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angelisverba · 1 year ago

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praise

in which y/n notices something isn't quite right with her professor, and harry loves chasing this little bunny

word count: 5.5k

pairing: vamp!h and y/n (but really it's more like professor!h with a side of vampire)

warnings: this fic contains graphic depictions of sex and blood.

author's note: happy late halloween!

When y/n was little, her mother always told her to stay inside on Halloween.

She never got to go trick-o-treating like the other kids because of this, not until she was old enough to pay for her own costume, but by that time it was too late because trick-o-treating turned into bar hopping and candy turned into drinks. She took part in these activities for as long as it took for her to figure out that she didn't like alcohol or big crowds or dressing up.

Also by that time, many of the holidays took place around the time that she was stressing about papers and exams and midterms and other deadlines a college students faces around the end of the semester. She was a dedicated, busy little bee with few friends that knew her enough to know that when she's focused, theres no getting her to come out for anything, so they didn't even extend invites.

Which is why she finds herself inside, at the library, on Halloween night. She has a little ear worm of Linus writing his letter to the great pumpkin running around in her brain, but that's as far as her spooky spirit goes. The rest of it is consumed in her paper about sublime notions of nature in the latest gothic novel assigned by her literature professor, Mr. Styles.

Had it been any other teacher, she wouldn't have lingered so much on grammar, word choice, or reading her paper over and over again so that her ideas were clear and concise, but... but there was something about him. She can't really but her finger on it, but a big part of it is fear. Intimidation. He's so... commanding in the way that he carries himself. Almost menancing, his figure carrying the threat of punishment.

He walked into the lecture hall everyday dressed like a model from a vintage academia magazine. Tweed bottoms. Button up shirts. Loafers. Sleek black shoes. A pristine silver watch on his wrist. A golden chain that twinkled on his neck and disappeared into the collars of his shirts like a shooting star. Slicked back chocolate brown hair from which a single curl sometimes escaped and swayed on his forehead like the hooked tail of a monkey. Tailored pants that accentuated the litheness of his hips perfectly so, making her wonder if he had them altered to fit him exactly. A badge on a simple, black attachment pinned on his hip spelled his name underneath a coyly smirking ID picture of his face; Harry Styles.

So y/n had a little crush.

A silly little bundle of love-misted roses perched in her heart with a ribbon and a name tag that had her English professor’s name on it.

She tried to tell herself that it was a school girl’s crush (it literally was), but it was hard to keep her daydreams cemented underneath the rounded realm of reality when her heart kept reading into every single little interaction she had with him, knowing that all her fantasies would only ever exist in her dreams because he was an employee. He was older than her. He would never be interested in a girl, a student, like her. His serious disposition did nothing to quell her.

In fact, it almost egged her on. The perfectionist in her wanted to be perfect for him, so be praised by him for her hard work. She wanted so badly to be his teacher's pet that it reflected in her work ethic. Every paper she turned in was better than her last, she paid rapt attention in class, took the most intricate care in her notes. She always looked her best on the days she had his class- black ballet flats with black skirts, frilly socks, cardigans and collared blouses- ever the neat student. She's every professor's wet dream, she knows this.

Yet, the approval and validation that she craved. No, needed. The validation she needed from him was never given to her, no matter how hard she worked. The notes on her paper were always asking for more, she could do better, she could be more clear, she wasn't quite*getting it. And he always left a note that she should see him in his office hours.

But she couldn't.

Y/n was sure that she would spontaneously combust is she was in an enclosed one-on-one space with him. Which was funny because many of the female students fought for that time with him. One time she heard a few girls in her class say that they tried to call him by his first name and he told them that "it was Professor Styles or Sir to them". Just listening to it second hand was enough to have her squirming. The though it, to have his striking green eyes on only her, his gravely, accented voice directed at her. It was an intoxicating though.

She could imagine it.

He would sit on the other side of his desk in that suave way of his, ankle crossed at his knee, one hand resting on the arm of his chair while the other props his chin up as his finger taps against his sharp cheekbone. He would watch her with an unwavering, predatory gaze, like he's waiting for her to make a mistake to step in and correct her. Y/n would sit in the seat across from him, her hands under her thighs to keep from fidgeting, her lips wet with her spit from how much she'd chew on them, her eyes unfocused and struggling to keep contact with him. The silence in the room would probably be filled with her 'umm's and 'like'. She'd be so nervous, and he would see right through her, and all her hard work would be diminished to nothing.

And then she would probably cry and Professor Styles doesn't really look like the type to console his students, so y/n would just embarrass herself.

So she settles for putting her all into her work, tweaking what he's made notes on from previous papers, and hoping that it's enough, that one of these days she'll she exclamation points at the end of praise instead of at the end of 'explain this'.

With a weepy, overwhelmed sigh, y/n rubbed her fists into her eyes and ran words over and over again in her head. She was the last one in the library, the light from the lamp at her desk was the only source of illumination in her little study corner. This late into the semester the school didn't close libraries, opting to not get in the way of students and their work. It was nearing midnight, and she was getting tired, but this paper was due in two days and she wanted at least one to edit it.

A little delirious from lack of sleep and anger from how difficult this was all turning out to be, y/n blinked back tears. She was a little cold and she was hungry. But she was not going to leave until this paper was finished.

She would however close her eyes, just for a little while. Y/n put her head down on the desk, telling herself that she would only rest her eyes for a few minutes, that she was not going to fall asleep.

But like every college student that snoozes their alarm twenty million times because they're just going to rest their eyes for a few more minutes, she falls asleep.

She startles awake in the dark at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor.

When she jerks upright, Professor Styles is sitting across from her, reading her paper.

***

Harry is so fucking hungry, and he's looking for a snack. Maybe even a meal if he can get away with it.

He hasn't fed in nearly a month, and normally even two weeks is pushing it. But it was the month of October, and as the holidays neared and the parties increased, so did security and people's guard. It was extra hard to find a bite now, not the kind he liked.

Sweet, pure, and innocent. Untainted flavor.

A few days ago he managed to snag a few blood bags from the campus' blood drive center, but it wasn't enough. He craved the puncture, the warmth of a body in his arms, the fresh throb of a pulse underneath his tongue. He wanted the erotic writhing of struggle and submission against his body. Many of his kind didn't share their fondness for this part, but he loved taking care of them afterwards. Making sure they were okay, steady. Sated in the same ways he was. Being a vampire came with the ability of glamour, a bit of mind influencing, so that he was able to make the situation a little more favorable on his end.

He had decided to go for a stroll, having been caught up late in his office grading papers, when he caught a hint of something sweet and familiar in the night air.

It reminded him of one his students, y/n.

She always sat in the middle of the third row with perfect posture, listened to his lectures as if he was God. Her eyes would get mooney, and if he listened hard enough (which to him wasn't really that hard because he was a vampire, he had super human hearing) he could hear her heart beat faster in the seconds that his eyes held contact with her as he talked, delicate and quick like the wings of a hummingbird. Everything she turned in was perfect. She was smart but not pretentious in her way of writing, and something about the way she wrote reminded him about the tender inside of a wrist. Her wrist.

But Harry was mean, and he liked to tease, and he could tell that y/n was waiting. She was sitting on a precipice, hanging on to his very word, her body strung taught and stressed. She was waiting on him. He was going to make her wait until he did as he asked. He wanted one on one time with her, and until then, he wouldn't give her what she wanted.

Whether she realized it or not, she was teasing him, too. In ways that y/n probably wasn't even aware of. The way she bit her lips so they were bright with her blood right underneath the surface, the promise of her heat with every exaggerated sigh she let out as she walked out of his lecture hall. Her clothes, god they killed him.

She wore these black kitten heels once, and they drove him crazy.

Now, he knows his place as Professor, and he didn't just get this job to fuck around. He enjoyed teaching and knowing secretly that he knew first had about the things he was talking about. He loved seeing how his life was absorbed by the younger faces (not that he looked old, he would forever appear to be 23). He respected others, their will, their purpose, and only went as far as his moral compass would let him to take care of his needs.

But he was a man, and he could be brought to his knees by a pretty thing like y/n.

Harry remembers that day, how his trousers were uncomfortable and he had to spend the whole time behind his podium. How he needed to slyly inch a calculating hand to the ever-growing uncomfortable center of his groin and tug the snug fabric away from their vacuum-sealed hold on his hips. It was maddening for him, but uncomfortable for her (he thinks). She never wore them again, and he suspects they may have hurt her delicate feet if the way she kept shifting was anything to go by.

Not that he noticed.

Harry most definitely did not notice that the tip of her toes kept tittering tenderly up and around in slow, hypnotizing circles, meant to relieve pent up tension. He most definitely did not notice that the way her frilly white socks kept sliding down the slope of her ankle with every movement. Or the tantalizing trekk of her delicate fingers against the curve of her thigh, behind her knee, and a little further where the pads of her lucky fingers dug into the soft, aching- he assumed- flesh of her calves. He didn’t fucking hold his breath and become stiller than a statue to try and to hear the sweet, breathy sighs of relief that left her parted lips. No, he did not. That would be a violation of the contract he signed upon assuming his position. It would be betraying the trust of the snarky, reluctant, port-belly head of academics that judged his ambiguous resume with reluctance.

Of course he didn’t. And he wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed that he never saw them again.

This student of his had captured his attention this semester, almost distracting him. Her smell, from what he knows the few times he caught a whiff of it amongst all the others, was sweet, yet not overwhelmingly so. It was mellowed out and warm, and the closest thing he could compare it to from the food he had as a human, was apple pie. She was warm, sweet, honeyed, with the zest of cinnamon.

He wanted to taste her so fucking badly.

Harry doesn't know if it's because he's so hungry that he's smelling her now.

Trailing after the scent with his nose leading the way like a drooling dog, he wonders- no, he knows that he won't be able to fight the urge to taste her if it's really her he finds at the end of the line.

It gets stronger in the library, but from the looks of it, it's dark and empty. From the looks of it, but Harry knows better. He can hear better and smells better, and he knows she's in here. The swift intake of her breath rings in the silence, his ears picking up on the only human sound in the buildings. The near-silent whines that sit at the base of her throat and die before they exit through her nose.

Her hearbeat.

Calm. Steady. Alive.

It sounds like a drum, low and pounding and it thrills him.

He wants to hear it beat faster and faster, like a bunny when it's being chased. He wants to hear the even paced breaths become rapid and disorganized with heightened emotion.

He can smell her, too, the delightful aroma making his fangs itch and his loins ache. Walking further into the library, the stacks of books growing dense with sharp corners and cozy study nooks, he can trace the direct path she took to her spot- the table in the corner with the lamp still on. She has her head resting on her arms, hair haphazardly strewn across the wooden table and some papers, a pencil between her fingers still.

She probably set her head down after saying she was only gong to rest her eyes. She's probably been here for a really long time, he can hear her stomach growling. Shaking his head in disbelief, he pulls the chair back with a motion that's sure to wake her up at the same time that he pinches the paper with two fingers and begins to read.

Waking with a little gasp, y/n straightened. He could pinpoint the exact moment she became fully cognizant of what was happening because her heartbeat picked up in a way that concerned him, and she became utterly still. From the corner of his eye (Harry was reading her paper, a really good paper, and hadn't looked at her. Not even once) he could see her mouth open and close a few times, words escaping her. Y/n rolled the pencil between hands that had begin to perspire and began to chew on her bottom lip.

Internally, Harry groaned. He needed to get her to stop doing that because he was imagining things that no person is his position of power needed to be imagining and his cock was fattening against his thigh. He was hungry in more ways than one for her. A part of him wanted to mark her up like he was a dog and she was his chew toy, licking and sucking and biting on the sweetest parts of her to suckle on her blood; everywhere. The other wanted to do all of those things, and not just for her blood.

He had to get her to speak.

The paper that he held in his hands was probably the best that he was going to get from her class, or maybe all of them put together. The ideas were fresh with just the perfect amount of information from his lectured tossed in for a response to the prompt on the book they were currently discussing. But he had to keep playing his game with her, he had to see her fold like a ragdoll. He wasn't going to tell her what he truly thought about it, how it was so good, how she was such a good student, how she made him so proud. How she was a good girl.

Instead he put the paper down in front of her, crossed his arms and spread his legs in the chair to give his swollen dick some room and said, "you should go home. Have a meal. Go to sleep.”

At this her shoulders sagged, and it was like watching dominoes fall against each other to release different triggers, Her lips crumpled, her chin wobbled, and her eyes blinked away a sea of crystalline tears.

Y/n stared at him, a wet look that punched his gut at the same time that it made his gums salivate and his hips itch to thrust up against the desk like a thing in heat. He looked back at her, his head tipping slowly to the side to track her gaze as it dropped. Like a predatory, he observed her with the kind of stillness that promised a charge of action. That promised death in the maw of a killer.

Her mouth did that thing where it opened and closed again, sounds that came before actual words coming out of her, but never intelligible sentences. Her heart was racing, but her lungs were doing a weird thing. Like they weren't getting enough oxygen.

"Why don't you take a deep breath , hmm? And we can talk about what's going on here," he got up from his chair and stood at the side of his desk, arms crossed and feet spread shoulder width apart, formidable. If she looked closely enough, she would be able to see a thick bulge at his crotch.

But she didn't have a reason to look. He wasn't adjusting himself. He didn't even look like it bothered him.

In fact, he looked almost... mad.

Y/n looked at him straight in the eyes, and her's went doe-like, everything in her stilling like the fawn-like creature in the way of an oncoming vehicle.

Everything, including her breathing.

He wasn't going to have her passed out before all the fun began. Needing to get a grip on her, he took a few heavy steps foward, and pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger, the other hand tucking into his pocket to actually adjust himself this time because it was starting to get uncomfortable.

Tilting her face up and closer to him, he bent forward so that their noses were barely touching. Her warm breath huffed against his nose, and he had to fight the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his head.

"Breathe, y/n. You can do it," peering down at her with his jack slightly slack and his eyes at half mast, he imitated inhaling deeply, and she mimicked his motions. Her lungs expanded, and her heart slowed slightly. "That's it, darling. Again."

She gulped and her hands squeezed the fabric of the plaid tennis skirt she was wearing, bringing the hem up slightly so the thinner skin on the inside of her thighs gleamed at Harry.

Then he smelled it, and this time he didn't fight the shiver that ran through him. She was wetHis eyes closed, and a groan rolled deep in his chest. His body tensed and relaxed at the same time, like a transformation.

And when he opened his eyes, he was a different version of himself.

One that didn't give a fuck that he was a professor and she was his student.

This version only had one goal in mind: to consume her in every way he could until y/n went limp in his arms.

"Now what's the matter, little bunny?"

***

Y/n didn't know what was happening, only that something had... changed.

She might have been a quivering mess for him, but she felt the shift in him. The edge to him. The gleam in his eye. She had seen his body shiver at the same time she felt her pussy clench at his words. That's it, darling. Again. Little bunny.

He was encouraging her, not far off from what she wanted to hear from him. It stroked her muddled brain and made her feel fuzzy all over. Some of what he was saying was very inappropriate. But she could care less.

“W-what?” she mumbled, confused. She blinked so that a few tears ran down her face, and she couldn't even feel embarrassed about it.

“Y’heard me loud and clear, darling. Don’t make me repeat myself," her professor tutted.

"i'm sorry, sir. It's just that... I need to work on my paper." And she mumbled something afterwards. Low enough that he wouldn't have been able hear if he was a human. But he wasn't. That didn't mean he couldn't play with her.

"Speak up, y/n. Good girls don't mumble." His tongue was like a lashing, a reprimand, and she felt the scolding everywhere.

"It needs to be better for you, sir." Gulping, she rubbed her thighs together and shuffled in her seat. Y/n was finally one-on-one with him, and she thought she knew what it would feel like.

She was wrong.

Everything was sensitive. Hot. Cold. She was twitchy and there was this squirrley, jumpy feeling inside her. She wanted to run away like a little mouse, but she also wanted to be warmed in his hands. By his words. She wanted to hear the praise come from him so that she could stop feeling so desperate.

Y/n got like this sometimes. Whiny. Insatiable. But no one ever knew how to handle her, when to realize that she was finally full. So she was always... hungry. Like something inside her needed to be stuffed. Abused a little, maybe. She wanted to be handled and then petted. Fucked and kissed and then held. She wanted to be good.

And being like this with him, in a position that made it seem like that was possible, y/n thrummed.

Humming in realization, he stroked his knuckles down the side of her face in a caress, "and what makes you think it isn't already good?"

She leaned into his touch without realizing it, nuzzling into his hand. All she had to do now was purr. Y/n shut her eyes before speaking, "Y-you... you never-"

"Open your eyes and look at me when you're speaking, bunny." Again, the stern, scolding tone. This time it made her flinch and whimper. Her hips rocked in the chair, and he tracked the movement like a leopard in the trees ready to pounce. Y/n knew that he saw, and her face bloomed with heat.

In a breathy, chocked string of words, "you never leave nice notes on my papers, sir. All the others do, but there never any on mine and I just thought... that I n-needed to work harder to be b-better."

She shuffled again in her seat, and her professor's eyes pinched. His had trailed down to her throat, and he squeezed to hold her still.

“Stop squirming, y/n. You want to be better? Stop fucking squirming," and he released her with a small pulse at the base of her neck. He could feel his teeth bulging under his upper lip, the thrum of her life under his fingers enticing him further. Every bit of reason was escaping him. He was going to lose control. Decades of practice, of edging on months of hunger, were nothing to her allure.

He stepped back at the same time that he realized they weren't close enough.

"Stand up," he told her. He watched as she pushed the chair back and stood on wobbly knees, her gaze still searching for recognition that he had heard what she had said, that he had read between the lines and realized what she needed. "Sit on the edge of the table, facing me so we can speak properly."

When she was seated and her hands began to fiddle in her lap, he stepped close enough that her knees were almost touching his hips. And she couldn't miss it this time. The thick length of him, hard against his hip.

"S-sir?" she prompted meekly.

"You want me to leave nice notes on your papers, y/n?" He asked, settling his hands on either side of her and haunching over her so they were nose-to-nose. She could smell him, strong masculine scents of vintage leather and tobacco and bergamot.

Nodding eagerly like a dog, "mhm. Yes, sir."

"Then why didn't you come see me like I asked on every single one of those papers? You didn't listen to me, so why should I reward you?" He mouthed the words against her skin, trailing them down her jaw to her throat where he teased the skin with the tip of his nose.

The area around her neck felt scorching hot, his lips trailing searingly against her. She couldn't hide how desperate she was anymore. She arched, her body was taught, fighting the urge to wriggle because she couldn't decide if she wanted to get away from him or have more of him, and she needed to be good. He had told her to stop squirming.

"I'm sorry, Professor."

Y/n closed her eyes and tentatively braced herself against him. Trembling hands settled on his arms, thick with deceptive muscle. She could feel the strength hiding beneath the surface, tense like a snake preparing to strike. A strong hand settled at her waist, clamping like iron, and another on cupped her jaw tenderly. It was a dichotomy of treatment. Rough and tender at the same time.

"You were a bad girl, y/n."

Then she felt it, a sharp sting where her throat met her shoulder, where Harry was biting her, and licking her, and suckling at her all at the same time. A mixture of a squeal and a moan jumped out of her, and she dug her fingers into his arms, frozen. Whatever he was doing to her hurt. But it hurt in a good way. A way that made her ache with that need to be filled.

She cried out, "I'm sorry, sir." A wet apology that bared how anguished she was.

His hot tongue flattened against her, and she she vibrated in the place where he left his heavy pant, "are you going to be good for me, bunny?"

"Yes, sir. I wanna be good, please," her head was bobbing in that earnest way again, but with his head in the crook of her neck he could only feel the movement against his hair.

He suckled a little more at bite that was already beginning to close, kissing it tenderly, "gonna be my good little bunny?"

Y/n was huffing, not even bothering to hide that she was horny, “please, p-please- I need-”

“Tell me exactly what you need. C'mon, you can do it,” he coaxed her. The hand at her hip molded the flesh there, pulling her closer to him so she was sitting just at the edge, and her knees were pressed into his dick with the lightest pressure. He bucked against her, a slow roll of his groin against her delicate bare knee.

“I need to cum, sir. I need-”

“Don’t-” he pinched her hip roughing, his thick eyebrows furowing in disapproval, “forget your manners, little bunny. Rude darlings don’t get to cum.”

"Please let me cum, Professor," she repeated, eyes glossy but no longer with tears. This was something else. Something needy. Y/n could feel her slick juices seeping through her panties and making the insides of her thighs sticker. The triangle of cloth was sticking to her, and the tight feeling of it against her clit made her want to scream. It was just barely pushing, a teasing sensation that was driving her crazy.

She wanted him to touch her. To rub her swollen clit until she drenched hand in her cum, and then to- to-

"I'm not sure I should, y/n. You didn't listen to me. Didn't come to my office. Instead I had to come find you here. What about me, hmm? What if I need something from you?" Harry leaned back, letting his hands run down so they rested on her knees and his fingers could play with the hem of her skirt.

"Whatever you need, sir. Please." Y/n was beginning to sound a little broken. Her hips struggled to stay planted on the desk and her knuckled turned white from how hard she gripped the edge of the wood. She would much rather touch him, but he was too far away and she didn't want to upset him. She stared at him, silently pleading for his hands to creep up and shove into her panties, to play with her hole.

"Right now I need to eat you, little bunny. Are you going to let me?" He tilted his head at her again, calculating. Waiting, observing.

"Yes!" Y/n shrieked, her thighs trembling.

"Spead these pretty thighs, darling. Let me have a taste," he crooned down at her as she opened up, her skirting riding so he could see her panties, how wet they were, nearly transparent with her arousal. With a deft finger, he pulled the gusset of her panties to the side and dropped to his knees.

Y/n whined at the look on his face. Mouth parted, eyes half-lidded and downturned. He looked hungry. Desperate.

Without warning he leaned forward and covered her with his mouth, his tongue licking her and then dipping into her pussy to collect what had pooled at her opening, his teeth lighting tapping against her clit. He thrusted his tongue into her once, twice, three times, and that was all it took. A gush of wetness coated his tongue, and her tremors pulsed against his lips.

He leaned back and slapped her cunt with an angry growl, and then shoved two fingers into her, fucking her roughly so his fingers got wet with her, "seriously, y/n? Did I give you permission to cum?"

"N-no, sir," as she sat hunched over his kneeling form still twitching, Harry shoved his fingers into his mouth to lick them clean of her, and then stood up, not even bothering to lay her panties right before yanking her to stand.

"Get up. We're going to walk to my rooms. Your'e doing to do so quietly, and when we get there, you're going to take your punishment like a good girl, do you understand me?" With a single finger pointed at her, y/n understand she was in for it. Her hands flew to pick up her things, showing her papers into her bag and looping it on her shoulder so she was ready to go.

"I understand, Professor"

He took the bag off her shoulder and laid a hand on her lower back, keeping her at his side as he led her out of the library and into the night, "that's better. Come this way. The night is still young, bunny, and we're both in for a treat."

*****

happy halloweenie!! hoped u liked this heehee. missed mr. vamp. lmk ur thoughts!!!

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oliviasfashion · 3 months ago

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lavenderhhaze · 1 month ago

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MISSING A LONG TIME

pairing: spencer reid x reader

words: 1.6k

genre, warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, hopeful ending, mention of addiction

about: where he's sure you both will make it through, you always do.

The door clicks shut in a soft, dull, distant noise. You stay, eyes closed, breathing steady in this feverish in between of sleep and wakefulness. You listen to the soft patter of the drizzle on the glass of your window. There is this heavy feeling lingering in the air, tense, as the footsteps - growing and growing and then diminishing into their dull thuds. The tap in the kitchen runs its sharp sound, the clink of a glass being filled, being downed, the heavy sound of it returning to the sink.

You stay, despite that heavy, tense feeling - waiting for the mattress to dip next to you, for the cold white sheets to sink in some sort of warmth. A cough. A clearing of someone's throat - inexplicably Spencer's voice. You stay because the alternative, having to leave, is truly terrifying. Terrifying because there is an awful difference between the point where you stop loving someone and the point at which you stop thinking about them. And although you're not quite sure how close you are to the former, you couldn't be further away from the latter. The twisting sound of the gun-safe being clocked open. A heavy, weighted sigh. The clink of his revolver and badge being placed in it - as gentle and elegant as his hands could manage.

A ghost of a hand brushes your back to be followed by the polished revelation that Spencer was alive; lacking in spirit - yes, possibly bruised - yes, aching - most definitely. And still, this revelation fails to console you into opening your eyes, into shifting to face him, into taking the hand that just brushed against you, like you so inconsolably wanted to. And so you stay, not for the lack of trying: listening, hoping, waiting.

You wait for the mattress to dip next to you. It doesn't. The bathroom light flicks on, the ugly, white, teethy tiles under its horrid glow. The prickle of the shower. His jacket, his cardigan, the printed button down, mismatched socks falling down in gentle thuds. A yawn - breathy and exhausted, in ways he wouldn't afford to express if he knew you were awake. The shower doesn't last long, only one hundred and ninety seven seconds - you counted. He's hesitant, you know. Spencer has these little tells : when his footsteps slow down, when his breathing evens to a two second inhale and a three second exhale (a grounding exercise he had taken to) or when his eyes dart around the room, looking to count everything that's blue, listing five things he could hear, five things he could feel, five-

"I know you're awake."

And you would have blinked your eyes open, a slow smile followed by some snide, sarcastic comment, wiped that bleary and bleak look off his face, thumb tracing the thin skin under his eyes. His thumb presses indents into your arm as he lingers, waiting. You would have, you should have, truly. But you don't. You make a muffled, sleepy sound. And there, it ends, the conversation - broken off cleanly from whatever Spencer was expecting from you tonight. He returns to his demeanor- cold, clenched hands, utterly unreadable, more sublime than sentimental.

"It's okay," he says, but its a soft, defeated sound. His hand drops from your arm (perhaps this ran too deep to be quenched by touch alone, you learnt that, Spencer would too, someday.) "We'll talk about it tomorrow."

Deflecting attention only goes so far until its alienating. You wonder if this is entirely your doing.

It is tomorrow, and he doesn't talk about it. Neither do you. There's something new, you notice - gauze wrapped around his right palm, clean and white. You eye it suspiciously as he pours your coffee and then his, unceremoniously sliding your mug towards you over the kitchen island. You should ask him about it, but you don't.

Instead, you only tilt your head, skimming over all the scars he had collected in the fifteen years of his service to the bureau - one from the gunshot to his knee, two additional scars from his surgery to retrieve that godforsaken bullet. Another at the nape of his neck, the one he grew his hair out to hide (the one you had cried over, heaving until he squeezed your hand post surgery, smiling despite the heavy doses of sedatives.) And finally his left elbow, your eyes darting to catch sight of those angry red dots littering his steady blue veins. No fresh scars? You frown as he pulls his shirtsleeve down until it hangs limply by his wrists. No fresh scars, you assure yourself.

And so you smoke, head tipped back, no open windows in the kitchen, the ash catching on the expensive marble of the countertop. Spencer hates it, you already know. You purse your lips, waiting for a gentle scolding that should soon follow. (Did you know smoking causes more deaths in The States than motor accidents and fire-arm accidents combined? It doubles your susceptibility to a stroke - or a brain aneurism. Or a subarachnoid hemorrhage, which, well, would lead to a stroke either way. Or even a vascular clot - which again, y'know, stroke. Point being, you should really stop smoking, baby.) But it doesn't. You glance at him. He doesn't look upset, only casting a faint look of displeasure at you, as if you were something only inconvenient. And you're not really sure which one you would have preferred.

You sit uncomfortably in an Uber, windows rolled all the way down. Spencer sits next to you, a respectful distance away, eyes skimming through his copy of The Iliad, fingers tracing under letters to keep pace with his mind. And he's in the entirety of his suit - black tie, no mismatched socks - and you would have wondered if he truly is Spencer if not for the furrow between his brows, creasing deeply and occasionally disappearing. Your perfume is sickly sweet, peeling off of the walls and settling within you; heavy, thick, entirely made of discomfort. You look away.

The Uber stops - it's an old, picturesque sort of house. Rossi's third wedding (or fourth? You had stopped counting a while back. Or rather, Spencer had stopped confiding in you.) Its a homely little event, really - the entire team, a few relatives from his wife's side, the backyard littered with dainty little lanterns, slightly crooked floral arrangements and champagne. Expensive champagne. Spencer's hand is a heavy weight on your back - more guiding than comforting. His smile is tight-lipped, urgent — a fickle sort of thing that disappears when he catches you looking for too long.

So you greet and you smile and you make all the jokes that are socially necessary. You compliment Penelope on her earrings. You ask JJ how her boys are. You only grin at Emily because she's awfully good at reading people — both you and Spencer. And you note when his smile gets a little tighter every time he is offered alcohol, and you wave them off, smiling, oh but he's driving. He doesn't thank you. Not this time, not overtly. Only a faint nod in your direction.

And Spencer is a gentle person (not to himself), gentle in his manners and his cadence and in the way he still opens the door for you after the drive back home, and yet that gentleness seemed to burn itself away in the past few months, leaving behind something brutal and cold that you couldn't entirely recognize.

"What happened to your hand?"

He turns to face the windows, hands working on undoing the knot of his tie (you smile. it was still crooked, despite the fifteen straight years he had been wearing one for). He lets out a non-committal hum, some sub-textual way of letting you know he wouldn't answer. Fuck subtext. August, September and October - and he only seemed to get further and further away.

You look away, as if you're supposed to. Twelve calls and three texts from him in the one week he had been away. None of which you answered. Seven calls and five texts from you. None of which he responded to. You close your eyes. Maybe if you called this love for long enough, you would start believing it too. And so on nights like this where you missed him, with him right there, pouring himself half a glass of water, you could pretend he was hurting too.

He sighs. Heavier. Far more defeated. The glass clinks against the table, still not empty. A chair creaks until it is right next to yours. His suit jacket brushes your shoulder - he sits next to you. Quiet. Pondering. The fingers of his left hand find the clip holding the gauze together, not quite as dexterous as his right. He undoes the wrap and you wait, holding your breath, undeserving.

It's a clean cut, extending from thumb to his ring finger. It heals white, this strange milky colour - lighter than his skin, darker than his nails. No blood. None that you can see. And your hand reaches for it, though you shouldn't. It is thinner than his skin, smoother. Maybe if he let you tend to it, you wonder, it would have healed softer. Kinder.

"From the case," he explains, voice gravelly. "It was a bad one."

You don't respond. There is no language for disappointment and disappointing. You are not shy, only mortified. Maybe if you tried tending to it. Maybe if you answered one of those twelve calls.

"We'll get through," he says, gentle, complacent. "We always do."

"What if it takes months?"

He smiles that flickering smile. It stays.

"Then it'll take months."

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x self insert #spencer reid x oc #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x fem!reader

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walidgoldpreppy · 2 months ago

Text

Anthony become Tonygold

Anthony wakes early that morning, roused from his sleep by a dull excitement he can’t suppress. The sound of a delivery truck outside reminds him of the reason for his unusual haste; his new clothes have arrived. After quickly getting ready, he rushes to the front door, where several large packages are waiting for him, neatly stacked.

The mere sight of these packages fills him with a mixture of satisfaction and haste. He begins to unpack them one by one, with almost ceremonial care. Each piece he discovers is a promise of transformation, one step closer to the sartorial perfection he now aspires to.

The first package contains several suits, all neatly stored in protective covers. The heavy, thin fabric slips through his fingers as he begins to hang them on his clothes rail.

He chooses to try on the navy plaid suit first. He puts on the pants, which fall perfectly on his hips, without needing any alterations. The fabric is both light and structured, adapting to each movement with an almost unsettling precision. Then, he puts on the jacket, fitted, with slightly reinforced shoulders, giving him an even more confident posture. He looks at himself in the mirror, observing the fine white lines of the checks that accentuate the natural elegance of the suit. He knows that this two-piece will become one of his favorites for work days.

Moving on to the shirts, Anthony chooses a sky blue with. The cotton is soft on his skin, and he takes the time to button it slowly, appreciating the contrast between the blue of the shirt and the navy of the suit. He then adjusts his tie, a sober solid blue piece, which he tightens around his neck with an impeccable knot. The ensemble is both simple and refined, a perfect balance.

He's not done exploring yet. He moves on to the Golden Ralph Lauren sleeveless sweater, which he puts on over a white shirt. The color combination is vibrant, and the sweater gives him a superior but still neat look, perfect for more casual days at the office.

To complete it, he tries on one last accessory: a Golden bow tie. He hesitates for a moment, aware that this color stacks up enormously on his outfit but he Loves the Gold one. Tying it around his neck and adjusting it carefully, he likes this touch of shine. It adds an almost royal dimension to his ensemble. He knows he'll wear it on days when he has to impose a marked presence, where his simple appearance will have to capture attention.

Then, he tries on another suit, this time the slightly satiny grey three piece suit. The material is sublime, as he approaches the mirror, he admires the shine that gives a sensuality to the suit. He pairs it with a grey shirt for a classic look, but chooses a Golden tie to add a touch of power. By adding a black leather belt with a Gold buckle, he feels invincible, as if this outfit will accompany him on a day where he can only succeed.

Anthony then heads to the shoes, where three pairs are waiting for him, brilliantly lined up. He chooses to try on the black brogs and Golden sheer socks. The leather is soft but strong, and the elegant cut elongates the line of his legs. He walks around his room for a moment, enjoying the sound of his footsteps, each gesture calculated, almost choreographed. He is certain that this will be his choice for today!

After reviewing a good part of his new wardrobe, Anthony contemplates the result in the mirror. Every detail is perfect: the suit, the shoes, the tie, the accessories. He feels that every piece of clothing he wears is an extension of this new person he is becoming, a man of rigor, style, and discipline.

Finally, he runs his fingers through his hair, carefully smoothing it with a lot of gel, as if to perfect this picture he has painted of himself. He is ready for a new day, but this time, with an even more assertive confidence.

Anthony smiles, heading towards his bedroom door, his bag carefully packed with a few changes of clothes. Today, he will be impeccable, and he knows that this will only be the beginning of a long road to excellence.

Anthony, satisfied with his fittings, takes one last look at the pile of empty boxes that litter the floor of his room. As he prepares to put everything away, his gaze falls on a package that he has not yet opened. The box is slightly larger and, to his surprise, his name is written in Gold letters on the top. Intrigued, he opens it slowly, almost as if he knows that this package is different.

Inside, a set lies, folded neatly; a Gold jersey, accompanied by Gold shorts, a Gold jockstrap, Gold long socks and even Gold cleats. The clothes shine under the light, sending back hypnotic sparkles that instantly captivate his gaze. Without thinking, almost instinctively, Anthony decides to try on this strange kit.

He starts by putting on the Gold long socks. As soon as they wrap around his calves, a strange warmth rises along his legs, as if his body reacts immediately to the contact of the fabric. His muscles seem to contract slightly, and he feels a slight pulsation under his skin.

Then, he puts on the Golden jock strap, and the effect is even more intense. A wave of pleasure runs through his spine, while his thighs tense, each muscle taking on a more defined shape. He looks down for a moment, surprised to see the firmness that is outlined under this simple garment. His penis swells, becoming hard and definitely bigger and thicker.

When he puts on the Golden shorts, the sensation becomes almost unbearable, as if every fiber of his being resonates with the precious fabric. His mind begins to fog up, logical thoughts slowly dissolve, replaced by a soothing emptiness. He knows he should be scared, but all he feels is a deep obedience, a desire to continue.

He then puts on the Golden jersey. As soon as the fabric brushes his skin, a violent wave of heat explodes through his body. His shoulders broaden, his pecs swell, and his arms become more massive. He looks at himself in the mirror and watches, helpless and fascinated, the transformation that takes place. His muscles develop before his eyes, each fiber weaving denser, more powerful. His abs, once discreet, suddenly become defined, visible under the shiny fabric.

His breathing quickens, and with each breath, he feels his body grow in strength and stature. His mind begins to slowly fade. He is no longer Anthony, the man who worked in an office. He becomes something else. Someone else.

A member of Team Gold.

Without thinking, Anthony grabs the Golden cleats and puts them on. As soon as his feet touch the ground, a final wave of change invades him. His eyes, once deep brown, begin to sparkle with a Golden glow. He straightens, his muscles tense, his jaw clenched. He feels powerful, implacable, as if he could conquer the world.

His mind is now filled with new thoughts, new rules. He is now devoted to the team. The goals are clear: to spread the transformation, to bring other men to join the ranks, to wear the Gold, to serve. He no longer remembers the doubts or resistances he had before.

All that matters now is the Gold team.

Anthony looks at himself one last time in the mirror, with his new eyes shining. He is no longer just a man, he is a soldier of Team Gold.

Anthony stands in front of the mirror, his massive, muscular body gleaming in his new Gold uniform. The hypnotic shimmer of the fabric seems to reflect a new identity, a new purpose. He is no longer who he used to be, but he still struggles to put this total transformation into words.

His phone vibrates on the nightstand. With an almost mechanical gesture, he picks it up and sees a message from *WalterGold* flashing on the screen.

"Welcome, TonyGold. It's time to bring the golden light to others."

The name hits Anthony like a punch to the stomach. *TonyGold.* The name resonates in his mind like a no-brainer. This is no longer Anthony, the quiet office worker. He is *TonyGold*, a dedicated player for Team Gold, ready to enforce the rules, to transform those around him.

The phone vibrates again. A call this time. It's Walter.

Anthony picks up, his fingers trembling with an excitement he only half understands. A calm and authoritative voice echoes through the device.

"*TonyGold*, you received your kit, I can feel it. How do you feel?" "Powerful", he answers without thinking, his voice deeper, more assured.

"Perfect. Your transformation is almost complete. Now, you know what you have to do."

Tony lets out a monumental load in his Gold jock strap, to signify his total submission to the Golden team. He catches his breath.

Anthony remains silent, attentive to Walter's every word.

"The team needs new players. At the office, some of your colleagues have immense potential. They don't know it yet, but they are destined to wear Gold, just like you."

"I understand." *Tony murmurs, his mind already visualizing every man in the office in a Gold jersey.

"I will send you a hypnotic file, as planned. Your role will be to distribute it discreetly. They will have no choice. Their minds, like yours, will be captivated by the gold. And soon, they will be part of the team."

A shiver runs down TonyGold's spine at the thought of bringing his colleagues to the same Golden obedience that consumes him. His Golden eyes shine with a new light as Walter continues:

"Never forget, TonyGold, you are one of us now. The gold is in you. Every day you live, every action you take must be for the team."

"For the team." Tony repeats, his thoughts completely in sync with Walter's.

The call ends, but Walter's words still echo in his head. He knows what he must do. His Gold uniform is never leaving him, not even mentally. TonyGold is ready to bring Gold to others, to transform those around him.

He looks at himself one last time in the mirror. His Golden eyes sparkle with unwavering devotion. He is TonyGold, and he is here to serve.

(End of part 6)

Part 5

#gold #golden army #ai generated #brainwashing #conformity #gay men #hypnotized #join us #male transformation #preppy #preppification #gay #soccer

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