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13atoms · 5 months ago

Note

I'm the person that said that the spymaster x reader fic links weren't working, hi again ‼️

Last I checked Reciprocal Pleasure, interrogated and a few other didn't work 💔

And I am on mobile so maybe that's why 💔💔

Thank you so much for checking again (and to the other asker who also worked out which ones were broken!) - I was looking for Dhawan!Doctor links being broken because I simply cannot read haha

Unfortunately the lovely wonders-of-the-multiverse wrote the first half of artifice in silver, but has since deleted her blog (and I miss her every day) - so I’ve linked the AO3 copy instead! Go show her part 1 some love over there.

The other three that seem to be missing:

Calling for a Doctor

Interrogated

Reciprocal Pleasure

I have absolutely no idea about! I can’t find them at all. I used to write in Google Drive, so looks like they’re probably there.

I never named anything in those files, but I’ve had a guess at what I think those fics were, and managed to find Calling for a Doctor and Interrogated, I have truly no memory of 'Reciprocal Pleasure' but if anyone has a reblog/copy, please tell me!

I'll post 'Calling for a Doctor' below, and repost and link 'Interrogated'.

I don’t think they’re my best work, reading them now, but I can’t imagine deleting them? Not sure! Either way, apologies! I’ll cut them from the master list, but here you go! (I think? Sorry if these are reposts!)

Calling for a Doctor

“Master!”

The Doctor’s voice reverberated through the TARDIS, outrage and horror clear in her voice. She hated using his name. She spit the word like an insult.

You winced in embarrassment at the thought of her seeing you like this.

Where was she?

“Doctor, dearest. How are you?” The Master’s tone was lighter, more casual, you could imagine his lean

“This isn’t a social call and you know it.”

“That’s a shame,” you could hear how he was toying with her, “I fancied a chat.”

“Where is she?”

There was true anger in The Doctor’s tone, desperation.

Just after you were taken, you realised. She didn’t know you were safe. He was playing a game.

Around the gag in your mouth, you couldn’t speak. A small part of you wanted to tell The Doctor you were okay, on this ship by choice, but you’d seen The Master’s planning, how he needed to convince her you had been kidnapped.

You tried to stay quiet, even as The Master nonchalantly played with the remote he’d balanced on the console.

“What is that?”

She must have noticed the little black remote too. You certainly had, the first time The Master showed it to you, its accompanying toy now heavy inside of you. The Doctor’s demand sent a shiver of shame through you, sitting heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“This?”

Click. Click.

He played out a heartbeat rhythm on the buttons, each press sending a jolt of pleasure through your clit. It was the remote for the vibrating toy he’d stuffed inside of you, constantly buzzing, occasionally conducting pleasure through your entire pelvis.

It had been the first thing he’d done after the blindfold went on, after he’d strapped you to his heavy office chair in the TARDIS console room. His fingers had tested you, laved in his spit, scissoring to make sure you could take the toy.

Restraints pulled your legs apart, fastening to the back legs of the chair so your cunt was on clear display to him. Your arms had been bound behind your back, a gag in your mouth.

The toy had been alien to you, and you missed the warmth of his fingers as he removed them to insert it. It stretched you out, as he told you about his plan, giving a quick second’s rub to your clit as you adjusted to the sex toy inside of you.

Or torture device, as you supposed he was convincing The Doctor.

Lastly, he’d put a collar around your neck.

“I need some pretty moans from you, okay?” he’d whispered, before you heard his footsteps cross the room.

The buzzing inside of you had started the second he started the call with The Doctor.

“If you’re looking for your pet, she’s here! You can’t say hello I’m afraid, she’s gotten herself in a spot of bother.”

“No!” the Yorkshire accent called, but you could barely hear her.

Your legs would be bruising against the soft ties he’d used to restrain them, and you started trying to free yourself, desperate to either finish yourself off or get the toy out, whichever was easier.

It was too much, too high too soon, and you tapped out the rhythm he’d taught against your chair arm.

“Aw… she’s struggling. Looks painful, that.”

The Master’s pitying voice, a lie faintly covering the truth, made you moan, trying to catch his attention as he bantered with an increasingly upset Doctor.

A whine left your mouth, and you felt the toy inside you grow less aggressive in its rhythm, gentler. You mumbled a thank you around your gag, knowing it would come out incomprehensible.

Painful? Your issue was more of the pleasurable nature.

The Doctor was still yelling.

“Stop! Whatever you’re doing to her, stop!”

If the gag wasn’t there, you feared saying something, your moans sounding more sexual and less painful. He sent another jolt through your clit from inside of you, and you groaned, loud enough for The Doctor to hear.

She was begging for your life.

You didn’t want to hurt The Doctor, you really didn’t. But The Master needed her upset and emotional, running to save you. You couldn’t conceal your moans, your whines and your garbled begging. Could she see you? Your harshly rising chest? The garters and ripped bra you were wearing?

Could she see how you were dripping onto this chair, pussy clenching around the toy, trying to writhe your hips.

You felt a single tear absorbing into the blindfold, a sob wrack your body, and The Master’s voice caught your attention.

“Excuse me just a moment, Doctor. I believe our pretty little friend is getting free.”

She called your name, The Master’s name, and you realised she certainly couldn’t see you.

“Leave her alone! You can have me, whatever you want, I swear just –”

You jumped at the feeling of his fingers brushing your skin, and he mumbled his apologies. You felt a new restraint, around your stomach, and he tied it quickly to the back of the chair. He pressed a single hand to you, over where the toy was inside you, and you rolled your head towards his arm, seeking out his touch.

“Okay?” he mumbled, thumb stroking your skin.

You nodded, and you felt his thumb once more, wiping the drool from your bottom lip.

“Good girl. This is going to hurt, okay?”

His breath danced across your cheek as he whispered.

Again, you nodded. He’d told you about this part, and you suddenly knew why he’d tied you down.

Loud enough for The Doctor to hear, he yowled like he’d been hurt, and you wondered what fucking theatre school he’d gone to. The stories he spun were so ridiculous, and you could imagine the wide grin on his face as The Doctor’s voice echoed through the ship.

She was cheering you on, promising to find you, and The Master quietly undid your gag, shushing you, and put his bare forearm to your mouth. You kissed against the skin, trying to figure out what to do next. The toy inside of you was barely vibrating, pleasurable enough to keep you wet, your brain stupid, but it was no struggle to keep quiet.

“Bite,” he whispered.

You frowned beneath your blindfold, but did as he asked, sinking your teeth in as gently as he could until he pinched your nipple harshly, and you bit down harder.

“Good,” he mumbled. “Stay quiet.”

Distantly, The Doctor was still speaking.

“So much for being fucking pacifists,” The Master grumbled, marching away from you heavily, returning to his little performance, “”

Even with your mouth free, you didn’t dare speak.

“Don’t… she’s not… let her go. She can’t hurt you, she’s…”

The Master scoffed, and you heard him returning yet again. The thrumming inside of you grew strong, rhythmic, distracting you as he lay his first blow.

A crack of skin on skin echoed through the ship as his palm collided with your breast, the toy inside you some distraction from the pain.

Again.

A new spot, your other breast, making you whimper and The Doctor’s voice scream out, demanding to know what was happening.

Again.

You cried out loudly at the feeling of him striking again, where he’d just hit, and

“Master!”

You couldn’t help yourself, the moan in your choice, and you heard him hiss beside you.

The Doctor called your name, confused, and hands fumbled behind your head, undoing your blindfold. You blinked, overwhelmed by the sensation in your cunt, by the fear and the pleasure and the pain all intermingling. The you saw it, her hologram, looking around frantically. You flinched, terrified she’d see you like this, and The Master gave a low laugh at your fear.

“Shout for her,” The Master hissed, tensing up in your peripheral vision.

God, he’d hate to hear her name on your lips while you were like this, tied up, desperate with arousal, naked bar the underwear he’d bought you.

You screamed out her name anyway.

“Doctor?”

Just as recognition flashed over face, her hologram disappeared, cutting of your name half-way off her lips. The Master laughed, moving to stand between your spread legs.

“You did so well, love. So good for me.”

He kissed at the marks he’d left, and you laughed, rolling your neck. You wondered for a second if he’d forgotten about the toy inside of you, wishing desperately he’d do something about the teasing he was putting you through.

“Sorry for that bit at the end, I–”

He crouched down, eyebrows raised and an expression on his face you only saw after mischief, and you almost pre-emptively rolled your eyes at whatever he was going to say next.

“Never apologise for begging for your Master.”

His face mirrored yours as you smirked at him.

“Does my Master want to say thank you, maybe?”

“Since you did so well…”

He sat cross-legged on the floor, and blew across your pussy, laughing at how you squirmed. Then, he held the remote out, making a show of pointing it towards you.

“Ready?”

“More than ready.”

Your screams as he turned the settings to maximum would have been far more convincing, making the restraints tighten and you whole body writhe.

You hoped he was recording.

Interrogated

Request: "Could you please do a fic where the reader has been captured by some weird planet where interrogation is done by overstimulation? [...] She's scared at first but the master comes to rescue her and then he realizes what's happening and decides he likes his pet like that [...]

Your pornography, folks

#ask #thank you people who are more observant than me #do more extreme fics ever get deleted by the powers that be? is that lke #a thing?

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13atoms · 5 months ago

Text

Interrogation (Dhawan!Master x Reader)

Warnings: dubcon/noncon from memory, I think? One of those 'it was all fine all along' types. That might have been why it vanished in the first place? Good old fashioned smut, anyway. Read the request first if in doubt! [1.8k][REPOST, MAYBE?]

You laughed breathlessly as your faceless captors questioned, once again:

“Where is your accomplice?”

The cracking speakers undersold the technology around you – it was state of the art. A camera watched you from each corner of the room, your hips encased in machinery whilst your chest and arms were strapped down with soft-but-unbreakable fabric.

With a smug grin and a shake of your head, you refused to answer.

By now the sensation was familiar. Still, you fought a wince at the restarting of the slick machinery which sucked on your clit, intensifying as you bucked or tried to recoil even a millimetre from its accurate positioning on your skin. The machinery clamping your hips also left you completely full, a probe in your cunt, stretching you. Your captors had forced you further and further beyond what you thought you could take as the machine thrusted ruthlessly into you, a perfectly timed, inorganic pattern your body which wasn’t built to take.

It hurt to clench, to give in to the pleasure, you were so full. But it was worse to endure it, your entire body, trembling, forcing sweat from your pores, as your it begged for freedom and for satisfaction.

You refused to beg, you knew you could withstand more. Most importantly, you knew The Master was on his way. As the pain in your clit overwhelmed the pleasure, and you lost the ability to think straight, you bit back a curse for him to hurry up.

He’d love this, you thought. The industrial table, which they had strapped you to in nothing but a paper-thin gown. You imagined his horror at the specially-designed machine, which held your hips still, encasing you with pleasure and lubrication. Worst of all, hiding you from him. He was a jealous man, even of the sex toys you liked. He’d be furious something else was giving you pleasure, probably driven to madness to prove himself both superior and necessary.

The cameras might have concerned you, were it not for your certainty The Master would burn this facility to the ground in a short measure of time. Perhaps he would steal a copy of the recording first – to rewatch in the lonely hours while you slept, finding himself aroused in equal measure by how you were mercilessly fucked and by how stubbornly you protected him, even in sexual agony.

Those captors who watched behind screens, who had strapped you into the machine and pushed its appendage inside of you whilst they were concealed by masks… they had no idea of the danger closing in on them.

Usually the pleasure would build up in quick rounds, quickly becoming pain. Their questioning was as frequent as the pulsing of the sucker on your clit, perhaps thinking they could trick you by flooding your system with hormones and you mind with desperation. It didn’t work. You refused to betray him, risk his safety as he broke in here to safe you. You dreaded the sensitivity accompanying you at the higher levels of their cycle, trying to let your mind drift. But it didn’t work.

This time was different. The pleasure-pain was overwhelming, but monotonous. It started to grow too much, and you frowned at the silence. There was no taunting, no threats, ringing distorted through the surgical-white room.

In fact, there were no voices of any kind. No crackle of the microphone your captors used. You could hear nothing but your own breaths, the rustle of the gown where sweat stuck it to your back, the humming of the machine, and you own slickness.

Even the change of pitch as your clit was tortured was audible now, the gentle sound of the suction against you, and you realised you were whining softly in the back of your throat. You scrunched your eyes closed, refusing to grow louder and let the captors win. The machine seemed completely in-tune with your body, and you felt sure they knew exactly how oversensitive you were, but it was still possible they had no idea how close you were to breaking.

Was he not coming?

You refused to entertain the thought.

In, out, you ached as you felt even more pressure inside of you, biting your lip as you wondered how much more they could stretch you at this point. You would be limping as The Master rescued you, and suddenly you felt a pang of embarrassment for not being stronger. For not hiding your pleasure from the captors, even as they put you through the fucked up punishments of this civilisation.

Your clit throbbed from being overworked, none of the hours The Master’s tongue or fingers spent on it could prepare you for how long you had been here, with unrelenting and unfailing rhythm. You couldn’t escape the pleasure, couldn’t adapt to it. Each time you felt prepared for the sensation, like you could predict it, the pattern changed and you were whining, being dragged close to tears yet again.

With a gasp, you heard a crackle, the speakers being switched back on.

Perhaps they would make it stop. They usually did, with the promise you would be free from the torture for as long as you spoke, only for every refusal to speak causing your clit ache more when the punishment resumed.

How much more? You wondered. How oversensitive could a person yet?

You felt as though that upper limit had been reached. That they couldn’t push you any further. You wanted to cry out for The Master, wishing you could figure out where the door was, wanting to see where he could break in and free you.

You had come to expect the robotic, clinical speech which echoed through the room. A new voice surprised you.

“Hi, darling.”

“Master?”

The name came out moaned, as you wondered if you were hallucinating, finally driven mad.

“Yes, love.”

His tone was sultry, and you tried to imagine him, hands planted on the desk as he leant over the microphone. Watching the screens. Certainly, he was watching the screens.

“Make it st–”

“You know, love, their laws here ban physical injury to prisoners. But not interrogation. Or torture. They can do what they like to use your pleasure against you.”

“Please!”

You had no qualms pleading to him, crying out and moaning. It made the sensations feel even more present, like you could fall into them. He made you feel safe.

“You’ve got a safe word.”

You wanted to kiss him, letting yourself try and seek out the pleasure in the agony as the machine continued to work you, this time with more purpose.

“Did you tell them anything?”

“Nothing.”

“So good…”

You moaned as the soft pressure on your clit grew more insistent. Somehow he manipulated the machine into making you come, and you felt the bruises your legs would develop from kicking out, hitting the table, the only part of your body which could convulse properly while a painful orgasm was forced onto you by the mechanism. By The Master’s instruction.

The machine didn’t stop, and you suddenly gasped, a sob wrenching from your mouth at the pure agony of the machine touching your clit, made more sensitive by your orgasm.

“Blue?” he called the safe word sharply through the microphone, and you nodded, tears falling.

Instantly, the machine stopped. You heard crashing noises, distant but relayed by the speakers.

“I’ll be two seconds.”

You barely registered as the door behind your head opened, close to passing out and desperately grateful for the absence of stimulation against you pussy. The machine still clamped your hips to the table, filled you and brushed against you, but at least it was stationary.

His footsteps made you try and open your eyes, feeling lightheaded as he set the TCE beside your waist on the table, turning his attention to the machine.

He took it apart quickly, taking it piece at a time until he could ease out the dildo filling you, making you gasp as it stretched you one last time. He cooed praise as it finally left you, the emptiness a relief.

The Master undid your wrist restraints distractedly, too focussed on your dishevelled appearance. The strap across your chest was crushing into your gown-covered breasts, and you knew it would bruise. He traced a finger over the flesh which bulged over the side of the tight strap, but left it in place as he wandered further down your body.

“Hi,” you croaked, beyond grateful to see his face.

He smiled at you in response, before turning his attention to where you were aching.

“Oh, pet…”

He leant over your spread legs, dragging a finger across the soaked skin where the machine had sat. Even air made you sensitive, arousal and lubrication chilling against your swollen pussy as you were exposed to the air of the clinical room.

“Does it hurt?”

You nodded, whimpering, and he pouted.

“I killed them all.”

“Deleted the recordings?”

“They’ll be destroyed as we leave, the TARDIS will back them up. First, I want this on film too.”

With a frown, you tried to discern his meaning.

“You’re so swollen… how long did they leave this on you baby? Did they stretch your pussy out?”

“It hurts…” he loved when you whined, and you noticed the twitch of his lips.

“Can I clean you up?”

You nodded, gasping when he finally reached up to undo the strap across your chest with a single hand. You caught him watching you, gazing with glassy eyes as you rubbed your fingers across the bruised flesh, moaning with relief.

“Be gentle, please.”

His tongue made firm movements, too strong to be teasing but still painfully intimate, cleaning and soothing you with a care that made your heart ache. You jolted as he accidentally brushed your clit, and he apologised, kissing at your inner thigh.

He licked his lips when he was done, and you could see the overhead lights reflected in a glimmer of your arousal on his nose. He wiped it off roughly with his sleeve when he noticed you staring, before grinning at you.

“Ready to go? I parked the TARDIS outside.”

“My hero,” you smiled, letting him help you on to shaky legs, giving you a moment to even remember how to walk.

You could tell he was hard from how he walked, trying to nonchalantly button his coat. Your hand crept down to undo the button as he guided you arm in arm to the ship, but he batted you away.

“Are you sure? I can…”

“You’ve already done more than enough doll. Did you enjoy that?”

“Um, sort of?”

He stopped, adjusting his grip to force you still too. His eyes were intense, panicking as he searched yours for meaning, for resentment.

“Wait, what?”

“It was great, I just hope I never have to do it again.”

“Bad?”

“Not at all! Just… once in a lifetime.”

He pulled you close to him, hugging you against his side and mumbling apologies as he kissed your forehead.

“Certainly preferable to other methods of torture, I think.”

You tried to joke and he laughed for your sake, but his face was hidden from you. You could sense his concern.

“You’re okay, though?”

“Now that you’re here.”

You tasted yourself as you kissed him.

#dhawan!master #dhawan!master x reader #tell me if i've already posted this elsewhere i name my google docs useless stuff

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13atoms · 5 months ago

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while im fixing my masterlists - this is like the best thing i've ever written for 13 x master and you guys should read it

Gods Higher Than Us (13 x Dh!Master)

this has been on ao3 forever (link) but I realised I never posted it here!

The Master finds himself tragically alive. He’s gasping for air, face pressed to the cold floor of yet another stolen TARDIS, as Gallifrey burns one last time. The Doctor had saved him once again, albeit against her better judgement.

Before he knows it, she’s gone. Their reunion cut short by the Judoon. Everything he’s worked towards is gone, and all The Master knows is that he has to find her - if only to beg for forgiveness.

Set-post The Timeless Children, following the destruction of the Cyber Time Lords.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

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13atoms · 5 months ago

Note

your declan fic is so good you need to do a part two!!

thank you so much!! i'll have a think, i think i'd need some plot to justify writing a part 2, just to balance out how long the first part is?? i'll have a think! (or ideas welcome!)

#ask

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13atoms · 5 months ago

Note

I know that most of the spymaster x reader fics are old but please the links aren't working 💔 (I don't know if it's cuz some are deleted so I'm sorry for disturbing you 🙏)

Hey! Thanks for letting me know - please don't apologise!

I haven't deleted anything, so it should all be there! On browser I can't find any broken links, do you know which stories aren't working? I also know mobile can be a bit weird, I'll double check those later!

#thanks again for letting me know!#i cant remember half the dw stuff i've written but i think the spymaster ones i can remember should all still be up!#love that you're reading them so much love <3

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13atoms · 5 months ago

Text

The Morning After the Night Before (Declan O'Hara x Reader)

My first Rivals fic! Big shoutout to @stellamarielu and @rivalsispunk, who’s work I wholeheartedly recommend and was, inevitably, inspired by when I decided to join in writing about Declan! <3

Summary:

Bff’s dad!Declan x Younger!Reader

As a friend of Taggie’s from college, you’re invited up to the Priory for the Venturer party. By the next day Taggie and Maud have both vanished, you don’t want to leave Declan alone in that big empty house. [5k words]

Contains: Exposition, feelings, then a bit of smut. Exhibitionist!Declan, big age gap, post!Maud rebound sex, lots of foreplay, Declan is a fiend, 90% exposition, priory!sex

The Priory was quiet the day after Maud left. It was the first day of a new era, of Venturer, rung in with hangovers and that bittersweet feeling of a moment to celebrate passing by unacknowledged.

You weren’t sure why you couldn’t go anywhere else. Taggie had invited you up from London for the party, and then promptly been distracted by an MP with a sharp jawline and foul jokes, only to disappear with Seb at the end of the night. With her departure Taggie left you with the sense you were living in a haunted house, filled with Maud’s books and earrings on sidetables and the leftovers from the party to snack on whenever you could bring yourself to eat. Patrick and Caitlin had found friends to crash with. You knew why they couldn’t come back. You weren’t sure why you couldn’t leave.

Sometime in the early afternoon you had heard movement upstairs, and made yourself scarce, hiding in the lounge, tidying what you could and drifting along the spines of the novels which lined the O’Hara’s huge bookshelves. You’d picked up something that could’ve been Maud’s or Declan’s – you weren’t sure. It didn’t look well-worn. You’d been meaning to read The Shining for years, now seemed as good a time as any to sit at the end of the O’Hara’s sofa, and try not to think about what you had seen the night before.

“I didn’t realise you’d be staying.”

A hundred pages had passed before you heard that thick Irish lilt, rich with that kind of blunt hospitality which had to be imported from Dublin. You knew it sometimes rubbed people the wrong way, particularly in this passive-aggressive pocket of privately-educated England. You liked it.

He looked startling similar to the Declan O’Hara you were used to watching on TV. Not much like the Declan O’Hara who would pick Taggie up from club nights and sleepovers, waving with a sly, knowing smile from the car and asking if you’d be able to get home safely.

“Taggie invited me for the long weekend, but…”

You gestured around with the book at his empty living room. His empty house. There were streamers stuck in the rafters, too high up for you to grab and shove into a bin liner.

“Apologies for my daughter’s lack of hospitality,” he sighed, and sat down heavily in the armchair adjacent to your sofa, face in his hands for a moment.

He rubbed the skin of his forehead aggressively, and when he looked away his face was marked red, his hair thrown into chaos.

“That’s okay, I’m sure she’ll be back. The quiet is nice, after last night.”

Declan hummed, and spread his arms along the back of the chair, reclining. For once, spreading out didn’t make him look any bigger. He was wearing jeans and a smart white shirt, but it obviously hadn’t been ironed.

“You’re reading Stephen King?”

“Oh,” you closed the book around your fingers, showing him the cover, though he already knew, “yeah. A borrowed copy, I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all! Please, borrow or eat or steal whatever takes your fancy. It’s the least I can do to make up for this shitshow. And my daughter’s forgetfulness…”

You chuckled, and looked anywhere but Declan. He had such an intense gaze, you wondered how anyone stood their own against him across an interview stage.

“It’s really fine. I’m glad she seems happy, or at least excited…”

Declan huffed, stared at the ceiling, and you couldn’t tell what it meant. His hands came together and met his lips like a prayer.

“Have you read The Shining?” You asked quickly.

He was a master of awkwardness, and of silence and question evasion, but you didn’t want to pressure Declan in his own home. If he were one of your friends, you’d already be crushing him in your arms, letting him break down against you in the fiercest hug you could imagine. Instead, he was Taggie’s dad, who you’d never been able to bear to look at too closely, and watched obsessively whenever he appeared on television. You’d even watched him judge a pagent, for God’s sake, crammed around a kitchen table with your housemates complaining and a VHS Taggie had sent whirring away in the player.

You felt a swoop of pride when he perked up at your question, a glint of white teeth visible as he leaned forwards to take the book from your hands, your page number lost. You’d find it again later, in exchange for that dry brush of his fingers against yours. Declan flicked through the pages, eyes moving quickly.

“I have. That’s my copy, in fact. I don’t think the girls ever ended up reading it.”

Something on the page caught his attention, and he hummed as he skimmed the prose.

“Oh, room 217, gives me the shivers even now,” he raised his eyebrows expectantly, and you frowned, tilting your head.

“I don’t think I’ve read that far…”

“Ah, shit. Pretend I didn’t say anything. He has a lovely time in room 217.”

He was joking, and you laughed to be polite. Declan looked drained. Exhausted, hungover, sad.

“Can’t wait,” you replied dryly, as Declan dropped the book onto the coffee table between you.

“I had to stop reading it in bed,” he admitted, glancing from side to side, as though his secrets might be revealed to some unwanted intruder, “I started waking Maud up, talking in my sleep about a ghost in the room.”

You laughed, again it was because Declan wanted you to – wanted to keep the mood light – but you never quite found the right pitch and volume. Maud. He seemed to remember then, talking about her, what had happened.

“I’m sorry you had to see that fiasco yesterday,” he had shifted his voice, and become formal again, like he was introducing his show.

You remembered his falling face, Maud telling him to beg, bag in hand. You remembered Taggie, putting on a mask after the tears had fallen, and the hollow way she imitated the cheeky eyebrow raise you’d exchange over schoolgirl crushes and flirting in clubs, before she sought out a man old enough to be her father. She’d been crushed.

“No, it’s… don’t apologise for that. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t need to say what for. He shrugged, and stared up at the ceiling. The house was so, so quiet. Declan’s breathing was quiet, but you could see how laboured it was in the rise and fall of his chest.

“Do you think she’ll come back, after rehearsals?” you dared to ask.

“I don’t think she’ll come back after the run’s done, to be honest.”

There wasn’t anything to say. You looked up at the fireplace, ancient and beautiful. In the long centuries the house had stood, you wondered if it had seen any sadder sight than this.

“She’s a fucking star!” he announced, voice too loud and his hands flying up, up, before crashing back to his thighs.

You froze, watching him cautiously. He cleared his throat, and made fleeting eye contact as he glanced at you, suddenly appearing sheepish.

“Sorry, that was… sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.”

You murmured that it was fine, but in truth you had no idea if you actually said anything. Declan was panting. Tears or rage seemed equally likely, and he looked at you beseechingly. You wished there was anything you could do to answer him. To help him. The silence went on for longer than you wanted, but there was nothing to say. What could you offer?

Not that ‘there would be others.’

Not that ‘she never deserved him’, handsome and sharp and so, so damn principled it made you ashamed.

He was clenching and unclenching his jaw. You could see it, the muscles flaring and thinning. Your heart pounded in sympathy, something hot and nauseating darting around your stomach, and when his eyes met your sympathetic gaze, you couldn’t bear it. You watched the floor by his feet.

“I knew she was cheating on me. This time, I mean.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not fair.”

Declan sighed, and rolled his head, stretching out his neck. You wondered if he’d been drinking, if he was still drunk. You could smell him, aftershave and sweat, but no whiskey. His eyes were clear and sharp, there was something so controlled about him. He was always in control of the frantic chaos around him. Action and madness had always circled around Declan.

“I’m just sorry for the girls. They deserve better than a father who can’t keep their mother. Or a job. Or a house,” he laughed hollowly, and fell back into his sofa again, watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Mr O’Hara…”

He smirked at you from where he was collapsed, a twitch of his upper lip hidden by his moustache. You could really see his amusement in his eyes, sparkling. You thought of evenings spent at their London house, Declan making the family roar with laughter over a takeaway while Maud was elsewhere. He was always doing something, when he was with his kids. Inventing clever games and telling stories and beating you all at cards. He was a man in control of every room he entered.

“Please don’t sound like you work for me.”

“Sorry,” you teased back, “but don’t half those people last night work for you now?”

He groaned, head in hands, but it was teasing this time. You knew he was joking. Declan kept his eyes uncovered, checking your reaction.

“Christ knows. I’ve no idea who does and doesn’t. Maybe I work for them? It’s all on my head if it goes tits up, though. That’s the main thing.”

“That doesn’t sound stressful at all,” you collapsed a bit in sympathy, pressing your face to your forearm, laying against the arm of the sofa.

“No,” he groaned, “selfish as it is to say, a runaway wife is the last thing I need right now.”

“At least she’ll be happy,” you ventured, and froze as his stare fixed on you, heart catching in your mouth.

“Sorry,” you rambled, “as in, she’s doing what she loves. Not… not that you made her…”

He stayed quiet, and watched you. It was a poor thing to say and a misstep and suddenly you froze. You’d overstepped, lying on his sofa and reading his books and joking with him like he wasn’t Taggie’s bad.

“I just meant, it might be easier, not worrying so much. That she’s making her own choices, and you’re not to blame for whether she’s happy.”

“Maybe I did make her unhappy.”

“Declan…”

He ignored your plea, his gaze fixed firmly on you, warm and intense and melted-chocolate brown. It was far too much, though you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“I thought we were doing well. Not, well, per se, but well enough. Well enough that she wouldn’t leave me for London the first chance she got.”

You had no idea what to say. You let him speak.

“Everyone else in this fucking town seems to cheat at their heart’s content – God knows Corinium has herpes in the sofa cushions – and yet… I thought she wouldn’t. They all seem to pretend to be happily married, but my crime? Working too much? With the rate Maud burns through money, there’s no other choice. Venturer was all so I could finally stop being at someone else’s beck and call. She’d have supported that, back then. When we first met.”

When Declan stopped speaking, and let the room fall into uncomfortable silence, you realised you could hear your own heartbeat. It was pounding in your ears. Your pulse was thumping in your throat, and it hurt where your chin dug into your arm. The Priory was old and thick-walled and it absorbed all sound, so the quiet between you was absolute.

It wasn’t right, or any O’Hara home to be quiet. They were the loudest family you’d ever heard.

Finally, when it seemed like Declan was never going to speak again, you could bear to look at him again. He was still staring, but you weren’t sure he’d realised you were in the room. He looked so morose; you couldn’t bear it.

“I think Maud might never have been happy here. No matter what you did. If all she wanted was to be on-stage, what else can replace that?”

“She wants attention,” Declan sighed, “that’s what Maud’s always wanted. To be adored. Maybe she didn’t feel adored enough.”

“I think a lot of women would feel lucky, I mean, watching you with Maud… it was obvious how you felt for her.”

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at you, and rest his head against the arm of the oversized armchair, mirroring you.

“I’ve often wondered if she needs too much for any one man to give,” he speculated, the gentle rhythm of light-hearted teasing was back in his voice.

You were surprised to realise how much you’d missed it. Still, you weren’t sure what to say.

“She needs hundreds,” he continued, “fawning over her every night, cheering and throwing flowers. And maybe someone to watch her in the odd play as well.”

You laughed, sincerely this time, and it made Declan laugh too.

“God, that’s terrible,” you played at scolding, but had no heart for it.

Declan was smiling, indulgently, watching you sideways with half of his face pressed into his armrest and forearm. He was flexing his hand out absentmindedly.

“True, though,” he scoffed, “I always wondered what you must have thought, when you girls got all dressed up to go out and Maud showed up, all miniskirts and cleavage. You must’ve thought she was a nutter, trying to outdress her own daughters.”

“I actually asked her if she wanted to come out with us once,” you remembered fondly, “I was sure Taggie was about to murder me with a curling iron.”

Declan chuckled. Lethargic and curled up on an armchair, the fierceness of two decades in entertainment melted off him. You could see his frownlines when he raised his eyebrows to listen to you, but they soon smoothed again. Was this how he had looked when Maud first met him, gentle, relaxed?

“I was always glad she had you,” Declan admitted, “I was glad to see you, on the nights you’d all go out together. Knew that meant there’d be someone to look out for her.”

Something had changed, and he was talking to you as a peer. Dissecting a time when you’d been younger, known less. Maybe seeing his wife walk out on him qualified you to speak on equal terms.

“I think Taggie’s the most sensible person I know, I’m not sure she ever needed me.”

Declan sighed, and gestured into thin air, and you remembered how the two of you had ended up alone in the house. The hours of tears over Rupert Campbell Black, a small fortune in phone bills that Declan had paid silently, as penance for bringing his family to the Cotswolds.

“She’s got a good heart. Not sure I’d say sensible.”

You wanted to argue, but you knew Declan adored his kids above all else.

“With their genetics, I’m afraid all of them were going to end up brash. Emotional.”

“Clever, though. And kind. Isn’t that what matters?” you weren’t talking about Maud, and Declan knew it.

“They’re already better people than we ever were,” was all he offered.

You had been completely enraptured by their new house when you visited, and privately fascinated by the ‘countryside’ version of Declan. You had hoped he’d be less stressed, but from what you’d gleaned about his business ventures, nothing could be further from the truth. Nonetheless, there was something different about him.

About how he watched you.

Something self-assured, despite Maud and his kids abandoning the house. Perhaps it was your imagination, but it looked as though Declan was trying to work something out.

“What are you going to do now?” you asked.

“Hang out with you, I suppose. If you don’t mind.”

You remained silent. Declan read people for a living, and he knew that wasn’t what you’d meant.

“I suppose I’m meant to wait for her to come back,” he sighed, “and beg again, perhaps. Try not to catch crabs off whatever actor she’s under.”

You couldn’t help it – you winced.

“Sorry – I shouldn’t say shit like that. Tag would tell me off. I just… I’m not sure how many more times I can take it. It’s humiliating. Pathetic.”

“You’re taking the high road, I suppose…”

“Ah, fuck the high road!” he interrupted you, and threw his head back against the back of the sofa, “I’m tired of the sodding high road. There’s no one there, at the end of it, saying ‘congratulations on keeping your wedding vows while your wife fucked another man’. I know Maud. She’ll fuck around in London, and if it goes badly she’ll crawl back, and mope until she finds another ‘casting agent’ to fuck. If it goes well, I’ll never see her again, and if Venturer ever makes a profit she’ll divorce me to get it.”

You weren’t sure what to say, and when Declan’s brown eyes met yours past the forearm he’d thrown over his face, you realised his eyes were glassy.

“Sorry, you didn’t ask to hear all that. Christ.”

“No, I… I’m glad you’ve got someone to talk to. Declan… I can’t imagine.”

“Do you know what isn’t fair? What really isn’t fair? For all that talk about being abandoned and lonely and bored, I’d come back after work, or sneak back on my lunch break, and it was always ‘not now, Declan’. Every single time. ‘Neglected’ my arse.”

When you froze, it felt like a prey instinct. Declan was talking about his sex life. To you. His lack of a sex life. Christ. The way Taggie complained about her parents, you’d imagined something very different from Declan. You’d imagined Declan a lot, in fact.

“What a fucking hypocrite.”

You weren’t sure if it was your swearing, or your sentiment, but Declan’s face cracked into a grin.

“You’re telling me!”

“God, if I had a man in my gorgeous house, sneaking back on his lunch breaks…” you broke off with a laugh, and looked anywhere but Declan.

“You’d what?”

Was he closer? Declan’s voice was serious, and you had to glance towards him to realise he’d leant forwards, elbows on his knees.

“I’d take every chance I could get,” you finished quietly, and the words seemed to linger in the room forever.

“Atta girl,” Declan murmured.

Fuck. You could hear the shifting of his clothes as he fidgeted in his seat.

For a long time, you remained in silence, wondering if the heat you felt would suddenly dissipate. The air had become molasses thick, and you couldn’t look at Declan. He wasn’t far away, a few feet, when he leant forwards. Finally he slumped back into his armchair, legs spread obscenely far apart.

“Do you have a boyfriend, back home?”

You wanted to laugh. In disbelief. In embarrassment. Your clothes felt too tight against your heated skin. Instead, you murmured a no.

“Good. Not a damn man in London good enough for ya.”

The silence played out a little longer. You wondered whether Declan cared about fidelity at all. If he was going to move at all. For a while you just watched him. Forced yourself not to look down, top see if he was as turned on as you felt. It was obscene, how exhaustion and stress and misery still couldn’t hamper his good looks.

There was something more than look about Declan, though. Something in his mannerism. The intensity he watched you with. The way he catalogued every little time you’d interacted. The way he was letting his eyes sweep across you, his gaze hot and searching.

“I don’t want you to regret this, I’m not…” he began.

“I know what a rebound is.”

Your voice was so hollow, it turned bitter, and surprised you. His lust-drunk eyes widened suddenly, and the tension returned to his face. You could feel your own body respond, growing tenser, startled.

“I don’t know what you take me for, sweetheart, but I’m a damn sight older than the boys you’re used to. I wouldn’t know how to ‘play games’ if I tried. I swear. This is the first chance I’ve had to fuck you, and if you’ll let me take it, you’ll have a good time. I promise, the greatest thing about you is that you’re not my wife.”

He paused for breath, and seemed to struggle for a moment. You noticed his hand gripping his thigh, stopping it from shaking.

“You’re kind, and patient, and you listen to me, and you’ve read bloody Stephen King from my bookshelf without me begging you to care about what I care about.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gorgeous. As soon as Taggie brought you here, I knew you’d ruin my fucking life. You used to ask me how every show went, do you remember? Back at the BBC? Not even my damn wife did that.”

He held a hand out for you, but you weren’t sure what to do with it once you took it. Fingers entwined, you climbed onto his armchair, straddling his lap. Declan groaned, and latched onto the exposed column of your neck, his free hand enormous as it found your waist.

“Oh, your ego likes me? Is that it?”

“Him too,” Declan murmured, and shifted, so that you suddenly realised you could feel him, hard against the crotch of your jeans.

“You’re too young for me,” he murmured against your skin.

“Who cares?”

He laughed, and you knew it was what he’d wanted to hear. Declan pulled more of your weight onto him until you were practically crushing him, thighs on thighs and chest to chest, and then he kept squeezing until his closeness began to hurt.

You rolled your hips and ground down against his lap, hoping to distract him, and Declan groaned, bassy and gorgeous.

“Tag can never know,” you breathed, and felt Declan’s hand move further up your torso in response, clutching the underside of your breast.

“Never,” he agreed, “never.”

When you wrapped both hands around his face and detached him from the underside of your jaw, Declan only released with a grotesque, went smack. You missed the feel of his tongue, skin chilled where his mouth had been, but it was far more important to pull him to your lips. He went willingly, head heavy in your control, looking up at you with glazed hazelnut eyes.

Declan groaned when he kissed you, matching his hands to your face as he took control.

“Do you know how fucking glad I was to see you yesterday?” he groaned against your lips, migrating across your face until he could return to the sensitive join of your jawline and neck, “and I couldn’t even admit to myself why. Isn’t that pathetic?”

“Honourable,” you mumbled, “I think it’s honourable.”

His hands were back on your body, groping until he could shove your bra up, pinching at your nipples through your clothes.

“You’re not gonna think I’m very honourable after tonight, sweetheart.”

“Yeah?”

You were grinding on Declan, desperate for the flashes of friction you could find against the seam of your jeans. He kept getting distracted, groaning when you found an angle he could feel.

“Think I might make you cry, I wanna see if I can make you tell me to stop. You ever been eaten out?”

When you didn’t respond, he squeezed your breast hard, making you yelp. You could feel the jolt from the pain between your legs. He cooed as he rubbed the pain away.

“Sorry baby, didn’t realise you were so sensitive,” he was mocking you, and it was making your entire body thrum.

A laugh shuddered from you, and Declan finally slid a huge, warm palm beneath your shirt and across your stomach.

“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come upstairs, and we can get these clothes off, hm? Unless you want people to see.”

He slid a hand to the back of your neck, just firm enough to keep you facing down towards him. With his other hand, he began pulling your shirt up, until it was peaking above the mess he’d made of your bra, flesh spilling out obscenely.

“You’re right opposite the window, you know love, that big driveway. Anyone could be coming up to the house… and see you like this. All mine.”

Even lust-addled, you gasped, and tried to look up, but Declan’s grip on your neck stopped you, forcing you to stare down at him.

“You want me to make you cum here, right in from of anyone? In front of Tony? Or Rupert? The postman? My wife might walk back in right now…”

“No!” you gasped, trying to ignore the feeling of him kneading at your exposed breasts, your bra cutting a tight line across them, “please, Declan…”

“You’re sure? I don’t care,” he told you, glib, as he toyed with whether he could reach his mouth to your nipples, a wet tongue snaking across your skin.

“Declan!”

Finally, you wriggled away, and he gave up the moment you resisted him. You glanced up at the gravel driveway, exhaling shakily at finding it empty. Declan was chuckling to himself, pulling your torso closer again so he could mouth at your flesh.

“I did ask if you wanted to go upstairs, I think you were distracted.”

Finally, you could bring yourself to laugh breathily, pulling your shirt down despite Declan’s wandering hands fighting you.

“Upstairs!” you demanded, and pulled Declan to his feet.

He was walking differently, from how hard he was, and you palmed over his crotch, desperate to feel him. Declan groaned, and reluctantly tugged your hand away, adjusting himself.

“Before you get too mad at me,” he returned to your neck, and spun you in front of him, forearms bracing across your chest and stomach, forcing him against you.

You realised then he was framing you against a mirror, forcing you to look at how ravaged the pair of you looked. And the clear view Declan had of the driveway behind you.

“You’re a bastard, Mr O’Hara.”

Declan laughed, but you could see the colour rising in his cheeks, the gulp which moved his Adam’s apple.

“I told you you’d say that.”

“I’d assumed for better reasons than that,” you teased.

You wrapped your fingers around his belt, and began moving the leather to undo the buckle. Declan groaned and it caught in the back of his throat, rising to a whimper.

“C’mon, old man. You’ve made me some big promises.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep them,” he admitted, “if you keep touching me like that.”

“That’s okay,” you ran your hands along the inside of his waistband, feeling his stomach muscles twitch at the contact. “I know it’s been a while. How about you put that silver tongue to use first, yeah?”

“Christ,” Declan groaned, as you finally undid his fly. You stroked across the fabric of his underwear, and Declan threw his head back. His eyes were clenched shut, and his wandering hands had finally fallen to his sides.

“Do you think you’ll make it up the stairs?” you teased, “or should I just go up and finish this off on my own?”

Finally, he opened his eyes, and encircled your wrist with his fingers, pulling you away from him.

“Don’t say shit like that, love,” he went for your ear again, teeth grazing the skin and his lips salving where he’d been, “I’ve imagined that enough for a lifetime.”

“Oh yeah?”

You drifted your hand across his shaft one more time, and Declan let you, loosening his grip on your wrist.

“Come on then,” you teased, and took off.

He was slow, slower in his current state, but you let him chase you, up the stairs and across the landing, his breathless, deep laugh following you as he gave pursuit.

“I’m not that old,” he insisted, as he finally caught you on the upstairs landing, wrapping his arms around you from behind and briefly pulling you from the ground.

“Never said you were.”

“You’re really making me work for this,” Declan growled, sliding a hand down the front of your jeans. You laughed, safe in his grasp.

“I was just worried we’d never get up those fucking stairs.”

He chuckled, and pulled you against the bannisters, fighting with the button of your jeans. You laughed, and let him struggle, until the moment he succeeded, and his fingers met your clit, slippery and swollen.

“Please, just pick a room,” you begged.

“C’mon, love. Give me one here.”

You realised his gaze was out, across the fields, on the path where any one of the bastards in this village might see the pair of you. They wouldn’t, of course, but that was far from the point.

“Declan!”

“C’mon, just one.”

“Make it quick,” you conceded, and gasped as he let his finger slip fast over your clit. You could see the bliss on his face in the reflection of the window.

“That’s up to you, love. Think you can be good for me?”

“You’re the one,” you gasped, as he changed pressure again, experimenting, “you’re the one fingering me, Declan.”

He kissed you, suddenly, sweetly, on the cheek, fingers still working quickly over your clit. Despite the pressure building in between your hips, you laughed.

“What?” you asked him, catching him grinning to himself in the glass.

“I can’t believe I just heard you say that.”

#13atoms #fic #declan o’hara x reader #rivals fanfiction #declan o'hara x you #i dont think i like the ending of this! open to doing a smut part 2 maybe at some point if i feel like it? idk #i love declan as a character a lot but htere's a lot of work that goes into getting an x reader fic out of him i feel #one of those yknow

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13atoms · 5 months ago

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i think i just finished my novel! im going to write about Seducing That Old Man as a reward

#declan o hara writers i see you i love you and i want to join you #at first i didnt think i enjoyed rivals that much but he has bewitched me with his stupid ross poldark face

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13atoms · 5 months ago

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not a mask, but a reflection | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Waldorf!Reader Category: idk hurt/comfort?? flangst? something like that, I'm sorry I truly don't know how to categorize this Summary: The BAU ladies insist on a makeover for Spencer, so you decide to indulge them by promising to take him shopping. It doesn't go as either of you expected, but it allows a chance for the two of you to form a deeper bond. Content: reader’s outfit is described, reader is based on Blair Waldorf in background, and personality– so you're rich!! and fashionable!! And snarky, but in a ride or die sunshine x sunshine protector kind of way, early season 2 glasses!Spencer crushing on reader, implied autistic Spencer, brief mention of his bullying, lots of dialogue!!! especially about fashion advice (PSA to wear whatever you want!!) Word count: 2.8k A/N: I'm back on my Blair Waldorf-reader agenda. I'm mainly writing these because of my own crackship, but I tried very hard not to describe any specific appearance stuff for the reader (aside from what ur wearing) so it’s as immersive and universal as possible! Styling in film and TV fascinates me and I wanted to explore Spencer’s character through clothes. ALSO! I incorporate a Blair Waldorf quote into the conversation that goes “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be.” pls know I didn't come up with it, the Gossip Girl writers did. It's from S4E13 specifically.

Saturdays are usually meant for curling up on his couch to read his favorite books, or marathon obscure foreign films. Alone, always alone, Spencer Reid has grown used to the feeling; accepted it, enjoyed it, even. He wouldn’t have survived all these years if he didn't appreciate his own company, after all.

However, today is different. He’s expecting company, which is unusual enough, but he’s expecting you of all people. And it’s for such a silly thing too— a makeover. Something straight out of a cliche high school movie. It had started at work, during a case, a passing comment made by one of the people being interviewed. Something about looking like he’s playing dress up, spoken so softly he’d been willing to pretend to ignore it.

But you heard it, had snapped at the man in annoyance about respect and propriety. At the jet, you had snapped at him about wearing clothes that fit better, and of course Morgan and JJ had to get involved, and Garcia squealed about a makeover over the phone. He hadn’t expected you to accept; when you did, he considered several ways to get out of it: pretend to have a date (implausible), pretend to get sick, just don’t show up. But then you said you’ll meet him at his apartment and his world seemed to come crashing down.

“I need to see what I'm working with before I dive headfirst into this,” was your reply when he protested. It makes sense, of course, but he's not happy about accepting you into his space. It's curated for him and his comfort, and he dreads the idea of casting your shrewd, critical gaze over his design choices. If he's less of a coward, he would admit that a small part of him desires your approval. Craves it, needs it, so much it makes his skin crawl.

So that’s why his Saturday morning is spent cleaning; straightening books, hiding the case files strewn about. He doesn’t want to give you any ammunition to tease him with. Having to undergo a makeover is embarrassing enough.

It reeks of bleach when he opens the door for you. The wrinkle of your nose has no business being so cute when it's obviously done to express disgust.

“What is that smell?”

“Hello to you too,” he can't keep the sarcasm from his tone as he steps aside.

You saunter in heels even though this is meant to be a casual get together. They click against his hardwood floors until you reach his rug, the thick fabric dulling out the noise. “Did you bleach your entire place?”

His expression is sheepish as he closes the door, “I figured I'd clean.”

“You sure you're not hiding a murdered body in here?” you walk straight into the middle of his apartment and look around. He winces as he waits for your verdict.

“I’m not, I just - you’re so -”

“I’m so?”

“Particular.” I don’t want to disappoint you, but he clamps his mouth shut before the words escape. Having you come in for a makeover already isn’t doing anything for his confidence. In fact, it just confirms his suspicions. Something is wrong with him, despite all the attempts at propriety and flattery otherwise. The BAU sees it, you see it, and you’re here to fix it. He swallows the lump in his throat, and with it, his pride and the tiny hint of resentment.

You are trying to help, he reminds himself.

Maybe it’s his hopeless optimism, maybe it’s desperation to seem normal for once, but it’s enough to surrender to your knowledgeable hands.

He lets his eyes take you in, allows himself a moment to linger on the details of your ensemble. The picture of coordination, as usual; shoes and bag the same shade of rich brown, the barrettes in your hair matching the pale blue trimming along the edges of the sundress you’re wearing. This is you dressed down, he knows, but somehow you manage to outdress him.

“I’m not even going to ask what you mean by that,” your eyes roll, before landing to one of the doors in his apartment, “Where’s your bedroom?”

He sputters, “My - uh, why?”

“I’m assuming that’s where you keep your clothes?” You look at him like he’s dumb, and he turns bright pink. “I told you, I can’t take you shopping before I see what you already own.”

He can’t believe he fully didn’t realize it meant letting you into his bedroom. But then again, his brain has the tendency to turn to mush when he’s speaking with you. “Right,” he nods, scrambling to his bedroom. All of his anxieties about his living room and the overwhelming amount of books seem distant now; you hadn’t even commented on them. Instead, this new one arises, bubbles in his stomach. Showing you his bedroom is so much more intimate. The space he sleeps in, where he’s most vulnerable.

A space no other woman has ever even seen.

He feels your presence behind him, smells the distinct loveliness of the perfume you like to call your signature scent. Of course you don’t ask for permission. He’s found quickly that you’re used to taking and having what you want, used to the world yielding to you instead of the other way around.

Your heels make sharp taps against the floor. Combined with your perfume, it’s already obvious that you’re making your mark in his room, his haven. He imagines the fragrance will linger when you leave, and it makes his ears burn with a longing that knocks the wind from his chest. The door remains open, and he’s thankful that he isn’t completely caged in his bedroom with you.

“Here’s my, uh, where I keep my clothes.” he hastily opens his closet, relief flooding his body as he sees it’s not that messy. Everything is ironed and pressed, although some of his sweaters are haphazardly piled together. He hopes he won’t have to show you the mess that is his sock drawer.

You step up beside him, bare arm brushing against his. Brows furrowed in concentration as you rifle through his clothes. He steps back to give you more room to work with, although it’s more for his sake than yours. Your proximity is making him a little dizzy. He finds himself slumping on his bed, watching your movements. You’re approaching the task at hand with the same meticulous acuity as you would in a crime scene. Focused. Detail oriented, even when doing something so insignificant.

He’s not sure what to expect. He’s bought his clothes based on what he sees other men wear, relying on his observation skills, and the clothing guidelines given by HR to deduce what is considered appropriate. His father wore dress shirts a lot, back when his family was still intact. Hotch and Morgan wear suits, but those have always felt too formal to use on a daily basis. He opts for cardigans and sweater vests to keep him warm instead, because they’re softer, less restrictive. They remind him of Diana, the things she would wear back when she could still teach. He hopes you don’t make him get rid of them.

“You wear a lot of light browns,” your voice lifts him out of his anxious stupor, “You have to give that up.”

He frowns in confusion, “What’s wrong with wearing light brown?”

“You’re too pale, they make you look even more sickly. But if you must wear brown, lean into this shade instead,” you hold up a dark brown blazer that he actually really likes. He smiles, happy that it got your seal of approval. You turn to him, eyes narrowed, “And your dress shirts are too big, look at where the shoulder seam falls.”

He blinks in surprise as your hand comes to touch an inch past the edge of his shoulder, pinching the fabric, “It should be up here. You’re too slim for an oversized look, it just swamps your frame. If you’re going to be wearing them, they have to fit you better.”

He nods, feeling a little out of his depth, “How do you know all of this?”

“Years of consuming Cosmopolitan and Vogue.” You turn back to the closet, he frowns slightly. The words mean nothing to him, and he flinches when he hears you sigh.

“Fashion magazines?” you prompt, glancing back over your shoulder.

“Ah,” He nods, lips pursed, “I can't say those are on my reading lists.”

“Obviously not, otherwise you'd know not to wear,” You gesture at his entire ensemble, nose wrinkling once again, “This.”

It doesn’t really occur to him what the problem is as he looks down at his checked button down. “It’s a nice shirt.” he says, although he can see your point now; it’s too big.

“Reid, you look like you’re about to start proselytizing about our lord and saviour Jesus Christ.” you say, stepping away from his wardrobe and stopping in front of him.

Your teasing makes his cheeks burn. Or maybe it’s your sudden closeness, your hands at his buttons, “Um, what–” he’s stiff, memories rushing of being held down, clothes forcibly ripped—

“Relax,” you step back after undoing the top button. The annoyed scoff surprisingly gives him some comfort, reminds him it’s you, he’s here with you, “There, that’s better. Don’t button it up all the way.”

“Why not?”

“I told you, it makes you look like you’re cosplaying a minister.” He shifts under your gaze, feeling exposed, even though he’s fully dressed. But that’s exactly what you’re judging, after all, his clothes. There’s nowhere to hide. “Why are you so tense, Reid? It’s not going to make you look like a fool, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Why? Where does he even begin? The fact that he’s never had a woman in his room before, and it’s making him feel like he’s about to implode? His memories of being stripped naked for all the school to see, humiliated, fueling the irrational fear of letting go of his clothes, the things he’s comfortable wearing. And for what? In order to be fashionable? To seem normal, to be fixed?

He settles for a half truth, the words mumbled and embarrassed, “I like my clothes.”

To his surprise, your eyes soften, “Okay. And?”

“I like how I dress.”

“You don’t want to change your style?”

He looks down and shakes his head, feeling a little silly. How can he explain it to someone like you, who probably would have been one of his tormentors when he was back in school? It’s sick, this desire to be close to you, to be accepted by you as though being in your orbit would lessen his eccentricity. He thought he’d left it behind in high school, had grown out of it, but it’s there, recognizable and refusing to let him rest.

“You know you didn’t have to say yes to this,” the bed dips as you sit beside him, “It was a silly thing the girls and I thought would be fun, but if it’s making you uncomfortable, I’ll stop and we could just, I dunno, go for ice cream instead.”

“No, I - I do, I just… don’t want to change completely.” It's almost pathetic how something as simple as clothes is making him spiral, “I like how I dress, even if you guys make fun of it. It’s comfortable. I get really cold hands, and the sweaters help, and - and the satchel is convenient even if you say it clashes with my outfits or whatever.”

Your hand rests on his forearm, and his rambling halts immediately.

“Then I won’t stop you from wearing grandpa-chic,” the lightness in your voice makes him smile, “This is why I wanted to see what you had. I wasn’t about to start from scratch, and there’s obviously a reason you gravitated towards these pieces. I wouldn’t force you into something you hate, that sort of defeats my fashion philosophy.”

“Your fashion philosophy?” He's smiling now as he listens to you.

“I believe that the whole point of fashion and clothing is to help reflect what you are on the inside, not mask it.” You reply, hand finding his own. He allows it, finding something warm and soothing in the touch of your hand, silencing the usual urge to pull away in fear of germs. “And, anyway, I think your clothes make you look really intellectual, so if you like them, you have the pieces in your closet already, it’s just a matter of styling them better.”

You squeeze his hand, but he could have sworn you did it to his actual heart.

He watches as you return to his closet again, rummaging through the clothes. You hold up a white button down and a navy blue cardigan, head tilted to the side, teeth worrying the plushness of your lower lip, “Like this; this is a nice combination, and it’ll work better with your complexion. Try it on.” they’re tossed over to him, landing on his lap.

You’re turning away from him, still going through his clothes—allowing him privacy. He appreciates that. He scrambles out of his current clothes, his skin prickling as he thinks about the fact that he’s in a room with a woman alone, getting undressed. No. You’re a friend and a coworker doing him a favor, he should get his head out of the gutter. Hurriedly, he puts the suggested ensemble on.

“Uh, it’s — you can turn around.”

He holds his breath as your eyes rove over his figure, still with the same sharpness he’s used to, but blunted by the small smile playing across your lips. “Yeah, that’s better. Navy’s a great color for you.” you have a stack of his shirts in your hand, all of them patterned and printed, “I’m sorry, but these… have to go. Or at least don’t wear them to work. The prints are ugly, no offense.”

He chuckles, taking the shirts from you, “Not wearing ugly prints to work anymore, got it.”

“Yeah, keep the funky patterns on your ties.” you reach up, brushing lint and dust off the cardigan, “Your shirts should remain plain, solid colors; you have a lot of nice sweater vests and cardigans, it’ll be easier to match them together if your shirts are in more basic colors.”

Committing your words to memory is easy enough. Rules. He likes rules, but they need to make sense to him, otherwise their arbitrariness will simply frustrate him. “Why?”

“Why what?”

So far, you’re being so receptive to his questions, it might actually make him cry. It’s a new feeling, being the one who’s floundering. Not being the smartest, most knowledgeable person. How exciting, he decides, getting to learn in an area he’s never been able to fully understand on his own. He clarifies, “Why can’t I match the cardigans and sweaters to, uh, colorful shirts?”

It’s a while before you answer, moving around to wind a tie across his neck. Your words are thoughtful when you speak, “It’s a visual balance. Too many colors and patterns can look heavy and distracting— which is okay, you know, but time and place is always something to consider when you’re dressing up. And you’re going to work, so it’s better to err on the side of caution and wear things that are more… sleek.” Your hands are deft as they tighten the tie, tucking it into the cardigan. “So now that I know what sorts of clothes you like to wear, it’s a matter of finding the right color combinations and cuts that fit your body. Here, see for yourself.”

You push him forward until he’s in front of his mirror, and indeed he does look… better. Still himself, still familiar, but the contrast of the navy cardigan against his pale skin somehow brings out more warmth from his cheeks and makes his hair seem less dull. Visual balance, you said. “Like art,” he murmurs.

“Exactly,” your smile is proud, peeking from behind his shoulder, “Fashion is the most powerful art there is. It’s movement, design, and architecture all in one. It shows the world who we are and who we’d like to be… and this is showing the world that you’re one attractive nerd.”

He laughs at that. There’s a lightness in his chest as he realizes he doesn’t have to change everything. “I think I get it.” he replies, meeting your eyes in the mirror.

“Of course you do, you’re a genius.” A slap on the back, one filled with warm intimacy, “Now, I did promise the team a makeover, so now that I know what sort of stuff you need, we can finally go shopping… and we need to do something with your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” he asks, but he’s smiling and so are you.

THERE WILL BE A PART TWO! Also, tagging everyone who expressed interest in Waldorf!Reader @mggslover @libraprincessfairy @lillaberry @lokisswiftie

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