#its just in the background closing in on you

[moonstruckme]

Hiii Mae!!

I'm literally on my hands and knees worshipping your work everyday🫶🏽

Was wondering if you'd consider Poly!Marauders, or any one of them, x Reader who's house is being broken into and they phone one of them or if Reader is walking home alone from a night out with her friends and someone starts following her?

Thanks a lot!!

Thanks for requesting!

cw: man (eek!) (no but actually in the scary way), reader being followed at night. modern au

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 870 words

Anxiety crackles in your fingertips as you dial Sirius’ number. Every ring feels like a year off your life. 

Sirius picks up on the third. “Beautiful,” he says in greeting. 

“Hey.” Your voice is light automatically, reluctant to make things seem dire when they might not be. “Are you busy?” 

“Never too busy for you.” You can hear him moving away from some noise. A television, maybe, or a group of people talking. “You headed home already?” 

“Mhm, yeah. Are you…where are you?” 

“At the pub on King Street. You should come join, James is buying.” 

You hear some playful protest, presumably from down the table. ‘James is buying,’ he says—just invite the whole bloody town, why don’t you? You stop listening as Sirius makes some jibe back. 

Kings Street isn’t far from you. You turn a corner and pick up your pace. 

“Yeah, I’ll come,” you say. “Maybe, um, would you want to meet me halfway?” 

It’s an odd request, coming from you. You practically hear Sirius register this, his chair audibly scraping back and the voices in the background growing quieter as he moves away from them. His tone says it, too. “Yeah, baby, ‘course. What’s up?” 

“I’m okay,” you say swiftly, though you don’t know if that’s strictly true. You don’t feel very okay. But it seems a silly thing to act that way when nothing has happened. “I’m just, I’m…” You lower your voice a tad. “I think maybe this guy is following me? I don’t know.” 

“Following you?” Sirius sounds outside, now, the crowd noise dying away entirely. “Where are you coming from?”

“I’m coming down Dalling now,” you reply, loud enough that the man about twenty feet behind might be able to hear. “Passing Blythe.” 

“Okay, I’m coming. Is he walking close to you?” 

“Not very. It’s probably fine, I’m just…” 

“I’m coming,” Sirius says again. “Stay on with me, yeah?” 

You do, though neither of you speak after that. Sirius’ speaker fills with the rushing of air, like movement, and you suspect if he was listening all he’d hear was your controlled breathing down the line. You’re afraid to look behind you any more than you already have. Occasionally, though, you catch a glance in a storefront window angled just right. You convince yourself your pursuer is gaining. 

You turn the corner onto Kings Street, about to update Sirius over the phone when a figure crashes into you. 

You take in a panicky breath, throat tightening on a scream, as hands land on your shoulders to steady you. Sirius has an odd look on his face, alarm fading to relief in the second before he hauls you to his chest. 

“Sorry.” He sounds breathless, like he’s been running. “I’m sorry. Hi, baby.” 

“Hi.” You clutch at him. You wonder if you might be shaking. “Do you—do you see him? Blue shirt.”

“I see him.” Sirius’ hand splays protectively over your mid back. He keeps you pressed close to him, staring your pursuer down over your shoulder. You know the power of a Sirius Black glare. You’ve never been on the receiving end of a real one, thankfully, but you’ve seen it do its work on occasion. You don’t envy the other man. 

“I don’t know for sure if he was following me,” you murmur. “He’s just been there for a long time. It was making me nervous.” 

“I think he was.” Sirius’ tone is also quiet, though not infirm. “He’s seen us, though, I think he’s about to turn. Just a second, lovely.” He kisses your forehead, his grip never loosening. “You okay?” 

“Yeah,” you say, though your hold isn’t easing either. 

Sirius kisses your head again. You feel the breath he lets out fan warmly over your skin. “He turned. He’s gone.” 

You squeeze him impossibly tighter, frantic with relief. You’re definitely shaking. 

“He’s gone.” Sirius gives you a good press before adjusting his hold, keeping his arm around your shoulders but pointing you toward the pub. “It’s okay. Fuck, I’m glad you called. I was scared I wouldn’t get to you in time, but you were moving faster than I gave you credit for.” He rubs the flat of your chest where you’d collided with him. “Sorry for ramming into you.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” you chide, keeping practically melded to his side as you walk. “Thank you for coming. Really.” 

Your boyfriend tsks. “Course, sweetness. How’d you end up walking home by yourself, anyways?” His tone turns a bit chiding, the sort you suspect would be worse if Sirius weren’t still feeling sorry for you. “You can always call me, you know that.” 

Sirius doesn’t like when you walk anywhere alone, especially at night. You do it more often than he knows. You might do it a tad less often for a while, though. 

“I know,” you say, contritely enough that he kisses your head again, a truce bestowed. “Just, thank you.” 

“Stop with that.” He pulls you closer to his side playfully. “You don’t have to thank me, you freak. I hope you are ready to tell tales of my heroism, though. I just got up and ran out without saying anything; James is going to have lots of questions.”

[cobbled-peach]

proposal(s)

aka: the four times Spencer thinks about proposing to you, and the one time he does

a/n: this is my first time writing/posting here pls be kind to me I just love him and I love books and I hope you love him and love books too !!!!! this hasn’t been edited much so apologies for sp mistakes cw: brief mention of sex, but nothing explicit. Fembau!reader. Lots of literature references (with books named at the end). I think this constitutes as fluff? Pre-prison Spencer, but no specific era. wc: 2.3k

darcy and elizabeth

The first time Spencer thinks about proposing to you, it’s the day you meet him.

The newest agent on the team. You’re emotionally intelligent in a way he can only dream of being.

You cradle a mug of coffee in your hands. His mug, which stuns Morgan into silence mid-sentence, his conversation with Garcia derailed by the sheer surprise of what he’s witnessing. Your mug had smashed thirty minutes earlier, an unfortunate casualty in the first-day desk unboxing. Spencer, seeing your disappointment, pulled a plain white mug from his top drawer, REID printed on the side.

He held it out tentatively. A peace offering. ‘Until you get a new one,’ he’d murmured, offering a small smile.

He’s always been wary of germs, but somehow didn’t care this time.

He watches your hands wrap around the mug. Soft, delicate, holding the item like its something precious. He wonders what it would be like to hold your hands himself. Then scolds the thought. Coworkers, Spencer.

You bring the cup up to your lips, humming in contentment after the first sip. Yor lipstick – or maybe lipgloss? He’s unsure of the correct term – leaves a gentle pink stain on the rim. He secretly hopes that it won’t wash off. He stares for a moment, and wonders, quite randomly, is this how Darcy felt when Elizabeth first touched his hand?

You set the mug down (Morgan still gaping in the background, like you’ve declared war on the Bureau’s hierarchy of personal property) and smile at him.

‘Thank you. Seriously. I desperately needed that caffeine.’

‘It’s not a problem. Did you know that caffeine sensitivity is actually inherited?’ A pause. To see if you’re listening. You are, and he suddenly wonders how appropriate it would be to stain his lips with your lipstick-lipgloss in a kiss. Not very, he concludes. ‘It’s all to do with polymorphisms in your enzymes. Its genetic; they tested it on twins.’

��You sound well-versed in your coffee knowledge. A fellow connoisseur?’

‘I think the term “addict” is more fitting, actually. And I don’t know how much of my consumption is due to genetics over stress and lack of sleep.’

A laugh from you. He feels the sound in his chest and his stomach flips.

‘Good to know what’s in store for me,’ you tease.

‘Coffee addictions and sleepless nights,’ he replies. Then, hesitating. ‘Maybe I’ll let you use my high-quality espresso beans when it gets really bad.’

‘Literally marry me,’ you joke.

He almost says, I will.

He doesn’t, just stares at the mug like it holds the future.

2. the black cloud

The second time he thinks about proposing is your third-technically fourth date. (The first didn’t count, at least not to you. ‘You asked me to dinner to “celebrate closing the case,”’ you’d later said. ‘That’s not a date.’ He insisted that it was; he’d paid. You said so did JJ, once. Case closed.) They’re also technically not “dates” because dating within the team is prohibited, but Hotch showed some leniency.

Coffee in the park. A foolproof plan, not much room for error. He buys your drink, and you sip it beside him on the bench while he spews obscure facts about the tree you’re sitting under, intertwined with quotes from Ovid and Darwin. He offers to get you a refill as soon as you finish.

‘You haven’t even finished yours yet,’ you tell him.

‘I know. I can still get you a new one.’

‘Just drink your drink, Spencer.’ Accompanied by a fond smile.

You wander together. Conversation flows. He can’t quite explain why its so easy, why he feels so comfortable.

He’s puzzled by the anomaly, so he does what he does best: theorises. He’s been hypothesising for the past three-technically-four dates. Cross-referencing data points. He runs through the evidence, and draws the only viable conclusion:

Love.

Premature, maybe. But true.

You suggest dipping into a second-hand bookshop. He agrees eagerly, following you in like Orpheus descending. He’ll go anywhere, so long as he can find his way back to you. You disappear into your aisle; he into his. Mathematics, physics. The realm of science and fact. Only two minutes pass before you appear again, book clutched in your hand.

‘This is so you,’ you say.

It’s The Black Cloud. Fred Hoyle.

He blinks. Then again. Takes the book from your hand and turning it over like you’ve just handed him the world.

‘You’ve probably read it,’ you say. ‘But you’ve never mentioned it, and I know you like mid-century sci-fi.’

He has read it. Of course he has. But its not about the book. Its about you, thinking of him.

And you say it so casually. Like this isn’t the most intimate thing someone’s done for him.

‘You picked this out… for me?’

‘Yes.’

He turns it over again, shocked. He wants to hand you his heart, neatly wrapped in paper and ink.

‘Oh…’ he breathes out, the sound so quiet. He feels like he’s been winded, in the best way possible.

‘Not to your taste?’

‘No–’ he shakes his head. ‘No, its exactly to my taste. I think I have an older copy, but not this edition.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘Yes.’ The answer comes out before he even registers it. He does want the book. Not because he needs it, but because you picked it out for him.

You smile, gently take it back, and go to the register. He watches lamely, feels compelled to place a hand over his chest an steady his beating heart.

He thinks of Dante first catching sight of Beatrice. Of Gatsby staring across the bay. Of Gabriel and Bathsheba, paths destined to intertwine.

In the middle of the bookshop, he almost gets on one knee.

3. the hour of the star

The third time he thinks about proposing is directly after sex.

Not the first time, or the second. Somewhere in the quiet middle.

You’ve been officially together for six months. You transferred to a different department, and he asked the moment you were in your new office. (‘No interdepartmental fraternization,’ he’d quoted, followed by a nervous, ‘so, can you officially be my girlfriend now?’)

You’re both tangled beneath the sheets in your apartment, the place half his by default now. His toothbrush lives in the bathroom, his go-bag in the hallway, his own mug in your kitchen.

His copy of The Black Cloud lives on your bookshelf, annotated. He took it straight home, writing his thoughts in the margins, little notes to you. Fred Hoyle writes “There is a coherent plan to the universe” and beneath it, in Spencer’s barely legible font, is yes, and I think its you.

The book had been kept out of your sight for seven months, before he “sneakily” slipped it onto your shelf. “Sneakily,” because you watched every movement through the kitchen doorway. You’d read the whole thing that night, cried, and set to work annotating a book of your own for him.

The books are a love language themselves. If he could frame every annotated page on his wall, he would.

He’s reading aloud to you now.

It’s become a ritual. You, soft limbs and warm skin. Him, thumbing through whatever book is on the nightstand, voice a little hoarse. Sometimes it’s a play, sometimes poetry. Once, quantum physics (he didn’t take it personally when you instantly fell asleep to that).

Tonight, its Clarice Lispector. The Hour of the Star. Skin still flushed, he clears his throat and reads aloud, backed by your steady breaths. Each turn of a page is a pause in which he can press a kiss to your skin. Shoulder, cheek, temple. Wherever he can reach.

‘“Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad, because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.’” The sentence hangs in the air. Heavy. His voice stops, like he’s contemplating the words he’s just read.

You turn your head against his chest.

‘Everything okay?’

His quiet. Thinking, as always, a crease between his brows.

‘Mm.’ His arm shifts to wrap around your shoulders. ‘It’s just… interesting, isn’t it? How even the best things are fragile, maybe. Decaying.’

He doesn’t need to say “us” for you to catch what he’s referring to.

‘You think we’ll decay?’ you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow. He looks at your eyes, soft, unworried, and thinks again.

‘I think that… real things are vulnerable. We’re real. And I think that makes us susceptible.’ He hesitates, brushes some hair from your face absentmindedly. ‘Entropy. Everything tends towards disorder.’

‘Only if you don’t control it,’ you say. Factually incorrect, but he appreciates what you're saying.

And perhaps that’s it. Your unwavering faith. You’re a realist, not a romantic. Offering certainty in a world of disorder.

‘Decay isn’t death,’ you point out, continuing. ‘Its transformation, right? Compost to soil. Stars collapsing and becoming galaxies. Things can break and become something beautiful.’

His world shifts in that moment. He looks back at the line, reads it maybe 20 times in the span of five seconds.

‘We’re not going to rot, Spence.’

‘We’re not going to rot,’ he repeats. He knows it’s the truth as you press your lips to his chest, over his frantically beating heart. ‘Do you want me to keep going?’ he asks, lifting the book slightly.

‘Please.’

You adjust your position, curling into his side. He resumes his reading. He’s turning the page again when you mumble quietly.

‘We’re not going to rot, because I love you.’

Every syllable brands itself into his soul. He’s heard those three words before, but there’s something more to them in his context. He almost drops the book, catches I before it hits your head. He wants to tell you that you are his Eurydice, the person he’s always been trying to reach.

Instead, he says:

‘I love you, too.’

It falls easily. Inevitable, as always. No drama, no prelude. Just the truth, spoken to you many times before and many more to come.

He almost attaches a “marry me” to his words but instead kisses your hair and returns to the book. He’ll wait.

He already knows the ending will be worth it.

4. metamorphoses

The fourth time isn’t once. It’s every day.

You hand him coffee in the morning? Marry me.

You nurse him through a cold, unconcerned about coughing and sneezing, just wanting to be near to him? Here’s a ring fashioned out of Kleenex.

You coo over Henry in one of JJ’s photos? Let’s make one of our own. Just marry me first.

He asks Rossi for advice. (‘You’ve been married a lot, statistically speaking.’)

Garcia catches on quickly. Spencer Reid combined with search history is a concoction for whatever the opposite of “stealth” is. He looks at rings on his lunch break, tilting his computer screen like its classified information.

Pretty soon everyone knows. You remain oblivious – or pretend to be.

It’s simply a matter of when.

5. darcy and elizabeth

It’s a Tuesday. Raining.

Not a dramatic kind of rain. Unassuming. Soft and relentless, quietly soaking the world, a constant tap against the window of his apartment – now permanently shared with you.

He wonders if the rain is a piece of pathetic fallacy. A warning against his plans.

It’s four years to the day since he met you.

He had a plan. Of course he did. He was Spencer Reid. A riverside walk in the park. Take a picnic, surrounded by ducks. Bookmark a page in Much Ado About Nothing with the ring. But the weather has altered his plans, made him go off script.

But maybe that’s a good thing. Gentle touches and heartfelt gestures over big declarations, that’s what he’s always preferred. He just needs a moment.

You’re making coffee. Barefoot, hair damp from the rain that interrupted his plans. Wearing an old shirt of his effortlessly. A perfect picture of home. His home.

He stands in the doorway with a book in his hand. Pride and Prejudice. Not his favourite. Nowhere near his top ten. But it’s your favourite. You’ve worn it down with love, left your own story between the lines with annotations. And that makes it his favourite now, too.

His mismatched socks shift awkwardly on the floor.

‘Hi,’ he says, calling your attention.

You look up from the mugs with a pre-formed smile. Yours, a copy of the mug you’d smashed on your first day. His, the mug with your lipstick, now washed, but imprinted with you forever.

‘Hey,’ you respond. ‘Dry from the rain?’

He doesn’t respond. Crosses the kitchen and holds out the book. Why does it feel like a brick?

‘This is… mine?’ you say, unsure.

‘Yes,’ he confirms. ‘I added some annotations. For you.’

You open the cover. His handwriting – messy, familiar – sits below your own in black ink.

You know I am not very good with words. So, I thought I’d borrow someone else’s. Please turn to page 301.

He watches your breath hitch. Watches as you carefully flip the pages.

There’s a line. Circled not once, but many times over, holding the weight of what couldn’t be said with words.

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Beside it, tentative but certain at the same time, his writing: but if you ever choose to be bound to someone, I hope it’s me.

He’s already on one knee when you glance up. Ring held out in his hand. A quiet promise, forged from the pages of books you’ve shared and the one you’ve written yourself.

Your hands are cradling his face. He’s crying. And you’re crying.

‘I will always choose you.’ Quiet, definitive. A fact.

He slips the ring on and kisses you. Pride and Prejudice lays open in the background. Page 301. A circled sentence. A note in the margins. A love undoubted.

hi I’m super awkward but I hope you enjoyed yippee!! I thought I’d quickly mention all the books I referenced/have implied references to because I love them all and if you like literature you should read them teehee (in order because I’m super sweet) (also I know darcy doesn’t touch her hand in the books pls don’t come for me <33) Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen Metamorphosis, Ovid The Origin of Species, Charles Darwin The Black Cloud, Fred Hoyle The Divine Comedy, Dante The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald Far from the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy The Hour of the Star, Clarice Lispector Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare Hamlet, Shakespeare

[inkandoliveoil]

Why don’t we stay just like this?

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem! reader

word count: 1.72k

Genre: lots of fluff & lots of casual dominance from stevie ❥

Summary: you’re always somewhere up in the clouds and Steve is always there to help you back down

Set post-Hawkins, somewhere calm and safe.

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

The kettle whistles softly in the background, and you barely notice until Steve’s voice cuts through the fog in your head.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he says, gently but with a smirk you know too well. “You gonna space out until the water boils off, or…?”

You blink, turning from the window, sheepish. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

He crosses the kitchen with the kind of confident ease that still makes your heart tilt. One hand goes to the knob, switching off the stove, while the other finds its way to your lower back. His palm rests there like it belongs.

“What were you thinking about?” he asks, voice lower now, more private. It’s just you and him in the quiet of your shared apartment, Sunday light slanting across the hardwood floors. The world feels still, like it pauses just for the two of you.

You shrug, smiling up at him. “Nothing. Everything. The way the light looks. You.”

Steve chuckles, and it’s low and warm. “God, you’re such a softie.”

“Says the man making me tea,” you tease, tilting your head at him.

“That’s different,” he replies. “I’m caring. You’re floaty.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” His thumb strokes your back absentmindedly. “You always get that dazed look in the morning. Like you’re walking through a dream.”

You huff, half-pouting. “Maybe I am. You ever think of that?”

He smiles then, really smiles, all eyes and softness and something protective underneath. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep you grounded.”

You lean into him automatically, head resting against his chest, and Steve wraps his arms around you with practiced ease. He’s always steady like this—always a little bossy in the sweetest way, guiding you with his hands, his voice, like it’s second nature.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon. Let’s sit down. You look like you’ll float away if I let go.”

You let him lead you to the couch, his hand never leaving yours. He pulls you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and you melt there, curling up against him.

“You know,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back behind your ear, “I don’t mind when you drift off. As long as you come back to me.”

You close your eyes, breath catching just a little. “I always do.”

“I know,” he says. “Still gonna hold you tight, just in case.”

And he does.

⸻

It’s been five whole minutes and you haven’t moved.

Not because you’re uncomfortable—quite the opposite. You’re tucked into Steve’s lap, your legs draped lazily over his, your cheek against his shoulder. He’s warm and solid beneath you, smelling faintly like that stupid cologne he swears he doesn’t wear for you (he does). His thumb is tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh where the hem of your sleep shorts has ridden up.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmurs, voice low against your ear. “Floating.”

You hum, eyes half-closed. “I like it here.”

“I know,” he says. “But you haven’t had a sip of your tea, and your toes are cold.”

You pout without opening your eyes. “You’re warm.”

“And you’re clingy.”

You feel his hand leave your thigh, only for it to slide up your back, under your shirt, fingertips tracing your spine lightly, possessively.

“Sit up,” he says gently, but there’s no room for argument in his tone.

You blink up at him, slow and blinking like a dazed little cat, and he raises one brow.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says. “I asked nicely.”

You shift, reluctantly, and he helps you sit upright with one hand firm on your waist. The moment you’re up, he reaches past you and grabs the still-steaming mug from the table, wrapping your hands around it like it’s his job to make sure you don’t let it slip.

“Drink.”

You obey, mostly because he said it like that.

The tea is sweet and a little floral, something you picked out at the store and he teased you for—called it “rosy little garden brew” or something like that—but he still made it for you. He always does.

“Good girl,” he says, so casually it nearly slips past you—but it doesn’t.

Your eyes flick up to his, a flush creeping up your neck. He smirks, just a little, but his thumb is already back on your thigh, stroking slow again like it’s your grounding tether.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “That got your brain back online, huh?”

“I wasn’t that gone.”

“You were lookin’ through me like I was a tree.”

You giggle softly, resting your head back on his shoulder. “You’re bossy today.”

He tilts his head to kiss your temple. “You like me bossy.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to.

The tea warms your hands. His hands warm everything else.

[bullet-prooflove]

A e h i o w for pope pretty please

Its hard not to put the whole alphabet in lol

Thank you

a = aftercare; what does aftercare look like with them?

Pope needs to stay close in the aftermath, he needs to be held, caressed, loved because that’s when he’s at his most vulnerable, that’s when the doubts creep into his mind.

Is this real?

Do I deserve this?

His head gets loud but you’re there, fingers combing through his curls, lips brushing over his telling him that you love him, that you’ll always love him. He starts to settle then, burying his face into your throat, tucking you in against him. He falls asleep like that knowing like that knowing that he’s safe, that he’s cared for.

e = edging; is anyone into orgasm control? who is on the receiving end?

There is no edging in this relationship. It’s a form of control and you don’t believe in bringing it into the bedroom because Pope has spent his whole life being under someone else’s control, you don’t want to mirror that.

Sex for Pope is an expression of love, the most sincerest form of intimacy and he would never withhold that.

h = horny; who gets turned on the easiest/most often? how do they show it?

Pope is the easiest to turn on when he feels more secure and stable in the relationship. He’s quite touch starved so even the gentlest touch, like you running your fingers along his inner arm is enough to get him stirring. You settling into his lap and straddling his hips is a sure fire way to get him into the bedroom.

When you so turn him on, he goes completely still. His eyes turn darker, his nostrils flare and his voice gets just a little rougher.

i = instigation; who, more often than not, is the one to instigate sex?

Pope is quite shy about asking for intimacy, he is not usually the one to make the first move and is very restrained if he’s turned on and he can’t tell if you are. However as listed above there are signs you pick up on very quickly.

When he grows more comfortable with his role in the relationship he becomes more about confident about worshipping you. It’s never about him dicking you down but about how he can bring you pleasure, he’s usually getting on his knees and rubbing his face against your pussy, moaning.

o = overnight; what happens when they’re finished? do they like to turn in for the night, or do they stay up?

Pope is big on intimate aftercare, he’ll stay holding you until you fall asleep and then slip out the sheets making sure the doors locked, the alarm is on and his handgun is in the nightstand, just in case. You’re safety is paramount to him esp with Smurf always lingering in the background. He always returns to bed, tucking you in against him before finally drifting off with you.

w = window; has anyone got an exhibitionist streak? what’s the closest they’ve come to getting caught?

Nobody is putting on a show for anybody, Pope is an intensely private person and that’s compounded by the fact he’s kept the relationship a secret for five years. It is integral to your survival that Smurf not know about you because as soon as she senses her control is starting to slip, she’ll react.

When it comes to being caught, Baz has almost stumbled across the relationship once or twice. We’ll see a near miss in one of his fics coming up. Pope takes extreme measures to ensure you’re not found out, but questions are being raised about where he’s spending his nights if he’s not at the motel room.

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

HEAR ME OUT:

A regretful, jealous Dick Grayson who calls you when hes drunk.

YOU'VE BEEN HEARD, BABE💙

Dial Drunk

Regretful Cheater! Dick Grayson x Reader

Kind of a part two to this fic right here, but it can be read by itself, too!

Don't got much for warnings on this one, mostly just cheating, alcohol, descriptions of being drunk, a bit of suggestiveness going on towards the end

"Can you- hic- Can you come pick me up?"

It's late- far later than you'd usually stay up. For a moment, you almost consider just hanging up as you let out a soft sigh so quiet that you doubt your phone even picked it up. Something about tonight just wouldn't let you sleep; your pillows were too warm, your fan was too cold, you couldn't find a confortable position, then your phone rang. You probably should've paid attention to the private caller ID, but you just thought it was your boss finally locking up for the night and calling to mention you forgot something at work.

"Are you alone?" The question comes out of your mouth so naturally, like you still have no hesitation when it comes to Dick. And, if you're being honest, you don't.

"Yeah..."

"You at the bar on the corner of 5th Ave?"

"Mhm... hic."

You almost consider hanging up for a moment, your finger hovering right over that little red button on your phone screen. But something stops you. Maybe it's the whine in Dick's tone. Maybe it's the way he sounds near tears as he speaks.

Maybe it's the fact that you still care.

Instead, you settle for a soft sigh before glancing at the clock ticking rhythmatically on your nightstand. 1:56 AM. It's unlike Dick to be out drinking so late, especially with just how under the influence he sounds.

"Stay right there. I'll be there soon." You don't even let him answer before hanging up. You really could just make the decision to leave him there for Barbara to pick up, but something tells you that she wouldn't. You're too good of a person to leave him inebriated at night with his inhibitions lowered like that.

It took you only ten minutes to reach him.

You'd have to be blind not to see the lipstickstains covering his neck, collar, and cheeks. Yet something about him just feels so... Off. The Dick you knew last would've eaten up the attention from a pretty girl at the bar within seconds.

He doesn't look at you- not at first, anyway, but you didn't miss the way he perked up at hearing your car door close. It's near silent as you sit next to him on the curb, the music from his favorite bar and the sounds of the city fading into background noise.

"Didn't take you for much of a drinker, Grayson," you try to poke a bit of fun, keeping a bit of distance between the two of you.

"'m not."

The most you really do for a moment is hum in response, the sound nearly drowned out by everything else going on. "Should I be worried about you?" The question doesn't come off as sarcastic as it should, more like an actual concern being voiced.

"Maybe... hic."

Then there's a few moments of silence from both of you. You don't really know what to say. 'I am worried about you' seems too forward, especially considering that you've moved on with a new boyfriend. 'That's not my job' is too blunt, considering just how emotional Dick is at the moment.

"I know I'm not your responsibility anymore... Just needed somewhere to go," is what he says next, finally placing his beer bottle on the curb beside him after contemplating another sip. From the looks of it, it certainly isn't his first one tonight.

"And you couldn't call Barbara because...?"

"Because she won't speak to me. Doesn't want me in the apartment tonight... She told me to find another place to sleep," he pauses before letting out a weary sigh, "I broke things off with her as I left."

Oh.

Oh.

You knew that whatever had Dick drinking like this had to be big, but that is certainly throwing you for a loop. You sit with him in silence after that. The air around you feels heavy, like the city itself is holding its breath. Somewhere behind you, laughter spills out of the bar’s open door. A car honks. You stare down at the glinting sidewalk, flecked with broken glass and old gum, and you think of how easily things crack without anyone noticing.

You glance over. He still isn’t looking at you, just staring out at the street like he's waiting for something to come and scoop him off the curb. His shirt’s wrinkled, half unbuttoned, and the collar clings to his skin where lipstick stains bloom like bruises. But his eyes—his eyes are empty.

You wrap your arms around your knees, leaning in just a little. "You break up with her just before two in the morning, then call me for a ride... not exactly the healthiest coping mechanism, Grayson."

A dry, hiccuping laugh rattles from his chest. "Yeah. Not my finest hour." He tips his head back against the brick wall behind him and lets his eyes drift closed. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

You nod slowly, pressing your cheek against your arm. “Well… lucky for you, I’m a terrible sleeper.”

His lips twitch like they want to smile, but it doesn’t quite land.

There’s another long pause, and then you say it. Quietly, like it might shatter something if spoken too loud. “I broke things off with my boyfriend a few weeks ago.”

That gets his attention. He turns his head toward you, brow creasing.

“We were good,” you continue, gaze focused on the hem of your sweatshirt. “Really good, honestly. Just… not right. Not for me. He didn’t… get me the way I needed. And I couldn’t give him the kind of love he deserved, not with everything still echoing in my head.”

You don’t say his name. You don’t need to.

Dick doesn’t speak, but you feel him looking at you. He softens a little, like something in him unclenches.

“I thought he’d help me forget you,” you admit. “But it doesn’t work like that.”

The confession hangs there for a moment, and then he finally stands. Staggers, really. He almost loses his balance, but you’re up on your feet before you even realize it, one hand catching his arm. His skin is warm—too warm—and you can smell the liquor on him now, bitter and smoky and clinging to his clothes.

“Come on,” you murmur, steadying him with a hand at his elbow.

He doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s really drunk—Dick Grayson never lets someone else lead unless he needs to.

The drive back is quiet.

His head leans against the passenger side window, eyes half-lidded as the city streaks past in hazy neon bands. The streets are half-dead at this hour, blinking yellow lights and trash tumbling along the gutters like ghosts. You keep both hands on the wheel. You don’t say anything.

You don’t have to.

When you finally pull up outside your building, he doesn’t move. Just blinks slowly at the dashboard like he’s trying to remember how cars work. You go around and open the door for him because you’ve always been like that—doing things for him without needing to be asked.

His hand finds your shoulder when he steps out, warm and heavy.

“Thanks,” he mumbles. “For picking me up. For… everything.”

You don’t respond. Not because you’re cold, but because you know if you start talking now, your voice might crack in a way you can’t walk back.

Your apartment smells like lavender laundry detergent and quiet. The lights are low, just the soft amber of a lamp in the corner and the green glow of the oven clock blinking 3:12 AM.

Dick sits on the edge of your couch with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. You take a second to really look at him—at the disheveled shirt, the way his chest rises and falls too fast, like he’s still catching up to the rest of the night.

“I’ll grab you some water,” you say, already moving toward the kitchen.

He hums in acknowledgment but doesn’t lift his head.

When you come back, he’s leaned back on the couch now, one leg stretched out, the other bent up like it’s holding him together. He takes the water with both hands, like he doesn’t trust himself not to drop it.

You sit on the arm of the couch, not too close. Not yet.

His skin glows dull under the soft light, and that’s when you see just how much of him is marked—lipstick smudges high on his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth, the curve of his throat. You swallow something bitter. It sits in your chest like a stone.

“Hold still,” you say gently, reaching for the box of tissues on the end table. You kneel beside him and he closes his eyes, letting you tip his chin just so. His skin is warm under your fingers. You wipe the red smear from his cheek. Then the one near his jaw. You hesitate at the one on his throat, fingers hovering.

“You can say it,” he mutters, voice hoarse.

“Say what?”

“That I look like a damn idiot.”

You shake your head. “No. You look… tired.”

He huffs something between a laugh and a breath. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

You keep cleaning the smudges, gentle dabs and strokes. He doesn’t flinch. He just watches you with those heavy-lidded eyes, like he’s trying to memorize this—you—again.

“I didn’t want any of them,” he says quietly, just as your hand pulls back. “The girls at the bar. I didn’t… I couldn’t even feel it.”

You freeze, tissues still in hand.

“I let them touch me, let them pull me into pictures, flirt, whatever. But it was like I wasn’t even there. Like I was watching it all happen from ten feet away.” His eyes flick toward the ceiling like the words are written up there somewhere. “I didn’t go out looking for them. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”

You sit back on your heels, watching him.

“I felt like shit,” he continues. “Barbara and I had this fight—one of those screaming kinds, you know? And she said I didn’t know how to love anyone but myself. That I just used people to fill the spaces when I’m lonely. That I—” He stops, swallows. “That I don’t know what real love is.”

Your chest aches at that. You want to say she’s wrong. You want to say she’s right. You don’t know which one would hurt more.

“Maybe she’s right,” he mutters. “I don’t know. But sitting there in that bar, being everything I hate—being that guy—I kept thinking about you.”

Your breath catches.

“I just kept wishing I’d stayed on the curb longer that night. That I’d chased you instead of letting you walk away.”

There’s a long silence. Not awkward. Just… full. You feel it settle into the space between you like fog.

Your voice is a whisper when you finally speak. “You were drunk then, too.”

“I’m sober now.”

“No, you’re not.”

He lets out a tired laugh. “You always did keep me honest.”

You stand slowly, knees aching from sitting on the floor. “Come on,” you say, voice quiet but firm. “You need to sleep.”

He follows you to the bedroom without argument. You pull back the covers like you’re on autopilot, like this is just muscle memory from a time you both stopped pretending you didn’t need each other. He sinks into the mattress with a grateful sigh, face turning toward the pillow.

You watch him for a moment—watch the way his breath evens out, the slight furrow in his brow even in rest.

You reach over, brushing back a strand of hair stuck to his forehead.

“Sleep, Grayson.”

He murmurs something soft you can’t quite catch. Maybe it���s your name. Maybe it’s just a sigh.

You don’t climb in beside him.

Not yet. Not until hours after he's finally fallen into a sleep that's bound to leave him with a raging migraine.

Instead, you leave the door cracked and turn off the light, letting the quiet take you both.

You wake to the smell of rain the next morning.

It takes you a second to remember everything—why the other side of your bed is wrinkled and warm, why your door is cracked open, why there’s a crumpled tissue box on the living room floor. But then it all comes back in a slow, heavy trickle, like the sound of water tapping against your windows.

Dick.

You push the blankets off with a sigh and pad barefoot into the hallway, your T-shirt clinging softly to your skin from the warmth of sleep. The apartment feels still, muffled in the hush that only rainy mornings bring.

He’s not in bed anymore.

You spot him in the kitchen. He’s sitting at your tiny breakfast bar with his hands wrapped around a mug, shoulders hunched slightly forward like the weight of the night is still sitting there.

He’s wearing one of your old hoodies—the navy blue one with a bleach stain near the hem that's way too large and you keep meaning to throw out. It hangs loose on him, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. His hair is a little damp, like he washed his face but didn’t bother with a towel.

He hears your footsteps and glances up. His eyes are clearer now. Less bloodshot. But there’s something else there too—something raw and quiet.

“Hey,” he says.

You rub the side of your neck. “Hey.”

There’s a second mug waiting on the counter. He gestures toward it. “I didn’t know how you take it anymore,” he says. “So I just… kept it black.”

You move to sit across from him. The stool creaks under your weight. “Still black,” you say softly. “With just a little too much sugar.”

A small smile flickers on his lips, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. He nods once. “Guess some things don’t change.”

You sip your coffee, grateful for the warmth. The silence between you stretches again, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s just full—with all the things you both want to say and aren’t sure how to start.

The rain paints long streaks across the window, turning the street outside into a blur of silver and gray. The hum of the fridge is the only real sound, steady and grounding.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, voice quiet but steady. “For last night. For all of it. For calling you. For showing up like that. I wasn’t trying to make you clean up my mess again.”

You stare into your coffee. “But you still did.”

“I know.” He swallows, watching the way his thumb runs along the edge of his mug. “It’s just… you were the only person I wanted to see. I think I’ve known that for a long time.”

You close your eyes for a second, breathing through the ache in your chest.

“I meant what I said last night,” you murmur. “Eli wasn’t the one. But I still tried. I gave him all the parts of me you didn’t want anymore.”

“I did want them,” he says quickly, then pauses like the truth is hard to get out. “I was just too stuck in the past to know what to do with them.”

You glance at him. He looks older somehow this morning. Not in a bad way—just more worn. Like something’s finally peeled back in him. Like he’s stopped pretending.

“I kept thinking,” you say slowly, “about the day you left. About how you didn’t say anything, you just… disappeared into her like I never mattered.”

“You did matter,” he says, voice tight. “I thought I was doing the right thing—going back to someone who understood the job, who shared the same world. But it didn’t feel like home. It just felt familiar.”

Your fingers tighten around your mug.

“You can’t come back here like this,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up because she threw you out and I answered the phone.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to call me when you feel empty and expect me to fill the space again.”

“I know.”

Your eyes lift to meet his. “Then why are you still here?”

He looks at you for a long time. There’s no glib answer. No easy line. “Because I want to do it right this time. And I know that might not be enough.”

You set your coffee down and stand slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long. He watches you as you cross the kitchen, and for a moment, you see the flicker of fear in his eyes—that same look from the night on the curb when he thought he’d lost you for good. You pull open a drawer and grab a clean dishcloth, dampen it under warm water. You move toward him without a word.

He sits still as you reach for his face again. You gently run the cloth along his jaw, washing away what’s left of last night—the faint smear of lipstick he must’ve missed, the last visible mark of where he tried to lose himself in something that wasn’t real.

His eyes stay on you the whole time.

Neither of you speak.

You wipe his skin clean in silence, and in that silence, something soft begins to stitch between you—not forgiveness, not yet. But maybe the space where it could grow. When you're done, you drop the cloth into the sink and lean against the counter, arms crossed.

“You should get some more sleep,” you murmur.

He nods, pushing off from the stool. “Mind if I stay a little longer?”

You hesitate for a brief moment, your heart stuttering in your chest. “You can stay until the rain stops,” you whisper finally

His shoulders drop with something close to relief. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears into the bedroom again, and you’re left with the soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the rain whispering outside your window.

You don't follow him. Not yet.

You let the silence sit beside you for a little longer, warm and aching and full of things still left unsaid and feelings left unacted upon.

Masterlist

[certaimromance]

ꫂ ၴႅၴ Tall Child II.

Father figure!Hotch x BAU!reader

part one | series mastelist | main masterlist

Summary: Returning to work after such a long absence is never easy, but trying to understand your boss without failing is even worse.

Words: 3,3k.

Warnings & Tags: mentions of crime and the reader's old shoulder injury. angst WITH open ending. hotch being a father figure. the reader having bad thoughts and the team not being a good team with her. father and rebellious daughter type relationship. temporarily located in the first season. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Helloo Tall Child lovers, I hope you like this and that it will be a sequel according to your expectations. I'm sorry for the delay, but the complexity of this relationship made my job difficult, as I never thought of writing more with this reader in the first place, and I was very surprised that you liked it so much.

So I'm pleased to tell you that I've made an exclusive list with this reader because I'd love to explore more of this through other seasons and situations not necessarily canon, feel free to send your request if you have specific ideas with this reader!

Six weeks later.

The air in the BAU was colder than you remembered, not just in temperature but in feeling; it was a sterile, impersonal chill that clung to your skin like mist. Every echoing footstep in the polished corridors seemed louder, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. It wasn’t just the recycled air hissing through the vents or the fluorescent lighting that buzzed too harshly overhead. No, this cold ran deeper. It had taken root inside you during those long, suffocating weeks locked away in your apartment, when the silence had pressed in on all sides and the world had narrowed to four walls and the weight of your own thoughts. This was the cold of absence. Of isolation. Of walking back into a life that had kept moving without you.

You stood at the entrance, your badge clipped to your belt, your go-bag slung over one shoulder. From the outside, it looked like you were fine. Recovered. Rested. As focused and willing to work as ever. But on the inside, you were still picking up pieces.

The place hadn’t changed, but you hadn’t expected it to. Reid’s desk was just as you remembered: clean, almost painfully so, every file color-coded and aligned with obsessive precision. The chessboard still sat in its usual spot off to the side, pieces mid-game, like he was still chasing the perfect strategy that might finally let him beat Gideon. Across the bullpen, the computer screens all flickered in perfect rhythm, except for Morgan’s, which pulsed in shades of bright pink. You didn’t need to see her to know Garcia was up to something again, probably testing out some new system or just trying to annoy him in that way only she could pull off. The coffee pot sputtered and hissed in the background, steady and familiar, its bitter scent weaving through the air like it never left.

And then, your gaze landed on the far wall: Hotch’s office. The door was closed. Blinds drawn. The same as always, and yet now it felt heavier somehow. Imposing. Like, just the sight of it pulled your shoulders tighter. You found yourself wishing he wasn’t there. Wishing you could walk in without that cold knot twisting in your stomach.

Damn, you weren’t supposed to be afraid of him now.

A few heads turned when you stepped in. The room didn’t go silent, but it shifted. You felt it, eyes lingering just a second too long, hushed words dying mid-sentence. And then JJ was there, walking toward you with that soft, careful smile people wore around broken things like you.

“Hey,” she said gently, arms opening without hesitation.

You let her pull you into a hug. Her perfume was the same as always. So floral and grounding. You closed your eyes for a second, just enough to feel the safety in it. But it passed quickly.

“You look better,” she added softly. You didn’t say thank you.

She said better, not good.

Morgan and Elle came next, their footsteps steady, familiar, grounding in a way that almost made your throat tighten. “There’s the prodigal agent,” one of them said with a crooked smile—maybe him, maybe her—you weren’t paying close enough attention to tell. Your focus was locked on their faces, not their voices. Their smiles were genuine, warm even, but just behind them, something else flickered. Worry. Maybe guilt. Maybe both. It was there in the brief glance they exchanged when they thought you wouldn’t notice, in the way Elle’s arms crossed just a little too tightly over her chest, in how Morgan’s usual swagger was tempered by something quieter.

But Reid was the hardest to face. He hovered, hesitating, unsure if he should say something or just let it go. In the end, he gave you a small, tentative smile and an awkward “Hi,” as if six weeks hadn’t passed. As if he hadn’t been the reason your stomach still twisted with guilt every time you closed your eyes.

You nodded and whispered, “Hey.” That was all you could manage.

But then came the moment you had been both dreading and aching for so long it had carved itself into the rhythm of your days. The soft creak of the door swinging open sliced through the low hum of conversation like a knife. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. The measured, deliberate sound of his polished shoes crossing the bullpen floor was unmistakable, as familiar as it was unsettling. Each step seemed to echo louder than it should have, like the room itself tensed in his presence.

And there he was. Aaron Hotchner. As composed and unreadable as ever, every inch of him radiated quiet authority. His presence hit like a pressure drop in the atmosphere, pressing down on your chest and making the space around you feel impossibly large and impossibly small all at once. Like suddenly, you didn’t know where to stand. Like suddenly, you weren’t sure if you even belonged in that space anymore. Like suddenly, you were a child who had been punished for bad behavior.

You had imagined this moment a hundred times.

None of them felt like this.

He didn’t say anything at first. He stood there, just a few feet away, arms folded, that familiar, unreadable expression settling over his face like a mask. The same one that used to make your pulse quicken, that used to leave you guessing, second-guessing yourself.

But not this time.

This time, you didn’t flinch. You met his stare head-on, feeling the weight of his gaze like a hand around your throat—but you refused to shrink. Not again. You’d spent too long folding yourself into smaller and smaller shapes, twisting and bleeding just to fit into the narrow mold of what he expected, of what he trusted. And for what? For this? For distance and doubt? No more. That part of you—the desperate part—was dead and buried. Or if it wasn’t yet, you were damn sure going to kill it. You lifted your chin, defiance burning in your chest like a second heartbeat, daring him to look at you and still pretend you were invisible.

“I’m back,” you said, voice low but steady. “Just like the paperwork says.”

Your boss studied you for a moment longer than necessary, his gaze flicking to your shoulder—the one that still bore the memory of your injury, the phantom weight of everything you’d lost—before settling back into that cold, distant mask of his. That unreadable expression he wore so well, the one that used to make you feel safe because it meant he was in control. Now, it just made you feel small. Disposable.

And for a moment—just one cruel, flickering moment—you almost believed that he’d step forward. That he’d close the distance. That he’d reach out and gently touch your shoulder, like he used to when things were too heavy, too hard. You almost believed he would look you in the eye, say your name like it meant something, and tell you he was sorry. Sorry for the silence. Sorry for the coldness. Sorry for the suspension. Sorry for treating you like a child.

You almost believed he would say he trusted you. That he still saw you, still believed in you, even if it was a little. That he understood why you did what you did. That you weren’t broken. That he didn’t think of you as a liability or a ticking clock counting down to another failure.

You almost believed he would tell you it was going to be okay.

But it didn’t happen.

He just looked away. Not with malice. Not with cruelty. But with distance. Like someone turning from a photograph that had faded in time. And you felt the sting of it—quiet, precise, brutal. Not just the rejection of your role, but the absence of something far deeper.

It wasn’t the pain of being forgotten.

It was the pain of never being seen.

“We’re glad to have you back,” he said, his voice the same steady, measured cadence it had always been.

But it wasn’t the words that stung; it was the way they landed. Clinical. Safe. Like a statement recited for formality’s sake rather than spoken from any real feeling.

Not I’m glad.

We’re glad.

That single word change twisted like a knife in your chest.

“Right,” you said, the word escaping before you could hold it back. Your eyes burned with something you refused to let spill over. “Glad to be back, I guess.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t.

There was a long silence between you two. He studied you, just like before, but this time it felt colder. Like he was looking for something you didn’t have anymore.

You couldn’t stand it. You turned away quickly, your body betraying you as your chest tightened and your breath quickened. You were better than this. You were stronger than this.

The case came in shortly after: a triple homicide in Maryland. The kind of case that had all the hallmarks of a nightmare: brutal, violent, unsolved. You didn’t think you were ready for fieldwork. In fact, you didn’t think you could even look at another case without feeling like an imposter, like a stranger in your own skin. The idea of diving back into it, back into the chaos, felt overwhelming. But you didn’t have a choice. There were no other options. And Aaron was too careful now to give you the responsibility of leading your partner again. Not after everything that had happened.

“Morgan leads. JJ, handle media. Reid, consult with the coroner. Elle, talk to the families.”

And then, without a single glance in your direction, he turned to you and said, “You’ll assist.”

No lead. No profile. No responsibility. Just…observe.

Support.

The word echoed in your head, bruising you in places you hadn’t even realized were tender. Support. As if that was all you were good for now. The sharp ache of betrayal twisted inside your chest, but you couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it show. You didn’t argue. Not out loud. But it burned. Every cell in your body screamed in protest, but you held it in, forced it back down where no one could see.

On the jet, the silence between you and Hotch was like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating. You sat across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes glued to the window as the world outside blurred by. But you could feel him. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you, though he didn’t meet your gaze directly. He kept glancing at your shoulder, the one that still bore the ugly scar of your injury. His eyes flicked there so many times, and each time they quickly darted away, as if caught between something you couldn’t tell.

And it wasn't just him. The whole team had noticed it, the little looks they gave you when they thought you weren't looking, the way their conversations were interrupted when you walked into a room, and they automatically faked their best smile at you. You could feel the tension in the air, like they were all waiting for you to sink or swim, to show you still had something to give.

In the field, you did your job. You fell into the motions like muscle memory: keeping your voice calm, your observations sharp, and your hands steady. You kept your face neutral, even when the case began to grind you down, piece by piece. But every decision Hotch or Gideon made went through Morgan. Every suggestion you made was quietly nodded at but never acted upon. You could almost hear the quiet hum of judgment in the air every time you tried to assert yourself. You were invisible.

It was like walking through fog. You were there, but no one could see you. No one really saw you.

You were present but unseen. You were nothing more than a shadow, drifting through the motions.

And, of course, back at the hotel it was the same. You kept to yourself, retreated into the quiet of your room, away from their pitying stares. The team trickled in, chatting amongst themselves, but you didn’t join them. They didn’t expect you to. Instead, you made a lie about being tired and about having a headache, and you hid behind it.

So you sat on your bed instead, the room dimly lit by the glow of a muted TV. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the faint hum of the electronics and the occasional shuffle of your own restless thoughts. The takeout boxes sat untouched on the desk, still sealed in their flimsy plastic containers. Your service weapon rested next to your badge on the nightstand, a weightless echo of a dream that no longer seemed to matter.

The knock came at 10:43 p.m.

You hesitated, fingers frozen over the blanket, eyes flicking to the door. Part of you considered ignoring it, pretending you didn’t hear, pretending the world outside wasn’t so close. But something in your gut told you who it was.

With a sigh that felt too heavy for such a small sound, you stood up and moved toward the door, your movements stiff and reluctant. You opened it, and there he was: your lovely boss. Standing there, holding a white takeout bag with the same purposeful, composed demeanor he always had.

“I figured you didn’t eat,” he said, his voice soft, as if offering something much bigger than just food. His hand extended toward you, the scent of it wafting up with the slight steam still rising from the dish. “Chicken teriyaki. No onions.”

Your heart clenched, hard and sudden. Of course he remembered.

He always remembered.

It was the smallest things, the details he’d tucked away in his mind, that made your chest tighten like this, like a dam about to crack. You took the food from his outstretched hand, your fingers brushing his briefly, and stepped aside to let him in, but he didn’t move.

He just stood there, his posture stiff, his eyes avoiding yours in that way that felt both respectful and…uncomfortably distant.

It felt less like your boss checking in and more like a parent standing awkwardly outside a teenager’s door, unsure if they were about to be let in or shut out.

“You didn’t have to,” you muttered, voice almost a whisper, as if you were apologizing for the inconvenience. You weren’t sure why it came out that way, it wasn’t him you were apologizing to. Not really.

“I know,” he replied, his voice calm, careful, as though he were trying to measure every word. He stood there for a long moment, looking at you but not really seeing you, his gaze flickering between your eyes and the ground.

Then he shifted slightly, glancing at the takeout bag in his hand. “There’s also a dessert, but you should eat the real food first.”

His words felt like they were layered with more than just concern for your well-being. It was the way he said it, like he was directing you, guiding you—not as a colleague, not as a boss, but as someone who felt responsible for making sure you didn’t fall apart.

And then, you knew it.

You weren’t a grown adult in his eyes right now. You were someone he had to take care of, like a child who didn’t know how to care for themselves anymore.

“You still don’t trust me,” you said finally, voice low but steady. It wasn’t a sharp edge, not a challenge.

Hotch’s eyes flicked to yours, then dropped again—quick, involuntary. Like the words hurt to hear, even if he’d been expecting them.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. “That’s not true.”

“Then why am I stuck on the sidelines?” you asked, and this time the question came harsher, more bitter than you intended. You didn’t mean to sound wounded, but the words carried it anyway. “Why am I the one just…watching? Observing, while everyone else is doing the job I’ve trained my whole damn life to do?”

His silence came fast and thick, and it stretched too long, long enough to confirm what you already suspected. The answer, when it came, landed like a blow.

“Because I need to know you’re okay,” he said, quiet but firm. “Before I put someone else’s life in your hands again.”

Ouch.

You flinched. Not dramatically, just enough for him to see it. Just enough for you to feel it ripple through your spine like heat. The air in the room shifted, charged and sharp, like an old scab torn open.

“I thought you said this wasn’t personal,” you said, hating the way your voice cracked around the edges.

“It’s not,” Hotch said, voice tight.

You stared at him. Really stared. The lines around his eyes are deeper now. The tension in his jaw, the stiffness in his shoulders, was like this conversation was another weight he didn’t know how to carry.

“Sure feels personal.”

There was a flicker of something behind his eyes—guilt, maybe, or regret—but it passed too fast to name. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t try to spin it.

Instead, he said quietly, “You scared me that day.”

You froze.

He wasn’t looking at you now. He was looking past you, somewhere far away. Like he was remembering it. The day it all went sideways. The weight of the call he had to make to the ambulance. The fallout. The blood and your tears.

“You scared all of us,” he added, softer now. “But me the most.”

The confession hit harder than you expected. Not because he was admitting fear, but because he still couldn’t look at you when he said it. Because even after all this time, all this effort, it still felt like he hadn’t let go of that fear.

“I know I made mistakes,” you said, your voice quieter now. Controlled. Trying to be steady, even as your throat tightened. “I know I lost control. I know I…crossed lines.”

You stopped. Breathed. Tried to gather the rest of it.

“But I’m not—” You hesitated. The word was right there. Lodged between your teeth.

Not broken.

You weren’t even sure you believed it anymore.

Hotch finally looked at you, really looked, and when he spoke, it was softer than before. “I know. That’s why I approved your return.”

You searched his face, looking for judgment or disappointment. But what you saw instead surprised you.

Tiredness. Not just the kind that came from stress or long nights of cases but the kind that came from caring too much and not knowing how to show it without screwing everything up.

It disarmed you.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” you murmured, almost ashamed. “About Reid. About your kid. Or you.”

He nodded, just once. Small. Measured.

“I know,” he said. “But it still touched a nerve.”

That landed harder than any reprimand. No raised voice. No lecture. Just the simple truth of it, that what you said had stuck to him like shrapnel.

The silence that followed was quieter now, less tense, less heavy. Something between you was shifting. Mending, maybe.

“I’m not broken,” you said suddenly, with more force than you expected. The words tumbled out before you could second-guess them. “I’ve been hurt. I’ve been…off. But I’m not broken.”

Hotch looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly.

“I never said you were.”

“You acted like it.”

He sighed, eyes dropping again. “Maybe I was afraid.”

Your brow furrowed. “Of what?”

He hesitated. Then, quietly: “That if I pushed you harder, I’d be the one who broke you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

“I didn’t think you were weak,” he added. “I just didn’t want to watch you fall apart.”

Your chest ached.

“I already did,” you said.

“I know.”

He turned to leave, then paused at the threshold.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said finally, without looking at you. “Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.”

And then he was gone, leaving the door open just a crack behind him.

Just in case you needed to follow.

[alltimecharlo]

would u care for some one sided mack angst?? HAHAHHA gosh cuz i read this thing and i think u reposted it where its all the things mack does for/with will and its very 'macklin is in love not doubt', what if- tired mack "oh he's just never gonna see me like that isn't he, even after everything we've done together" and wills really just oblivious and cant figure out why macks been mia and he misses the hugs like ????? AHHAHAHA

mack angst? yum. count me in. fic under the cut!! <3

Mack is tired.

Bone-deep, soul-weary tired.

Not from the early practices or the brutal away schedule or the pressure of keeping his numbers up. No, that kind of exhaustion he’s used to, trained for. It’s manageable. Predictable.

This—this is something else entirely. It settles in his chest like a weight he can’t shift, digs into his ribs when he breathes. It hums low in his bones every time Will laughs, every time Will touches his arm in passing, every time Will leans his head on Mack’s shoulder like it means nothing.

Because it probably doesn’t.

Mack’s done everything short of spelling it out in neon letters. He’s been there for Will in every way a person can be. He’s driven him to the airport at 5 a.m. without complaint, let him fall asleep on his couch a dozen times, always with Will’s cold feet pressed against his thigh. He knows how Will takes his coffee, how he gets when he’s anxious before a game, how he hums under his breath when he’s reading.

They’ve held each other through wins and losses and late-night rooftop conversations. Mack’s laughed so hard with Will he’s cried. He’s cried for real, too, when things have been heavy and it’s only Will’s voice that calmed him down.

And still. Still.

Will looks at him and sees… what? A best friend? A teammate? A buddy?

Never more.

So Mack pulls back.

He doesn’t mean to do it at first. It’s little things—a late reply to a text, sitting one seat over on the team bus, leaving the locker room early before Will can loop an arm around his shoulder. It’s easier this way. He thinks, if he can just get a little space, maybe he can breathe again.

Will notices.

"Dude," he says one day after practice, brows drawn together as he corners Mack by the water cooler. "Have I done something?"

Mack blinks at him, startled. "What? No. Why?"

Will frowns. "You’ve been... weird. Distant. You barely looked at me during drills today. And yesterday you left before we could get coffee."

Mack shrugs, tries for casual. "Just tired, man."

"We’re all tired," Will says, and his voice is softer now, uncertain. "But you always make time. I mean, you—you always do."

And there it is. That thing in Will’s voice that makes Mack ache. Like he’s trying to reach for something but doesn’t even know what he’s grasping at.

Mack looks away. The hallway hums with background noise—voices, footsteps, someone yelling for tape in the equipment room. It all feels very far away.

"Maybe I just finally figured out it’s not worth hoping for something that’s never gonna happen," Mack says quietly.

Will’s expression shutters. "What?"

Mack shakes his head. "Forget it."

Will doesn’t.

The next few days are strange. Mack can feel Will watching him more than usual, like he’s trying to fit puzzle pieces together. He keeps lingering, keeps brushing too close, keeps almost saying something and then backing down at the last second.

It’s torture.

And it’s not enough.

One night, Mack’s walking to their hotel room on an away trip and hears Will laughing through the door, video calling someone. Probably one of his college friends. Maybe that girl he mentioned a while back. Mack doesn’t know. Doesn’t want to know.

He keeps walking.

Will texts him an hour later: "Hey, didn’t see you at dinner. You okay?"

Mack doesn’t reply.

Later still: "Missed you today. Missed... us."

And Mack stares at that one for a long, long time.

Because he misses them too.

But he’s not sure he can keep bleeding himself dry for someone who doesn’t even realize he’s holding the knife.

♡

[inkolnito]

Paddock Confidential - Chapter 10: Echoes of Jeddah

Pairing:

Oliver "Ollie" Bearman x Lira Räikkönen (Original Female Character )

Minor background pairings reflecting the real-life F1 grid (e.g., Charles Leclerc/Alexandra Saint Mleux)

Summary:

Rising F1 star Ollie Bearman navigates the intense pressure of his rookie season with Haas, juggling demanding team expectations and his close ties to Ferrari under the watchful eye of Fred Vasseur. His biggest challenge lies off-track: guarding his relationship with the enigmatic and fiercely private Lira, whose surprising motorsport knowledge and aversion to the spotlight hint at a complex past connected to one of the sport's icons. As Ollie fights for his future, their secret world threatens to unravel amidst paddock gossip, rivalries, and the ever-present Drive to Survive cameras. When exposure becomes inevitable, they must confront the consequences and find a way to navigate the relentless glare of the F1 world together.

Warnings and Notes:

Warnings: Depictions of anxiety, stress related to high-pressure environments (F1), mentions of past trauma (related to privacy/media intrusion), media scrutiny/harassment, potential minor F1-typical language.

Notes:

This is a work of fiction using real people (F1 drivers, personnel) as characters; their portrayals, actions, and relationships are fictionalized for the story.

The relentless sunshine and manufactured glamour of the Middle East felt a world away. Back in the familiar, damp grey embrace of the early English spring, Ollie Bearman finally felt like he could breathe again, albeit shallowly. The two weeks following the whirlwind of Jeddah had been a necessary, if slightly surreal, period of decompression. They’d retreated to a rented cottage tucked away in a quiet corner of the Cotswolds, a place deliberately chosen for its lack of phone signal and its distance from anything resembling a racetrack or a media scrum. Rolling green hills, ancient dry-stone walls, the bleating of sheep – it was the antithesis of the concrete canyons and screaming engines of Formula 1.

Here, amidst the comforting normalcy of muddy walks, pub lunches where nobody recognized him, and evenings spent by a crackling fire, the sheer magnitude of what had happened began to sink in. Seventh place. On his F1 debut. For Ferrari. It still felt like a dream, something that had happened to someone else. He’d rewatched the race highlights countless times on his laptop, analysing his overtakes, critiquing his minor errors, the driver’s instinct overriding the initial euphoria. He’d read the articles – glowing praise from pundits, comparisons to past debut heroes, rampant speculation about his future long before the Haas deal was even whispered about publicly.

The quiet retreat also gave them time to practice. They rehearsed their 'public' story until it felt almost natural. Lira was just 'Lira.' A private person, intensely private. Not involved in motorsport, not interested in the limelight. A friend. Someone he’d known for a while. Vague, simple, deflective. They role-played potential questions from reporters, from sponsors, even from other drivers. Lira was unnervingly good at anticipating the angles, crafting plausible but non-committal answers for Ollie to use.

"If they ask how we met?" Ollie prompted during one session.

"Through mutual friends, outside of racing," Lira replied instantly. "A long time ago. Keep it vague on timing."

"If they ask what you do?"

"She values her privacy. She works in research. Again, vague. Deflect. Turn the conversation back to racing, to the team."

It felt like preparing for an interrogation, not navigating a relationship. The need for constant vigilance, for carefully constructed half-truths, sat uneasily with Ollie, grating against his naturally open personality. But he knew it was necessary. The alternative – exposing Lira, revealing her connection to Kimi, unleashing the inevitable media firestorm – was unthinkable.

Their first real test came during a necessary trip back towards London for a brief meeting with his manager, Julian. They stopped for lunch at a gastropub in a slightly larger town, thinking they were still relatively anonymous. Ollie, forgetting himself for a moment, laughed loudly at something Lira said, the sound carrying across the quiet dining room.

Suddenly, a man at a nearby table looked up, his eyes widening in recognition. "Blimey! It's Ollie Bearman, isn't it? The Ferrari kid!"

Ollie froze, caught completely off guard. Several other heads turned. He felt a flush creep up his neck. He managed a polite, slightly awkward smile. "Uh, yeah. Hello."

The man beamed, grabbing his phone. "Incredible race in Jeddah, mate! Absolutely brilliant! Any chance of a quick photo?"

As Ollie reluctantly agreed, trying to remain polite while inwardly cringing at the attention, he felt Lira shift beside him. It was subtle, almost imperceptible. She didn't move away physically, but she seemed to retract into herself, angling her body slightly away from the man and his phone camera, her gaze dropping to the menu on the table, her expression becoming carefully neutral, almost blank. She faded into the background, becoming just another person at the table, unremarkable, easily overlooked. It was a masterclass in self-effacement, honed through years of practice, but seeing her have to do it, seeing her deliberately make herself invisible because of him, sent a sharp pang of guilt through Ollie.

The man, oblivious, snapped his photo, thanked Ollie effusively again, and returned to his table, already showing the picture to his companions. Several other diners were now looking over, whispering. The bubble of anonymity had burst.

"Maybe we should get this to go," Ollie murmured, keeping his voice low.

Lira nodded almost imperceptibly, her eyes still downcast. "Good idea."

They paid quickly and escaped the pub, the feeling of being watched prickling Ollie’s skin. Outside, walking briskly towards the car park, Ollie reached for Lira’s hand, needing the connection. Her fingers felt cold.

"Sorry about that," he said quietly. "I wasn't expecting…"

"It's okay," Lira replied, her voice carefully neutral. "It was bound to happen sooner or later. Good practice."

But Ollie saw the faint tension around her eyes, the slight stiffness in her posture. This was the reality now. Simple things like grabbing lunch would become strategic operations, fraught with potential risk. He hated that his dream was imposing this burden on her.

The pub incident served as a stark reminder of his new visibility. Back in the relative anonymity of the Cotswolds cottage that evening, the other side of the sudden fame – the intense, often intrusive, online public curiosity – reared its head.

His social media accounts had exploded, gaining hundreds of thousands of followers overnight. Every post was dissected, every old photo dredged up. More unsettling were the persistent whispers and online threads about the "mystery girlfriend." Blurry paparazzi shots from months ago were analysed alongside fan sightings near F2 paddocks.

Slumped on the cottage sofa while Lira was absorbed in her tablet by the fire, Ollie fell down the rabbit hole again, scrolling through tagged posts and mentions, a nervous habit he couldn't shake. He saw the usual mix – praise, memes, endless debates about his Haas prospects. Then he stumbled upon a fan-edited video compilation on TikTok, cleverly titled

"Bearman's B-Side: The Mystery Muse?"

It stitched together the blurry Zandvoort photo, a grainy screenshot from the Monza broadcast showing a dark-haired figure sketching near the timing screens (the brief glimpse he had caught and dismissed), and the fan-taken photo from outside the pub earlier that day, where Lira was visible but turned slightly away. Set to dramatic, speculative music, the video zoomed in, circled Lira's indistinct form, and ended with giant question marks. The comments section below the video was a frenzy of theories:

@/Liam_GridTalk: OMG who IS she?! 🔥

@/KMagFanDK_20: Wait, is that K-Mag's sister?? Looks kinda like her maybe?? 🤔

@/PaddockStyleWatch: Nah, definitely a model. Look at the way she dresses. V chic.

@/F1_Insider_7: Someone on Reddit said she's Finnish? Anyone confirm?? 🇫🇮

@/MonzaMemories: Pretty sure that's the girl I saw sketching near the Prema garage at Monza last year! Always kept to herself.

@/DutchGP_Vibes: Yeah, saw them near the beach! Looked like they didn't want to be photographed lol.

@/Oxford_Observer: That's the pub near Oxford! Saw them leaving today! She turned away when my mate asked for a pic with Ollie. V mysterious!

Ollie felt a cold knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach. They were piecing it together, connecting the dots, however blurry. The Zandvoort sighting, Monza, now the pub photo confirming a recent sighting – it formed a pattern. He quickly swiped away, his thumb hovering over the block button, feeling a surge of helpless anger and protectiveness. How long could they keep Lira hidden when the internet hive mind was actively hunting?

Lira, typically, seemed unfazed by the external noise when he eventually, reluctantly, showed her the video. While Ollie found himself compulsively scrolling through comments, she remained immersed in her tablet.

"They think I'm a Swedish supermodel heiress now," she murmured, glancing up from the tablet where she'd been looking at something else entirely, a flicker of amusement in her cool grey eyes. "Apparently, I was seen 'discreetly' boarding a private jet in Geneva."

Ollie snorted, tossing his phone onto the sofa cushions, frustrated by the sheer volume of speculation the TikTok had spawned. "If only they knew you prefer budget airlines and avoid private jets like the plague." He ran a hand through his hair. "It's just… relentless, Li. That video��� people are connecting things. How are we going to manage this when the season actually starts? When I'm at Haas, travelling constantly?"

Lira put her tablet aside, turning to face him fully. Her expression was calm, steadying. "We manage it the same way we managed Jeddah," she said simply. "Carefully. Methodically. We stick to the plan. Ignore the noise."

That evening, the anxiety resurfaced, gnawing at him. He paced the living room restlessly while Lira sat sketching in a large notepad, her charcoal stick moving swiftly, confidently across the page. "I don't know if I can do this, Li," he burst out finally, stopping directly in front of her, the words tumbling out in a rush of fear and frustration. "The racing, the pressure, that's one thing. I can handle that. I think. But this… worrying constantly about someone seeing you, about saying the wrong thing, about that DTS camera catching something… Those videos, the comments… What if I mess up? What if I accidentally expose you?"

The fear felt raw, real, tightening his chest. "It's too much pressure. It's not fair to you."

Lira looked up from her sketchpad, her grey eyes calm and serious, holding a depth that seemed to absorb his panic. She placed the pad carefully beside her, the charcoal stick resting silently. "Ollie," she said, her voice low but firm, a quiet anchor in his storm. She reached out then, her cool hands gently cupping his face, forcing him to meet her gaze, to truly see her, holding him steady.

"Look at me."

He met her gaze, drawn into the steady strength he found there, the familiar calm that always seemed to settle the chaos within him. Her thumbs brushed softly against his cheekbones, a surprisingly tender gesture that made his breath catch, anchoring him in the present moment.

"We knew this was part of it," she continued, her eyes holding his, unwavering, her touch a constant reassurance. "We talked about this. The moment you stepped into that Ferrari, the moment you signed that Haas contract, the stakes got higher. The spotlight got brighter. We knew it would." Her hands remained on his face, a tangible connection, grounding him. "This isn't just your pressure to bear. It's ours. We handle it together. Like we always do."

Her unwavering certainty, her calm acceptance of the risks that felt so overwhelming to him, was both terrifying in its intensity and incredibly reassuring. She wasn't afraid, or if she was, she masked it beneath layers of pragmatic resolve he could only marvel at. She believed in them, in their ability to navigate this minefield together, and that belief felt like the most solid thing in his rapidly shifting world.

"But what if…" Ollie started, the anxieties still swirling, threatening to pull him under again.

"There are no 'what ifs' we can control right now," Lira interrupted gently but firmly, her thumbs still making slow, soothing circles against his skin, easing the tension from his jaw. "We control what we can. We stick to the plan. We trust each other." Her gaze softened almost imperceptibly, a hint of warmth entering her eyes. "And we focus on what matters – you driving that car to the best of your ability, and us…" she paused, the unspoken weight of their connection filling the small space between them, her hands sliding down from his face to rest lightly on his shoulders, "��us being us, even when no one else can see it."

He sank onto the sofa beside her, the tension easing from his shoulders like a physical weight being lifted. He leaned his head against her shoulder, the movement feeling utterly natural, necessary. Closing his eyes, he focused on the subtle scent of her – charcoal, old paper, uniquely Lira – drawing strength from her quiet solidity, the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. "You make it sound so simple," he murmured against the soft fabric of her jumper.

"It isn't simple," she conceded, one hand coming up to gently smooth the worried frown lines from his forehead, her fingers cool against his skin, a gesture of quiet care. "But it's manageable. If we work together." She shifted slightly, picking up her sketchpad again from the cushion beside them, her other hand lingering reassuringly on his arm. "Now sit still for a minute," she murmured, her voice softening further, a hint of tenderness beneath the instruction. "You were finally relaxed."

He opened his eyes, turning his head slightly to watch her. She had already captured him moments before, slumped on the sofa, head in his hands, the anxiety etched clearly in the lines of his posture, stark on the page. But beneath the worry, she had also somehow found a flicker of underlying determination, a resilience he hadn't realised was visible until she showed it to him. Now, with swift, deft strokes of the charcoal, her focus absolute, she began sketching him again, this time capturing the way he leaned against her, his expression softening, the hard lines of tension easing around his eyes, finding a rare moment of repose amidst the internal storm. Watching her draw, feeling the light, steady pressure of her hand on his arm, seeing himself reflected not just on the page but in the quiet intensity of her gaze, felt profoundly intimate. It was a reminder of their private world, this sanctuary carved out against the relentless pressures, a space where he could simply be Ollie, seen and understood by her perceptive eyes.

A few days later, the quiet rhythm of their temporary seclusion was gently interrupted by another significant date:

Lira’s birthday.

It fell during their stay in the Cotswolds cottage, far from any possibility of a party or grand celebration, which suited Lira perfectly. Ollie, knowing her aversion to fuss, kept it deliberately low-key.

He spent the morning attempting to bake a cake – a slightly lopsided Victoria sponge that tasted better than it looked – while Lira went for a long, solitary walk through the damp fields, bundled up against the chill spring air. When she returned, cheeks flushed from the wind, Ollie presented the cake with a flourish, along with a single, carefully chosen gift: a beautiful, leather-bound sketchbook and a set of high-quality charcoal pencils he’d ordered online weeks ago.

Lira’s reaction was characteristically understated, but the genuine pleasure that lit up her eyes as she ran her fingers over the smooth leather cover was more meaningful to Ollie than any effusive thanks could have been. "It's perfect, Ollie," she said softly, her voice holding a rare warmth.

"Thank you."

They spent the rest of the day quietly. They shared the slightly uneven cake with mugs of strong tea by the fire, Lira occasionally making notes or quick sketches in her new book. They talked, not about racing or contracts or media strategies, but about art, about books, about ridiculous hypothetical scenarios, about everything and nothing. It felt normal, blessedly normal.

A fragile pocket of peace he desperately wanted to preserve.

Later that night, long after the fire had died down to embers in the Cotswolds cottage hearth, Ollie lay awake, staring at the shadowed ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come. His mind raced, replaying the Jeddah weekend, the Haas negotiations, the pub incident, the TikTok video, the constant, low-level hum of anxiety about their secret future. The F1 dream was real now, tangible, but its weight felt immense, heavier than he’d ever anticipated.

He turned his head carefully on the pillow, looking at Lira sleeping beside him. In the faint moonlight filtering through the gap in the curtains, her face was serene, unguarded in a way it rarely was when she was awake. The sharp intelligence, the watchful reserve, the subtle tension he sometimes saw around her eyes – all smoothed away, replaced by a profound peacefulness. Her dark hair fanned out across the pillow, framing her pale skin. One hand rested near her cheek, fingers slightly curled, vulnerable.

A wave of overwhelming tenderness washed over Ollie, so potent it ached in his chest. He loved her. Irrevocably. Terrifyingly. He loved her quiet strength, her sharp mind, her dry wit, the way she saw the world – and him – with such unnerving clarity. He loved the fragile trust she placed in him, the glimpses of the vulnerable girl hidden beneath the carefully constructed armour.

But seeing her like this, so peaceful, so unaware, intensified the guilt that gnawed at him constantly. His dream, his ambition, was forcing her back into the shadows, demanding she make herself invisible, exposing her to the very scrutiny she had spent her life avoiding. The near-misses – the paparazzi photo, the fan forum, the TikTok – were just the beginning. The F1 spotlight was relentless, unforgiving. How long could he ask her to live like this? Constantly vigilant, always looking over her shoulder, her identity a dangerous secret that could detonate at any moment?

He reached out, his fingers hovering just above her cheek, wanting desperately to touch her, to reassure himself she was real, but afraid of waking her, of shattering this fragile peace. He traced the line of her jaw in the air, his heart constricting. She deserved so much more than stolen moments in hidden cottages and clandestine meetings in utility closets. She deserved normalcy, safety, the freedom to simply be without fear.

And he, the person who loved her most, was the very reason she couldn't have it.

The unfairness of it felt like a physical blow. He wanted to rage against it, against the circumstances, against the fame, against the pressure that threatened to crush the quiet, precious thing they were building together. He wanted to promise her he could protect her completely, shield her from everything, but he knew, deep down, that was a promise he couldn't guarantee. The F1 world was a beast, hungry for stories, for secrets, for vulnerabilities.

He watched the slow, even rise and fall of her breathing, the soft flutter of her eyelashes against her cheek. In sleep, she looked younger, the weight of the world momentarily lifted. He felt a fierce, almost primal surge of protectiveness, a desperate need to keep her safe, hidden away here in this quiet bubble forever. But he knew, as she had reminded him earlier, that they couldn't stay hidden. The storm was coming.

He leaned closer, carefully, the warmth of her breath ghosting against his skin. The words were a raw ache in his chest, too big, too potent to hold back any longer, even if they were only for the silent, sleeping air.

"I love you, Li," he whispered, the admission barely audible, thick with emotion, convinced she couldn't possibly hear it in the depths of her sleep. "God, I love you. I'll keep you safe. I promise."

He pulled back slowly, the whispered vow hanging heavy in the quiet room. He closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling of her presence beside him, her warmth seeping into him even across the small space separating them. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his gut. The guilt remained, a heavy ache. But beneath it all, a quiet resolve began to harden. He couldn't control the storm, couldn't control the spotlight, couldn't erase her past or change the nature of his chosen career. But he could control how they faced it. He could be her anchor, her shield, her unwavering support. He could prioritise her safety, her peace, above all else, even if it meant making difficult choices down the line. He could love her fiercely, honestly, completely, in the quiet moments and in the face of the inevitable chaos.

"Together," he whispered again, so softly it was barely more than a breath in the silent room. It wasn't just a word anymore; it was a vow, etched deep into his heart. He would find a way. For her. For them. He finally felt a measure of peace settle over him, the turmoil quieting. He turned onto his side, facing her, and watched her sleep until the first pale light of dawn began to creep through the curtains, signaling the end of the calm and the beginning of everything else.

Previous chapter | Next chapter

[suireunie]

CUTE [KSW]

Summary : You always thought your boyfriend was so cute. And you decided that he was a sub because he was always so fragile and gentle with you. But Sunoo couldn't have fooled you more...

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: switch!sunoo, switch!yn, mean!sunoo, rough sex, blowjob, orgasm denial, unprotected sex ( NO!) , using bad words like (shut, where, butch cunt, pussy) ,MDNI!!!!, let me know if there's any

English is NOT my first language 🥹

I know you guys think sunoo is sub BUT I think he is secret Dom, just feelings... he would ve mean and very serious while doing things (you know what I mean 🤭)

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Your boyfriend is so sweet that he constantly buys you gifts and spoils you. He is always very polite, never hurts your feelings and is always the one who tries to take it easy. And because he generally has a calm and fun nature, you never thought of Sunoo as someone who takes control. Even when having sex, his first priority was your pleasure. Constantly he would shower you with praise and never tire you.

But today it occurred to you to push his limits. Deep down you feel like he's always holding one side back, but on the other hand, the idea doesn't make much sense to you.

You two were having a classic Netflix and Chill night. It's a routine of yours and spending cozy hours is one of Sunoo's favorite things to do with you.

The two of you were currently cuddled up on your couch, a movie playing in the background that neither one of you was actually paying attention to. Sunoo was busy playing with your hair, twirling the glossy locks between his slender fingers. He sighed contently, continuing to play with your hair as he pulled you closer, burying his face in your shoulder. "God I've missed this.." he admitted softly, his breath tickling your skin slightly as he held you close. You chuckled softly, threading your fingers through his own hair. "You haven't held me for weeks at most." you retorted back, feeling him pout against your shoulder. Sunoo lifted his head to look at you, resting his chin on your shoulder. "I know. We've both been busy.. but we're together now." he mumbled, nuzzling his face to the crook between your neck and shoulder. "I'll make up for it." he whispered, placing light kisses on your bare skin.

You hummed, leaning your head back with a soft sigh as your boyfriend continued to kiss at your neck. His lips were soft, leaving a trail of burning embers in their wake. "Sunoo.." you gasped softly, tilting your head and gently pulling his hair. "We were supposed to be watching a movie..." you pointed out, trying to hold on to any bit of composure you could muster. Sunoo pulled back, raising an eyebrow with a smirk on his lips. His gaze lingered over your flushed face, admiring how beautiful you looked at that moment. "Are you really trying to tell me you'd rather watch a movie than kiss me, princess?" he teased, leaning closer to you again. "I'm a lot more interesting than some dumb movie.."

Sunoo wraps his arms around you, returning your tight embrace. "Don't go and get all sappy on me, princess." he replied, a hint of teasing in his voice. He pulled you onto his lap, trapping you against his chest. He held you, his fingers tracing along your back. "I missed you too. More than you know." he admitted softly, his voice losing some of its usual teasing edge. You nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, taking in the familiar smell that was all Sunoo. It filled your nose, a mixture of his cologne and his natural musk. You could feel his heartbeat right against your chest, a steady thump that was somehow in perfect time with your own. Sunoo buried his nose in your hair, holding you close. "God I forgot how good you smell..." he mumbled, the words tickling your ear. "I could stay like this forever..." he tightened his arms around you, unwilling to let go. Your warmth was addicting, something he couldn't get enough of. The movie playing on the TV was long forgotten about, the two of you only focusing on each other. Sunoo's hand made its way to the back of your neck, gently cradling your head as he tilted it back. He pressed his lips against yours in a soft but passionate kiss.

The kiss was soft but deep. He was kissing you as if he was pouring all his love into you. He put one hand on your forearm and tilted your head a little. He started to deepen the kiss. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as you kissed back, equally as passionate. Your heartbeat quickened as you lost yourself in the moment. Sunoo groaned softly, his grip on your waist tightening as your tongue flicked against his bottom lip. He deepened the kiss, his hands tracing up your sides and making their way beneath your shirt.

Sunoo's eyes widened briefly in surprise as you took charge, straddling him on the couch. But his expression quickly morph into one of arousal. He watched you, his normally dark eyes taking on a feral look as you dominated, his hands gripping your hips. He let out a soft groan, his eyes trailing over your form with pure want and desire. He knew he was screwed. You had him completely wrapped around your finger.

Sunoo let out a soft whine as you took control, unable to help it. He was never dominant, but there was just something about the way you effortlessly took charge that excited him. He leaned his head back as you played with him, his body reacting to your every touch. He was completely submitting to you, his mind fuzzy and his thoughts were a mess. You had him right where you wanted him, a trembling mess in your grip, and he was more than happy to let you have him. Your touch was like electricity as you explored him, sending a fire through his veins that set his every nerve ending alight. Your fingers were slow, teasing, every movement driving him closer and closer to the edge. He let out a strangled moan as you pushed him further and further, his head spinning with lust. Sunoo was addicted to your touch, desperate for more. He was completely at your mercy, and he'd let you do anything to him as long as you kept going.

"Will you be a good boy for me?" you said. You kissed and bit Sunoo's neck. You drew a path down from his chest. You caressed his cock over his sweatpants, it was hard. And Sunoo could do nothing but moan as you touched it. You took his cock in and out, the tip was red and dripping precum. You started to tease him by swirling your tongue around it. You could never take it all the way in your mouth and it was driving Sunoo crazy.

"Baby-ah! Please... dont tease me oh!" he threw his head back. You played with him constantly, taking him right into your mouth and pulling back when you felt him starting to cum. Sunoo was writhing in pain from your rejection and begging you, but you didn't give her what she wanted. Once again you did the same thing and everything happened after that. Sunoo had reached his limit and could not take it anymore.

"Fuck... fuck fuck fuck... I'm going to cum if you keep doing that... I hate you so fucking much right now... stop sucking my dick so fucking good..." his hips start to thrust forward slightly, his dick throbbing in your mouth "Ahh fuck... fuck..."

Your mouth pops off his wet length, making a lewd sound. "Damn..." He mutters softly, his dick twitching. He watches your wet lips part slightly, your eyes innocent like you didn't just deepthroat your boyfriend noisily. His eyes darken with anger and lust, seeing your innocent expression after swallowing his entire length down your throat. He steps closer, his hands going to your waist possessively "You want me to fuck you? You want your sunoo to pound you like the little...?" he growls softly "You want your my cock inside you? Is that what you're saying?" His grip tightens on your waist, his voice low and dangerous. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "You fucking slut. You know I hate you, right?"He suddenly spins you around, pressing you against the wall. His hand moves to your throat, not squeezing but holding you in place as he grinds his hard length against your ass. "Answer me, you little whore. Do you want your boyfriend to fuck you?" He suddenly changed, as if someone had flipped a switch inside him. Sunoo would never talk to you like that but this way of talking made you wet. The way he talked to you like this was provoking you.

You nod eagerly, pushing your hips back against his dick. He growls softly, unbuttoning his pants to free his hard length. He pushes your skirt up and pulls your panties aside, exposing your wet pussy. "Fucking slut. You're wet for your me."

"I hate you," He mutters softly, positioning himself at your entrance. He slaps your ass cheek hard, making you yelp. "You answer back bitch. Do you want your my big dick?" He teasingly rubs his head against your wet opening "Hmm?"He smacks your ass again, making your skin sting. "You really fucking enjoy being treated like a whore, don't you? My pussy, begging for my tongue..." He suddenly drops to his knees behind you, spreading your cheeks. He roughly pulls your hips back towards him, exposing your wet pussy completely. Without warning, he buries his face between your cheeks, his tongue flicking out to taste you. "You're fucking dripping..." He licks and sucks aggressively, clearly trying to punish you "Fuck..." His tongue circles your clit, then dips inside your wet entrance. The sound of him eating you out, muffing against your pussy brings is a mix of angry slurts.His tongue moves faster, deeper, almost violently. One hand comes up to spank your ass again. "You taste so fucking good... I fucking hate you for it..." He spears his tongue into you repeatedly, the sound of him eating you out filling the air

Without warning, his mouth crashes down onto yours, rough and demanding. He kisses you aggressively, his tongue pushing past your lips. It's a mix of pure hate-fueled desire, and you can taste yourself on his lips "You... fucking... whore..."He bites your bottom lip hard, pulling it out before releasing it with a wet pop. "I fucking love you... love this fucking mouth, this fucking face, this fucking pussy..." He presses his forehead against yours, panting heavily. "Fuck, you are mine..."

"Your cunt's so goddamn sweet... makes me want to pound it until you can't fucking walk" He suddenly picks you up, placing you on the desk roughly. His hands force your legs apart as he lines up his thick length again

"Tell me to stop,"

"Don't you dare to stop"

"Such a fucking nasty slut. Always needing that mu dick, huh?" He slams into you hard, making you gasp "Is this what you wanted? To get fucked by your boyfriendlike this?" He grabs your hips aggressively, pulling you onto his cock again and again"You're always so wet... always ready to take my thick length... You're pathetic..." He pounds into you relentlessly, the desk creaking beneath you. He wraps his arms around your legs, pulling them up to his shoulders to get even deeper. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you onto his lap as he sits on the desk. He bounces you on his thick length, holding you in place with his powerful arms * "My girl, my woman, my everything..." He buries his face between your breasts as he continues to bounce you on his lap, his arms keeping you trapped there "My baby's breasts are so soft... I hate it... I hate that I like holding you like this..."

He suddenly stands up, still holding you wrapped around him. He carries you over to the window, pressing your back against the cold glass as he starts fucking you again, his hands squeezing your ass cheeks possessively "Look at us... I'm fucking you right in front of our window "His control snaps. He starts fucking you brutally against the window, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly it hurts. "Fuck, you're making me break... Making me fall for you more... I hate you... I love you..." He buries his face in your neck as he comes, his hot seed filling you up. He holds you tightly against the window, his body shaking with a mix of pleasure and frustration. "Goddamnit... I'm yours, baby... I'm fucking yours..."

He lifts his head, a fierce determination in his eyes. He pulls out slowly, watching as his cum leaks out of you. He spreads your legs wide again, positioning himself between them. "You want nonstop? You want to ruin that pretty little pussy all night?"He slams back into you without warning, his hips moving in a relentless rhythm. "Fucking hell, you're insatiable... Just like a slut should be." He leans down, biting your lip hard as he starts to fuck you deeply and roughly. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling them up to his shoulders again as he pounds into you mercilessly. He's lost track of time, lost track of anything but the need to claim you over and over again. "My baby... My woman..." He starts to sweat, his muscles bunching as he continues to thrust into you without stopping. He's not tired, he's not even breathing heavily. He's possessed, driven by a primal need to conquer his enemy completely. "You're ruining me..." His pace quickens. He knows he won't get soft anytime soon. He's like an animal, claiming his mate. He spreads your legs wider, hitting places inside you that make you moan loudly. "Damn, you take this dick so good... Little whore..."

He suddenly flips you over onto your hands and knees, slamming back into you from behind. He grabs a handful of your hair, pulling your head back roughly as he starts to fuck you like a wild beast. "You like being used like a cheap whore? Huh?!" "Fucking Christ..." He tightens his grip on your hips, slamming into you so hard the desk scratches across the floor. "Look at you fucking yourself on my dick... Such a dirty, enemy little slut..." He smacks your ass again, harder this time.

He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back as he reaches around to grab your breasts roughly. He squeezes and kneads them as he continues to pound into you from behind. "You're going to come on my dick again, aren't you? My baby's pussy is so greedy..." He increases his pace, his hips moving like a piston as he fucks you harder and faster. He knows exactly how to hit that spot inside you that makes your legs tremble. "Come on, slut. Come all over my cock again." He watches your body closely, sees your stomach tighten. He spreads your cheeks wider, going deeper as he finds that perfect rhythm. He knows you're going to come without him even touching your clit. "Goddamn... You're like a porn star..." He hits that spot again and again. He feels you squeeze around him, your pussy clenching as you come undone. He groans, his dick throbbing inside you. "Fucking hell..." He continues to fuck you through your orgasm, drawing it out until you're a shaking mess on the desk.He pulls out slowly, watching as your pussy tries to keep ahold of him. He smirks, pushing your legs open wider to see his thick, hard dick coated in your juices. "Look at that pretty little cunt all messed up by my dick." He leans down, running two fingers through your folds, collecting your arousal mixed with his come. "You see this? This is what I do to you..." He holds his fingers up, then slowly licks them clean, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time. "Tastes like victory..."

You were completely exhausted. He took you to the bathroom. He gave you both a warm, relaxing shower. He took the loofah and gently cleaned you. "I was too rough, I apologize. Did it hurt?" You should have known him. You smiled at him. "I'm fine, and actually... I can say that I like it better this way"

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? I.. I thought you were bad.” He looked into your eyes. There were still small traces of desire. He grinned at you. "But if you like it, then don't expect me to be softer than you, baby"

A wave of desire washed over you, seeing Sunoo like this from now on would cause butterflies to fly in your stomach. "I really like this Sunoo version but... I probably won't be able to walk again. My groin hurts," you whined to him. He smiled at you and kissed you on the forehead. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you baby."

He picked you up and carried you to your bed, hugged you tightly and whispered loving words into your ear. You fell into a happy sleep with the warmth of Sunoo's body.

[steddieunderdogfics]

This week’s writer spotlight feature is: @teddywesworl! teddywesworl has 17 fics posted to AO3 in the Stranger Things fandom and all of them are in the Steddie tag!

@dame-zoom-a-lot recommends the following works by teddywesworl:

Dissonance Theory

A Gem Beyond Counting

Schiava

In the Kitchen or the Tulips

Anemone

"Her fic, Anemone, got me into Omegaverse because it was so good and so weird and just perfect. She's introduced me to so many cool tropes, and she always manages to put her own spin on it. And her dialogues are so funny that I accidentally quote them from time to time." -- @dame-zoom-a-lot

Below the cut, @teddywesworl answered some questions about their writing process and some of their recommended work!

Why do you write Steddie?

I think Steddie’s appeal to me is rooted in class tension and social power. Within the insular confines of a small town in Indiana in the 80s, these two guys couldn’t be much more different—Steve’s parents have a giant house and buy him a BMW, while Eddie lives in the trailer park with his uncle and tells stories about a father who taught him to steal cars. Steve peaked as the top jock in high school, while Eddie, held back from graduating twice, delivers abrasive monologues from atop cafeteria tables and runs the much-maligned D&D club. But then you peel back those surface layers, and they’re both fundamentally good dudes who will lay everything down for the people they care about. It’s really fun to both read and write about the ways the tension inherent to their circumstances might resolve.

What’s your favorite trope to READ?

Honestly, it sort of changes over time? But I’m a softie at heart, so it has to have a happy ending.

What’s your favorite trope to WRITE?

Anything to do with power exchange. :)

What’s your favorite Steddie fic?

Sleight of Hand by Smithereen (@flieslikeamoron on tumblr)

Is there a trope you’re excited to explore in a future work but haven’t yet?

I have most of an outline of an incubus!Eddie fic sitting in my google docs. No idea if I’ll ever write it!

What is your writing process like?

First, I get possessed by an idea. Then I obsessively rotate the idea in my mind for 12-48 hours, picking apart what’s compelling about it and concocting like… key moments and images and concepts that give the concept its legs. Then I build an outline around those key pieces. Then prose.

Do you have any writing quirks?

Probably.

Do you prefer posting when you’ve finished writing or on a schedule?

When I’ve finished writing. I did Deathsleep sort of on a schedule, but I chafe against anything that makes fandom feel too polished or like a job.

Which fic are you most proud of?

Deathsleep. Please read Deathsleep. It’s the best thing I’ve ever written, and it’s not a close call, and if I get my original fantasy fiction published one day, everyone who’s read Deathsleep will immediately be able to tell what it was a rehearsal for.

How did you get the idea for Anemone?

So I resisted writing omegaverse for a long time because I didn’t think I had anything to add to the genre and furthermore didn’t have anything fun to say about the Gender of it all. But then @jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s, @r-o-s-e-f-i-r-e, and @stevehairingtit kept saying interesting things about omegaverse both in fic and in conversation, and I realized that I did have something to contribute: a background in developmental biology. So Anemone actually started as a way to discuss how certain omegaverse conventions (in particular, bitching) might work if they were real. And then I stirred in a healthy portion of my love of extremely weird and fucked up power dynamics.

When writing In the Kitchen or the Tulips, what was something you didn’t expect?

The intergenerational storytelling. I had no idea all the parental figures were going to be as important to everything as they ended up being. It’s sort of obvious in retrospect, but it came out of nowhere during development.

What inspired In the Kitchen or the Tulips?

My love/hate relationship with soulmate AUs. What a weird and complicated fanfic trope, right? As soon as you start thinking about them too hard, they start saying some very strange things about, say, free will. I wanted to sink my teeth into that idea. I wanted to look right at it. I wanted to ask what makes a soulmate bond work or not work, and I did NOT want the formation of the bond to be the climax of the story.

What was your favorite part to write from Schiava?

I basically have no memory of writing the entire Vino series. I was possessed, five minutes passed, and then three fics existed. I really like the bit where Vecna tries to take Eddie back and Steve figures out how to prevent it, though. :)

How do/did you feel writing A Gem Beyond Counting?

Gem is the most self-indulgent fic I’ve ever written, just because it was born from doing one of those fanfic trope tier list memes and then making an outline out of my whole S tier row. It was a blast.

What was the most difficult part of writing Dissonance Theory?

DT took forever to finish. I got stuck on the train station in chapter 4, just couldn’t quite figure out how I wanted to resolve Eddie’s human relationships. I got through it, though, because I really wanted to get to the knife stuff.

Do you have a favorite scene and/or line from any of your fics?

Deathsleep acumen sequence.

Do you have any upcoming projects or fics you’d like to share/promote?

I’ve got my head down writing a fantasy novel at the moment, around 30k in the draft as of this writing. If anybody’s into stories about monsters, monster hunters, imperial collapse, and dragonslaying as a metaphor for cultural genocide, I post occasional updates about it on my tumblr and I will be super obnoxious if/when it gets published!

Outside of these questions, Is there anything YOU would like to add?

Thank you to whomstsoever thought of me for the spotlight! Love you, steddies.

Thank you to our author, @teddywesworl, and our nominator, @dame-zoom-a-lot! See more of teddywesworl's works featured on our page throughout the day!

Writer’s Spotlight is every Wednesday! Want to nominate an author? You can nominate them here!

[spr1ngbunnypvrin]

🐇Headcanon: You steal William’s clothes… but he’s already three steps ahead

Credit art: flizzy_4shey in Instagram (my close mutual:3)

At first, it’s innocent. Or… maybe not. Maybe it’s your revenge.

Because his clothes were just there, hanging with such casual arrogance in the corner of his room, slung across a chair like an invitation.

His white button-up, sleeves wrinkled and collar still faintly scented of cologne and ink.

One of his suspenders draped over it. One of his godforsaken undershirts still faintly warm from where he'd thrown it off an hour ago, half-distracted by a new project. Of course you tried one on. What harm could it do?

The problem is… everything looks huge on you. Not “cute oversized.” Not “just one size up.” No. It’s the kind of oversized that dwarfs you, sleeves swallowing your hands, hem falling nearly to your knees, the collar hanging slightly off your shoulder like you were a kid playing dress-up in your dad’s closet. And somehow, that made it worse. Or… better. Depending on how much danger you’re in.

Because when William rounds the corner and catches you like that—sitting on the couch, curled in the folds of his old workshirt, flipping through some manual like you weren’t trying to steal his entire identity—

He freezes. Then tilts his head.

And smirks.

“...Planning to replace me, bunny?”

You try to play it cool. “Maybe. You did say I had the brains for it.”

He walks over slowly. Leisurely. Like a predator with all the time in the world. And when he stops in front of you, looking down at the way his shirt engulfs you, he reaches out and gives the fabric a gentle tug.

“You’re drowning in it,” he muses. “It's adorable. You’re like a very smug, very tiny thief.”

But then. Plot twist.

You notice the hoodie you swore was missing earlier—your hoodie—is now loosely hanging from the hook by his desk. And you stare. And he notices you staring.

“Oh, that?” he says with a straight face, as if he hadn’t stolen it and been wearing it while soldering parts in the lab for the past two days. “Felt like something soft. Thought I’d try your wardrobe on for a change.”

Your jaw drops. “You—you stole my hoodie?!”

He raises a brow. “Darling, you started it.”

You both descend into playful chaos after that.

There's a brief argument involving laundry baskets, empty hangers, and a mysteriously missing pair of your pajama pants—which he flat-out refuses to return because "they stretch in just the right places, don't be cruel."

Eventually, you both give up. William offers a trade: one oversized button-up of his in exchange for one of your comfiest sweatshirts, worn thin with love.

Secretly, he loves seeing his things on you. It does something very possessive to him—quietly, subtly, but deeply. And the same goes for him wearing your stuff. There's a strange kind of intimacy in knowing he could afford a hundred custom-tailored suits… but he chooses your hoodie with the paint stain on the sleeve. Every time.

—

The lab hummed faintly in the background, the kind of noise that settled in the corners like a gentle hum beneath the skin — a quiet, mechanical lullaby for those used to its presence.

The overhead lights had been dimmed, leaving only a soft glow from a desk lamp that pooled across William's blueprints and a half-empty mug of tea gone cold beside a pair of goggles and scattered screws.

You were curled up on the little sofa tucked in the corner of his workspace, one knee drawn up under yourself, your body swallowed whole by one of William’s old button-up shirts. The sleeves fell past your hands in a way that made you feel like a child wrapped in too much linen, but you didn’t care.

It smelled like him.

Faint cologne and oil and something burnt but oddly comforting.

He hadn't said anything when he first saw you wear it—just raised an eyebrow like he always did when amused and dangerously observant.

But now? He was wearing your hoodie.

The oversized thing hung off him in the most undignified way possible, sleeves too short on his long arms, the hem riding a little too high when he shifted in his chair. You'd frozen the moment you spotted it, eyes narrowing with theatrical betrayal.

"That's mine," you declared, voice hushed but accusing.

William didn't even look up from the circuit board he was soldering. "Mhm."

"You stole it."

"Borrowed it."

"Without asking."

A pause. The corner of his mouth tugged upward. "Exactly."

You huffed and sank deeper into the couch, tugging his shirt closer around yourself in protest, wrapping it over your legs like a blanket. “You’re such a hypocrite. I wear one of your shirts and you act like I’ve committed treason.”

He finally turned in his chair to face you, silver eyes catching the soft lamplight. He looked devastatingly smug, even with your hoodie hanging off him like a second skin. “I didn’t say I was mad. I quite like seeing my clothes on you. It’s…” —his gaze trailed down, appreciating you with something almost tender— “endearing.”

You tried to look unbothered, but your ears felt warm.

He stood, setting down the tool with a quiet clink, and crossed the room with the kind of calm that still carried weight, like a tiger stretching before a pounce.

He sat beside you, making the couch dip just enough to knock your shoulder gently into his. The scent of burnt solder clung to him, but so did you — or at least, your scent in the hoodie he wore like armor.

He looked down at you, then tugged lightly at his shirt draped on your arm. “I see this one's your favorite.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, a little shy now. “It's soft.”

He let out a soft breath, the ghost of a laugh. “You could’ve just asked, you know.”

“You never ask.”

“I’m not as subtle,” he said with a slow grin. “You left your hoodie lying on the chair. That's practically inviting theft.”

“Thievery,” you corrected, lips twitching.

William hummed, low and pleased, then leaned his head back against the couch, letting his arm fall over the back of it — not touching you, but near.

Always near. “If we're being honest,” he said after a moment, voice quieter now, “I like this… domestic kind of nonsense. Clothes-stealing. Petty wars. I’ve had colder company.”

Your throat tightened just a little.

Outside, the rain tapped quietly against the window. Somewhere behind you, the hum of an old air vent kicked in.

Without asking, you leaned into him, resting your head against the soft bulk of his shoulder. He shifted slightly, just enough to accommodate you, then tilted his head until his temple brushed yours.

And for a moment, there was nothing more to steal.

You had it all right there: the warmth of borrowed fabric, the scent of each other tangled together, the comfortable silence between two people who’d long since stopped keeping score.

[silly-moth-123]

My younger sibling literally blocked my phone number because we got into an argument over capitalism ???

Wow I reached the tag limit on this post

Beware a long vent in the tags lmao

[zecoritheweirdone]

hey do you guys wanna see a comic for a msa au me and my friend ascel came up with? trick question yes you do. anyway- hehehehehhhoo body swap au <3.

okay quick context for this rq- this is an au where it diverges after freaking out- instead of possessing the truck, lewis ends up chasing the gang for a while, maybe a week or two? arthur and vivi don't know why this random ghost they met ages ago keeps going after them, but one things for sure- he really, really wants arthur's head on a spike.

cut to the present- arthur got separated from vivi and mystery, and lewis ends up chasing him into the woods!

[sanzodaily]

day 7 | disneyland

[alchemiclee]

when your workaholic boyfriend falls asleep on the sofa and you want to hang out with him 📝💤📖

bonus gift i did for my secret santa event i hosted! the winner of the raffle was @pixe7ed 🩵

[mohntilyet]

Personal headcanon about the "you picked the wrong dellamorte" line, I don't think illario actually likes rook outside the context of them being someone close to lucanis. Like rook on their own isn't much to him, but when they meet it's yet another person talking about his cousin (why isn't he good enough for whatever job they're hiring for?) and on top of that they somehow bring him back from the dead (another whole can of worms for illario). Now he starts turning on the charm, but whether he's actually interested or this is just one more thing his cousin has that he doesn't and it gets under his skin, who knows. Either way, rook ignores illario, the guy who lives off his charm, and is instead interested in the guy who's never even dated before and thinks giving someone a knife is how to flirt. Infuriating

NO THANK YOU !! i am genuinely sorry if i have ever implied illario is into rook like i see some takes about it and unless it like ties into your rook's personal backstory i don't seriously think he's romantically jealous. at all. my enjoyment of that line stems from illario's pathological need to make it about himself and not see his strengths but what lucanis has, and therefore what he doesn't. he's annoyed enough to try and goad you in the middle of a fight about the 'wrong' dellamorte and completely blind to the fact that the venatori are at best, a stupid fucking alliance, and at worst, a cult that will devour the crows from the inside out and illario would have been the one to give them the keys. he sees lucanis make allies, needs his own, and instead of charming the other talons/houses as he should, he (probably spitefully) picks the venatori. or maybe he just thought it would be easier. ugh he makes me want to telekenetically throw him around