, grinding the beans, adjusting the water temperature, adding the perfect amount of milk—exactly how you know he likes it. It’s almost like your body remembers, and you can’t help but feel a strange sort of nostalgia as the familiar process comes naturally.

The sound of Viktor clearing his throat breaks your focus, and when you turn, he’s standing a little closer than you expected. His eyes are fixed on the coffee mug in your hands, and the way he’s staring at it almost makes you laugh.

You hand him the cup with a raised brow. “Did I get it right?”

He takes a slow sip, his expression unreadable at first. Then, after a long pause, he sets the cup down carefully on the counter, still looking at you, and says quietly, “Perfect.”

The fact that you remember how to make it, that you remember him—how he likes it, what he’s used to—has him speechless. You watch him for a moment, unsure of what he’s thinking, and the quiet fills the space between you both.

“Just like before,” he says, as though to himself, and you can't help but smile.

***

“Okay, coffee or death,” you whined, pressing your forehead to the desk with exaggerated dramatics. It had been your fourth hour of studying, and the letters on the page began to blur.

“I guess it’s coffee then,” Viktor stretched his legs in the chair before scrambling up to the kettle. “I have no idea how I would explain a corpse in my room.”

“I do not care what motivates your actions, I’m just in dire need of something keeping me alive, or I will fail this class,” you mumbled, still buried in the notes resting under your face. A cup set firmly by your left cheek made your eyebrow quirk, and you let out a sigh of contentment.

“Ah, sweet salvation,” you hummed, grabbing it and taking a sip. And then—

“Viktor. What is this?”

Viktor’s voice was light as he shrugged. “It’s a coffee strong enough to keep you awake until morning.”

You winced, shaking your head slightly. “It’s so strong, it could actually solve the dead body problem you’ve mentioned before.”

He chuckled at that, his gaze still on you. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”

You huffed in frustration. “Do I have to do everything myself?”

Viktor only grinned, a spark of amusement in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself out of your chair and crossing the room to the counter. “Alright, move aside.” You grabbed the ingredients with a practiced hand, preparing a new brew. “This is coffee, not the motor fluid you made.”

Viktor leaned back in his chair, watching you as you worked. “That’s very thoughtful. I suppose you can always become a barista if you fail the class.”

You turned, one eyebrow raised in challenge. “Just wait, Viktor. You’ll see. If I fail, I’ll open my own shop. I’ll call it ‘Professor Coffee’—I’ll make sure the brew is strong enough to wake the dead.”

Viktor’s laugh was soft but genuine. “It seems you’ve got it all figured out.”

***

You reach out, barely muttering, “Could you pass me…” before the tool is already in your hand. You glance at Viktor, who hasn’t even looked up from his work.

“How did you know?” you ask, eyebrows furrowing in surprise.

He taps his temple, a small smile playing beneath his goggles. “I have a good memory.”

***

You frowned at your workbench, trying to put a name to the tool you needed, but your mind blanked.

“Can you pass me the…” you began, unsure, your voice trailing off. You made a small gesture with your hand, hoping Viktor would somehow understand what you meant. Without hesitation, he handed you a wrench.

“No, not this,” you said, waving it off. “The other one?” You gestured again.

Viktor stared at you, brows furrowed, before passing you a screwdriver.

“Not that one either!” you huffed, frustration creeping in—not with him, but because your mind had suddenly decided to fail.

The ritual continued, with Viktor visibly amused as your hand hovered over the various tools he’d passed you. Wrenches, pliers, a hammer, and a couple of screwdrivers littered the workbench. You glanced down at your notes, trying to remember.

Viktor hummed, looking from your desk to your notes. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a knowing smile. “Ah. This one?”

Before you could respond, he was standing behind you, lowering the tool into your hand. His arms brushed the sides of your face, and you felt the press of his stomach against your back. For a moment, you froze, breath catching in your throat.

“A calliper,” you whispered.

“Well done, lásko,” Viktor muttered into your ear.

***

The clock announces an hour way past when you’ve expected to be home already. “Should we call it a night?” you ask Viktor, who sits opposite you, a soft smile curling on his lips.

“Some things have changed, then,” he says, tapping his crutch lightly against the floor. “You used to work until figurative death back in the day.”

“Well, I guess I’m getting older,” you reply with a grin, your tone light but laced with a touch of weariness. “What about you? Any big changes?”

He knocks on his brace playfully, lifting the crutch with a small gesture. “Besides the visible?” He chuckles softly. “Not much. Still working to the death.”

Your smile falters for a second, your gaze softening as you roll closer to him on your chair. You rest your hands gently on his knees, studying his face for any signs of deeper discomfort.

“Are you well, though?” you ask, your voice quiet, careful.

Viktor looks at your hands for a moment, then props the crutch on the desk beside him. He squeezes your palms, his grip firm but tender.

“I am now,” he replies, his voice low, almost like a confession. “Haven’t been for a while, but now I’m well. As well as I can be.” He pauses for a beat, then adds with a small smile, “And now that you’re back, I’m even better.”

You brush your fingers gently through his hair, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence, the intimacy of the gesture. Viktor hums softly, his eyes fluttering closed in response. So familiar, you think, a wave of nostalgia washing over you.

You swallow before speaking again, a bittersweet smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “I’ve missed you.”

Viktor’s eyes remain closed, his expression softening, and when he speaks, his voice heavier now when he sighs. “I know.” He pauses, squeezing your hand once more. “I’ve missed you too.”

***

You and Viktor lay in bed together, tangled in the warmth of each other’s embrace. His arm was draped around you, and the soft rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek was a steady comfort. The room was quiet, unbearably so, when you nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply. His scent—rich, familiar, like the warmth of him—filled your senses, and you clutched him tighter, as though trying to memorize the feeling of him.

"I'm going to miss you so much," you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin, your breath shaky with the weight of the thought.

Viktor hummed softly in response, his fingers tracing small circles on your back. "I know. I will miss you terribly too." His words were gentle, but there was a deep sadness in his voice that you could feel even without looking at him.

He nudged your face with his nose, his palm warm as it cupped your cheek. His touch felt like a promise, though you weren't sure what to expect. "If it's meant to be, we will meet again," he said, his voice low, the words wrapped in the quiet certainty.

A pang in your chest tugged at you, and without thinking, you leaned up, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was soft, but your heart ached with the knowledge that this might be the last time you felt him close. It tasted with bitter acceptance, as you poured every bit of feeling you had into it, hoping it would somehow last, somehow hold you both together despite the distance that would come.

When you pulled away, your heart felt heavy, like it was breaking in your chest.

***

You both sit on the couch in your apartment, papers and notes scattered around you, a quiet hum of frustration bounces between you. Viktor’s hair is dishevelled, falling into his eyes, and his shirt has found its way half-out of his pants, a few buttons undone. He stares at the pages in front of him, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and determination. You glance over at him, hoping for a breakthrough.

“Any ideas?” you ask, your voice tinged with a hint of desperation.

Viktor groans and rubs his eyes, his shoulders sagging. “You know what… I think I’m getting old too,” he mutters, dropping his hand to your lap. “Can we get back to it when I’ve had at least two hours of sleep?”

He looks at you, his hand settling on your knee absentmindedly, his fingers warm through the fabric of your clothes. You stare at his hand for a moment, before looking up at him. He seems so tired, but also so… beautiful. His rumpled clothes and tousled hair remind you of the boy you loved.

“Sure,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. You look at him, really look at him. He’s always been handsome, but tonight you can finally see how much time has passed. The wrinkles carving his face deeper, jaw stronger, singular grey strands shining through the chestnut hair. Eyes the same. He doesn’t look like a boy anymore.

Wordlessly, you move closer to him and his gaze doesn’t falter. You cup his cheeks and brush your thumb over his lip. And then, your mouth comes close to his, into a soft brush, trembling and tentative. And Viktor responds with a hand sliding up your thigh and a tilt of his head. He cranes his neck and closes the little distance left between you with a sigh of relief.

His free hand slides up to your neck, pulling you in as his mouth parts and tongue joins to wrestle with yours. He gasps when you bite his lower lip and hums, as his palm slides behind to cup your ass. Fully in his grasp, he press yourself more onto him, fingers tangling into his hair, coaxing small sounds out of his throat. It’s wet and slow and when you peek through your eyelashes his brows are scrunched and a blush blooms down his neck to his chest.

He doesn’t kiss like a boy anymore, you think to yourself. It comes unbidden and warms your insides up.

The taste of him lingers on your lips as you pull away just a fraction, your breaths mingling. You barely have a moment to think before Viktor kisses you back, deeply, hoarse inhale taken straight from your lungs leaves you dizzy.

***

Viktor had walked you back to your dorm after a late-night study session at the library. His pace was slow, almost reluctant, as if he was trying to figure out what to say before you parted ways. You were too tired to wait for him to find the words, your mind still foggy from hours of studying.

“I guess this is goodn—” you started, but before you could finish the word, his lips were on yours. The kiss came out of nowhere, abrupt and clumsy, pressing you back into the door behind you. For a moment, you froze, your tired mind scrambling to catch up with what was happening.

Then, the realization sank in, and the sound that left your lips transformed from startled surprise to a soft moan. You responded without thinking, hands sliding up Viktor's sides, feeling the warmth of his body as you kissed him back.

He dropped his cane, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His touch was urgent, hands cradling your back and drawing you in as you ran your fingers through his hair. Feeling your response, he grew bolder, shut his eyes and concentrated on drawing deep breaths through his nose to not have to part from you.

Hands everywhere, as if he couldn’t decide what to do. You nearly laughed when she squeezed your butt quickly, only to go back to your waist, slide into your ribs and then to the small of your back. So feverish.

When the oxygen run out, he broke the kiss but still kept you close. “I wanted to do this for the longest time,” he chuckled into your mouth.

***

He gives himself a good-willed push off the couch’s armrest but ends up trapping your hip beneath his. His face scrunches in worry when you hiss, but the sound quickly transforms into a laugh. When your stomach shakes beneath him, Viktor feels a strange swelling in his chest. This is so familiar.

He looks at you longingly, sliding his fingers into your hair. Your laughter dies into a moan when his groin presses between your legs. His tongue grows more eager now, as if he remembers just how much he used to want you. “Fuck, I’ve missed you,” he breathes against your lips, and you respond by fisting his shirt, nearly tearing it. You try to say you’ve missed him too—fuck, how much you’ve missed him every day—but you can’t, because your mouth is full.

You brace yourself on your elbows, meeting him halfway. You’re not sure you can bear to part long enough for him to take your clothes off, so instead, you take his hands and press them to your ass. He accepts, of course, kneading your flesh in rhythm with his breath.

When you finally straddle him, your fingers move to undo the rest of his shirt. That’s when he stills. His palms come up to wrap around yours, and a quiet plea escapes him. “Wait,” he says weakly, his cock already hard—you’re sure this costs him a lot.

“Whatever for?” you ask, nosing at his face before pressing kisses to his cheeks, his closed eyelids. You untangle your fingers from his and wrap your arms around his neck.

“I should show you something first,” he murmurs, and begins to undo his shirt. You lean back to give him space to sit up, but your hips never leave his, and your eyes never look away from his face. You give him the room he needs, and feel unbearably not close enough.

***

You fought with the doorknob to your bedroom for a hot minute. Viktor, being very distracting, had completely derailed your brain from this simple dexterity task with continuous neck-licking and ear-kissing. He kept smirking against your skin, all cocky and pleased with himself, ever since the moment you’d asked, “Do you want to come in?”

You stumbled into the room together, and his fingers immediately shot to your vest. You hadn’t even blinked properly before it was undone, his hands cupping your breasts through your shirt, his cane hooked over his forearm.

Laughing and snorting at his clumsiness, you’d steadied him by the waist and let him walk you backward toward the bed.

Your hands fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but they were small and stubborn, and you were too impatient. With a frustrated huff, you abandoned the effort and slid your hands over his shoulders instead. “Arms up,” you ordered, and Viktor chuckled as he complied.

He lifted his arms obediently, but as you dragged his shirt over his head, it caught for a moment, tangling around his face. He let out a muffled laugh, flailing slightly as you tugged it free, and the moment he was loose, he lost his balance. He tumbled backward onto the bed with an oof, propping himself up on his elbows as he grinned up at you.

You stepped between his legs, watching as his expression softened, turning almost reverent. His hands found your waist, fingers brushing deliberately over the fabric of your skirt before he slid it down, letting it pool at your feet. His lips followed the motion, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your stomach before he rested his chin there, gazing up at you.

He cradled your hips, thumbs stroking lazily over your skin. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he asked, his voice quiet, careful.

You nodded, eager, and leaned down to kiss him, pouring every answer he could ever need into the press of your lips.

***

“There is both more and less to me than there used to be,” Viktor says, rubbing slow, thoughtful circles up and down your thighs. His expression is pensive, and an apology lingers somewhere in his voice. You hate that he feels the need to apologise in the first place.

Your touch slides across his chest, down—down the leather ridges of a brace you’ve never seen before. It screams Jayce Talis with every bolt, every stitch, and your heart aches at the thought that you weren’t here when this was happening.

Your eyes dart between his chest and his lips before you finally nestle deeper against his pelvis, wrap your arms back around his neck, and crush your mouth to his in a kiss that weeps remorse. “You beautiful, beautiful man,” you whisper, pressing your face into his. “How are you so brave?”

You cup his cheeks, and he only smiles, covering your palm with his.

“I’m not brave. I just… survived,” Viktor says with a small shrug. Then, after a pause: “Would you like to help me take them off?”

You nod, eager, and lean down to kiss him, pouring all the fragmented pieces of yes into the press of your lips.

***

Viktor rolled with you across the sheets, his hands skimmed up your sides, warm and eager, fingers pressing into your skin like he was trying to memorise the feel of you. Your mouths met again, lips parting, tongues teasing—lazy and deep, now that you had each other finally.

He pulled you closer, your thighs bracketing his hips, and when you reached down, fingers curling into the waistband of his trousers, he let out a shaky breath. You grinned against his mouth, tugging them lower inch by inch, letting your nails drag over his skin just to hear the quiet little sounds he made in response. Finally, with one last playful yank, you pulled them off entirely, giggling when they got caught at his ankles for a moment before slipping free.

And then you saw it—his brace.

Viktor stiffened immediately. His hands twitched at his sides, and he turned his head slightly, as if he wanted to look anywhere but at you. "It’s nothing," he muttered, voice quieter than before. "You don’t have to—"

You reached out, your palm settling gently on his leg. "Viktor," you said softly, your touch firm but tender. His gaze flicked back to yours, guarded, unsure. "You are so beautiful."

He gasped, a sound so quiet you might not have caught it if you weren’t so close. His lips parted slightly, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You didn’t give him time to argue. Instead, you leaned down, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to his thigh, just above the brace. He shivered beneath you. Carefully, you undid the clasps, your fingers working with quiet reverence, peeling away the brace as if unveiling something sacred.

It left behind faint indentations in his skin—lines and ridges pressed deep from the whole day of wear. You kissed each one, your lips trailing over the marks with the same care you’d give any other part of him. Viktor’s breath hitched, his fingers threading into the sheets, gripping tight.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, barely above a whisper, he breathed, "You undo me."

***

You set the last metal part of Viktor aside, and now, finally—after years of longing—you see him. His legs are parted, eternal bruises marking his thigh and knee, the toes of one foot cramped closer together than the other. His ribs bear pearly little scars where the chest brace has caught against his skin.

His cock rests idly in the crease of his thigh, beautiful as ever—pink at the tip, his navel scattered with curly hair that meets in a neat line just below his belly button. His hips are sharp angles, his belly rising and falling with each breath. You take in this adult man’s body and compare it to the boy you fell in love with. And you are sure now—there is only more to him than there used to be.

You step between his legs, and his arms reach out, fingers tracing a scar on your lower abdomen. He hums, “This is new.”

“You should see the other guy,” you murmur playfully. “A machine malfunctioned at the lab. One of the energy conductors went unstable, and before I could shut it down, a piece of metal sliced me open.” You pause, watching his face tense. “I got lucky.”

Viktor brushes his thumb over the scar tissue before lowering his lips, pressing a kiss to it—slow, reverent. “My brave girl,” he mutters against your skin. Your head lulls back on your shoulders, fingers threading into his hair and you let out a sigh.

You shudder when he presses a delicate touch between your legs. His hand, more calloused than you remember, gathers the curve of your inner thigh—but oh, his fingers still feel the same. The same timid swipe across your core, the same quiet hum of approval at the wetness you've gathered for him. Then, his free arm comes to wrap around your hips, pulling you closer as he presses his ear to your belly and slides two fingers inside you.

More skill, you notice. A pang of jealousy coils in your chest—ugly, unnecessary—but you don’t let him see. He kisses your stomach, and his eyelashes tickle your skin as he moves his hand up and down and his fingers hit the spot that has you moaning out his name. “As tight as I remember,” he hums, and it lances through you how infinitely hotter he has become.

You tug at his hair to make him look at you. Two gold gems drill right through you when you say, “Viktor.” A sigh, then, “I think I really need to fuck you now.”

He smiles sweetly and kisses your stomach again. “Then it seems we are on the same page.”

***

After a lot of fumbling, adjusting, and whispered curses, you finally found what worked. Viktor propped his knee up with a pillow, his other leg hooked under yours, grounding you together. His weight pressed you into the mattress—not crushing, just enough to make you feel him everywhere, warm and steady.

He rolled his hips into you, slow and measured, his arm caging you in as he kissed you through it. The heat of his breath spilled over your mouth, his lips parting just enough to let out the quietest of moans. And even in the haze of pleasure, you could see it—the determination tightening his brow, the concentrated press of his mouth against yours. He was on a mission, and that mission was you.

One arm wound snugly around your neck, cradling you into him, while his other hand worked between your legs, fingers slick and diligent. He timed each stroke with the snap of his hips, coaxing you closer, closer—

“Oh—Viktor—”

The sound of your voice shattered something in him. His rhythm stuttered, his forehead dropped to yours, but his fingers didn’t stop, circling, pressing, working you toward your peak. You dug your nails into his back, rocking up to meet him, and then—

It rushed over you like a cresting wave. Your thighs tensed around his waist, your breath caught, and the pleasure crested so high it stole all thought. He moaned softly, watching, feeling every pulse of your release around him.

His movements became less controlled, needier, a touch more frantic. He groaned against your shoulder, muttered something in a language you barely caught, and then followed you over the edge. His body trembled against yours, hips stuttering, breath shaky as he spilled into you, his lips still parted against your skin.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds in the room were your slowing breaths, the faint creak of the mattress, and the heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then, Viktor finally lifted his head, flushed, sweat-dampened curls clinging to his forehead. He swallowed hard, his expression abashed but glowing with something warm and dazed.

“I hope that at this point, it is merely a formality,” he said, still breathless. “But… may I be so bold as to call you my girlfriend from now on?”

***

Your hips slot back together as if no time has passed. He fills you the same way, stretches you perfectly, and the expression he makes as he sinks in—God, it’s the same. Crushingly fucking gorgeous. Relief and bliss war on his face, his lips parting around a shaky groan as his hands seize your ass, pulling you down fully with a sharp slap of skin against skin.

He nuzzles into your neck, breath heavy and warm, licks up the column of your throat before sinking his teeth into your tendon. You gasp, moan, and pull at his hair, and the low, satisfied hum he gives in response shoots straight through you. His grip on your hips tightens, thumbs pressing into your skin as he guides you into motion, dragging you up before urging you back down. A faint roll of his own hips meets yours with every descent, his restraint slipping as the pleasure builds.

It doesn’t take long for you to notice—he’s changed. There’s more confidence in the way he moves, the way he takes from you, the way he talks to you. His voice is deeper, richer, words curling into your skin like smoke.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, dark and approving. He drags a hand up your spine, settles it at your nape, tilting your head so you do look—so you watch the way he devours you with his eyes. “You take me so well, lásko.”

Heat spreads down to your toes. You try to bite back a whimper, but he sees it, hears it, and smirks. Smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Oh, he’s so much bolder now. And you’re falling apart because of it.

It starts with the way he tilts his hips just right, the way his grip on you tightens like he knows exactly where you need him. His free hand glides down your spine, tracing sweat-slick skin before slipping between your bodies. Two fingers find your clit, and your breath stutters. He circles once, twice—slow and deliberate—before pressing down, firm and unrelenting.

“Come for me,” he murmurs, voice like silk, like sin. He rewards you with a deep thrust, dragging a broken moan from your throat. “Let me feel you.”

You do—oh, God, you do. Pleasure overtakes you, crashing through your body in waves, pulling you under. Your thighs shake around him, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails sinking into muscle as you arch and shudder and keen his name. He groans, eyes dark and reverent as he watches you unravel in his lap.

Yet still, there are things that haven’t changed. The way his breath hitches when you clench around him. The way his moans turn desperate when you lean forward and suck at his throat. The way he starts to chase the pleasure once he gets close, gripping you tighter, rutting up into you with a fervour that makes your head spin.

And the way he comes—the same shudder, the same deep, gasping moan, the same way his arms crush you against his chest as if he could pull you inside him. His release spills deep, his body trembling beneath yours, and you realise it then, as you always have.

He is grateful for this. For you.

Your noses brush as he catches his breath, and his hands smooth over your back, grounding himself in the feel of you.

“Still with me?” you murmur, running your fingers through his damp curls.

Viktor exhales a breathless laugh, lids heavy, lips parted in something like awe. He nods, shifting just enough to press a lingering kiss to your collarbone. “Always.”

#viktor arcane #viktor x reader #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader smut #viktor x f!reader #arcane #viktor smut #arcane fanfic #my writing #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor x oc #viktor nation #requests

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pretentious-blonde · 2 days ago

Text

steady

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: healing is never easy, but steve surprises even himself with his progress

warnings: ptsd, anxiety, therapy sessions, depression

a/n: angst!! robin makes an appearance too. steve is kind of smitten and he loves it <3

series masterlist

Steve slouched in the passenger seat of Robin’s car, sunglasses perched on his nose, hiding the tension marring his features. If you could see him, you’d notice the subtle clench of his jaw, the way his hands rested in tight fists on his thighs.

He kept his eyes shut against the morning light—though the tinted lenses helped, the brightness still drilled into his temples, intensifying the dull, throbbing ache that had settled behind his eyes. The quiet inside the vehicle was unusually deliberate, a courtesy Robin extended with careful consideration.

She was never one to enjoy silence, but she was trying. Like she always did for him.

He shifted, pressing his head a bit further into the seat. The sound of tires on asphalt rolled beneath them like thunder, matching the faint ringing in his ear. It was a small remnant of older injuries—injuries he’d earned through too many head-on collisions with fists and floors.

Still, he felt lucky. After all, pain was a familiar adversary, and these headaches came around far less frequently than they used to.

A glance at her told him all he needed to know: her shoulders stiff with concentration, hands gripping the wheel lightly, eyes skimming across the road. She gave him a little smile, more a twitch than anything. She’d barely spoken a word since he got in, not wanting to rile his migraine. It reminded him of just how fiercely she cared.

They were heading to his weekly appointment, a routine that once felt more like a punishment than a path to healing. He’d spent his first two sessions in complete silence, arms crossed, mouth sealed shut.

Steve Harrington didn't need a therapist. The idea of seeing felt like admitting defeat. But Robin—gentle, but tearful—had practically dragged him back, desperately pleading for her best friend to return to himself.

The memory arose every time he buckled in for these drives, reminding him that sometimes letting people in was the only way to get out of the mess in his head.

“Almost there,” Robin said softly, her voice subdued. A pang of guilt flared inside him; he knew she had better things to do on her Saturday morning than play chauffeur. Yet here she was. She always was when he needed her.

He opened his eyes as the car glided into the parking lot, the movement so careful it barely jolted him. The world outside looked too bright—even through sunglasses—and his headache began to pulse in protest. When she killed the engine, she turned to him, eyes filled with caution.

“You alright with getting in?” she asked. Her voice was as gentle as her driving.

“Yeah.” Drawing in a breath and forcing a small, wry smile. “Pretty sure I remember the way.” He joked through the dull throb in his skull.

She nodded, and he carefully pushed the door open. The sudden rush of cooler air felt refreshing. A stab of pain shot through his temple, and he winced, one hand lifting to shield his eyes from the sun. As he stood, he turned back toward her.

“I just… I wanna say I’m sorry again, for waking you up and making you drive me. I hate—”

“Don’t.” She held up a hand before he could finish. “It’s no problem. Seriously.”

There was reassurance in her tone, and it squeezed his heart. He hated imposing, but her unwavering support was something he grew to accept.

“What you gonna do for the hour?” he asked, a little softer now.

“I’ve got my reading material. I’m all set.” She patted a worn paperback tucked into the side of the driver's door. She waved him off, managing a playful eye-roll. “Now go. You’ll be late.”

He nodded and headed towards the entrance, stepping through the lobby steadily as not to jostle his head around. The walls were painted in cool tones that did nothing to ease the piercing sunlight still dancing at the edges of his vision.

Despite that, he managed a half-smile at the receptionist—he’d been here enough times now to know the woman, though he never quite remembered her name. He headed for Dr Avery’s office, following the familiar hallway until he found the right door.

He knocked once, the sound dull against the wood, and a voice called from within.

“Come in.”

Pushing the door open, he hesitated, sunglasses still shielding his eyes. The elderly doctor glanced up from a small stack of files, his expression softening into a gentle smile.

“Migraine?” he asked, and though his voice was calm, concern wove through it.

“Yeah,” he admitted with a huffed laugh, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him. In response, Dr Avery rose from behind his desk, crossing the room to draw the blinds. Morning sunlight turned softer, and the shift in brightness made his shoulders relax a fraction.

“Better?” Dr Avery said, settling back into his chair.

In one smooth motion, Steve slid his sunglasses off, resting them on his knee as he sank into the chair opposite. He closed his eyes for a second, letting the dimmer light settle over him.

“Much,” he murmured, pressing his fingertips against his temples.

Silence hung in the room. It was gentle in the way Dr Avery seemed to cultivate it in all their sessions.

“So, how has your week been?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“It’s been alright,” he answered, gesturing toward his temple with the hand clutching his glasses. “Apart from, you know…”

“It’s been a while since you’ve had a migraine.” Dr Avery nodded, thoughtful. “Any idea what might’ve triggered it?”

“Not really,” Steve said, mouth tightening into a line. “Didn’t sleep too well last night.”

“Any reason for that?” came the quiet prompt.

He shrugged, gaze drifting away. “Same old dreams.”

There was a pause—a measured moment that the doctor always seemed to use to let Steve choose how much he wanted to reveal.

“Still bad?” He finally asked when he realised he wouldn’t elaborate.

“They’ve died down a bit this week.” He exhaled, brow furrowing. “Guess my mind’s been busy with other stuff.”

A knowing spark crossed Dr Avery’s eyes.

“Drama with the kids?”

A snort of laughter startled from Steve’s chest, a quick bloom of humour in the midst of his fatigue.

“No, not quite,” he said, shaking his head fondly. “Though Lucy still can’t tie her shoes. You’d think she’d have mastered it by now with all my help, but… nope.”

“Is that so?” Dr Avery asked, lips quirking in amusement.

“Yeah,” he replied, rolling his eyes in that trademark exasperation that came from too many hours spent cajoling a stubborn little girl to make bunny ears with the laces. “She should just stick to Velcro. Less drama that way.”

A comfortable chuckle passed between them, the air relaxing for a moment. But he wasn’t surprised when Dr Avery steered them back on track—he’d noticed long ago how adept the therapist was at re-centring him whenever he started wandering off-topic.

Which—in his defence—Steve was especially prone to.

“So,” Dr Avery said gently, leaning forward a bit, “what’s really been on your mind lately?”

Steve’s hand tightened around the armrest of the chair. The lighthearted spark in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something softer. He took a slow breath, like he was trying to gather the right words.

“I... I met someone…” He said slowly, feeling the words out.

His confession hung in the air—three simple words, but they carried a weight that was far greater than the simple sentence.

He held his breath for a moment, as though he were afraid that speaking it out loud might shatter the illusion. He could practically see Dr Avery’s features shift into gentle encouragement, the slight lift of eyebrows and a softness around his eyes.

It was the same look the therapist always gave him whenever Steve cracked open the door to something new, something vulnerable.

Clearing his throat, tried to muster some of that confidence people used to say he had in spades back in high school. It felt a little rusty, but it was there, somewhere beneath the bruises.

“Who is this someone?” Dr Avery asked quietly. Knowing the importance of the question.

Steve couldn’t stop the small grin that crept onto his face. He fiddled with the sunglasses perched on his knee—still mindful of the headache pressing at his temples, but somehow the ache felt muted by a rush of something much sweeter.

“She’s new in town,” he began, voice a little shy, “took over the old bookshop. You know the one down on Oak? Kids needed some books, so I asked if she could deliver them. And she did—personally.” He shook his head in astonished awe. “I mean, talk about customer service, right? Even managed to track down some of my favorite titles on, like, super short notice.”

Dr Avery’s lips curved into a smile. “She sounds nice.”

“You have no idea,” Steve replied, eyes lighting up as memories tumbled through his mind. He had to fight back the grin that threatened to become almost giddy. “When she came by the school, I asked her out for coffee. Honestly, I thought she’d say no—I mean—I barely even know her—she was just doing her job. But she said yes.” He let out an incredulous little chuckle. “Even looked happy I asked.”

“So, you met up with her?”

“Twice,” Steve confirmed, leaning forward in his seat as though admitting a grand secret. “We got coffee both times—nothing serious, but…” He paused, remembering the feeling of those events. In the coffee shop’s atmosphere, he’d felt almost normal, like he could forget the the weight of the last few years.

“She laughed at my jokes,” he continued, voice tinged with a note of disbelief, “and I mean really laughed—not just being polite—she actually thought I was funny.”

He couldn’t quite disguise how much that simple fact thrilled him. For so long, he’d forgotten what it was like to feel that weightless. You didn’t know every part of him yet. And in that ignorance, there was a freedom he hadn’t felt in ages.

Steve glanced down at his sneakers, twisting the sunglasses in his hands as though he couldn’t quite meet Dr Avery’s gaze. After a moment, he exhaled softly and spoke again.

“She, uh… she called me a few nights ago,” he began, running a hand through his hair. “It was late—maybe past ten? I was cleaning up—you know, trying to settle down for the night. Then the phone rang. I kind of panicked for a second before I heard her—I mean, nobody usually calls that late on a school night, unless—”

He paused, eyes flicking up to gauge Dr Avery’s reaction. The therapist merely offered a small, encouraging nod, so Steve continued, his voice growing steadier as he found the story’s thread.

“Turns out she was reworking her finances,” he explained. “Something about spreadsheets and reorganising… stuff—moving money around, I don’t know. Not my thing. She sounded stressed, though. Tired. I could hear it in her voice—even when she tried to laugh it off, there was this… tension, you know?”

“She asked me if I could just… tell her about my day.” His gaze trailed to a spot on the floor, a slight smile creeping onto his face. “Said she needed something to take her mind off the numbers, something that’d make her smile.” He shook his head, as if still in mild disbelief. “And I did—told her anything I could think of. Stupid stuff. But every time she asked me more I—”

A faint flush of color touched his cheeks as he forced himself to stop rambling. He shifted in his chair, the memory clearly stirring emotions he was still getting used to.

“Honestly,” he admitted with a small shrug, “by the end of that call, I was the one feeling better—like, just by giving me a reason to talk. It was… I don’t know.” His smile broadened as he grasped for the right words. “It felt good to be that guy again.”

Dr Avery’s lips curved in a thoughtful smile, and he leaned forward as though to speak. But Steve, caught up in the rush of the memory, beat him to it.

“I guess that’s why I’m so thrown off by how easy it’s been,” he said, voice going soft. “I was worried I wouldn’t know how to do this. But with her… it’s just been simple.”

He let out a slow breath, hands finally coming to rest on his knees, attention lifting to meet the doctor. His eyes held a sheen, a hope that felt fragile but very, very real.

“So, yeah,” Steve finished, voice hushed. “She called me, and I ended up talking her ear off. Turns out we both needed that call.”

Dr Avery, picking up on that far-off look in Steve’s eyes, nodded approvingly.

“I’m really happy for you, Steve,” he said. “Truly. This is a big step.”

His cheeks felt a little warm, and he shrugged as if to downplay it.

“It’s—yeah, well, it’s not like we’re official or anything,” he joked weakly, but there was a trace of a blush there that gave him away.

“No, Steve, really,” Dr Avery pressed, leaning forward. “Think about you this time last year. You’ve come a long way.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing aside. “When you put it like that…”

Dr Avery’s expression brightened with approval. “Would you like to talk about what you want to do next?”

Steve’s eyes shot back up, and there was a flash of that old charismatic grin—boyish, genuine.

“Sure,” he said, settling a little more comfortably into the chair. And he meant it, because he knew exactly what he wanted to spend the rest of this session talking about.

Steve wasn’t entirely sure why he was walking toward the bookshop. In fact, he was pretty certain that turning around would be the more logical, less awkward option. But even as the thought crossed his mind, his feet kept moving forward—one in front of the other—carrying him down the quiet street. The evening sun dipped low in the sky, casting the storefronts in long shadows.

He told himself it was a casual visit—you were just on his way home. That was all. After his session this morning and an afternoon spent napping off his migraine, he needed some fresh air. Dr Avery’s words stuck in his head, all that gentle encouragement about letting himself explore how he felt.

So here he was, hoping he didn’t look like some creep for showing up out of the blue.

By the time he reached your door, the shop lights shone softly in the evening dim. He hesitated for a split second before pushing inside, setting off the familiar chime of the overhead bell.

No turning back now.

“Hello?” he called softly, stepping past a stack of books near the entrance.

“Steve?” Your voice echoed from somewhere off to the side, recognising his voice.

“Uh, yeah?” he answered, glancing around the shelves.

“Round here!” you directed.

He followed your voice and turned the corner—and immediately his heart lurched.

You were on a rickety ladder, precariously reaching for a high shelf. Before he could even say a word, the ladder lurched dangerously to one side, and his instincts kicked in, sharp as ever due to his line of work.

He surged forward, grabbing the frame to hold it steady. The sudden jolt of movement made you stumble, and you shot him a sheepish look as you clung to a shelf.

“Whoa—hey,” he said, breath tight in his chest as he stabilised you. “I spend all day trying to avoid broken bones, now I gotta to look out for yours, too?”

You looked down at him, a pang of sympathy stirring at the worry across his face. His hands remained firmly gripping the ladder, but his eyes were filled with concern.

You mumbled a flustered apology, claiming you were nearly finished. But he didn’t buy it.

“Sure you were.” He gave the ladder a cautionary glance. “Please, just…get down? Before you break your neck?”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.” Rolling your eyes, you began to climb down, one careful step at a time.

Reaching the floor, you rested a hand on his shoulder for balance. It was a small gesture, but warmth prickled across the back of his neck.

He liked being the steady one for a change.

“You need a new ladder,” he said, trying to sound more authoritative than concerned.

“If it lasted this long, it’s fine,” you scoffed, though he could tell you knew how bad it was. He bit back the urge to argue, exhaling a quiet laugh at your stubbornness.

Once you were safely on your own two feet, you turned to face him, dusting off your hands.

“So, back already for new reading material?”

He blinked, suddenly feeling the weight of his spontaneous visit.

“Uh—no, actually.” He cleared his throat, searching for something that sounded casual. “You were just on my way home, and, y’know…felt rude not to say hi.”

His heart tripped over itself as you offered a small smile.

“Hi,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

“Hi,” he echoed, a bit breathless. For a moment, neither of you spoke. He coughed to break the silence. “So, um—doing some reorganising ‘round here?”

“Sort of,” you gestured toward two large boxes in the corner. “Got a delivery yesterday. I was putting it away before I nearly met my demise on that death trap.”

His gaze shifted to the boxes. “That’s… quite a few books.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, “my supplier wanted to clear out some stock, so he gave me a really good deal. Now I kinda regret it, because I’m gonna be stuck here all evening.”

His posture straightened. The chance to help—to be useful—sparked a little excitement in him.

“I can stay,” he offered, maybe too quickly. “I mean—I can help. If you want.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “No, you don’t have to do that on your day off. I feel guilty just thinking about it.”

“Seriously,” he shook his head, giving you a reassuring smile. “I’m weirdly good at organising stuff. Used to work at the video store—returns master, right here.” He pointed at himself, a teasing grin playing on his lips.

He had always thought that job would never prepare him for anything, yet here it was—proof that even the worst gigs could have their silver linings. He found himself almost grateful to Keith for all the menial tasks he’d been forced to complete while working there.

You giggled at his proud proclamation, the sound sending a pleasant shiver through him.

“I still feel bad making you work.”

“I got nowhere else to be,” he admitted, shrugging in an attempt at nonchalance, though he couldn't fully hide his eagerness. “Really. Let me help.”

“Fine, fine.” You gave in, lifting your hands in mock defeat. “You take the box on the left. I’ll take the one on the right.”

“Deal,” he said, stepping up to the nearer box. He pried open the cardboard flaps, inhaling the familiar scent of new books and packing paper.

It took you less than an hour to reach the bottom of the boxes, with Steve finishing his first and immediately jumping in to help with yours. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said he was good at alphabetising. Only asking intermittently about which genre section he should place them in.

He sank onto the velvet couch with a satisfied sigh, leaning his head against the backrest. The shop felt cosier now that all the new arrivals were tucked away on the shelves, along with the soft lanterns overhead. He had to give it to you, this place really was charming.

“That was faster than I expected,” you remarked, settling beside him.

“What’d I tell you?” He shot you a playful grin. “Basically a professional.”

"You’re full of surprises," you muse, nudging his knee lightly with yours.

He shrugs, but there’s a hint of something pleased in his expression. It feels good to be praised by you specifically.

You tilt your head, watching him for a moment. "Are you thirsty?"

"A little,” he starts to shake his head. “But honestly, don’t worry—"

“Wait here.” You sprang to your feet, practically bouncing toward the back of the shop and up the stairs that led to your apartment above. He watched you go, a smirk tugging at his lips and his eyelids feeling heavier. The place felt oddly empty without your presence, but he still found it comforting nonetheless.

He felt truly at ease here, already picturing himself marking homework—messy sums and misspelt words scattered across the pages. It would be a relief not to do it under the harsh glare of the classroom lights; maybe it would even help with his headaches.

God, he was getting ahead of himself.

Light footsteps on the stairs made him blink awake. You appeared, carefully balancing two steaming mugs. The soft light from the overhead bulbs illuminated the proud smile on your face.

“Oh?” He sat up straighter, intrigued. “What’s this?”

“Hot chocolate,” you announced proudly, offering him one of the mugs as you begin quote him. “Apparently 'everyone likes it.'”

He took the mug gently, trying not to pay too much attention as your fingertips against his.

“That they do,” he chuckled, voice low. "Thanks."

You looked so pleased—like you were giving him a gift far more precious—and it made his chest tighten. You settled in next to him again, blowing on the surface of your drink. Your gaze flicked over his face.

“Were you falling asleep on me?” you teased.

“Never,” he insisted, taking a sip. Warm sweetness spread across his tongue, making him sigh in contentment. “Just had a long day.”

“Well, now I feel even worse for making you stick around.”

“Hey,” he said, shaking his head and lifting his mug in mock salute, “It’s worth the reward.”

A small smile touched your lips. “Fair enough.”

He cleared his throat, trying not to look too anxious as he ventured.

“So, are you gonna be busy next week?” He kept his eyes on the rising steam so you wouldn’t catch just how much this question mattered to him.

“Not sure.” You gave a casual shrug. “Sometimes this place is packed, other times it’s dead quiet. But I like it—I get to meet new people. It’s one of the best parts of owning a shop, you know? Everyone eventually wanders in.”

“Yeah, that’s true.” He nodded. “Hawkins isn’t huge, so…makes it easier to get familiar with folks.”

“Quality over quantity, right?” you quipped, and Steve swore you shot him a sidelong look that made the tips of his ears burn. He swallowed, unable to stop a smile from creeping onto his face.

He took another sip of cocoa.

“Right,” he echoed. Then, his heart thrumming, unable to stop from himself from blurting out the question. “See me next week?”

“Huh?” You blinked, a bit confused.

Realising how direct that sounded, he fumbled to correct himself.

“I mean—are you free next week? We could…do something. Grab dinner?”

He hoped his recovery was smooth, maybe he was coming on a little strong, but he couldn’t help it. It had been so long since he’d felt hopeful about something, and every time he was around you, the weight on his shoulders seemed to lift.

Call him selfish, but if you’d let him, he wanted to soak up as much of you as he could.

A flicker of surprise crossed your features, followed by a delighted smile. “I can be free on Wednesday, I think.”

“Great.” He nodded, doing his best not to look too excited. “I’ll—I’ll book us a table somewhere. A restaurant.”

He could practically feel the adrenaline in his veins. It’d been way too long since he planned an actual dinner date, and the thought of sharing that with you felt electric.

“Do I need to dress fancy?” You grinned. It was a playful question, but he noticed a little bashfulness in your tone.

“Nah,” he said offhandedly, warmth pooling in his stomach. “You’d look beautiful no matter what you wear.”

He said it so nonchalantly that it caught you off guard and your cheeks warmed with colour, a gentle rose you tried to hide behind the rim of your mug. But he still caught the flush and felt his heart leap, safe in the knowledge that you might also feel the same as he did.

He drained the last of his hot chocolate, the flavour still clinging to his lips as he handed the mug back.

"Thanks," he said as you took his cup.

"I think I should be the one saying that," you corrected.

He rolled his eyes, leading the way to the exit, but before stepping out, he glanced back at you.

"See you Wednesday?"

You chuckled—he always repeated your plans back to you. It was endearing, but deep down, he needed the reassurance. When it came to you, he didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

"See you Wednesday," you echoed.

His grin was immediate and genuine, cheeks warming to match yours. With one last look, he slipped out the door, carrying that sweet moment with him all the way home.

Now, all that was left was to call Robin (obviously) and figure out what restaurant to book. He kicked himself for not asking what kind of food you liked, but he liked to think you trusted him with the choice.

It felt good—being in control again.

taglist: @daisy-is-a-writer @chiliwhore @kvroomi

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #stranger things series #steve harrington x you

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cams-cult · 1 day ago

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𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒕 2⭐️

read pt. 1- here

stepbro!chratt x brattystepsis!reader

summary- after dinner, they come in your room just to tease you.

warnings- masturbation, humiliation kink if you squint, pet names.

you were so fucking embarrassed. you couldn’t believe the stunt that they had pulled in front of the both of your parents. but fuck it was a rush. you were in your room, scrolling away on your phone, pussy still drenched from the lustful events that just occurred under the dinner table.

your thighs clenched together as you tried to think about other things, but your mind kept recollecting back to the dinner table.

you cover your face in your hands as you groan needily, your thighs still pressing together as you put your phone down, going to attempt to finish what they started.

your hands inch closer to your heat, your breath hitching in your throat remembering how much better their fingers felt. you didn’t even know if you could reenact it.

you had pleased yourself before, obviously. but something about the way that they did it made you feel as if you’d never have an orgasm again by yourself. their fingers were long, slim. your fingers were short and slim. you could never hit the spots that they did.

your hands finally make it to your aching cunt, pushing your panties to the side as you make direct contact with your nub.

your fingers start moving in a circular motion around your clit as you moan softly, immediately soothing the sensation that you were trying so hard to play the waiting game for. obviously giving yourself the benefit of the doubt.

fuck. maybe you’d be able to cum after all.

your chest rose and fell erotically, your fingers moving faster against your nub, bringing yourself closer, and closer.

you were almost there when the boys you were trying so hard to get your mind off of, barge in your room.

you immediately take your hand away and try your best to cover yourself, whilst sitting up, acting as if you were doing nothing.

they weren’t stupid though. they knew you had to finish what they started. they knew you WERE finishing what they had started. your flushed expression told them everything that they needed to know.

“what do we have here, hm?” matt taunts as he walks over to your bed, chris stalking slowly behind him. the both of them still in their compression shirts, their abs evident as well as their biceps. you look down as your cheeks turn even more red, having no idea if you were caught or if you had stopped just in time.

“who do you guys think you are?” your lust drunk gaze meets there’s earning a low chuckle from the both of the cocky boys. “look at her, matt—gettin’ off to her stepbrothers” chris snorts as he towers over you, tilting up your head to face him.

“get out” you shove him off, scooting off of your bed, as you stand up.

the two boys look at eachother and then back at you “i don’t think that that’s what you want” matt coos, pouting.

you roll your eyes “guys, please—we’ve had enough interactions today” you whine, gesturing for them to get out.

matt and chris inch closer to you, matt tucking your hair behind your ear as chris grips your waist. the musk of their cologne filling your nostrils, making you all the more aroused.

your pussy was absolutely throbbing for them and you hated every second of it.

“beg us to get out” chris says lowly as his free hand traces your jawline, matt’s eyes narrowing at you as he too says “come on—be a good girl and beg” he smirks tauntingly as you look down.

you sigh heavily as your needy gaze meets theirs “please…please get out” you say softly as chris and matt chuckle mockingly.

“we can’t hear you, baby—come on, speak up f’us” matt coos, tracing your bottom lip, chris still tracing your jawline.

you huff impatiently “please please get out…i’ll be a good girl…won’ bother you anymore” you plead, your rosy cheeks flushed as can be.

the both of them satisfied with your begging, caress your cheek “that’s our good girl…” they say as they each press a kiss on your cheek.

“now get out…” you blush as you open the door, the both of them leaving your room as you close the door.

finally you can relieve yourself.

a/n: kind of rushed towards the end my apologies.

taglist: @chrislilcumslvt @sturns-mermaid @emely9274 @hjvi @chrepsi @chrisstomach @izzylovesmatt @mattssslutbby @pr3ttylittleslutt @chrisslut04 @fratbrochrisgf @sturnsxbitvh

#christopher sturniolo #chris sturniolo #chris sturniolo blurb #matthew sturniolo #matt sturniolo #matt sturniolo blurb #sturniolo triplets #sturniolotriplets #sturniolos #cams cult ♡︎* ★

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cruel-seduction · 2 days ago

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Run, baby, Run. (Werewolf theo au)

Werewolf!theo au (u can read it as standalone)

word count - 3.5k+

Summary - You still remember the first time Theo ruined you—how you kicked, screamed, pretended you didn’t want it, even as your body betrayed you, dripping, pulsing, aching for more. But this time, he’s giving you a choice: run. Try to escape. If he catches you, and you know he will, there’ll be no mercy. He’ll have you spread out on the bed, wrists pinned, legs forced wide as he takes his time—sucking, biting, fucking you into delirium, making you come again and again until your mind shatters and the only thing left is the filthy, desperate need to be owned by him

Contains - spit but not theo it's reader instead, cnc idk man what this is called, fingering, smut, degrading, and I genuinely don't know which is bad or not so contain some really bad stuff also soft dom theo who knows how to mock someone.

a/n - Hello, my certified cutie red flags. I proofread it in my phone while I was in metro. I felt very embarrassed. I am ovulating. Wolf theo is a need not a want.

The ache between your thighs still hasn’t faded.

You shift uncomfortably as you walk, your muscles sore, your body betraying you with every step. It’s been a week, but you can still feel him—his weight pressing you into your own mattress, the brutal drag of his cock stretching you open, his teeth sinking into your skin as he whispered against your throat, “Mine.”

You had fought him that night. Hard. You had clawed at his arms, shoved against his chest, even slapped him across the face so hard your palm stung—but all he did was fucking smile. Like he was amused. Like your resistance meant nothing. Like the bond had already decided for you.

And maybe it had.

Your fingers tighten around the silver chain around your neck, the protective talisman hanging just above your collarbone. A worthless thing. A useless, desperate attempt to convince yourself that you still had a choice in any of this. You had bought it from a vendor in Knockturn Alley the day after he had ruined you, the old witch promising that it would keep werewolves at bay. But deep down, you knew better.

Nothing could keep him away from you.

And the worst part?

Some sick, twisted part of you didn’t want it to.

No. Fuck that. You shake your head, forcing the thought away, shoving it deep into the recesses of your mind where all your shame lives. You didn’t want him. You didn’t. He had forced you—pinned you down, taken what he wanted, told you that the mark he left on your skin bound you together in a way that you could never undo. It wasn’t real. It was just the bite. Just a trick of biology, some ancient, primal magic designed to make you want him.

That’s all it was.

And yet, every night since, you had lain awake in your bed, pulse racing, breath uneven, skin prickling with the memory of him. Waiting.

For what, you don’t know. For him to come back? For him to break down your door again, to pin you to the mattress and make you forget why you ever fought him in the first place?

Your jaw tightens as you force your feet to move faster, your bag slung over your shoulder as you take the lonelier route home. You had done it without thinking. Without realizing. Maybe because you were avoiding the crowded streets, or maybe—no, no.

You’re just being paranoid.

But then you see it.

A blur of movement—just beyond the edge of your vision.

Your breath catches, your heart slamming against your ribs. A shadow flickers between the buildings, something too fast, too smooth, too wrong. You freeze, eyes darting toward the alley up ahead, and for a second, you swear you see a pair of glowing red eyes staring back at you before vanishing into the dark.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to run.

You spin on your heel, but before you can take a single step, a hand shoots out from the shadows—rough fingers curling around your wrist, yanking you into the alleyway. You barely have time to gasp before you’re shoved back against the brick wall, a firm body pressing into yours, familiar heat searing through your clothes.

Then, a low chuckle.

"Missed me, babygirl?"

Theodore fucking Nott.

Theodore chuckles, low and amused, his breath fanning against your cheek as his fingers tighten around your wrist, pinning you firmly against the rough brick.

Then his gaze flickers down, and his smirk stretches wider.

“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is drenched in condescension as he plucks at the silver chain around your neck, the so-called protective talisman glinting under the moonlight. “This is adorable. Really.”

You don’t move, don’t breathe, just stare at him as he slowly lowers his head—deliberate, teasing—until his lips brush against the pendant. His mouth parts, the warmth of his tongue flicking over the metal as he hums.

You flinch, the cold silver pressing between his teeth—nothing happens. No burning flesh, no pained hiss, no forced retreat.

Just him, smirking against your throat like the cruel bastard he is.

Your stomach drops.

Bitch, you were supposed to protect me.

Theo laughs like he can hear the exact moment realization dawns, his grip sliding from your wrist to lace his fingers through yours, effectively trapping you. “Did you really think,” he murmurs, voice dark, sinful, mocking, “that some cheap trinket would keep you safe from me?”

His nose brushes against your jaw, inhaling deeply, voice turning rougher, huskier, as he exhales against your skin. “You should’ve let me die that night. Should’ve walked away, left me bleeding in the dirt.” His lips ghost over your pulse, sharp teeth grazing just enough to make you tense. “But you didn’t.”

His tongue flicks against the mark on your neck, and heat rushes through your veins like poison.

“Now you’re mine.”

The words send a violent shudder down your spine, but you force your lips to curl into a smirk despite the way your stomach twists. “Possessive much?” you taunt, trying to inject as much venom as you can into the words. “Is that because I was the only woman desperate enough to touch you? Or did mummy not hug you enough as a child?”

The dig is sharp, brutal, and you see it hit—just for a second, a flicker of something dangerous sparking behind his golden gaze.

But then—fuck.

His smirk only deepens.

“Careful,” he purrs, his voice a lethal promise, pressing his knee between your thighs just enough to make you feel how quickly this could turn against you. “Don't speak too much” His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips nearly brushing yours.

Your pulse slams against your ribs as his face lowers, his lips brushing yours—just a ghost of contact.

Then—

He kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not kind.

It’s punishment.

A slow, wicked claim, his tongue sliding against yours, his teeth dragging over your bottom lip like he’s already imagining what you’ll sound like when you beg.

You gasped against the dirt, your lungs heaving as Theo’s weight pressed you down, his lips slanting over yours in a kiss that was more battle than intimacy—teeth grazing, breath searing, the brutal press of his tongue forcing its way between your lips. You bit him. Hard. The sharp tang of copper flooded your mouth, but all it did was make him groan, his hips grinding down, pressing the thick length of his cock against you through the barrier of your clothes.

“You bite me again, dove,” he murmured darkly, dragging his lips to your jaw, to the tender skin just beneath your ear, “and I’ll put that pretty mouth of yours to better use.”

You scoffed, spitting blood to the side as your hands shoved against his chest. It was useless. He didn’t even move—didn’t even flinch—just smiled that lazy, arrogant smirk that made you want to rip his face off.

“You keep acting like I want this, Theo,” you hissed, your nails raking down his forearms, but he caught your wrists easily, pinning them above your head with one hand. “I’d rather throw myself to the real wolves than let you touch me again.”

His golden eyes gleamed, his mouth curling wickedly as he wedged his thigh between yours, forcing them apart. “You mean the same way you threw yourself at me last time?” His free hand dropped, palming you through your clothes, fingers pressing between your thighs, slow and taunting. “Because if I remember correctly, you were shaking—so fucking desperate, I barely had to touch you before you came all over my cock.”

You arched, snarling, trying to buck him off, but it only made things worse—only made you feel the steel-hard press of him even more. He was so big, thick and pulsing against you, and your traitorous body clenched at the memory of being stretched wide, ruined around him.

It had been a week. A week of trying to convince yourself you hated every second of it. A week of lying awake, thighs pressed together, still sore, still marked, still aching—because the worst part was, your body had already decided. It didn’t care what your mind wanted. It only cared about the mark.

He knew it, too. Could smell it.

He dipped his head, inhaling deeply against the crook of your neck before letting out a low, knowing chuckle. “Mmm. That’s cute, dove,” he purred. “That little act. That little scowl.” His lips brushed against your throat, hot and teasing, just barely there. “But I can smell it. I can smell how wet you are for me.”

Your stomach twisted. “Fuck you.”

His teeth dragged against your pulse point, his grip on your wrists tightening. “That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

And then he tore your blouse open—just ripped it down the middle like it was nothing, like the fabric was no stronger than tissue. The cold air bit at your skin, at your breasts covered through a bra, your nipples pebbling against the thin clothes before Theo’s mouth descended, closing around one, sucking hard through the clothing barrier.

You whimpered.

No. No, no, no.

He hummed in approval, laving his tongue over the sensitive bud before dragging his teeth over it, sharp and teasing. “Still pretending?” he taunted, his voice muffled against your skin. “Still acting like you don’t want me to ruin you again?”

You did the only thing you could think of. You spat in his face.

It was a mistake.

His expression darkened, amusement flashing into something far more dangerous. His fingers dug into your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “Tsk. Still got some fight in you, huh?”

He leaned down, licking the spit from his lips, from the corner of his mouth, his voice low and taunting. “Good. Makes it more fun when I finally break you.”

You glared at him, panting, your body betraying you, slick pooling between your thighs even as you scowled up at him. “You’ll never break me.”

His grin was wicked.

“Careful,” he murmured, dragging his free hand down your stomach, past the waistband of your skirt, slipping beneath the soaked fabric of your panties. “Keep running that mouth of yours, and I might have to find a better use for it.”

You shuddered as his fingers slid through the wetness pooling between your thighs, circling your clit once—once—before pulling away.

You hissed, frustrated.

He laughed.

“Oh, baby,” he crooned, licking up the side of your throat, savoring the way your breath stuttered. “You’re gonna beg me for it.”

You gritted your teeth, eyes burning with fury. “I would kill myself before I beg for you.”

His smirk was cruel. Amused.

“Oh, dove.” He released your hands, standing over you, cracking his neck like this was nothing but a game to him. “You are fun.”

And then he took a step back.

Your breath hitched.

“What—?”

“Run, baby,” he murmured, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “Run. Let’s see how far you get.”

A slow smile curled over his lips, his golden eyes burning.

“Go ahead. Run.”

His voice dropped, dark and sinful.

“The chase only makes it sweeter when I catch you.”

Your pulse hammered in your ears as you bolted into the trees, your lungs burning with every frantic breath. You frantically took the safety pin from your pocket and tightly secure your blouse Although it wasn't much help but still it helped. The cold night air bit at your skin, the remnants of Theo’s touch still lingering on your throat, your lips, your body—fuck, you could still feel his fingers between your thighs, the phantom sensation of his teasing touch making you stumble.

But you didn’t stop.

You couldn’t.

You pushed yourself harder, darting through the dense forest, your bare feet scraping against jagged roots and damp earth. Your torn clothes clung to you, your exposed skin prickling as the wind lashed against you like cruel fingers. You didn’t know where you were going—all you knew was that you had to run.

Had to get away.

Even though deep down, you knew it was useless.

He was faster. Stronger. Could smell you.

But that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy for him.

You veered left, sprinting toward a crumbling structure barely visible through the darkness. The silhouette of an abandoned church loomed before you, its tall, cracked steeple reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The wooden doors hung off their hinges, creaking as the wind whispered through the hollow space.

You shoved inside, your breath ragged, your body trembling. The scent of damp wood and old decay filled your lungs as you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, trying to calm the frantic beat of your heart.

The only sound was your own breathing.

Had you lost him?

You squeezed your eyes shut, willing your body to stop shaking. Just a minute. Just one minute to rest—

The world tilted.

Your vision blurred at the edges.

Your body gave out.

You barely registered the sensation of falling before darkness swallowed you whole.

Drip.

A slow, rhythmic sound echoed in the distance. Your head felt heavy, your body sluggish as you fought to regain consciousness.

Drip. Drip.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath hitched.

Something was wrong.

Your wrists—

You tried to move them, but they didn’t budge.

Panic shot through your veins as your eyes snapped open.

You were on a bed.

The room was dimly lit, the flickering glow of candlelight casting long shadows across cracked walls. The air was thick with dust, the scent of old wood mingling with something else—something deeper, darker.

Your gaze darted around wildly—until you found him.

Theo.

That bastard.

He was leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with that same arrogant smirk, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You fainted, baby.” His voice was syrupy sweet, mock concern dripping from every word. “Didn’t eat enough today?”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “Theo—”

“Too bad,” he interrupted, taking slow, deliberate steps toward the bed, his smirk widening as he tilted his head. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you until you faint again.”

Your stomach clenched.

You tugged against the restraints, glaring. “You—”

He crawled onto the bed before you could finish, one hand bracing beside your head, his body pressing over yours, caging you in. His scent surrounded you—dark, heady, intoxicating.

His lips found your neck in an instant, open-mouthed and hungry, sucking and biting, leaving bruises in his wake. His breath was hot against your skin as he dragged his tongue over your pulse, his teeth scraping just enough to make you shudder.

“Missed you, dove,” he murmured, his voice low and taunting, vibrating against your throat. “Did you miss me?”

You clenched your jaw, your body betraying you as a shiver ran down your spine.

He chuckled, slow and wicked.

“You did.”

His hand slid up your torso, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the swell of your chest before closing around your breast through the thin lace of your bra. Your shirt had been discarded somewhere in the room—ripped away in his frenzy, leaving you breathless, exposed. You opened your mouth to yell, to curse him, but before the words could form, his lips crashed against yours.

He wasn’t kissing you. He was consuming you.

His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming your mouth the way he had already claimed your body—relentless, possessive. You fought it, pressing against his chest, but his grip only tightened, his body pinning you beneath him, caging you in. He was going to do what he wanted, and you both knew it.

His fingers found your nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger before giving it a sharp pinch. You gasped, your lips parting in surprise. He took it as an invitation—his tongue slipping deeper, stroking against yours, tasting you, teasing you. The kiss was all teeth and dominance, messy and desperate, and wrong—so fucking wrong.

And yet, the ache between your legs was undeniable.

Heat pooled in your stomach, liquid and heavy, and you hated it. Hated the way your body betrayed you, how your thighs clenched together in search of friction, how the damp fabric of your panties clung to your skin.

Theo pulled back, breaking the kiss just enough to drag his lips down to your jaw, then lower—to the soft curve of your throat. His breath was hot, uneven. Hungry.

“Needy, are we?” His voice was a low growl against your skin, laced with amusement.

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer—but when his teeth sank into your neck, sharp and unyielding, a moan tore free before you could stop it. Your body arched involuntarily, the sting of his bite blooming into something unbearable, something electric.

His mouth soothed over the mark almost instantly, tongue laving over the sensitive skin as if in apology, but you knew better. He wasn’t sorry. He was branding you.

Bastard.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were red, wet, pupils blown so wide his irises were barely visible. He looked ruined—like a man on the edge of his sanity, held together only by the need to bury himself inside you.

His gaze dropped lower, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest, taking in the way your nipples strained against the lace of your bra. His fingers curled into the fabric.

You knew what was coming.

“Theo—”

The sound of lace ripping filled the air.

That fucker.

“That was expensive,” you seethed, shooting him a glare.

His lips curled into a smirk, completely unfazed. “I’ll buy you another one.”

You scoffed. “I don’t need your charity. And I sure as hell don’t need your soothing words while you’re assaulting me.”

He chuckled darkly. “So, what? You just need my dick then?”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but the moment you did, his lips latched onto your left breast, his teeth grazing your nipple before sucking it deep into his mouth. A strangled noise caught in your throat—half a curse, half a gasp.

That bastard.

His tongue swirled around the peak, flicking, teasing, tasting, while his hand slid to your other breast, rolling the neglected nipple between his fingers, tugging and twisting until you were writhing beneath him.

“Fucking insufferable,” you hissed, trying to shove him away.

He didn’t budge. Not even a little.

His other hand drifted lower, palm pressing against your stomach before moving between your legs. His knuckles brushed against the damp fabric of your panties, and he groaned, deep and low.

“Fuck,” he murmured, lips still latched onto your breast. “You’re soaking, baby. You act like you don’t want this, but your pretty little cunt is telling me otherwise.”

You clenched your thighs shut, but he only chuckled.

“Aw, don’t get shy on me now.” His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties, brushing against your slick folds, deliberately avoiding your clit. His lips dragged up to your throat again, sucking, biting, leaving bruises in his wake.

You gasped, half in frustration, half in something far more humiliating.

“I hate you,” you spat.

His smirk was against your skin. “You’re gonna love me by the time I’m done with you.” He again took his hands out of you panties like right now all his focus was on your breast.

Sucking, biting—his mouth was relentless, devouring every inch of your skin, branding you with his teeth and tongue. His lips latched onto one nipple while his fingers twisted the other, switching between them with cruel precision. Every flick, every sharp nip, sent a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your stomach. Your breath came out in ragged gasps, hands fisting into the sheets, torn between pushing him away and yanking him closer.

By the time he finally pulled back, your breasts were swollen, reddened from his assault, saliva running down your stomach in slick, glistening trails. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, and that bastard noticed. Of course he did.

A knowing smirk curled at his lips as he dragged his fingers down your body—slow, deliberate—before pressing them between your legs.

You jerked. "Don’t—"

"Don’t what, baby?" His voice was a mocking purr, fingers brushing over the damp fabric of your panties. "Don’t touch what’s already mine?"

You sucked in a sharp breath, willing yourself to stay composed, to ignore the unbearable heat curling in your gut. But then he pushed your panties aside and slid a finger into you—no warning, no mercy.

A strangled cry left your lips.

Theo groaned, low and satisfied. "Fuck. You're tight." His breath hitched as he pushed deeper, his knuckles pressing against your entrance. "This little cunt is choking my fingers, baby. You needed this, didn’t you?"

You bit down on your lip, refusing to make a sound, but the burn of the stretch mixed with the humiliating wetness coating his fingers had you shaking.

He curled his finger, dragging it along that sensitive spot inside you, making your back arch despite yourself. "Ohhh, look at that," he cooed. "You’re clenching so hard. Trying to milk my fingers already?"

"Go to hell," you spat, breathless.

He chuckled, dark and low, before shoving a second finger inside you.

A broken moan slipped from your lips before you could stop it.

"Yeah?" Theo pressed his forehead against yours, eyes blown black with hunger. "Then can I take you with me, sweetheart?”

His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles—just enough to drive you insane, not enough to give you what you needed. You hated how your hips jerked up, how your body begged even when you didn’t.

"Poor thing," he crooned, pressing a kiss to your cheek, deceptively soft. "You’re fighting so hard, but look at you." His fingers pumped in and out of you, dragging against that perfect spot, pulling slick, obscene sounds from between your legs. "Listen to yourself. You’re soaking my fucking hand."

Your breath hitched. "Shut up."

"Aww, baby, don’t be shy," he taunted. "You’re the one making all these pretty little noises."

He twisted his wrist, angling his fingers just right, and pleasure slammed through you like a live wire. Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp, your brain short-circuiting.

Theo stilled.

Your vision snapped back into focus, only to find him staring at you with something feral in his eyes—something almost reverent.

He looked wrecked. Obsessed.

Like you were a god he was desperate to worship.

His lips hovered over yours, breath fanning against your skin, but he didn’t move. He just watched—like he was committing this moment to memory. The way your lips parted. The way your body trembled. The way you gave in.

Then his smirk returned, cruel and knowing.

"Ohhh, that’s it, baby," he murmured. "That’s the spot, huh?"

You clenched your jaw, trying to pull yourself back from the edge, but your mind was slipping, unraveling with every slow, precise stroke of his fingers. Words failed you. Thoughts scattered.

"You were talking so much shit a minute ago," Theo mused, dragging his tongue along the shell of your ear. "What happened, baby? Can’t form a single coherent thought now?"

Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "I hate you."

He only smirked, shoving his fingers impossibly deeper, swallowing the desperate cry that tore from your throat.

"That’s cute, sweetheart," he murmured, lips brushing against yours. "But you’re gonna be screaming my name when you cum."

And fuck, you hated that he was right.

Your cunt ached—stretched around his fingers, abused by the relentless pace of his thrusts. The pain licked at the edges of your pleasure, sharpening it into something almost unbearable. Every time his fingers curled inside you, they dragged against that spot that made your vision white out, made your body convulse against him despite the screams in your mind telling you to fight.

But fight what?

The pleasure? The way your body betrayed you? The way his voice—low, taunting, dripping with amusement—curled around you like a noose?

"That’s it, baby," Theo purred, his free hand tweaking one of your nipples, rolling it between his fingers. "Cry for me."

Tears welled in your eyes as the unbearable coil in your stomach tightened, twisted, ready to snap. You shook your head violently, choking on your own breath. "No—No—"

He pinched your clit sharply, and the scream that tore from your throat wasn’t one of protest. It was pure, raw need.

"No?" Theo mocked, his voice saccharine, dripping with fake sympathy. "Then why’s this little pussy clenching around my fingers like she doesn’t want me to stop?"

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t breathe. Your stomach tensed, your thighs shook, and your mouth opened into a silent, shattered cry as your orgasm hit—a violent, electric explosion that wracked your entire body.

It stole the air from your lungs. The world disappeared, your mind reduced to nothing but raw sensation—pure, devastating pleasure. You fisted the sheets so tightly your knuckles burned, your back arching into him, chasing the last tremors of your release.

Theo didn’t stop.

He kept his fingers inside you, fucking you through every aftershock, prolonging the pleasure until it hurt. Your sobs turned breathless, broken.

"There she is," he cooed, his voice like silk over razors. "Look at you. Fucking coming all over my fingers like you were made for this."

A breathless laugh slipped from your lips, shaky and dazed. Half-laugh, half-sob. What the fuck were you doing?

You barely registered when he pulled his fingers out, bringing them to your lips. You hesitated and just then you felt sting. He fucking slapped your oversensitive cunt. Your eyes rolled from the pleasure. Then he whispered in your ears slowly to suck his fingers. His voice so fucking deep that you left control over your body. It was like you can't control it anymore. So you sucked them clean—slowly, deliberately—never breaking eye contact.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice dripping with satisfaction.

You shivered, your body still thrumming, over-sensitive and raw. Your breath came in quick, shallow gasps, trying desperately to ground yourself—to think.

But then Theo was moving.

He pushed your legs apart, settling between them like he belonged there, dragging his lips along your inner thigh. "You’re not done yet, sweetheart."

Your head lolled to the side, a weak whimper spilling from your throat. "Theo—"

He chuckled darkly. "Theo?" His teeth scraped over your sensitive skin, his breath hot against your thigh. "No, baby. For now?" He pressed a lingering kiss to your soaked cunt, smug and reverent.

"I’m your fucking god."

And when he dragged his tongue through your folds, you believed him

Taglist - @empath-bunny @gipsonnikki @emptyachingblue @syymplypotter @a-little-funny

#⚝ Werewolf! theo au ౨ৎ #Theodore nott #Theo nott #Theodore nott x reader #harry potter x reader #Theodore nott headcanons #Theo nott headcanons #Theo nott x y/n #Slytherin boys #Theodore nott smut #Theo nott smut #slytherin boys smut #slytherin #harry potter #lorenzo berkshire smut #Slytherin Boys x reader

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tyrannosaurusprex · 2 days ago

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Opinion: Mark Scout’s arc is not about moving on from Gemma, and [spoiler] is not necessary for his healing.

Long post, spoilers for Severance up to Season 2 Episode 7 below the cut.

Mark Scout’s arc is not about moving on from Gemma. Leaving her fate in Lumon’s hands is not necessary for his healing.

It seems that the common consensus among the fanbase, at least before S2E07, was that from a meta perspective, Mark should not be trying to rescue Gemma, because he needs to move on from her and her “death” in order to achieve character growth. The argument was that his inability to move on from her brought him pain and suffering, and that from a storytelling standpoint, it would therefore be unsatisfying for him to be “rewarded” with Gemma again. He could only fulfil his character arc by moving on.

I never really liked this theory. Mainly because I never thought that Gemma died in the first place; it seemed more likely that she had been kidnapped by Lumon, and that she deserved to be freed. It seemed cruel and unjust to leave her in the hands of Lumon just so that Mark could achieve character growth. The show makes us empathise with all the innies, so I felt bad for Gemma and Ms Casey, too. They all live bleak lives and they all deserve freedom. But I also realised that this interpretation of Mark’s reaction to Gemma’s disappearance is just inaccurate, as far as my reading of the show goes.

People were basically saying that Mark never tried to move on from Gemma, which brought him pain; therefore, trying to get Gemma back will bring him more pain, and the only way to achieve peace is to move on. I think that would make sense if the premise were true. But the problem is that Mark did try to move on from Gemma. The whole reason he got severed was to try to move on. He left his job at the college they both used to work at, and he moved out of the house they used to share, and he got a procedure so he wouldn’t be able to remember her for 40 hours of the week. Was it a healthy attempt at moving on? No, but it was a genuine attempt. So many things show us that Mark was legitimately trying:

Devon says that “forgetting about her eight hours of the day isn’t the same as healing”. This dialogue is basically exposition that tells us that he is trying to heal from his grief, but he is going about it the wrong way.

Mark tells Petey that his wife died two years ago and that the severed job is helping him.

Mark goes on two dates with Alexa; the second one goes much better than the first. Mark comfortably brings up Gemma but apologises for talking about her too much. He and Alexa share a sweet kiss and sleep together, showing that Mark is capable of forming new romantic connections. And in fact, the reason the second date ends badly seemingly has nothing to do with Gemma. If Mark had not picked up Reghabi's call, and had not witnessed a violent murder, he might very well have gone on more dates with Alexa.

After Mark drunkenly rips up Gemma’s photo, he puts it back together and reminisces about her in a touching moment. The next time we see him, in S1E8, he’s contemplating leaving his job at Lumon, because as he says to Cobelvig, he doesn’t think he needs it anymore. Implying that what he needs is not to forget Gemma, but instead remember her and keep his love for her alive. This will help him deal with his grief in a healthy way. This whole episode he looks much happier and more at ease than he has seemed pretty much the whole season.

In S2E02, he is staunchly convinced that Gemma is not alive, no matter what Devon says. He is trying to move on from her here. If he weren't, he probably would have jumped at the possibility.

Milchick convinces Mark to return to Lumon with the promise that Lumon will help Mark continue to move on from his grief. Milchick tells Mark that Mark has found love at Lumon, and instead of seeming repulsed, or uncomfortable, this seems to give Mark hope, as he returns to work the next day. Because he wants to move on.

Mark only starts to suspect that Gemma is alive when Cobel avoids his questions about her in a very…weird…way (i.e. demonic screaming). And even then, he only believes that Gemma is alive when Reghabi tells him she’s seen her at Lumon. Before this, practically the whole time, Mark was genuinely trying to forget and move on from Gemma, which was actually what was bringing pain and suffering to him, his innie, and Gemma herself. His attempt at moving on — that is, his job at Lumon — resulted in his torture on the Severed Floor and Gemma’s torture on the Testing Floor. Only after Mark actually confronts his memories of Gemma in S1E7 does he seem happy, healthy, and willing to quit the evil corporation.

To me, all this is saying that Mark’s character arc is not about how he needs to forget about Gemma to heal. Forgetting about Gemma is what led him to the evil company. Perhaps what he needs is to confront his memories of her instead of avoiding the pain. When he believed Gemma was gone, his desire to forget about her drove him to split his brain in half, creating a version of himself which was doomed to hell; now that he believes she’s back, he’s decided to stitch his brain back together, freeing his innie, in a way. Reintegration is clearly dangerous but I don’t think the show is trying to tell us that it’s the wrong choice. It’s currently the only way that an innie and outie can coexist.

So is the show saying that we shouldn’t try to move on from grief? I don't think so. I think it’s saying that we shouldn’t try to ignore all the negative things we experience. We shouldn't compartmentalise to such an extreme extent. As Devon says, forgetting is not the same as healing. There are things we all need to confront, and Mark has needed to confront his grief and his love for Gemma. This, I think, is the first step to his actual healing.

#severance #severance spoilers #severance season 2 #mark scout #gemma scout #markgemma

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echstacy00 · 2 days ago

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every breath you take: stalker!landlord!kimsunoo

when you first moved in, the apartment felt like a dream come true—affordable, safe, and run by a landlord who actually seemed to care.

sunoo was young—weirdly young for a landlord. but he had explained early on that it was a family business, passed down by his father. “i practically grew up managing this place,” he said with pride and a sheepish smile—it was cute . and either way, he seemed extremely responsible. he was polite, charming, always ready to help with the warmest smile. he made a great first impression, kind and attentive without being overbearing.

what you didn’t know was that from the moment he saw you, sunoo was infatuated. how could he not be? you were… different. unlike anyone he had ever met. there was something so effortless about your presence, like you were truly heaven-sent. the way you carried yourself, the warmth in your voice when you spoke to others—it was mesmerizing. you were perfect. and perfection needed to be protected.

on your first day, while giving you a tour of the unit, sunoo casually mentioned the security cameras.

“they’re only for emergencies, of course” he quickly reassured you, flashing that signature sweet smile. “no daily surveillance or anything like that—just in case..something happens.”

and of course to you it made sense. the world was dangerous, after all.

and yet, nothing ever happened to you.

a pipe burst in the unit next door, but yours was fine. a power outage hit the entire floor—except for you. The one time you forgot to lock your door, you panicked, only to find everything exactly where you left it. It was like you were protected.

you didn’t think too much of it.

not even when sunoo started mentioning things about you that you never remembered telling him.

at first, it wasn’t the way he spoke that unsettled you. It was the missing things.

little things at first. a necklace you swore you had left on your nightstand. a sweater that you thought was in the laundry basket. then the more..intimate things. things you would never misplace.

it was ridiculous—wasn’t it? you were usually so organized. was your washer eating up your clothes? or… was this deeper than you thought?

still, you told yourself it was nothing. that you were overthinking it.

then, one day, sunoo asked you—casually, like it was nothing—

“how’s that book you’re reading?”

you blinked and slightly furrowed your eyebrows in confusion. you had been reading in your bedroom. alone.

sunoo immediately backtracked, laughing a little and rubbing the back of his neck. “oh—uhm, i saw it during the unit check-up,” he added quickly seeming somewhat nervous? “didn’t mean to sound weird or anything.”

you let it go. because he wasn’t weird. sunoo was sweet, maybe a little awkward, but harmless. right?

then there were more moments.

“you’ve been looking tired lately. staying up too late again?”

again?

your curtains had been drawn. your lights had been off. how did he know?

at first, you brushed it off, but doubt slowly began to creep in. something about the way he said things, how he always seemed to know—it felt off. but then guilt set in almost immediately. you had always been the paranoid one, overthinking every little thing. this had to be the same, didn’t it? sunoo was too… casual for any of this to be real. you must’ve been imagining it.

then the little slips started.

one night, you came home late from dinner with friends. not even ten minutes later, your phone buzzed.

sunoo (landlord) : Saw you got home safe. Good.

your slightly stomach twisted. the hallway cameras didn’t even face your door.

another time, you mentioned trying a new café across town. sunoo hummed thoughtfully.

“the one near the park? you didn’t really like it, did you?”

your breath caught. you had gone alone. you hadn’t told anyone.

the realization crept in slowly, a sickening weight settling in your stomach. you were being watched. the feeling had always been there—subtle, easy to brush off—but now, it was suffocating.

no. you shook your head, forcing the thought away. you were overreacting. he was just observant, that’s all. he paid attention. it was nice, wasn’t it? to have someone looking out for you?

so you tested it.

one evening, you placed your keys on the kitchen counter and made a show of searching for them. you sighed, muttered to yourself, and paced around the apartment like you were frustrated.

not even five minutes passed before there was a knock at the door.

your blood ran cold.

when you opened it, sunoo stood there, smiling softly, holding your keys.

“you left these in the bathroom.”

your heart pounded.

you hadn’t.

And that’s when you knew.

the cameras weren’t just for emergencies.

they were for you.

please do not motify my works.

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shatcey · 2 days ago

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Lover Contract (Victor)

I will not make summary… there is not much plot in this story. They came to this club (for lovers only), noticed the guy they needed to check out, and… look around a bit. That's all. But… Kate and Victor had interesting (even philosophical) thoughts, and I would like to reflect on them…

But before that… Victor spoils us a lot with his gentle expression at this event. And… because of that, it took me longer than usual to read it… I just couldn't help but stare at him..

(smiles tenderly) He's so cute…

The post turned out to be quite big. Like like my theory post… very big. I am surprised myself. But I mentioned that I liked this event, even though it didn't have much plot, it contained a lot of interesting thoughts and made me think. More than usual… if that even possible.

They came to this club to confirm that one of the Prime Council member is having an affair. And they noticed him right away… Victor was contemplating…

Despite the fact that he seems to be a person who sees everything only in white and black… bad or good… He doesn't divide people based on that. In his eyes, they are all the same. Friends or foes… they all are just people. The only reason he decided he had to use this information against the guy… because he needs to protect Crown. If he didn't have to, what would he decide? I wondering…

And after that, they noticed another acquaintance… The guy who is famous for being a faithful husband and even making speeches about it… But it turned out that he has a mistress.

Victor looks extremely angry here. That's not the right word… he looks at the guy with disdain. The fact that someone is cheating annoys him, as if for some reason it is very personal to him. Had someone betrayed him? Had someone betrayed his loved ones?

At the very end of the main part of the story… Kate… looking at all these unfaithful spouses thinking out loud…

After everything she'd seen… unsurprisingly, she began to doubt…

He's fascinated by love in general. I have a feeling it has something to do with his curse… Freedom and love… All fairy tales are about at least one of these concepts, but they're usually about protoganist, not antoganist. Was there antagonist somewhere who did bad things for love??? I… don't remember… If ANY love is "fascinating"… As Ally said in the Chocolate event, "everything is fair in love and war." It must be somehow related… No, I still can't catch that thought…

A long sentence on the middle screenshot… can be not entirely correct. I found a very interesting dictionary. It's quite easy to split a sentence into words. BUT… most languages have a very strict order of words in a sentence. And if you know this order, you can easily understand that the part of the speech every word should be. But… there are no special restrictions in my native language… as you may have noticed, I'm constantly playing with words.So, out of habit, I could interpret these words as I see fit. Even adjust it to my thoughts. There was a question in the original text, but it was in the middle. But to make it sound more logical, I changed the sentence to this.

And this wording of his makes me think that he is not a human. He talks about them as if he is just an observer… and has nothing to do with them…

And here we go… What he said earlier was… just a fact, and he doesn't judge others, this it their life. But personally he doesn't like cheating. Nice to know.

Bitter ending

After a short walk (I don't see the point in telling you what happened there, it's not relevant) they return back to the main hall. Kate is thirsty (I wonder why), Vivi notices this and orders drinks.

Well, he's a second Gilly-bee. He probably knows more about you than you know yourself…

I played with the words again, but it seems more correct than what the mechanical translation suggested to me. So… she feels like he's far away… for many reasons: age, experience, knowledge, status… But he takes it literally. The distance. We learned from the LINE campaign that he has been looking out for her from a DISTANCE for a very long time. And… he feels lonely because even though he is with her right now, she still thinks he is far away.

If I had read this BEFORE the LINE campaign, perhaps I would have interpreted these words as his usual sad thoughts about loneliness. But now everything is completely different. And in the next part, he literally says it. He took her hand and told her that he was here with her. And he's "just like her." It's a very peculiar wording. I'm not going to talk about it now. I'm more happy about the next part. He never considered himself free.

He FINALLY admitted it. Where it was… in one of my theory posts… I was talking about freedom… here. It was pretty obvious, but Vivi had never confirmed it before… But here… he really became more open, more… naked, as he said in the epilogue… It was as if he no longer had the desire to remain an observer with her… It feels like we're already in the middle of his route. I'll explain why I think so later.

Kate had an interesting thought…

It makes me think about that damn…. fish… again… I know she's not a fish, she's kind of humanoid. Thatever! The mermaid is not the villain in this story… She's a victim. A victim of betrayal. She suffers from the moment she fell in love until the very end. But… It seems that everything fits too well into the story… And the fact that he takes care of her from a distance, and the fact that he used to be free, but no anymore… It's just too similar. Annoying so. Calm down, girl, it's too early to riled up. But if his curse is that damn fish, I'll scream!

And the fact that Kate either thinks of him that way, or already knows about it… It seems that this is already his route.

Premium ending

We talked for a while on the balcony. After Kate said that she now considers love to be freer than she originally thought… Victor suddenly noticed.

IT'S SO CLOSE!!! But not quite. Oh, what a shame! If you don't understand what I'm implying, I've written about it here.

And after Kate asks, "What kind of love is Victor looking for?"

I don't need Harrison to confirm this, it's obvious that he's lying. Well… he wasn't lying, but he wasn't completely honest either. Yes, he's obsessed with taking care of everyone, but… It's more like… a habit. I don't know… or… unfulfilled desire… Projection, maybe?… No one cared about him, so he's doing this for others?........

Kate was more honest when Vivi asked her the same question. She said that despite the fact she had seen many very strange expressions of love today… and she began to understand the difficulties associated with spending her life with one person, but…

It's a very sweet dream… And look at him… he fully shares her dream. But he decided to NOT said it out loud and pretend to be a clown again. Sad…

Don't talk like it's not going to be you or… to be completely honest… already you.

In the epilogue, she thought that she wants Vivi to love her, and the way her heart stops all the time is a great hint of this as well. SO… we are already in the middle of his route. BUT it hasn't been released yet. The paradox.

I will only mention this from the epilogue…

Now I'm curious to see…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

🔝 𝕊𝕋𝔸ℝ𝕋 ℙ𝔸𝔾𝔼 🔝

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#ikemen villains #ikevil #ikemen villians #ikevil JP #Ikevil event #victor #ikemen villains victor #ikemen victor #ikevil victor #victor theory

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little-diable · 2 days ago

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Mermaids - Jasper Hale (smut)

Requested by @jannesyjane for my birthday bash celebration. The lyrics are from Florence + The Machine song “Mermaids”. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. Xxx

Summary: Jasper once heard about mermaids which the reader is quite interested in, pwp

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral(m), piv

Pairing: Jasper Hale x fem!reader (800 words)

“What are you reading?” Jasper’s voice ripped her out of her thoughts, eyes flickering from the book to meet his golden eyes. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in front of his chest.

“A book I got from Carlisle, it’s about mythical creatures.” A soft chuckle left her boyfriend, body moving closer to plop down on the mattress next to her. His arm found its way around her shoulders, pulling her into his side before snatching the book from her grasp. His eyes wandered over the page she was reading, seemingly deep in thought while she pressed herself even closer. “Emmett and I met a woman once in England, she said something about mermaids, something about the mermaids, they come once a year, they climb the struts of Brighton Pier, they come to drink, they come to dance, to sacrifice a human heart.”

“Did you believe her?” Their eyes met, holding contact as the book fell from his grasp to let his arms find their way back around her middle. Jasper pulled (y/n) on top of him, smirking up at his girlfriend with something darkening stretching through his body, something that managed to elicit a similar sensation inside of her.

“Of course we did, it’d be foolish not to believe a woman talking about mermaids.” Her lips met his before another word could leave him, successfully shutting him up. Jasper instantly chased the kiss, tongue running along her warm lower lip before meeting hers. (Y/n)’s mind was racing, high on his cold touch, on the way her beating heart was calling out to his dead one, how her hips began to roll against his middle without needing any further guidance.

“Careful there, darlin’, didn’t you tell me to slow down last night?” Heat shot up to her face, remembering how sore she had been, desperate for a small break. A break she had clearly let go of the second their lips had met just now, aching for his touch once again. (Y/n) kept quiet, rolling her hips again to communicate what she wanted from him. “Go ahead, take what you need.”

Her hands undid his trousers with clumsy movements, freeing his half-hard cock from its confines. Their eyes met as she spat down on his tip, letting her saliva spread on his cold skin before she began to move her hands for a second or two. Even though she wanted to take her time, (y/n) grew more impatient, needing to feel him buried inside of her.

“Look at you, darlin’, such a desperate little thing, huh?” She snarled at him, tightening her grip on his cock while adding more speed to her movements. A groan left Jasper, filling her bedroom like a song she knew all too well, knowing when to pause before reaching her favourite part.

Jasper kept his arms crossed behind his head but she could tell that he was aching to touch her, to feel her warm skin press against his. Without breaking eye contact she pushed back down on thighs before pushing her damp panties aside to align his cock with her heat. Slowly, (y/n) sank down on him, head rolling back to relish in the all too familiar stretch.

“God, Jas’, you feel so good.” He only let go of a raspy groan, eyes staring up at her to watch (y/n) fuck herself on his cock. At first she moved slowly, trying to ignore the slight burn she couldn’t get rid of, still not fully used to his insatiable need for her - but with every passing moment her movements grew faster while her walls fluttered around his cock.

“You’re my favourite sight, darlin’, fuck.” Their eyes met again, silently communicating to allow Jasper to flip them around. He hovered over her while fucking her into the mattress, set on pushing them both over the edge for the first time that evening, very well knowing that this wouldn’t be the last orgasm of the night.

Curses left (y/n), she had her legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close while her orgasm finally flushed through her. She sobbed his name, fingernails trying to scratch his skin to try and desperately hold on as he followed her down the edge.

“If I had known that talking about mermaids leads to this I’d have brought it up sooner.”

#Jasper Hale smut #chi's birthday bash #Jasper Hale x reader #Jasper Hale imagine #twilight

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okay-j-hannah · 2 days ago

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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

~~~

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.

~~~

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