#this reply is me Trying to Write after a while of Not Writing

[scarletwinterxx]

be the rest of your life or whatever - choi seunngcheol imagine (2)

this is waaaaay tooooo cute to stay in my drafts, also so many readers are asking for this so here you go😅 if you haven't read the first part, check it out here!

currently working on two fics i'll hopefully post for ww and sc's bday but i have lotsssss of editing to do. so here's a quick spin off?? part 2??? whatever you call this HAHA hope you like it!

you can follow me on x, niniramyeonie 😊🌻

for my other svt fics, check them here

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

Living together came with a rhythm. a kind of dance you didn’t choreograph but somehow perfected anyway.

Like how he swears up and down the keys are missing, again, and he’s tearing the apartment apart like someone broke in and stole just that.

Did you check the pocket of your jacket? After a beat of silence... 

“…Don’t say anything.”

Or how he leaves his socks in the weirdest places on the back of the couch, the bathroom sink, once inside the microwave which he claims it was “a joke. And somehow, you're the designated sock police.

But in return?

He opens every jar for you like it’s a challenge from the gods. Like, you’ll struggle with a jar of kimchi for three seconds before dramatically setting it down and calling out,

“Choi Seungcheol, fulfill your purpose.” And he’s there instantly, chest puffed like a knight, twisting that lid with one hand like he was born for it.

“Anything for you, milady,” he says.

“...Okay but put it back in the fridge though.”

He restocks the snacks without asking, always the exact brand you like even the weird seasonal ones. You refill his protein powders and label them so he doesn’t accidentally scoop pre-workout at midnight again. He insists on doing the heavy lifting at the grocery store. You insist he buys less of everything you know he’s not actually going to eat.

You steal his hoodies. He pretends to be mad. Then buys more hoodies “accidentally” in your size.

He hogs the blanket. You retaliate by becoming a human starfish.

You always find the TV remote. He always remembers where you left your glasses.

You cook when you’re in the mood. He cooks when you’re not.

“I don’t want to cook today.”

“Great. That makes two of us. Wanna order chicken?”

“God, I love you.”

The laundry is a war zone. He folds like a human disaster. You have a system. He doesn’t get it. You stop trying to explain. He starts handing you clothes with puppy eyes. You fold everything. He brings you snacks as tribute.

And sometimes it’s quiet just brushing teeth side by side, bumping hips while folding towels, scrolling on the couch with your legs tangled, his hand absently running up and down your back.

It’s a million tiny moments. Mundane. Messy. Magical.

You live together like you’ve always been meant to.

And in the chaos of socks, jars, keys, and too many snack runs and there’s no one else you’d rather do this whole life thing with.

=

He’s pacing behind you in the kitchen like a man on a mission. Shirtless, gym shorts hanging low on his hips, towel slung around his neck and hair still damp from the shower but instead of enjoying the rare peace of post-workout bliss, he’s spiraling.

“I’m serious,” he huffs. “They’re cutting out everything. No sugar, no bread, no ramyeon. do you know what that means? That means I can’t even look at your late-night snack stash without getting side-eyed by the trainer.”

You’re barely listening. Not because you don’t car but because you’ve got a spatula in one hand, half an eye on the simmering pot, and you’re already used to the sound of him monologuing behind you

“You don’t even like bread that much,” you reply calmly

“Exactly! That’s not the point. The point is, now that I can’t have it, I want it more. I’ve never wanted toast this badly in my life. And don’t even get me started on coffee. I asked if I could just have one iced vanilla latte and the coach looked at me like I asked for a cigarette.”

You hum thoughtfully and give the stew a stir. “Okay, but… why the sudden panic? You've never cared this much before.”

“I don't know,” he grumbles, tugging the towel off his neck and flopping dramatically onto one of the stools at the counter. “It’s different now. National team stuff feels bigger. Like… all eyes on us, you know? I feel like I need to be in the best shape of my life.”

You pause mid-stir, then turn to look at him.

He’s frowning at the countertop, brows knit together, abs still annoyingly visible for someone claiming to be “out of shape.”

And you, in your oversized t-shirt and fluffy socks, holding a ladle and feeling every bit the picture of domestic chaos, tilt your head.

“Why?”

He blinks up at you. “Why what?”

You smile, soft but exasperated. “Why the pressure? You already made the team. You're already good. And… I like you like this.”

He stares.

You shrug, returning to the stove. “I like you when you're all sweaty and complaining about toast. I like your stupid grumpy post-practice face. I like when you eat three servings of dinner and then act surprised you're full.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “I like you, period. Whether you're sculpted like a Greek god or soft like a steamed bun.”

His laugh breaks before he can stop it. “Soft like a steamed bun? That’s your bar?”

“You love steamed buns.”

“I—okay, valid.”

You grin to yourself, stirring again like it's the most casual confession in the world. Behind you, you hear the stool creak. A few seconds later, warm arms wrap around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.

“Do you also like me when I keep eating while I’m on a ‘diet’?”

“Do you also keep lying to your trainer about what you ate?”

He presses a kiss to your cheek. “He doesn’t need to know about the tteokbokki incident.”

You laugh, leaning back into him.

“See?” you murmur. “Perfect just like this.”

“You’re dangerous.”

“You’re easy.”

He pinches your waist and you yelp, elbowing him gently in return.

And in that tiny kitchen, with the smell of dinner in the air and the background hum of life after college settling into something real, something solid you realize neither of you would trade this for anything.

You turn around in his arms, wooden spoon still in hand, and eye him up and down like he’s your favorite guilty pleasure at 2 a.m.

“Go on,” you say, smirking. “Tell your scary trainer your girlfriend likes you like this.”

You gesture vaguely to his entire body shirtless, towel-hair, the faintest pout still on his lips from earlier.

“I dare you. Look him dead in the eye and go, ‘My girlfriend thinks I’m delicious just the way I am.’”

He throws his head back laughing. “Delicious? What am I, a snack?”

“You’ve always been a snack,” you say, poking him in the side with your spoon. “Now you’re just a full meal. Extra side dishes. Dessert included.”

He catches your wrist mid-poke, grinning. “Wow. Remember when you refused to admit I was hot?”

You scoff, dramatic. “I was protecting myself.”

“From what, exactly?”

“From the endless ego that would’ve followed!”

“Too late,” he says smugly, pressing a kiss to the side of your mouth. “I’ve got receipts now.”

You narrow your eyes. “Yeah, well… now I sleep in your bed.”

“You do,” he says proudly.

You lift a brow. “And steal all the blankets.”

“And wear my shirts.”

“And finish your fries.”

He sighs, leaning in, voice softening. “And still somehow call me the lucky one.”

You go a little quiet at that, cheeks warming, until

“Also,” you add quickly, because God forbid you let the softness linger too long, “you do snore. Loud. Like a dying vacuum.”

He gasps. “Rude.”

“And you hog the bathroom.”

“You use all the hot water!”

“Because I have longer hair!”

“Because you’re high-maintenance!”

You’re both smiling too wide to care, leaning into each other in between jabs. The stew simmers away forgotten for now as he hooks his arms tighter around your waist and rests his forehead against yours.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmurs.

You grin “Damn right I am.”

And right there, wrapped in each other, laughter tangled in the air you're both more than okay with the fact that this is what forever might look like.

The sun’s barely up, the soft golden light slipping through the half-closed curtains. The apartment’s quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of Seungcheol getting ready. duffel bag zipped, shoes quietly set by the door, phone and keys in their usual spot.

But before he leaves, he makes one last stop. Bck to the bedroom.

You're still tangled in the sheets, half-facedown with hair a mess, one leg kicked out and the other tucked underneath the comforter. His hoodie is slipping off one shoulder, revealing the marks he left last night, the reason you're still dead to the world this morning.

He stands at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, smirking like the devil himself. Damn right you're tired, he thinks. I should get a medal for that performance.

But it’s not just the pride. It’s the way your brow twitch slightly, lips parted, cheeks still pink with leftover warmth, curled up in the cocoon of their shared bed like you belong nowhere else. There’s something deeply satisfying in knowing that this��you—is what he gets to come home to.

He steps closer, gently kneels beside the bed, brushes the hair from your face.

“Still knocked out, huh?” he whispers, voice low and affectionate. “You’re lucky I love you.”

You grumble something unintelligible, barely stirring, and that just makes him smile wider.

He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your temple. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

You shift slightly, brow scrunching.

“Cheol…” you mumble, still far from the waking world.

“I’m heading out,” he murmurs against your skin. “Eat when you wake up, okay?”

You barely nod, eyes still closed, and he can’t help but press one more kiss to your lips. He stands, adjusts the hoodie you’re wearing so it covers you properly, then heads out, casting one last glance at your sleeping figure before the door shuts softly behind him.

He never leaves without kissing you goodbye.

And no matter how early the hour or how long the day ahead—he never forgets who he's coming back to.

=

You walk into the apartment with a spring in your step and a very mischievous glint in your eyes. He’s sprawled out on the couch, fresh out of the shower, hair damp and wearing those sweatpants. The grey ones. The dangerously effective ones. 

He’s half-watching a game, half-scrolling through his phone, fully unaware of the chaos you’re about to unleash.

You drop your bag, stretch like you just ran a marathon, and casually stroll over, plopping onto the couch beside him like you’re not about to start a war.

“Hey,” you say sweetly, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Hey, baby.” He doesn’t even look up. “How was your wax appointment?”

You grin. Game on.

“Oh, it was great,” you say, keeping your tone breezy. “Really smooth. He did a good job.”

There’s a pause. He blinks. “He?”

You nod, completely deadpan. “Yeah. This new guy. Super professional. Like he had the gentlest hands. Barely felt a thing.”

His head slowly turns toward you, phone now lowered in his lap. “He? Did a—wax?”

You nod again, eyes wide, innocent. “Uh-huh. Brazilians, you know? It’s delicate work. And oh my god he was so thorough. Light hands, like feathers. Kinda soothing, actually.”

He’s blinking at you like he’s buffering. Like his brain just short-circuited.

“Wait. Hold on. A guy waxed your entire—” He waves vaguely toward your lower half like his vocabulary’s given up. “Down there?!”

You shrug, completely unbothered. “Mhm. He even complimented me. Said I had very ‘cooperative skin.’ Isn’t that cute?”

Seungcheol shoots up to sit fully upright, eyes bulging. “Cooperative skin?! WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

You bite your lip to stop from laughing. “It means I didn’t flinch or move. He was really impressed. Very gentle. Like his hands were magical. Want me to call and get you a slot?”

Seungcheol looks personally victimized.

“You’re joking.”

You smile sweetly. “Want to see? He did such a good job—”

“NO!” he yells, lunging for a pillow and smacking it against his face. “NO, I DON’T WANT TO SEE, WHAT THE HELL, BABY—”

You finally crack, bursting into laughter so loud it makes the lamp shake.

“Oh my god—your face!” you wheeze, flopping over dramatically onto his lap as he groans into his hands. “You looked like you were about to file a police report!”

“I ALMOST DID!” he shouts. “WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY BLOOD VESSELS I JUST POPPED?!”

You’re laughing so hard now you’re crying, clutching your stomach as he glares at you.

“I was this close to showing up to the salon, flipping over the reception desk like ‘WHERE’S GENTLE HANDS?!’”

“‘Where’s Gentle Hands!’” you repeat, howling. “That sounds like a mob boss!”

“You’re insane,” he grumbles, covering your face with a throw pillow as punishment. “You’re lucky I love you.”

Still giggling, you peek out. “Love me enough to help me moisturize my cooperative skin?”

He groans, gets up, grabs another pillow, and throws it at you.

“You’re banned. No more waxing appointments without adult supervision.”

He’s still glaring at you, pillow abandoned somewhere on the floor, his arms crossed and jaw clenched like he’s fighting the urge to combust.

“Oh, it’s so funny, huh?” he bites out

You wipe a tear from the corner of your eye, your grin stretching ear to ear. “I mean… a little. Just a teeny bit.”

He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to calculate whether he’s mad or just irrevocably in love with you. “I endured years of you arguing with me about everything under the sun,” he starts, pacing now like he’s testifying in court. “Before we even dated. Before I could kiss you to shut you up. Before I could call you mine when you were out here being stubborn for sport.”

You snort. “I was not stubborn for sport.”

He ignores you. “You’d correct my essays, roast my fashion, roll your eyes at me so hard I could feel the breeze—”

“Because you wore neon socks to an actual class presentation.”

He whirls around, ignoring the interruption like a true professional. “—and I endured it all. You know why?”

You blink, smile faltering just a little. “…Why?”

He points at himself with both hands. “So no other guy gets to just—” and then he pauses, looking utterly offended as he motions vaguely in your direction like your entire existence is too holy to even describe, “—all of this. Absolutely not.”

You burst out laughing again, nearly falling off the couch. “So you’re telling me… you suffered through my sass just so one day you’d have exclusive rights to my bikini waxes?”

He stops pacing. Blinks. Tilts his head. “…Yes.”

You’re on the floor now, actually wheezing. “That is the dumbest, most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”

He huffs, hands on his hips. “You think I was gonna let gentle hands the rsthetician waltz in and touch what I’ve literally bled on the soccer field for?! My prize?!”

You gasp between giggles. “Your prize?!”

He crosses the room in two long strides, grabs a blanket, and tosses it over your head like he’s done with your chaos. “Court is adjourned. You’re in timeout.”

You peek out, still laughing. “You’re ridiculous.”

He sits beside you, smug and slightly red in the ears, arm slung over the back of the couch. “You love me.”

You nudge him with your foot. “Unfortunately.”

He turns, eyes gleaming. “So… there was no Gentle Hands?”

You grin, leaning close. “No Gentle Hands.”

He exhales in relief, then squints. “It was a woman, right?”

You pause. Then smirk. “Nope. It was a robot. Future tech. Laser hands. Very gentle. Super efficient.”

His mouth opens. Closes.

“…You’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Still worth it.”

=

Like most couples, you do get into arguments. Like today, it started with something dumb. Most of your fights do.

Something about the laundry. Or his wet towel being on the bed again. Or you leaving your half-full coffee mugs in random corners of the apartment. 

The kind of thing that escalates not because it matters, but because you’re both Leos. Two overly dramatic, overly expressive, overly passionate fire signs locked in a tiny apartment with too much pride and not enough chill.

So when voices rise, hands get flaily, and the “Oh, you’re really doing this right now?”s start flying you know it’s about to be one of those nights.

And true to form, neither of you backs down.

You huffed, “Fine,” and grabbed your blanket and stormed off to the couch like you were doing him a favor.

He stood in the kitchen, jaw clenched, arms crossed, mumbling under his breath like a sitcom husband—“Unbelievable. All this over a towel. A damn towel. I dried my hair with it, not set the apartment on fire—”

You waited, expecting the usual rhythm: you cool off, he cools off, one of you mumbles something semi-sincere and the other reluctantly folds.

But tonight? You were not folding.

And neither was he.

At least, not right away.

The night stretched on.

You laid stiff on the couch, scrolling your phone, blanket over your shoulder like a shield. You weren’t crying or anything this wasn’t that kind of fight. It was the principle of the thing. The stubborn Leo principle.

The apartment stayed quiet.

No footsteps. No fridge door. No sneaky tiptoeing into the living room to nudge your foot and say, “You coming to bed?”

Fine, you thought. Two can play this game.

But sometime past midnight, your eyes grew heavy. Your phone slipped from your fingers. You drifted off, frown still slightly on your face, curled up awkwardly on the too-narrow couch.

Seungcheol was in the bedroom, pacing. Definitely not sleeping.

He kept glancing at the door like it would open itself and you’d walk in, dramatic sigh and all, whispering, “It’s cold without you,” and make this easier.

But it didn’t.

And you didn’t.

Eventually, the silence started gnawing at him. That’s the thing about being mad at you, he always ends up missing you mid-argument. It’s infuriating.

He poked his head out, expecting maybe you’d moved… but no. There you were.

Blanket sliding off your shoulder, legs dangling off the couch, mouth slightly parted in sleep, as if the couch was the battlefield and you’d fallen mid-stand.

He sighed, ruffling his hair. “Of course you fell asleep out here. So dramatic,” he muttered.

But the worry was already creeping in.

He padded out, gently crouched beside the couch, and stared at your sleeping face for a second. Your lashes fluttered, cheek smushed against a throw pillow, face still in that half-pout from earlier.

God, you’re cute when you’re mad.

Even cuter when you’re fake-mad.

He reached out, brushing your hair back, voice low. “Hey. Come to bed.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t stir. Or maybe you were pretending not to hear him just to prove a point. You would.

He hesitated. Then sighed again. And finally he folded.

Like he always does.

He reached under you carefully, lifting you with practiced ease. You grumbled something incomprehensible and shifted in his arms, nose scrunching at the sudden movement.

He smiled. “Yeah, yeah. Keep acting like you don’t love me.”

You were still half-asleep, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like muscle memory.

By the time he tucked you into bed, blanket pulled over your shoulder just right, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, brushing his thumb over your cheek.

“Still mad at me?” he whispered, lips brushing your skin.

You mumbled something.

He leaned closer. “Huh?”

“I said,” you slurred, barely conscious, “don’t ever put a wet towel on the bed again.”

He choked out a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

And even as you dozed off again, triumphant in your victory he curled in beside you, grinning to himself because even when you're mad… you still ended up in his arms.

The room is dim, the only light a soft glow from the hallway spilling through the cracked door. You’re warm now, blanketed in more than just the comforter his arms wrapped around you, chest rising steadily beneath your cheek, steady and solid like home always is when it’s him.

You’re already half-asleep, body still limp from the move back into bed. You hadn’t even opened your eyes when he laid you down, just grumbled something about “sabotage” when he tried to take off your socks.

But even then, even with your pride still faintly bruised and your mouth pouting in sleep you stayed close. One leg draped over his, your fingers still tangled in the hem of his shirt like your body knew better than your ego.

And Seungcheol doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at you in the quiet for a bit. Brushes your hair off your forehead. Watches your lips twitch and shift like you’re dreaming of arguing with him even there.

He sighs, but it’s not exasperated. It’s soft.

Then, his voice, low and warm in the stillness:

“I love you.”

You don’t respond right away, but he knows you heard it. Your brow twitches, lips parting like your brain’s slowly wading through sleep to send the message back.

And sure enough, a few seconds later, you murmur it hoarse and quiet, barely there.

“I love you too.”

It’s like breathing. Even after a stupid fight. Even after the eye-rolls and pettiness and temporary exile to the couch. It never changes.

You never sleep without saying it.

No matter how tired, no matter how stubborn, no matter who folded first it always ends the same way.

I love you.

He shifts a little, pulling you closer, nose brushing against your temple. “You were being impossible.”

You mumble into his shirt. “You left a wet towel on the bed.”

He chuckles. “So that’s what’s gonna haunt you in your sleep tonight.”

You nod, eyes still closed. “Every time I think about how damp the comforter felt, I lose a year off my life.”

He laughs again, pulling the blanket higher around you both. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re lucky.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead one last time before settling in beside you. “I really am.”

[sereia4skz]

congratulations on 2K!! very much deserved and I am loving your writings :))

for the event, maybe hc’s/drabbles of ot8’s (or if not ot8 maybe Changbin, Lee Know, Bangchan, and Innie- but totally up to you!!) reaction to them accidentally snapping/scratching at reader while they’re in a mood when reader is just trying to help/tend to them?

angst/comfort or whatever you find yourself inspired by- I love reading your new posts either way!! :))

2k Followers Event | hurt in the sanctuary

pairing: ot8!stray kids x fem!reader

synopsis: working with magical creatures, especially rescues, is a huge task...

warnings: naiad!chan, naga!leeknow, oni!changbin, dryad!hyunjin, pixie!han, mermaid!felix, elf!seungmin, kitsune!jeongin, angst, wounds, unintentional violence, comfort (for some), ambiguous endings (some)

event masterlist: #2kShootingStars

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AN: hehehe i hope this has some tear gearing up

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naiad!bangchan - quiet sorrow | comfort

The spring where he usually waits for you is restless, ripples dancing too fast, too sharp. You kneel anyway, setting down your satchel of healing salves. Chan's been quiet for days, distant. You suspect something’s festering, a wound deeper than skin.

“Let me help?” you murmur, kneeling beside the pool. Your hand finds the scar at his ribs, a puckered wound that refuses to fade.

But the moment your fingers brush skin, water explodes between you, defensive, violent. A liquid shield.

You stumble back, soaked to the bone.

His eyes go wide. “Wait, I didn’t mean to push-”

You force a smile, heart thudding, fingers shaking from cold and the jolt of fear. “It’s okay. I know you didn’t.”

Later that night, your room smells faintly of river moss. By your bed: stones arranged in a perfect spiral, and a note carved into driftwood:

“You never deserved the weight I carry.”

naga!leeknow - early days, sharp edges | open ended

The atrium is hot and quiet, full of light and dust motes. You’re adjusting a sunlamp for a heat-loving herb when you feel a sharp knock to your hip, Minho’s tail, swinging defensively, striking fast.

The pain is immediate, a bloom of ache in your ribs. You stumble into a stone basin, wincing.

Minho freezes mid-coil. “I didn’t know you were there.” His voice is tight, low. “Why were you so close?”

“I was doing my job…” you reply, not quite hiding the way your voice quivers.

He approaches with care, hand lifting toward you... and you flinch.

The movement is instinctual, but his hand drops immediately.

His eyes shutter. “...I’ll finish the lamps.”

He leaves you there, in golden light and silence, the sting in your ribs nothing compared to the bruise blooming in your chest.

oni!changbin - strength he can’t soften |comfort 

You were just helping restock crates, herbs and water skins, nothing dangerous. But when you tripped on a root, you reached for the nearest thing.

Changbin’s hand met yours. His grip was meant to steady. It wrenched instead, your wrist twisted awkwardly and pain flared.

You yelped.

He went pale immediately, dropping everything. “Wait did I-? Shit. Give me your hand.”

You tried to wave him off, but he was already holding it like it was made of glass. His massive frame hunched small. “I didn’t mean to, god, I didn’t even think, I was just trying to catch you-”

“It’s okay,” you whispered.

He shook his head, brows drawn tight. “I’m always too much.”

That night, you found a tiny wooden carving beside your pillow: a little pig? a bunny?... its cute

dryad!hyunjin - silence and thorns | guilt

It started with an argument, brittle and bitter. Something about him disappearing too often. Something about you always chasing after.

“I never asked you to follow,” he snapped, turning his back to you. His voice was like wind slicing through reeds, sharp and tired.

He walked into the woods, not checking if you followed. But you did. Of course you did.

The trees thickened. Fog pressed low. He faded into the forest like mist, and when you called his name, nothing answered. Hours passed. Your legs ached. The cold crept into your skin.

When he returned, it was only because someone else noticed. Seungmin said you hadn’t shown up for evening rounds.

He found you curled under a twisted tree, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes distant and voice hoarse.

He knelt beside you, petals falling from his hair.

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind,” he whispered.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t flinch when he touched you. But you didn’t lean in, either.

pixie!han - wild magic | apologies

It was a stupid argument. Something about boundaries, about you asking him not to keep skipping his healing sessions. His wings sparked with irritation, magic buzzing around his skin like static.

“You’re not my keeper,” he hissed, voice sharp and raw.

Before you could reply, the air cracked, magic spiraling wild and hot, pressure building like a storm.

You were lifted off your feet. Slammed against the infirmary wall with a painful thud.

Silence fell like glass breaking.

Han hovered, frozen midair. “No. No, no, no. I didn’t-” His voice broke as he floated down, barely breathing. “Please say something.”

You pushed yourself up, too stunned to speak.

Later that night, your bruise was gone. You hadn’t healed it.

Your window was cracked open, and a trail of glowing pixie dust glittered across your desk.

mermaid!felix - fear of waters | angst

You’d seen the injury along his ribs, the sluggish flick of his tail. But no matter how many times you called his name, Felix stayed in the deeper end of the pond, arms wrapped around himself, shaking his head.

You hated the water. It didn’t love you back.

Still, you stepped in, barefoot, careful, heart hammering. “Lix, please. Let me help you.”

His eyes widened. “No- stay back!”

You stepped again.

His tail lashed out. Not at you, just the water. But it was enough.

The wave hit your chest and you slipped, plunging beneath.

You came up gasping, sobbing. Cold. So cold.

And then arms. Warm and shaking. Pulling you from the water, wrapping you in his own soaked cloak.

His hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

You looked up through wet lashes to find his eyes full of horror.

“I hurt you,” he mouthed. “I hurt you.”

You were too breathless to say anything.

elf!seungmin - sharp tongues and colder nights | angst

He hadn’t meant to be cruel.

But your concern, the way you pressed, cut through his already fraying patience.

“I don’t need coddling,” he said, voice like snapping twigs. “You’re not helping. You’re just getting in the way.”

You stared at him. “I was just trying to care.”

You left.

You didn’t come back the next day. Or the next.

On the third, he found your favorite mug untouched in the greenhouse.

The fourth, he left tea on your doorstep. No note. No words.

The fifth, he sat beside your door, arms around his knees.

When it opened and you appeared, tired, hollowed, he stood, awkward and uncertain.

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back,” he said.

You didn’t respond.

kitsune!jeongin - overwhelming illusions | comfort

It had started as a game. You brushing his tails. Him squirming under your touch, laughter lighting the air.

But he was growing. Maturing. His spirit flickering between forms. And suddenly, one laugh twisted sharp, and you weren’t in the sanctuary anymore.

The world turned wrong. The room melted into shadow. Shapes whispered and walls bled into trees. The illusion trapped you, panic setting in.

You screamed his name until you burst through the veil.

He was waiting just beyond, still mid-shift, ears flicked back and eyes huge.

“I-I didn’t mean to keep you in there. I lost control-” He looked like he might bolt.

You stood shaking, then walked forward. You pressed your forehead to his. His breath caught.

“You scared me,” you whispered.

“I scared myself,” he admitted.

Then he nuzzled his cheek against yours, tails wrapping around you like an apology.

━━━━━━━━━━━━⋆｡°✩

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[st4rofeden]

Phainon flirts like he's been hired by the stars to make you swoon before dinner. he'll stop mid battle just to say something like, “If I die today, let it be known it was after seeing the angle of your smile. Tragic, but worth it.” He says things like “My heart trembles like a violin every time you breathe,” and he's not kidding. every sentence is dripping in sugar and sin, but beneath the playful glimmer in his eyes is a heat that makes your throat catch. he'll twirl a flower into your hair without warning, then press his forehead to yours and whisper, “I’d let kingdoms fall if you told me it made you smile.”  half the time you're laughing, half the time you're too stunned to reply, complimenting him with a smile— he'd gasp when you flash a subtle smile to him, like he had been shot and approved by Mnestia, now he's the one swooning over you. and if he ever thinks he's losing your attention? he'll kneel infront of you while holding your hand like its a sacred duty and say, “If I must compete with the world for you... then let the world prepare for war.”

So yes. Phainon flirts like he’s writing poetry during an eclipse.

And somehow—it works.

Anaxagoras flirts like a man who read six romance novels and decided to try a thesis on them. he hands you a graph titled “Increase in Heart Rate When You’re Nearby” and genuinely believes this is romantic (…it kind of is). you'll be sitting together quietly, and he'll murmur:

“There is a gravity to you. Like celestial orbit. I find myself returning, again and again, no matter how far I calculate escape vectors.” you laugh. he looks mildly concerned. "That was a metaphor. Did it… fail to translate?" he'd be memorizing the exact angle you tilt your head when curious , bringing you three types of tea just to test which one best stabilizes your mood patterns, staring at you like you're a philosophical riddle he never wants to solve. and sometimes… just sometimes… he stammers. when you look too pretty. when you call his name. when you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“I—ah. Yes. That… was also... emotionally significant.”

you're pretty sure the next paper he submits to the Grove will be titled about “Love As Quantum Entanglement.”

Mydeimos doesn’t mean to flirt half the time— but he's stupidly good at it. he'll hand you a drink and say, “Eat something. You skipped lunch. Again.” like it’s a threat and a love confession. is there the word 'flirting' in the kremnoan language? soon. for now he just… protects. offers you the bigger portion of food. ghosting his hand on your lower back in crowds, giving death stares for as long as possible to anyone who dares interrupt you looking at the cafe menu, even when you've been staring for almost 10 minutes, the waiting line is already long yet he stares sharp, but when you turn your attention to him, he's already looking at you like a lion cub. he ruffles your hair when you take the petal off his face. but every action towards you is deliberate, lowkey, intimate.

like he's memorized your habits in no time. his voice is always low, steady. It's not about what he says— it's how his smile curls sideways, his hand faint but lightly lingering on yours. if you tease him, he'll raise an eyebrow, while muttering something like “don’t start,” but the tips of his ears go pink. it’s devastating. soft and low, one sentence while you're half-asleep against him, “I’d tear the world apart if it meant you’d sleep safe.” that's Mydeimos flirting. by being your shield—and daring you to fall for him without ever asking.

[headdinthewall]

PERFECT ── g.clarke ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

summary : you and george meet at an influencer event in paris and spend the rest of your holiday messing around a/n : sorry i’ve been gone for so long i’ve just had no motivation to write anything lol. this one’s a request & it’s quite long x content : suggestive content ,, sneaking around ,, mostly fluff

─────── YOU’D BEEN FLOWN out to Paris on behalf of a sponsorship amongst other British influencers. It was awkward at first, not knowing anyone there, but you swiftly made friends with the girls — Flo and Liv — and were then introduced to the guys on their behalf.

What you didn’t know was that the guy you’d been eyeing (and he’d been reciprocating) across the bar was associated with your new friends.

You’d been slowly sipping a strawberry daiquiri, eyes flickering over to the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

Though the lights were dim, you could see his piercing, electric blue eyes focused on you. He had a waterfall of curls on his head, once perfectly styled mullet was now slightly messy, which somehow made him all the more attractive.

He was drinking a beer, taking periodic sips as he laughed with his friends, periodically meeting your eyes through the crowd of people.

When Liv came up to you with her bubbly greeting and gesturing for you to join them, you nodded.

“This is Isaac, Arthur, Flo — you already met — and that’s George.”

You smiled, introducing yourself to them all with little hugs, but you felt something linger in George. Maybe it was his hands around your waist or just the sheer tension and energy between the two of you, but it made your heart threaten to break down your rib cage and leap from your chest.

After a while, you split from them, returning to the bar to order another drink, unaware that George was following behind you.

You felt a soft, gentle hand on your hip and then he spoke low on your ear, “Can I get you a drink?”

Once you’d gotten over how flustered you were, you replied, “I already ordered one, but thanks for offering.”

“Can I buy your next one?”

You smirked, deciding to be a bit bold, “Trying to get me drunk?”

His eyes widened, “No! No, not at all, sorry if it came across that way.”

“Relax, I was messing with you.”

“Right.” He nodded, “Just wanted to do something nice for a pretty lady.”

“Just pretty?” You teased, raising your eyebrows.

“Well, I wanted to say gorgeous but it seemed a bit too bold.” He chuckled.

“Nothing too bold about complimenting a woman.” You shrugged, thanking the bartender as your drink arrived, “Unless you follow it up asking for sex.”

George burst out laughing, “That’s a wild thing for someone to do.”

“Yeah.” You hummed, holding eye contact while taking a sip, “Wild.”

He met your gaze, eyes holding the same taunting, heated energy that yours did.

─────── THE AIR WAS thick and heavy, making it difficult to breathe — and that’s not just because your face was previously buried in George’s hotel room pillows. The lust-filled environment you’d created was incredibly overwhelming whilst simultaneously being incredibly sexy.

You laid beside him, staring at the ceiling while panting and recovering from the tasteful peak you’d both reached together.

He broke the silence, “What do you want to do tomorrow?”

You blinked, turning your head to look at him, “… Sorry?”

“Tomorrow.” He reiterated, “You’re here for the same amount of time as us, right? I’ve got no plans with the other guys, so … what do you want to do?”

“I dunno, what is there to do here?” You shrugged.

George pulled up his phone, researching some places to go in Paris.

“We could go to Montmartre.” He suggested, toying with his moustache with his free hand.

“Where?”

“Montmartre, it’s apparently a village on top of a hill.”

“Yes, George, brilliant idea, take me somewhere that I can’t pronounce.” You giggled.

“I don’t even know if I’m saying it right.” He put his phone back on the bedside table as you sat up.

His hand danced across your bare back, tracing your spine with light touches. You looked back over your shoulder with a dazed smile, absorbing his relaxed and comfortable manner.

“I should go.” You reluctantly whispered.

He hummed, but it was like he wasn’t really considering your words, “Or you could stay.”

“George—“

“You can sleep in one of my shirts, or naked, both is good.” He proposed, “Just … spend the night, yeah?”

“And in the morning?”

“I’ll walk you back to your room, wait for you to get ready, do your makeup — even though you don’t need it.”

“Aren’t you a flirt? Just met me tonight and already throwing in the big ones.” You snorted.

“Well, considering we just fucked, I think a compliment is the least I could do.” George said sincerely, hand still not having left your back, “Besides, who cares if we only met tonight? I can confidently, hands down say, you are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s a bold claim, Mr Clarke.” You smirked.

“Bold but true.”

─────── MONTMARTE WAS BEAUTIFUL. Thank god the weather was lovely otherwise it would’ve ruined the whole experience. You took a tour of the Sacré-Cœur, and he took some photos of you, then you went for a little walk around the village, trying your absolute hardest not to trip over the wonky cobblestone pathways.

You sat in a dainty, quiet cafe, having little conversations about the day and how it had been. There were multiple times where you both just sat in silence, staring at each other with blissful expressions and dilated pupils.

“George Clarke, I didn’t take you for a cafe-date type of guy.” You said, sipping your coffee.

“I am a man of many secrets and surprises.” George fluffed up his hair.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“What do you want to know.”

You thought for a minute, “Something you’ve never told anybody— or, like, something only a few people know.”

He rubbed his chin, sitting back in his chair while thinking deeply, “I don’t— Hm, no I cant say that one.”

You giggled at his little joke.

“Okay, so, I studied sports science at university.” He revealed, holding his hands out.

“Oh! Did you finish?”

“Last night? Yeah.”

“George!” You hissed, looking around to reassure yourself that no one had heard his little retort.

He barked out laughter, “No, um, I dropped out of uni. It just … wasn’t my thing.”

You nodded, understanding considering you knew a lot of people who dropped out.

yourusername posted a story !

‘i cant pronounce this place😵‍💫’

─────── GEORGE HAD RENTED a super fancy convertible for the night. You laughed as he drove through the streets of Paris, zooming past the canal and around the Eiffel Tower. You awed as you went past, looking back at him to see if he was seeing what you were — but his eyes were cemented to you.

You shuffled up out of your seat more so you could get a clearer picture, tucking your lip beneath your teeth as you focused. When you finally got the perfect shot, you were giddy, giggling to yourself and tapping your feet in the foot well of the car as you showed George.

“Good picture, but not nearly as beautiful as the one taking it.” He flirted, tucking your hair behind your ear and then zooming off.

You felt high on his affection and effort. You’d spent the whole day with him and not once did you feel upset or bored or uncomfortable. It was nice to go to a quiet place and not have to worry about being spotted or having cameras thrust in your faces — though you’d always secretly fantasise about that kind of life.

The two of you stumbled back into the hotel, hand-in-hand, cackling away. You received odd looks from some of the staff at the front desk, but it only made you laugh more. While in the elevator, he kissed you thrillingly.

You pulled away with a chuckle, pointing to the camera. He shrugged, not caring, and then hauled you over his shoulder, carrying you back to his hotel room.

George dropped you onto his bed and removed his jacket. You stared up at him, thumb nail between your teeth as you admitted him undressing.

Next was you, and he spared not a single inch of skin from his lips, making his way down your body. He looked up at you as he got between your legs, maintaining his steel gazed eye contact as he hooked your legs over his shoulders.

“Wait—“ You shot up just as he lowered his mouth, “What happens when we get back to England?”

George blinked, sitting up himself, “Whatever you want to happen. If you … want to cut me off and say ‘thanks but no thanks’ you can do that, but if you want to give this a real shot, I would be happy to try.”

“I—“

He silenced you with a kiss, “You don’t have to decide right now. Just … let me make you feel good, okay?”

You nodded, “Okay.”

[immaqulate]

after the tone | c.s

— chris sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: HEAVY angst, heartbreak, hurt (no comfot), raw emotional language, voice message format, denial, regret, unresolved tension, inspired by @strnilolover 's voicemail fic ! (ily)

Chris keeps leaving voicemails on your phone, thinking you just need space. He doesn’t know you’ll never call back.

Ever since the fight, Chris couldn’t stop leaving messages. Some were short. Some were angry. Some were soft enough to break your heart. But they all started the same way—right after the sound of her voice. The last real thing he said to her was mean. Sharp. Something he didn’t mean. And now, it’s the only thing echoing in the silence she left behind.

start voicemails — eleven (11) messages remaining…

*beep!*

Her voice still plays every time. Still cheerful. Still alive.

“Hi, this is Y/N! I can’t come to the phone at the moment, so please leave a message, and I’ll return the call ASAP. Thanks and have a great day!”

*beep!*

Voicemail #1

[March 2— 10:18 PM]

“Hey. It’s me. Um… I know you said you needed space, and I’m trying. I really am. I just… I miss you, that’s all. I walked past that bakery on Main—the one with the crooked sign and those stupid pink cupcakes you loved? Yeah. Thought about getting one for you.

Anyway… I hope you’re okay. You don’t have to call back. Just… wanted to hear your name in my mouth again.”

Voicemail #2

[March 5 — 3:02 PM]

“Your favorite song came on while I was driving. I nearly crashed pulling over because it hit so hard.

You always said it reminded you of us.

I didn’t get it before.

I do now."

Voicemail #3

[March 9 — 12: 41 AM]

“I’m drunk. Just gonna say it straight: I’m sorry. For the last fight. For the part where I told you I didn’t care. I didn’t mean it. You know I didn’t, right?

You were just standing there, looking so hurt, and I wanted to stop hurting too.

But all I did was make it worse.

God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Voicemail #4

[March 14 — 6:03 PM]

“You still haven’t listened to any of these, have you?

That’s okay.

I don’t really need a reply. I just need to feel like you’re still… somewhere. Like you’re still on the other end.”

Voicemail #5

[March 17 — 2:43 AM]

“I drove to your place tonight. I don’t even know why.

The lights were off. I sat outside for an hour, maybe two. I kept thinking your bedroom curtain would move.

It didn’t.”

(pause)

“Are you avoiding me, or are you gone?”

Voicemail #6

[March 19 — 11:09 AM]

"Matt asked me if i'm okay.

I told him yeah

I lied.

Voicemail #7

[March 24 — 9:28 PM]

“I started writing a letter to you. Like pen and paper. Like it was 1996 or some shit.

I don’t know what I thought I’d do with it. Mail it? Burn it?

Fold it up and bury it somewhere no one would find but you?”

Voicemail #8

[April 2 — 10:59 PM]

“Nick said I should stop.

Stop calling.

Said it’s not healthy.

Said you’re not answering because you’re not going to.

I told him he doesn’t get it.

But maybe he does.”*

Voicemail #9

[April 8 — 12:10 PM]

”…Your mom called me.

I thought she was gonna tell me off, or tell me to move on.

She didn’t...

She said you’d been sick. That you didn’t want anyone to know. Not even me.

And then—

God, I can’t even—”*

(sharp inhale)

“You’re gone.”

“You’re really… fucking gone.”

”…Why didn’t you tell me?”

Voicemail #10

[April 11 — 7:00 PM]

“I keep calling even though I know you won’t pick up.

I keep calling like maybe… I’ll hear your voice. Just once.

Like maybe heaven has voicemail, too.”*

(long pause)

“I would’ve held your hand through the worst of it, you know that?

I would’ve stayed. Every day.

I would’ve held your hair back. Slept in hospital chairs. Let you yell. Let you cry.

I would’ve loved you through the dying.”*

“But you didn’t let me.”

Voicemail #11

[April 20 — 3:33 AM]

“I had this dream where I walked into our old apartment and you were sitting there on the couch like nothing ever happened.

You looked at me and smiled. Said, ‘You finally came home.’

And I woke up crying.”*

(voice cracks)

*“I don’t know how to do this without you.

I keep trying. I promise I do.

But some part of me will always be waiting for a text back.”*

(softest whisper)

“God, I hope you knew how much I loved you.”

[End of saved messages.]

Chris never received a reply, but he wrote something anyway.

Dear Y/N,

I don’t know how to start this. You always hated when I rambled, and yet here I am. Writing a letter you’ll never read. Talking to you like you’re still going to roll your eyes and tell me to “get to the point.” But I don’t want to get to the point. Not when the point is you’re gone. I keep thinking about how much I didn’t know. About how you kept it all inside—how you made sure I was okay, even when your body was slowly turning against you. I would’ve held you through it. I would’ve slept in waiting rooms and memorized your med schedule. I would’ve read you books when the words got too blurry for you to see. I would’ve held your hand every second of the pain. But you didn’t let me. And I’m mad. I’m mad because I would’ve done it all without thinking twice. And I’m mad because you didn’t give me the chance. But I’m mostly mad at myself—for not seeing it. For thinking your silence was just distance instead of a goodbye. I call your phone more than I should. It still rings. That’s the worst part. It rings and rings, and then your voicemail plays—your voice, still soft, still alive, telling me to leave a message after the tone. Like you’re just in the next room. Like you might pick up if I say the right thing. I left eleven messages. Eleven pieces of my heart that you’ll never hear. But I had to say them anyway. I had to say something, or I’d collapse under all the things I didn’t get to tell you while you were still here. Like how I still sleep in your hoodie. The one you always said smelled like “home.” Or how I still make your tea the exact way you liked it—honey before the water, not after. Or how I bought that stupid pink cupcake from the bakery on Main and sat in the car crying because I realized I’d never see your face light up over frosting again. It’s the little things that kill me. You left a hole no one can fill.Not because you were perfect. You weren’t. You were messy and stubborn and sometimes too quiet for your own good. But you were real. You loved in quiet ways—folded socks, forehead kisses, standing on the opposite side of the street just to walk me home. You loved me even when I didn’t know how to love myself. And now you’re gone. And I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to be okay. But there’s no rulebook for this kind of grief. No step-by-step for how to wake up knowing you’re not in the world anymore. So I write. I talk to you. I close my eyes and pretend you’re still here. And if there’s any part of you still out there—floating in the stars or curled up in whatever soft place you believe souls go— then please just know: I loved you. I love you. I always will. And maybe one day I’ll learn how to let you go. But tonight? I'll let the voicemail ring again and i'll pretend you're just taking your time calling back

Love,

— Chris

i literally had to take a break while writing bc of all the crying

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[rafeslvbug]

Hi love!!! If you want to, how abt singer x rafe in the beginning of their relationship after she rejects him again and then collabs with another artist that makes rafe jealous but he says he won't give up on her??? Thanks!!!

(note: i changed it? i think, so it’s after they’ve broken up)

LOVE ME HARDER

the stage lights were dimmed, electric humming as you sang alongside the weeknd, performing in front of an audience with famous faces across the globe. you focused on the sound of your voice, your notes, the lyrics. not the man sitting on the table to the left. number 18. watching you with a fierce intensity.

not rafe.

“so what would i do if i can’t figure it out?”

“you gotta try, try, try again,” you sing afterwards, eyes darting anywhere but him. trying not to give him a reason to believe in the two of you again. but the camera kept panning to him, you saw his face on the screen on behind you, as if you didn’t already see it when you blinked.

“so what would i do if i can’t figure it out?”

“i’m gonna leave, leave, leave again.” this time you can’t help it. the way your eyes find his through the chorus, and he visibly flinches. it’s not a song about him, but in this moment it seems like it might be.

…

you shake hands absentmindedly, thank people as you pass them by for their kind words.

“we loved your performance!”

“you were amazing.”

“some performance out there, huh?” you freeze. adjust the strap of your dress. ten minutes since the end of your performance, since you’d changed and he’d tracked you down this fast. already waiting. “that doesn’t sound so nice..” you muse, turning around to face rafe. he’s leaning against the wall, fitted suit ironed perfectly, champagne glass in his hand. “no?” he pushes off. “it was good..felt a little targeted though.”

“well it wasn’t. it was just a song rafe,” you reply curtly. but it was. you know it was. unintentionally, but you still looked at him through it. “pretty accurate song.”

“i didn’t write it.”

“no but you sang it, you chose it.”

“so?”

rafe sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “what are we doing? me an’ you?”

“nothing. we’re broken up.” your eyes cstch glimpses of those around you, celebrities too engaged in conversation to notice you. thank god.

“but why?”

“you know why!” you snap, voice still hushed. “you accused me of cheating– more than once, and we never see eye to eye–“

“we could have fixed that,” he grits out.

“right well it’s not going to be done here,” you scoff. “so maybe just go, rafe, find someone else to talk to.”

“no. you said it yourself, i’ve gotta try harder? love you harder? fine.” he spits your words back out at you, the ones you sang while unable to look away from him. how you wished you had looked away.

“i said the song wasn’t for you,” you argue, though it’s a lie. it’s all a lie when it comes to him.

“bullshit. it was. but i’ll leave you to it anyways, just know that we’re not done.” and he’s gone. and you’re stuck standing there. accepting a glass of champagne, acting like he hasn’t just shaken you.

[lucy-literates]

Hey hunnn! Hope you re ok!!❤️❤️❤️

New ideea 👉🏻👈🏻👉🏻👈🏻

Yn goes in a bar to see her friends that also have biliard tables.

She S dressed in a top with deep neckline, pants that cover half of her ass and high heels because she just finished a dance class “fierce on heels” (she’s a pro)

She starts to play billiard with her girls and it’s super sluty in movements and se starts to see that Arthur Leclerc is staring at her a lot (while he was also playing at another table) and she invites him with the eyes to play with her (like looking at him, at the table, at him again) . He ask her “what happens if I win?”, yn “what do you want”, Arthur “a coffee ? Tomorrow?” , yn “what happens if I win?” Smirking, Arthur “what do you want?”, yn:”Dinner ? Tonight?”

And YN wins because Arthur can focus only on her ass so they go to dinner and after to a club and maybe they have sex in the bathroom, EXTRA SMUTTY PLEASE ❤️❤️❤️

Hope it’s not too long and too much to ask for ❤️🥲 you know I love you ❤️❤️

A/N: this is beautiful, thank you for this request. No request could ever be too long, the more detail=the better. Requests are open, I promise I will try to get to them faster. I’ve had to write this on my phone because I needed to return my laptop. Enjoy!

Game On

You’d just come from your Fierce on Heels class — sweaty, flushed, and still feeling the adrenaline high in your bones. Your friends had texted about meeting at the bar, and while you didn’t plan on staying long, the second you walked in, the vibe changed.

Dim lights. Loud music. Billiards. Boozy laughter.

And eyes. His eyes.

You hadn’t even ordered a drink before you felt someone watching you. You turned, slow and confident, and there he was.

Arthur Leclerc.

He stood at another pool table with friends, cue in hand, curls messy, eyes dark. But he wasn’t paying attention to the game. He was watching you — and not even pretending to be subtle about it.

You were still in your dance outfit: black high-waisted pants that barely covered your ass and a deep V halter top that clung like second skin. Add heels, and every step you took oozed confidence. You knew it. So did he.

You didn’t look away.

You grabbed a cue stick, rejoined your girls, and started playing. But everything about you screamed performance — the way you bent over the table, the way your hips swayed, the way you bit your lip while lining up a shot. And every time you glanced his way, Arthur was still watching.

He didn’t even pretend not to anymore.

So you held his gaze. Looked at him. Then the open space at your table. Then him again.

Invitation sent.

He crossed the room in seconds.

“Is that how you always play?” he asked, eyeing you up and down.

“Only when I have an audience,” you replied, straightening with a slow smirk.

He raised an eyebrow. “And if I asked to join?”

“I’d ask what you’re betting.”

Arthur stepped closer, dropping his cue to the table. “What happens if I win?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “What do you want?”

His lips twitched. “Coffee. Tomorrow.”

You grinned. “And if I win?”

He matched your smile. “What do you want?”

You stepped into his space, letting your chest brush his lightly. “Dinner. Tonight.”

Arthur blinked slowly. “Deal.”

⸻

It wasn’t even close.

Arthur tried. Really, he did. But the man could not keep his eyes off your ass. Every time you leaned over the table, swayed your hips, or arched your back, his game fell apart.

You sank the final shot with a playful wink.

He groaned. “You cheated.”

“Didn’t touch the table once,” you teased.

He stepped closer. “I mean you cheated with that.” He gestured to your body. “Unfair advantage.”

“Should’ve focused, Leclerc.”

He grinned. “It’s very hard to focus when your pants leave nothing to the imagination.”

You raised a brow. “Dinner?”

He gave you a look that was pure sin. “Let me change, and I’ll pick you up in twenty.”

⸻

Dinner was divine.

Candlelight. Wine. Soft jazz playing somewhere in the background.

Arthur was charm personified — smart, cheeky, and entirely too smooth for your own good. The sexual tension simmered between you like a spark waiting for oxygen. But neither of you moved too fast. Not yet.

When dinner ended, he leaned across the table.

“One more stop?”

You already knew what you’d say. “Lead the way.”

⸻

The club was loud, dark, and thumping with bass. You danced with your friends for a while, but your eyes always found Arthur across the room — watching, waiting, burning with that same intensity as earlier.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it.

He found you in the crowd, pulled you against him on the dancefloor, and wrapped his hands around your hips like he owned them.

Your body moved perfectly with his. You were still high from the rhythm, the teasing, the wine, the fire in his eyes.

“I’ve been patient,” he murmured in your ear, breath hot. “But I’m done playing.”

You turned in his arms. “Then stop playing.”

He growled under his breath and grabbed your hand, weaving you through the crowd.

And before you could process what was happening—

You were in the club bathroom. Door locked. His mouth already on yours.

⸻

“Fuck, you’re so sexy,” he rasped, pressing you against the sink. “Do you have any idea what you did to me at that table?”

You laughed breathlessly. “You looked like you wanted to bend me over it.”

“I still do.”

He kissed down your neck, lifting you onto the counter. His hands yanked your top down, baring your chest. You weren’t wearing a bra.

“Putain,” he groaned, mouth instantly closing over your nipple. You arched into him, whimpering, thighs squeezing around his waist.

He kissed lower — over your stomach, the waistband of your pants — and tugged them down along with your panties in one motion.

“Open for me,” he said, voice rough.

You did.

And then his mouth was on your pussy — hot, wet, desperate. He groaned like you were his first drink of water in days.

“Taste so fucking good,” he growled, tongue working tight circles against your clit. You were already close, grinding into his face, one hand in his curls, the other gripping the edge of the sink.

You came fast — and hard — crying out as your body trembled.

He stood and kissed you, moaning into your mouth, hands already unzipping his jeans.

“Condom,” you panted.

“Got it.” He rolled one on fast and slammed back into you, fucking you hard against the mirror.

You gasped — legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders.

“This what you wanted?” he panted. “To tease me all night so I’d fuck you in a goddamn bathroom?”

“Yes,” you moaned.

He laughed, dark and low. “You’re insane. Perfect. Mine.”

His thrusts got rougher — deeper — filth pouring from his mouth in French as he chased his high.

And when you came again, writhing and swearing under your breath, Arthur followed with a low, guttural groan, stilling deep inside you.

You both stood there for a moment, panting, flushed, wrecked.

Then Arthur kissed your temple. “Next time,” he whispered, “we’re playing strip billiards.”

Tag List:

@livelaughleclerc

@alexxavicry

@ariellovelynn

@linnygirl09

@softhyunieeee

@astrlape

[wosomikaela]

THE PASTRY OF LOVE PART 2

TRIGGER WARNING: bad writing, sexual themes

(Also sorry for the waiting I was finishing up my school so I didn't had much time to finish up.)

I quickly went to grab my charger and plug it in patiently waiting for my phone to wake up again. I was so eager to text Steph back even if it meant to admit that I did stalk her a little bit.

STEPH POV:

“I am telling you Beth I just freaked out.” I kept telling Beth for the fifth time as she asked me while I canceled the plans I had made with the hot café owner.

“But you should have seen her face, she got so sad after I told her. She looked like she was really looking forward to it. You should text her.” I rolled my eyes at her: “And how am I supposed to text her I don’t even know-” I was cut off by my phone lighting up with a notification from instagram. I usually turned it down but for some reason I opened this one. I was a new follower alert, nothing extraordinary but I stopped when my eyes landed on the name: “Holy shit!” I said as my phone nearly slipped from my hand.

Beth looked at me like I was crazy: “What is it?” I turned my phone screen her way and let her read the nickname: “Well, I guess she found you before you got the chance to complain one more time.” Beth laughed as she walked away with Mile following closely behind.

I quickly followed her back and texted her.

stephcatley: stalker much?

I waited for a few minutes for a reply but I was only left on read. Great, now I can’t show my face at the new favourite café ever again. I started to come up with some excuses I could use in front of the girls who actually want to go to the café after tomorrow's game.

y/nTorres: Hey, sorry my phone died. I am not stalking just….admiring.

I read the message and I could feel myself blush. I never got this feeling with a girl before, yet alone flirting with one. I took a deep breath in and decided to answer.

stephcatley: well, I am glad. I was just thinking about you. Sorry that I had to cancel our plans but Calvin needed me.

Y/N POV:

There it was. Calvin again. I didn’t know if it was her boyfriend, kid or some sort of animal. I was intrigued to find out but I stopped myself, what would she think of me if I just thought that she was single and her partner was an animal.

y/nTorres: I hope he is okay. We can always reschedule our plans

stephcatley: Yeah he is fine, we just went for a quick check up. And as for the plans I would like to try again.

Okay so check up, great that did not help me at all. I ran a hand through my hair and

sighed.

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

The next day when I woke up I had my phone still in my hand. I must have fallen asleep while talking to Steph. She was very funny and we talked for hours about my pastry and about her football career. From her messages I could feel her love for the sport and her club. I always liked people who had a specific passion for the job they do.

I did not tell her about me having tickets to her dame today and maybe I should not even go, it could seem that I am too eager to see her, which of course was true. I talked to Vanesa over the phone on my way to the stadium telling her all about Stephs and Is conversation.

“I am telling you Calvin is either her child or her dog.” Vanesa tried to ease my nerves about Steph having a boyfriend.

I sighed: “I will talk to her about it, maybe if I get a chance to see her, where are the seats you said again?”

“Right next to the entrance onto the pitch, people call it a tunnel I think. Anyways I have to go have a nice game experience.” She replied and hung up on me. God this girl had even less idea about football then I did.

I put my phone into my pocket and started walking towards the stadium, it was bigger than what I expected and also more crowded then I imagined. I took a deep breath in, scanned my ticket and went to find my seat.

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

The team Arsenal played against was quick but I could see the arsenal girls being quicker, sharper and overall more prepared than the other team. I couldn’t believe how much fun I was having, between cheering and clapping when Beth scored to just being mesmerized by Steph herself. She looked anything but nervous, she was focused on the game, on the players in front of her. She looked great. Her sharp features were clearly visible as the sun shines onto her.

“First time here?” A woman next to me asked. I looked at her and frowned about how she found out: “You have the glow about you. You know the one where you see the game live for the first time.” she chuckled as I did the same.

“Yeah, first time at any football game actually.” I confessed.

“Yeah, now it makes even more sense, you are not even wearing any merch. Are you here just for fun or to see someone specific?”

“Oh, um…” I didn’t know what to say. Truthfully I was there to see Steph but we don’t know each other well enough for me to say that: “I am just here to…admire the view. I am new to London, so I am here to experience it all.” The woman didn’t look convinced enough but let it go as the final whistle was blown. All the fans started to hurry towards the barriers so they could probably get to meet their favorite players or maybe just to get a photo.

As I looked at the crowd I decided not to wait for Steph to walk towards the stands and maybe got the opportunity to talk to her due to the mass of kids in front of me. I quickly snapped a few photos and one of Steph sent it to her with praise of a great play.

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

Steph Pov:

We were celebrating in the locker room when I finally sat down after our game against Aston Villa. I had a few messages from y/n that I decided to look at. To my surprise it was a photo of me from this match which was weird. We talked almost the whole night last night and she never mentioned going to our match.

stephcatley: You definitely are a stalker now. Why didn’t you tell me you are coming? I would've found you in the stands.

y/nTorres: It was a surprise for me too, like I said, I never saw a football match. And to your other question…there were so many younger fans who wanted to meet you, I got scared I would get lost.

I chuckled at her response, she was probably around 175 cm tall she definitely wouldn't get lost. We exchanged a few more texts before I got pulled towards the middle of the locker room for the after match analysis, but not before agreeing to our baking session later tonight.

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

I was never this nervous going to a café, maybe it had to do something with a certain owner of this particular one. I didn’t know if this was a date or just her way of making friends. But I tried to calm myself down by saying that she definitely flirted with me.

I took a deep breath in and knocked on the door. Beth helped me pick up my outfit which was just classic blue washed jeans with a white short tee. I stood there for a few seconds before she opened the door greeting me with her warm smile.

“Hey come on in.” She said moving from the way opening the door more. The café looked even more cozy at night. The lights were dim and yellow was shining from them but it was still dark in there.

“I love the lights.” I said pointing towards them, she looked at me and nodded: “Yeah, it was my best friend's idea to put them like this. The shop shines even at night, she said it’s like my soul…still shining. I don’t know about that but, it was cute of her to say that.”

I smiled at the comment, her best friend was definitely a great person: “Well from what I've seen so far, she is right. So what are we baking?”

“Follow me, I will show you.” She took my hand and like last time she led me towards the back of her kitchen.

After she closed the door I was immediately met with a bunch of ingredients. Such as fresh raspberries, big blocks of butter and one big bowl of dough.

“Hope you don’t mind, I already made the standard dough but we are going to make one more for this don’t worry.”

I smiled putting my hair up into a messy bun: “All good, I can’t say I know much about baking so it is probably better than you did it before.”

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

Y/N POV:

Her saying that she was not a great baker made me frown: “Well, you are here to learn so come on.”

I walked towards the stove where I placed a big pot: “First we are going to make as I call it hot raspberries.”

She looked unsure about what I was talking about so I walked towards her taking her hand: “Here take this apron, we don’t want that white shirt to get red. That is the first step.” She nodded and quickly put it over her head and made a nice bow at the back.

I took her hand again and led her towards the pot: “It is simple, we just pour the raspberries into the pot and let them cook.”

“That simple?”

I chuckled: “Well we have to stir it so it does not burn.” She laughed and carefully started putting the raspberries into the pot. It was so cute to watch her being so careful about not hurting the berries even though it wouldn't do anything if she just threw them in.

“Now we just stir?” She asked, pulling me away from my thoughts. I nodded, handing her the ladle.

I was standing close to her now as we both watched the raspberries turn into thick liquid. We were occasionally talking but for the most part she was focused on her job.

“Now that it's done we turn off the stove and let it cool down for a bit.” She looked at me: “And until then we are going to do what?”

I sighed: “We are going to collect the flour from the back.”

ˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇˇ

We successfully made the raspberry dough without making much of a mess, and now she was just watching me roll it out.

“Now it’s your turn with your red one to come here.” I motioned for her to get in front of me.

“How do I do that?” She turned her head my way as I took her hands into mine slowly placing them onto the roller. My hands were covering hers as was also my body.

I gripped her hands and slowly started to move them, rolling out the dough: “You have to do it carefully but also you can’t be too gentle.” I tried to explain to her but I could feel her focus more on my face than the activity in front of us.

“What?” I asked, looking into her eyes as her head was turned my way. Our faces were a few centimeters away.

“I really want to kiss you right now.” She breathed out. It took me by surprise but I didn’t pull away from her. Instead I closed the small gap between us slowly kissing her lips.

They were soft and she tasted the leftover raspberries she ate while we were baking.

The dough was quickly abandoned as she turned in my arms placing them around my neck pulling me close to her as mine slipped around her waist.

I turned us around and pulled her up onto the other side of the kitchen placing her against the cupboard earning a small moan from her.

She deepened the kiss, slipping her tongue into my mouth as we fought for dominance which I quickly won. The only sound in the room was our heavy breathing, I didn’t know what had gotten into her but I knew I had to stop it before it turned into something more.

When I pulled away we were both trying to catch our breath, I looked at her softly but I could see some conflict in her eyes. As I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable I slowly put her down onto her feet.

“I…um. I am so sorry. I don’t know what got into me.” Steph started apologizing and putting the apron I gave her down. I frowned: “Hey, it’s okay I didn’t stop you either.”

She shook her head: “No, I can’t do this,you know I….I have to go.”

And before I could stop her she practically flew out of the kitchen and the café all at once. I was frozen in my spot looking at the kitchen door before looking at the unfinished croissants dough.

Maybe the pastry was my only love.

[raqqtsx0]

Hiii, i love the way you write!! i was wondering if you could do something with Shoto, like teaching him to play a video game? just some fluff (*＞∇＜)ﾉ tyyy!!

Tactical love. Shoto Todoroki

AN:(Heh first request kinda nervous 🥹😛.) Brooo idk what color to do for todoroki im sorry if it looks weird💔. i’m sorry if this isn’t what you requested or if you don’t like it.

word count 1.6k

……

You never thought the words “Shoto Todoroki” and “Victory Royale” would exist in the same sentence. Yet here you were, several hours into what started as an regular “let’s chill after training” hangout in your dorm, and he was currently squinting at the screen.

“What does this button do again?”

“Jump.”

“And this?”

“Crouch.”

“Why would I want to crouch?”

“So people don’t shoot you in the face.”

He stared down at the controller with a level of caution like it was going to explode. “This seems unnecessarily complicated.”

“You fight villains every day and this is what breaks you?”

“Villains don’t build staircases mid-battle.”

You started a match. He immediately landed off the map.

“Am I supposed to do that?”

“No, Shoto, no you are NOT supposed to skydive into the ocean.”

By the third round, he got killed by a bush camper. By the fourth, he accidentally grenaded himself. By the fifth, he didn’t know how to pick up a gun.

“Why won’t it let me take the weapon?”. “Because you’re trying to mine it with your pickaxe like a psychopath.” You were laughing so hard your stomach hurt.

He, on the other hand, was silent laser focused, jaw tight, eyes narrowed, and you knew that look.

He hated losing.

“Do you want to stop?” you asked, once he got knocked again.

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m going to win. Eventually.”

“It’s just Fortnite.”

“It’s not. It’s… principle now.”

You weren’t sure what was funnier the fact that Shoto Todoroki had declared war on a video game, or the fact that he still can’t aim. You ended the night with him managing to survive to top 10 while hiding in a bush the entire time. He was weirdly proud.

“That was strategy,” he said.

“That was cowardice.”

“Tactical cowardice,” he corrected.

You thought that was the end of it. You thought oh okay no more fortnite. You were wrong.

That same night barely an hour after he left your dorm your phone buzzed.

[Shoto Todoroki, 11:18 PM]

Are you online?

I want to try again.

[You, 11:19 PM]

Shoto it’s almost midnight.

You died to fall damage three times.

Go to sleep.

[Shoto Todoroki, 11:20 PM]

I watched some tutorials.

I think I understand now.

I won a solo match.

Come play duos with me.

You blinked.

“You WHAT?”

You joined his party just to see if he was lying.

He was not.

Bro had gone from complete disaster to cranking 90s, editing walls, and sniping people mid-air like he’d been playing since birth. “Did you sell your soul?” you asked, as he casually wiped out a whole squad.

“No,” he said. “I just… focused.”

“You died to fall damage.”

“That was before I learned how to sprint.”

“I’m scared of you.”

“I’ll protect you.”

You didn’t even have time to react to that because he boxed you in, dropped you a purple shotgun, and then took out two more enemies.

He was so calm while playing now. Too calm.

“They’re moving left,” he muttered into the mic, voice smooth. “I can push them. you can bait.”

“You are terrifying.”

“You said you wanted to teach me. This is your fault.”

Your friends started noticing, too. Kirishima joined one night and immediately went,

“Wait…. Bro, why is Todoroki lowkey cracked..?”

Todoroki just quietly replied,

“I’m learning fast.”

He wasn’t just good. He was pocket protector, god-tier, I’m only here to make sure you win good. He started dropping heals before you even asked. hes literally your fortnite boyfriend. He even knew your favorite loadouts and carried you when you lagged.

“I think he’s in love,” Kaminari whispered

“With Fortnite?” you asked

“With you, bro.”

You weren’t ready to unpack that, so you built a ramp and ran from it.

It became a thing. Every night. Eventually he stopped asking if you were free. Now he just sent one word messages:

“Lobby?”

“Drop?”

“You on?”

Until one night, after your fourth win in a row, you said, “You’re kinda pro at this…” And he smiled that soft, lopsided, only for you smile.

“I’m good because you taught me.”

“And because I like being on your team.”

Your controller nearly slipped out of your hands. You tried to play it off. “Guess we’re a good duo.”

“The best,” he said.

“In Fortnite?”

He looked at you.

“In everything.”

[gguk-n]

Beneath the snow (Snow Leopard!Kim Seokjin x Reader)

Summary- Sometimes you think you know your grandparents and than you realise you don't and you're now stuck with an expensive hybrid your salary can't afford.

Y/N's close to her grandparents. She spent enough summers at their place to know that a good chunk of her personality was because of them. She knew that as much as she might disagree with them; she loved them. At least that's what she thought as the guilt chewed at her. She had vowed to visit her grandmother more often after the passing of her grandfather; but here she sat as her mother texted her informing her of her grandmother's demise.

Everything after that announcement was a blur. She doesn't remember how she got to the funeral; how she got dressed or even read the eulogy she was asked to write. She could not recollect it for the life of her. She also didn't know her grandmother had a lawyer; albeit it was her childhood best friend. Her best friend read out the contents of the will. Everything moved in slow motion when her name was called out. Y/N had expected her grandmother to leave behind her pearl necklace she loved so much or her wedding dress that she had complemented more times than she can remember or that dress grandma got engaged in. She didn't expect to get left behind a full fledged living breathing being.

She was in shock when this being; Jin, they called him, came out. He had snow white ears and a tail tucked between his legs. He tried to exude confidence which he was failing at terribly. Y/N looked at him and blinked a few times before she left, without a word.

It took her a while to come back and sit in the same room as him and her best friend. There was no note, no explanation. Just a hybrid to care for and one might add a super expensive one. She wondered how her grandma afforded it him.

She left that room with a hybrid in tow. She didn't say anything. Extremely angry and annoyed at her grandmother. She went back to her grandma's place, in order for Jin to pack his stuff. She waited impatiently as he returned with a big bag of his stuff. She huffed at the sight and left the house, leaving him to follow her.

Y/N's grandma had warned Seokjin of Y/N's temper, so he wasn't as surprised. He followed her out and into her car. They drove back in silence, Y/N trying not to glance at him either; acting like he didn't exist.

At home, Seokjin had never felt this unwelcome. It took days before Y/N came around. She never apologised for her behaviour since she was still awkward around him. Y/N tried to come to terms with the whole ordeal when her best friend called her informing her of the yearly tax she had to pay. Y/N found herself staring at her bank account as she tried to wonder how she had pissed her grand mother off for punishing her like this.

Y/N found herself crying and asking her parents for help since even though she couldn't believe she had to pay this outrageous tax; she also couldn't let the last of her grandma's sign go. She tried to grapple with the reality that she would need two to three sources of incomes. That's when Seokjin came to comfort her and she pushed him away since he was the root of all of her problems. Yet, Seokjin sat there, being a comfort, just like her grandma did when she would cry but not ask for help.

Eventually, Y/N started to warm up to Seokjin as he would recount all the memories he had with her grandma. Y/N getting to relieve her grandmother's memories through Seokjin.

"I'm sorry I was mean" Y/N finally apologised after almost one year of living together. "It's okay. Your grandma had prepared me for that" Seokjin replied. Y/N couldn't help but laugh. "Was I that bad?" she felt herself shake her head. "No" Seokjin clarified. "You're just like her" he added. Y/N felt tears prickle her eyes and a lump form in her throat. "The reason she left me to you and not any of your siblings or your cousins was because she said that you were just like her. Prickly at first but the softest person once you came around. She promised me that you'd care for me like she did and would never make me miss her" Seokjin said. "But I didn't" Y/N quipped. "Yes, at first but now I feel like she never left" he said placing his hand on her chest "Since she lives within you" he finished. Y/N wrapped Seokjin in a hug; "Thank you for being there for her, when we weren't" she cried. Seokjin just rubbed her back; happy that everything his last owner said was true and that he was genuinely happy now as he was than.

[ddorizrem]

“the letter i wish i sent.”

mark lee x ex!fem reader

genre: angst, tw: might be sensitive for some readers (ed)

to: m9rklee99@gmail.com

[no subject]

hi.. honestly you don't even have to read this or reply to this but i just had to let it out somewhere. writing this is honestly really pathetic of me and i don't even know if i'll send it but i'm just gonna keep spiraling. i know you probably have me blocked on everything already, wouldn't be surprised if this was next. i wish i could've said more while you were here so i'll just say it now. my heart hurts so fucking bad, i'm not trying to throw a pity party for myself or anything but i genuinely feel like you ripped my heart out and threw it away. the whole day before you broke up with me, i couldn't eat, i was so nauseous and in my gut i felt like i knew it was coming. i know our relationship was never perfect, i know i was never a perfect girlfriend but i always hoped i was enough for you. when you came over and you were deadset on ending the relationship, there was honestly nothing i could say or get out of my system, after sitting on it for a while, i really wish you tried to fight for us. i wish i was enough to make you stay. i wish you loved the ugly parts of me and didn't give up when things got too tough. there are so many things i would wish for. there's probably never going to be a chance for us again, i know you didn't want to give me any hope last night but it's okay. i'll learn to accept it one day, but until then i'll continue to mourn the life we promised we would have together, the kids we said we would have, the pets we said we would take care of and so much more. i hope i stay as the girl who wrote you letters when you first started talking and made love real for you, i hope the memories of me in your life stay light hearted and something that makes you smile when you think about your youth, because i'll be thinking of you in that way too. you are someone i will always hold dearly in my heart, you were the one that helped me bring myself back to whole, even if you were also the one who broke me again. it only feels right to end us off with another letter from me. this is probably the last time we'll ever contact each other, or at least i'll contact you. i'll keep looking for you at places we used to go, you'll always be the first person i look for in a room and the laugh i'll always recognize from miles away. i hope you get everything you ever dreamed of and more, even if i'm not the one in them. thank you for the most amazing 1 year and almost 8 months of my life, i'll treasure it in my heart forever. i'll see you when i see you, take care <3

[kidspawn]

been trying and failing for a while now to write a fic where adam is a bartender at the swanky brunch place where the lynch brothers eat after mass and ronan is newly sober but insists on sitting at the bar drinking only orange juice and Not Looking at the cute bartender

needed to release this into the wild finally and felt like your blog was good place to do it ☺️

UGUYSUSUSUWUSUWU PLEASSSE I'M THROWING MYSELF INTO A WALL AT THIS IDEA P L E A S E??? God tell me everything i need to know let me be your yes man this is SUCH a good idea ahhhhhhhgggggggggg

- bartender adam oh my godddd

- sober ronan DRINKING ORANGE JUICE TO TALK TO HIM IS SO CUTE

- pls Declan having to observe his dork ass brother try and fail to flirt is everything to me

- anything with the Lynch brothers is crack to me rn

please share share share this is not only a safe space but an ENCOURAGING SPACE!? i love hearing people's fic/art ideas (even if i'm absolute garbage at replying promptly) its so delightful.

(thank you for bringing this here I feel so honoured tell me more now. but only if you want to. but please.)

[metallicames]

Hi I love your writing. I was wondering if you can write a fic where both James and Jason fall in love the reader. James and Jason met the reader separately on two different occasions. Both James and Jason don’t know that they fell in love with the same person. Whoever the reader ends up with is up to you. I’d love it to be angsty.

I admit... it took me a long time to write this story because I had too many different ideas... I hope you like how it turned out.

Between Two Fires

Warnings: just sweet love making, passionate kisses, a little bit of angst.

You have no idea how you ended up in this situation, it feels unreal, like something out of a movie.

It all started at that concert of some unknown band you didn’t even want to go to.

The venue was small, thick with smoke and sweat. Red lights pulsed in time with the drums coming from the stage, while the crowd’s screams blended with the guttural sounds of the amplifier. The smell of beer, leather, and sweat was everywhere.

But then he smiled at you: Jason.

You bumped into him at the bar while you were desperately digging through your bag for cash to buy a beer after the concert. He handed you his drink, laughing and saying: “Here, take mine. I overdid it. I don’t even know why I got another one.” Light eyes, long messy brown hair, a kind but shy smile. You introduced yourselves and started talking. At first, it was a bit awkward, but then you discovered you had so many interests in common: music, movies, the outdoors. He was like an open book, transparent and sincere. He made you feel safe, as if the chaos around you faded every time he looked at you.

After that concert, you went out a couple of times. Once to the movies, shared milkshakes and stolen kisses, tender and sweet. The next time, a long walk in the park with music blasting through your headphones.

Jason was sweet, a little clumsy at times, but always present. He was the kind of guy who apologizes just for brushing your arm for too long and who got worried if he sees you unusually quiet. Over time you started to feel comfortable, appreciated, and safe.

But then he came along: James.

You meet him one night at a friend’s house, one of those nights where no one really knows what they’re celebrating, but everyone drinks like it’s New Year’s Eve. And you’re no exception. While sipping yet another drink, you feel someone’s eyes on you. You turn around and see him staring at you from across the room. Tall, broad shoulders, worn leather jacket, and a dark look. He’s holding a beer, and when your eyes meet, something inside you freezes. He intimidates you, but instead of backing away, you find yourself moving closer without even realizing it.

There’s something magnetic about him. It’s not just his beauty, it’s…his intensity.

You approach him confidently, a confidence partly fueled by the alcohol.

You greet him. He doesn’t answer. He just gives you a small smirk, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, as if he’s mocking you… or tempting you.

“James” he says after a moment, in a low voice.

His tone is rough, as if he’s not used to saying his name, because really, everyone already knows it. And you do too. He’s James Hetfield, from Metallica.

“Nice to meet you... are you having fun?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though you feel tense and dizzy inside.

“Mmmh yeah. As long as there’s alcohol, you know.”

At first, he only replies with monosyllables. He’s not like Jason. He doesn’t make you feel safe, he makes you feel off balance.

He asks sharp, uncomfortable questions, the kind no one else would dare to ask. But he intrigues you and you realize you want to get to know him better.

Time passes, and you find yourself in the parking lot, sitting on the hood of a car while he stares into your eyes.

He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, every word is deliberate, every sentence has a purpose, it feels like he’s digging inside you.

Even though he’s clearly drunk, his eyes are scarily lucid.

He talks about music, anger, death, dreams.

And slowly, you begin to see something behind the tough-guy mask: a young man burning inside, a wounded soul who uses music as his only escape.

There’s a connection. Raw and visceral.

As if you’re two magnets drawn to each other.

The music from the party is distant now, just a blurry background you no longer feel.

While he talks, you can’t stop looking at him, your bodies getting closer and closer, a thick tension builds between the two of you until, suddenly, he kisses you.

He does it with urgency, without grace, without thinking.

His mouth crashes into yours, your tongues instantly tangling.

He sucks on your tongue, bites your lips, then your neck.

He presses his hips into you, pushing your back down onto the hood, his large hands gripping your hips with force.

He presses against you gently but firmly, as if he wants you to feel every inch of his body on yours.

You’re practically lying down now, with him on top of you.

You feel his erection against your thigh, hard, insistent and your body responds without filters.

You’re wet. That kiss has driven you mad, opened you up as if he’d already fucked you.

Every rub of his body against yours makes you vibrate inside.

You move against him, seeking him with your hips, as if you could take him like that, through your jeans.

His hands roam over your body, gripping your skin, pulling you closer.

His mouth tastes of beer, and his skin of something you can’t quite identify, but it drives you wild.

And just as you’re about to lose all control, a male voice calls out from a distance.

“Het!” the voice shouts irritably. “That’s my car, dick!”

You both pull apart instantly. You, with swollen lips, ragged breath, trembling legs. James turns to the guy without flinching, raising his hands in mock surrender, but with that cocky smile you’ve come to know is part of him. “Relax, man, I warmed it up for you.”

The guy shakes his head, muttering something unintelligible as he approaches the hood.

James looks at you again, his gaze suddenly a bit more serious. He leans into your ear.

“You’re dangerous, Y/N.”

“You are the danger” you reply, breathless. He chuckles softly, almost embarrassed.

You both move away from the car and spend a little more time talking, sitting on the sidewalk.

You tease each other, trade jokes, and every time he touches you - a hand on your knee, a finger tucking a strand of hair behind your ear - your body tenses.

Your thighs clench instinctively, as if to contain the desire still pulsing inside you, alive, insistent.

Then, out of nowhere, one of his friends shows up, completely drunk, stumbling toward you with a dazed expression and a goofy smile.

James stands, grabs him by the shoulder, laughs in his face, and tries to hold him up.

Before he leaves, he turns to you and slips something into your hand: a backstage pass, crumpled and a little sweaty.

“Promise me you’ll come” he says, with a look you can’t quite decipher.

You nod without thinking, maybe a bit too quickly.

Then he disappears. Lost in the crowd, swallowed by the noise of the party.

You stay there, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, your heart pounding, your mind clouded by alcohol, desire, and that strange euphoria he left on your skin.

You look at the pass in your hand.

And for a moment, you wonder if any of it actually happened.

Two days pass before you manage to think clearly.

The kiss, James, and his intensity still buzz inside you like a song you can’t stop listening to. But at the same time, you realize it was an instant of passion driven by alcohol and the thrill of the moment, and you start to feel guilty.

Then, just as you’re trying to rationalize it all, your phone rings.

It’s Jason.

“Y/N! You have to hear this! I auditioned… and I got in! I’m the new bassist for Metallica!!!”

Your heart stops.

“What???”

“I know, it’s crazy! I didn’t tell you anything because I wanted to surprise you. They contacted me through a friend if mine. I went, played… and boom! They want me on stage already next weekend!!! Madness! You’re coming, right? It’s my first concert with them… I can’t not see you there.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it for the world! I’m so happy for you.”

You say goodbye and with a sigh you lean your back against the wall.

You’re honestly happy for him, but inside you feel like a battlefield.

Jason. James. Metallica.

Neither knows about the other.

And now you’ll see both of them on the same stage.

One who looks at you with the sweet eyes of a boy in love.

The other who burns you with just a glance and gives you no certainty.

On the night of the concert, you’re in the crowd, squeezed against the barricades of the pit, practically front row.

Adrenaline is through the roof.

The crowd is wild, lights flashing, smoke filling the air.

Then you see them come on stage.

Jason looks for you almost immediately. He smiles at you. He’s visibly emotional and incredulous, like a kid living a dream.

His gaze is pure. Happy. Proud.

But your heart races when James appears.

Guitar slung over his shoulder, confident stride, sharp eyes under the red lights.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

But when he does, it’s like a punch to the stomach.

His gaze pierces you.

He recognizes you. He shows nothing on his face… but the corner of his mouth twists into a half-smile that seems to say: I know your eyes are only for me.

And maybe he’s right.

Because while Jason plays, you smile and get emotional but.. it’s James who leaves you breathless.

The concert ends in an explosion of lights and screams.

The crowd is delirious.

Jason jumps off the stage with the energy of someone who just touched the sky with a finger.

You’re there, still front row, hands sore from clapping, heart pounding, not just because of the music.

You slowly head toward the backstage, where the chaos is almost worse than in front of the stage.

Technicians rushing everywhere, cases and beers scattered around.

You make your way through the crowd, your pass swinging from your neck as you look for Jason, but it’s James you see first.

He’s sitting on a worn-out couch, a half-empty bottle in hand, sweaty and shirtless.

Around him, two girls laughing and getting too close, one sitting almost in his lap.

James smiles, but it’s a tired, dull smile, almost disinterested.

When he looks up, his eyes meet yours.

For a moment, he seems sober.

His eyes dig into you, but he doesn’t move.

No gesture. No words.

And in that moment, you understand.

He will never be yours. Not the way you want.

James is a fire, and you’re not made to burn forever.

You turn and walk away briskly, almost running.

And finally, you find him.

Jason is in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms, still holding his bass, sweaty and euphoric.

When he sees you, he smiles with that expression he’s always had just for you.

“You were amazing!! Really incredible.” you say to him enthusiast.

"I had so much fun! The best night of my life!" He flashes a bright smile like someone who knows they just achieved their dream.

You talk for a few minutes about the concert, but then he notices something different on your face and his smile falters soon after.

“Y/N… are you okay?”

You swallow hard. The lump in your throat is too tight.

But you can’t lie to him.

“Jason… there’s something I have to tell you. It’s important.”

He stiffens slightly, as if his body already knows.

But he stays still.

“Tell me.”

“A few weeks ago… before you knew about the audition… I… I met James. We kissed. It happened… and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jason doesn’t speak right away.

He turns to the side, leaning against the wall.

A long silence separates you.

“..James? Why?” he finally asks, voice low and broken.

“I don’t know… the alcohol, the party, the thrill of the moment…” You feel terribly guilty but he deserves the truth.

He doesn’t speak, just stares at the floor, then takes a sip of beer.

“Fuck… tell me it was just a kiss.” He raises his gaze and for the first time you glimpse anger.

“Yes… just a kiss. But it was… wrong. And I only realized it now. I actually want you. Because I like the person I am when I’m with you.”

He looks at you. His lips tremble slightly.

He takes a step toward you.

“It’s not easy to hear… you hurt me. But I want to believe you, I'm fallig in love with you Y/N..”

Then, in a gesture that seems like relief, he hugs you. Tight.

As if afraid you might run away again. And you stay there, in his arms.

You kiss.

This time it’s different from before, no longer tender and sweet, you feel the desire and let yourself be overwhelmed.

You end up in his dressing room, a small room dimly lit by a corner lamp.

There’s still the smell of the stage, sweat, adrenaline.

At first, he’s a bit awkward.

He looks at you like he’s afraid of doing something wrong, like he doesn’t know where to put his hands.

“Are you sure?” he starts to say, but you stop him with a kiss. Sweet. Slow.

Your hands find each other, your mouths meet.

Every movement is an exploration.

No rush, no dominance. Only tenderness mixed with passion, and that silent desire to be close, to forget the rest of the world.

Jason’s fingers tremble a little as he pulls your shirt off, but then he looks at you like he’s never seen anything so beautiful.

You make love on the uncomfortable dressing room couch, bodies sweaty and tangled.

His forehead against yours, breaths seeking each other. It’s tender, but also burning.

You surrender to him as if you know, deep down, it’s the safest place you could ever be.

Your bodies intertwine in a deep, primal rhythm. His breath merges with yours as your movements grow more intense.

He holds you tight, as if wanting to imprint the memory of every touch, every moan onto you.

When it’s over, you stay there, lying down.

He strokes your hair silently. And in that moment, you feel grateful. For him. For forgiving you. For not making you feel guilty.

You want to tell him, but you remain silent.

Then, suddenly, a violent noise.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Three sharp knocks on the door.

So loud you both startle.

And then that booming voice.

“Newsted. To the bus. NOW!”

You recognize it.

James.

His voice echoes in the small dressing room like a gunshot. Authoritative. Impatient.

It snaps you back to reality.

Jason gets up. He says nothing, but you see a flicker of tension in his eyes.

You get dressed slowly without speaking, but before leaving the dressing room Jason kisses your temple, like to reassure you and that gesture says more than a thousand words.

He grabs a beer, says goodbye, and gets on the bus waiting in the parking lot to take them to the hotel.

James passes you by, you stop him, wanting to be clear even with him, even if maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

"Hey James… the other night, I know maybe you don’t even remember, but we messed up… actually, I messed up. I’m seeing Jason and…”

“Y/N… no need to justify yourself, I get it.”

He doesn’t show any emotion, doesn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing if he’s disappointed or angry. He’s like an enigma, as he has been since you met him.

“He’s a good dude, you know? I like him.” His voice, slightly slurred from alcohol, sounds sincere, but his indifference irritates you, and the words come out of your mouth without thinking. "Is that it? That was your idea of interest? A drunken kiss and then off you go chasing someone new..." You wanted a reaction, and you got it.

He steps closer, his presence towering over you.

"What the fuck am I supposed to do, huh? You spend the whole night talking to me, opening up… You tease me, let me get a taste and then tell me you're already seeing someone else? Fuck you." The tone of his voice makes you tremble.

He grabs your arm tightly, his lips now just inches from your ear.

“I just hope he doesn’t know he’s only the convenient choice…because I know what you really want Y/N” He whispers through gritted teeth before throwing you one last devilish glance at you and then boarding the bus with the others.

And you stay there, stunned.

A shiver runs through you, and that shiver, that slash of instinct that struck you like lightning, makes you realize you’re not free from his spell yet.

[riiceandsoup]

After the Silence

Chapter 4 – “Truth in the Gaps”

“She didn’t tell you, did she?”

The message sat on Suna’s screen like it had weight.

He stared at it, phone balanced on his knee, the room dim and quiet around him.

He read it three times. Didn't respond. Couldn’t.

His ears were ringing — not literally, but like something inside him was trying to scream.

Because if she didn’t tell him…

And there was something to tell…

Then what had he missed?

What had she been carrying, alone?

---

He typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

Tell me what you mean.

The reply came too quickly.

No. If you really care, ask her.

You don't get to play shocked after disappearing for months.

That one hit harder.

Because it was true.

He had disappeared.

Not because he stopped caring.

But because caring felt like a luxury.

And because being around Y/N — watching their marriage slip through his fingers while pretending it wasn’t his fault — had started to feel like bleeding out in slow motion.

But still… if what he suspected was real…

If she was—

No.

He wouldn’t think it.

He’d know.

---

[Y/N – Earlier That Day]

She couldn’t eat again.

The nausea had come back — sudden and unfair, after a full week of manageable calm.

She curled into the couch, her best friend beside her, rubbing small circles over her spine.

“Maybe it’s just the anxiety,” her friend whispered.

“Maybe,” Y/N croaked, “or maybe it’s guilt.”

“Don’t. Don’t go there again.”

“What if he finds out?” she whispered.

“Then he finds out. And you deal with it then.”

---

But Y/N’s stomach was already coiling.

Because for all her strength, there was a part of her that still feared one thing:

Being seen.

And worse — being asked, Why didn’t you tell me?

Because she didn’t have an answer that didn’t make her sound broken.

---

That night, she wrote again.

A shorter letter. The kind you write when you’re too exhausted to bleed more words.

---

Rin,

Every day I make the choice not to tell you.

And every day it costs me something.But I can’t undo what you already decided. I won’t crawl back to you with news that should’ve been shared in joy.

You don’t get the joy. You gave that up.

I’m learning how to be two people — for me, and for them.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

—Y/N

---

She didn’t fold this one.

She just tucked it into the drawer, slowly, like it might explode.

---

[Suna – Later That Night]

He opened her contact.

Typed.

Paused.

He didn’t want to ask.

Didn’t want to know.

But he also couldn’t sleep with this gnawing in his gut.

Finally, he sent it.

Are you pregnant?

The moment it delivered, he regretted it.

He waited.

Five minutes. Ten.

No reply.

Until —

Typing...

Then it stopped.

No message.

No response.

Just silence.

---

End of Chapter 4.

MASTERLIST • PREVIOUS • NEXT

Taglist!!(open)

@wolffmaiden @moochiwoochi @lover-of-books-and-tea @mizxuqii @amandasc3 @yumiestarr @yshzai07 @peteunderoos

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part thirty-three

Coming up for air from my other one shot idea for today's Gambit update as promised 🤭

Warnings: our usual angst but more about r's father that is 🫣, bits of fluff here and there, local cops being local cops, that's about it i think

Hotch knows this is inappropriate. He knows this is so beyond unprofessional. He knows a “no fraternization” seminar is certainly in his future if this goes any further.

But when he sees you lying there, sleeping soundly, he can’t bring himself to care. He’ll deal with Strauss, with HR, with anyone who tries to make this something it isn’t.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking ahead like this — because the two of you haven’t talked. Richard Monroe turned up dead, the unsub left the body outside your old school, and you had (and fought off) a panic attack and somehow remained standing. You have no idea how strong you are.

Hotch tucks the blankets better around you before forcing himself to sit in the desk chair and go over some files while you rest. Rossi texts him updates from the precinct — nothing viable — and not-so-subtly asks how you’re doing.

She’s sleeping, Aaron types back with a slight eye roll. Dave certainly gets even nosier with every passing day.

How did you manage to do that? is Dave’s reply.

Aaron turns his phone over and doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks over his shoulder to check on you, but you’re fast asleep, little puffs of air escaping your lips peacefully.

He turns back to his files. They’re coming up empty so far, and it’s starting to worry him.

Yes, the majority of these officers were raised here, but aside from some charges that have since been dropped and were clearly the result of teenage ambition, there is nothing untoward, nothing to suggest that one of them might know more than they’re letting on.

Frustrated, Aaron grabs his phone and steps outside into the hall, keeping the door open a crack, and his back pressed against it protectively. He dials Rossi.

“Aaron?” Dave answers.

Hotch keeps his voice quiet, “I’m not finding anything. Some vandalism charges from spray painting the playground, from egging a police officer’s car, all while teenagers. That’s nothing to write home about.”

“I agree,” Rossi sighs. “It’s the same here. Small things, no indicators of the kind of behavior we’re looking for.”

Hotch rubs his forehead. “We’re— We’re grasping at thin air, Dave.”

“We’re still missing something.”

“How can we be missing something still? After all this time?” Hotch fights to keep his voice low. “I can’t leave her alone. I’ve got a bad feeling.”

“I know you do,” Dave says quietly. “You sure it’s not mixed with something else?”

Aaron sighs. “I don’t know.”

“Have you two talked?”

“Yeah,” Aaron murmurs, a fond smile toying at his lips. “We have. But—” Your fucking raccoons interrupted us and she hasn’t acted the same since. “Obviously we were interrupted with Richard’s death, and…” He trails away, shaking his head. “Now isn’t the time.”

“Now might be the time,” Dave argues. “To let her know how much you care. How much you’re worried about her.”

“She knows, trust me,” Aaron says. “She was angry with me for making her get some rest—”

“You did spring that on her.”

“Because you know she wouldn’t have agreed if I tried to ask.”

“Maybe,” Rossi muses. “Or maybe you could try something new, try talking to her before making an executive decision about her. You did it on the jet.”

“Right.” Aaron sees his friend’s point. Maybe you would be more open-minded about his help if he would talk to you first, especially now, after getting things out in the open about how he was trying to help all those years ago. The jet was different; it was in relation to work. And as much as he tries to convince himself that ordering you to nap is also considered work, he knows it isn’t. He knows it’s something else. “I’ll try.”

“Good,” Dave says. “You should try to rest too, if you can.”

Hotch thinks back to earlier. You had told him he needed to rest too, and he hadn’t planned on it, but maybe he should. Maybe an hour.

When Aaron heads back inside, you’re on your side, eyes cracking open.

“Hey,” he whispers, shutting the door. “Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you.”

“C’mere,” you murmur, obviously still half asleep. “Y’gotta nap too.”

He smiles. “Alright. I concede.”

He strips his suit jacket and tie off but leaves his pants and shirt. He’s just about to crawl into bed beside you when you give him a funny look.

“You’re gonna wrinkle your clothes.”

“It’s fine.”

“That can’t be comfy.”

“It’s just a nap.”

You shrug, snuggling further into the pillows and shutting your eyes. Hotch sighs.

He takes off the dress shirt, and hangs it over the back of the desk chair. When you don’t move, clearly drifting off again already, he strips down to his boxers, draping his dress slacks over the chair too.

He sets his phone on the nightstand before sliding into bed beside you. You might be half-asleep, but you move closer to him instantly, curling into his side and sighing happily. Aaron wraps an arm around you, chuckling softly as he tucks you into his chest.

+++

You hate being back in this town.

You wake with a start, the gunshot in your dreams still echoing in your ears as if it happened just now. One quick glance around the room tells you it didn’t. You’re in bed, in a hotel room, and you’re alone.

Well, almost alone. There is currently a koala clinging to you in his sleep in the form of Aaron Hotchner.

You laugh softly as you try to twist in his arms, but have no luck. You don’t even know what time it is, but knowing Hotch, he set alarms, so you can’t be late for anything.

You let the comfort of that — and his arm around your waist — lull you back to sleep again, even if for just another few minutes. And it was the worst idea you’d had all day.

This time when you wake, you manage to fling yourself out of Aaron’s arms, sitting up so suddenly that he is woken with a jolt.

“What is it?” He’s alert instantly, the man and agent that he is. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder.

“Sorry,” you laugh it off. “You ever have a dream and wake up, then fall back asleep and the dream picks up right where it left off?” You’re rambling and you make no sense, but that doesn’t matter. “We should get back to the precinct.”

You stand up and head for your work clothes still hanging up where you left them. You’re barely touching the fabric when Aaron is behind you, hand on your shoulder again.

“Talk to me,” he says. “What happened in the dream?”

To his credit, he doesn’t try to turn you around to face him. You don’t think you’d be able to speak if he did.

“My um,” you pause, clearing your throat. “My dad almost shot me. It was real.”

You hear him sigh. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand dropping down to your arm, thumb rubbing your skin gently. “It wasn’t real, it was just a dream.”

You shake your head. “It was a dream, but it was also…a memory.”

His motions falter. “What do you mean?”

You start shaking your head again. “It’s stupid, it’s probably my mind twisting my memories because I learned about what my dad did and now everything is tainted with that—”

You stop to catch your breath when Aaron says your name, his voice quiet, broken.

“We were getting lunch together,” you murmur, taking the clothes off the hangers just to busy your hands while you speak about this. “It was a good day.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t even know,” you huff. “We were having a good day. Mom had gone to run some errands, Dad took me out for lunch, it was the weekend so I was just surprised and happy he was home. We went to my favorite sandwich place nearby— It’s probably not even here anymore. But I was just eating, he was talking. I guess I said something wrong?” You don’t even realize Aaron has turned you around until he’s taking both of your hands in his, trying to meet your eyes. “I don’t think I even knew he had his gun on him — I knew he had one, that’s normal for a family in Alabama, but like, shotguns. For hunting deer. Not a pistol.”

“He tried to shoot you?” Aaron prompts.

You nod. Shake your head. Nod again. “He shot the floor. He was looking over my shoulder.” You pause. “And then we left, and when I got up I saw that it was— It was so close to my foot, Aaron, he nearly shot me.”

“And you left— Was he angry with someone that worked there?”

“I don’t know, I was too shocked by the fact that he shot the fucking floor where my feet were,” you snap, yanking your hands out of his. You wipe your palms on your shirt.

“What was the place called?”

“I don’t know, something Deli,” you shake your head. “It was in a trailer— Does this even matter?”

“It might, we can look into it,” Hotch says, keeping his hands by his side. “Why don’t you take a shower?”

“Hotch, I don’t have time—”

“What will help you calm down?” he asks. “What can I do?”

You sigh. “What time is it?”

Hotch looks like he doesn’t want to answer, but he does anyway. “Almost 11:30.”

“Okay. Can you—” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I don’t fucking know what to do.” You breathe shakily. Then, you ask him something that surprises the both of you. “Can you tell me what to do?”

He nods slowly. “Take a shower,” he starts. “It’ll help. I’ll get dressed. I’ll call Rossi and tell him what you told me, we’ll get Garcia to look into it. Do you remember how old you were?”

You shake your head. “Elementary school, I think.”

“Okay, that narrows it down, good job,” he says softly. “We’ll leave when you’re ready and get back to the precinct and go over everything with the team. Find some new leads and we’ll follow them. We’ll get this guy.”

You nod. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna—”

“Shower,” he says, one hand coming up to your arm again, guiding you toward the bathroom.

You walk with him, pausing just outside the bathroom door to turn around. You hesitate for a moment before throwing your arms around his neck.

He stumbles for a second before his arms encircle your waist, squeezing you tightly against him. As if a promise to protect you from anything bad that will ever come your way again.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back to press a kiss to his cheek.

You’re into the bathroom and shutting the door before Aaron can even register what just happened.

+++

The team is waiting for you and Hotch when you arrive back at the precinct. You don’t necessarily look well-rested, despite your nap, but you do feel marginally better, and Hotch had you change clothes instead of wearing the same ones from before. A fresh start. A reset.

“What do we have?” you ask casually, hoping the team of profilers will pick up on the fact that you do not want to talk about you being practically ordered to get some sleep.

“They have mostly clean slates,” Rossi starts as Hotch shuts the conference room door. “Some petty theft, some vandalism, mostly from teenage years. One officer has a sexual harassment charge that I’m eager to ask about.”

“Who?” you ask. Not that you think that officer might be the unsub you’re looking for, but it’s all you’ve got so far.

“The deputy,” Rossi says. “Laneman.”

“Wait before questioning him,” Hotch interjects, just a touch of warning in his words. “I’m not sure I want these guys knowing we’re investigating them just yet. We need their help while we can get it.” He pauses. “We need to ask them about Adkins. Watch their behaviors, see if anyone recognizes the name or knows maybe more than they should.”

“How are we going to do that without it being suspicious?” Prentiss chuckles. “As far as they know, we’re just investigating Richard Monroe and his death.”

“And the guy was a serial killer, I’m sure they’re wondering why the hell we’re even being called here to investigate,” Morgan adds. “He had a lot of enemies, a lot of victims’ families that would’ve had more than enough motive.”

“But it’s the letter,” Reid says. “It— At times it almost reads like a suicide note, other times like an apology to you,” Reid looks at you, “but for what? And if it isn’t Richard who wrote it, if it’s the unsub, a suicide note makes sense, to make us think Richard killed himself, but the overkill immediately rules that out. It’s like—” Reid pauses and makes a face, stopping himself.

“What? What are you thinking?” Hotch asks.

“It’s almost like our unsub had this all meticulously planned out from the beginning, step by step, right down to this moment, but something threw a wrench in his plans and…that’s why there was such a brutal overkill.”

“Like he and Richard were part of a team to find her, until Richard bailed—” Morgan starts.

“Because the unsub brought Lila into it and Richard said he promised that he wouldn’t,” you finish. “Richard didn’t write that letter. The unsub did. Richard didn’t visit my dad in prison. I visited Richard. This unsub must’ve visited Richard as well, wanting to find out how to get to me, and—” Your eyes go wide and you turn toward Hotch. “The car chase.”

“Richard told the unsub we’d be there,” Hotch says. “Told him the exact time. It had to be approved in advance, he would’ve known in advance.”

“This unsub wasn’t friends with my dad, not as close as he and Richard must have been, or someone else the unsub witnessed being friendly with my dad— But he wanted to be. He wanted my dad’s approval for some reason. He wanted to be noticed by him,” you carry on, not sure where you’re going, but hoping it’s going somewhere. “And my dad must’ve written him off. Didn’t give him the recognition he was looking for, and it upset him. So he kidnapped me to get his attention.”

“And your father made it very clear that he wasn’t happy with whoever took you,” Rossi adds. “So that upset the unsub further. He wasn’t getting validation, he was getting contempt.”

“We’re just talking in circles here,” you sigh, propping your chin in your palm. “This feels like everything we’ve already known.”

“Assumed, and now it’s confirmed with behavior,” Hotch says softly. “But we are going in circles. We need to find out what these men know about Adkins.”

“Leave that to me,” Reid smiles, a little too deviously for him.

“Really, genius?” Morgan chuckles. “What are you going to do?”

“Ask them if they’ve heard of him,” Reid shrugs. “In my own way.”

Everyone shares looks.

Emily tilts her head with a smirk. “This is going to be good.”

+++

It’s like a well-orchestrated dance, the way Hotch rounds everyone up to set the scene for Reid to interject. The plan is to begin giving the profile, and Reid is going to start one of his rambles, this time about how the infamous serial killer Carson Adkins was from right here in town.

Rossi, Hotch, Prentiss, and Reid stay at the front of the room, while you, JJ, and Morgan hang around the sides, gauging reactions from there.

You’re not even sure what you’re going to be looking for. You wouldn’t be surprised if any (or all) of them have heard of your father. They obviously have no clue you’re his daughter, which is how it needs to stay, but unfortunately for everyone, your father is famous for his killings, and for turning himself in when you were kidnapped.

You can’t even count on two hands the number of articles you read that argued he had a heart because he turned himself in for his daughter. You don’t know that it was any indication of him having a heart or not, but you do know that he killed all those women and somehow wanted you to be safe.

Two things can be true at once, you guess, but those two things? Some days it just makes no sense.

“As you’re all aware, the victim, Richard Monroe, had been on the FBI’s Most Wanted for some time, so he has no shortage of enemies,” Rossi starts.

“This rings true in the injuries Richard sustained,” Prentiss continues. “It was the very definition of overkill. Whoever is responsible, they held a grudge against Monroe, probably for many years.”

“Do you think it could be like a family member of one of his victims?” Officer Hunt asks.

“I said save your questions for the end,” Deputy Laneman scolds with a huff.

“It’s alright Deputy,” Hotch says with a nod. He looks at the officer that spoke up. “It’s possible, yes, we’re looking into the whereabouts of the victims’ families.”

“But there could be some victims we don’t even know about,” Reid chimes. “So we’re not sure.”

“This guy is angry,” Morgan says from the other side of the room. “That kind of anger doesn’t just go away with getting revenge. We think he’ll slip up again.”

“So you’re sure we’re looking for a man?” another officer — Smith, you think — questions.

“We believe so,” Hotch replies. “White male, mid-30s to mid-40s, most likely the same build as Monroe, if not slightly larger. Monroe put up a fight, but was ultimately overpowered. This suggests our unsub was able to subdue him by brute force before continuing to injure him post-mortem.”

“Richard Monroe was just one of the famed and known serial killers in this region,” Reid begins, and just by the tone in his voice, you know where he’s heading. You scan the officers carefully, even the deputy who stands not far from you, arms over his chest like a shield. “Actually, uh, did you guys know that Carson Adkins, The Strangler, was from this town? His home was not far from here—”

“That’s enough, agent,” Deputy Laneman all but growls.

You cut your eyes to him, not moving your head, not wanting to raise any suspicions.

Hotch, however, fully turns his head to glare at the man. “Deputy, may I speak with you in private?”

“Whatever it is, you can say it in front of my men.”

“No, I think we should speak in your office,” Hotch gestures to the door. “After you.”

The deputy almost looks like he’s going to put up a fight, but he doesn’t. He clicks his tongue and bulldozes into his office, leaving the door ajar for Hotch to follow through. Hotch doesn’t look at anyone as he goes, and you can tell he holds himself back from slamming the door.

A tense silence settles over the room.

Reid, in all his blessed awkwardness, clears his throat. “Uh…sorry.”

Officer Robinson chuckles. “Don’t be sorry, kid, he’s a hothead.”

“We’ve all heard of him, though,” Officer Smith says. “The Strangler, I mean.”

Everyone pipes up in agreement.

“Even I’d heard of him, and I’m not from around here,” Officer Robinson adds. “He’s a boogeyman here, y’know? Almost like a myth.”

You swallow around the strange lump in your throat. Your father, a boogeyman in your hometown, even as a ghost.

“Yeah,” another officer, Whittler, laughs. “My brother used to tell me if I wasn’t quiet at night The Strangler was gonna jump out and get me.”

Everyone laughs, punching each other's shoulders in agreement with similar childish laughs.

You roll your eyes and head back toward the conference room. None of them are taking this seriously. You need a new angle, one that doesn’t involve asking any of these officers for insight. Clearly they won't be helpful.

+++

Hotch finds you, alone, in the conference room after his rather unproductive discussion with Deputy Laneman.

You’re staring at the board, at the photos of Richard’s body, at the photos of the charm bracelet and letter since both have been sent off for prints.

Hotch doesn’t even get to ask what’s upsetting you before you tell him.

“They’re just laughing,” you say, disgusted. “He’s a boogeyman,” you mock. “Our unsub is not in this precinct, clearly. They’d all run away screaming if he was.” You pause, finally turning to look at him. “What about the deputy?”

Hotch shakes his head. “He definitely has some anger issues and is probably aggressive when he’s drunk, but it’s not him. He thinks we’re wasting time by being here.”

“Wasting time? We haven’t even been here a full day yet.”

“I know,” Hotch says. He studies the pictures again. “What are we missing?”

You snort. “Everything, apparently. Every time I think we’re about to get a grip on this guy, it turns out he’s somewhere else entirely.” You chew on the inside of your cheeks. “Did Garcia ever look into the deli?”

“It’s on her list,” Hotch sighs. “I still have her looking into every officer’s background here, just in case.”

You nod. “It was nothing special, anyway. Except that their pickles were homemade.”

Aaron shares a soft smile with you. “Still. I’ll have her look.”

“And the victims’ families?” you ask with a smirk. “Or was that just to keep them thinking we’re not at all digging into their credit histories and tragic backstories?”

Aaron rolls his eyes at you, still smiling. “That was the truth. It’s on Garcia’s list.”

You raise your eyebrows with your grin. “Remind me to get her one of those big baskets of chocolates when we get back. And a bouquet of roses.”

He chuckles. “Funny, I was thinking of getting one of those for you.”

Your breath stutters a little as you turn toward him, realizing with a shock that he’s being sincere. “Well,” you knock your shoulder into his arm lightly. “Sorry to ruin your master plan.”

“You’re forgiven,” he replies, his fingers grazing the back of your hand.

The door to the conference room flies open and you yank your hand away, returning to crossing your arms over your chest. Hotch straightens and resumes his Unit Chief demeanor.

He waits until the door shuts behind JJ, Prentiss, Morgan, Reid, and Rossi before asking their thoughts on the officers.

“They were too busy laughing about a boogeyman to even suspect any sort of connection,” Morgan snaps. “I mean, seriously, how are we supposed to get anywhere if these guys don’t even seem a little concerned that whoever killed Richard Monroe might kill someone else?”

“I know,” Hotch sighs. “Prentiss, Rossi, go back to the dump site, see if there’s anything we missed. JJ, check on the bracelet, see if they’ve made any headway with the prints, if they haven’t, try to get it sped up if you can. Reid, Morgan, I’m having Garcia look into some of the families of Richard Monroe’s victims, help her determine anything suspicious, make some phone calls, see where everyone is.”

“What about us?” you ask.

“We’re going to drive around,” he says. “I want to see if any place jogs your memory. And see if Carson Adkins truly does haunt this town like the boogeyman they say he is.”

[animementrash]

A hundred kisses

Character: Levi Ackerman

Tags: fluff, implied relationship with reader, canon verse.

A/N: I have been gone too long, work is sucking the life out of me 😭Tip of the day: Do not become important at work, is not worth it. (? Anyways, hope you enjoy this little thing I got out of my brain while wishing I was loving Levi Ackerman instead of managing a team lol. Thank you for reading!

The gliding of his pen over the paper is the only sound in Levi's office. He's been reading and signing papers for hours, eyebrows furrowed and shoulders tense. Outside, the cadets continued with their training, nothing out of the ordinary. You made your way inside his office, a new stack of papers in hand.

"Hello there, may I come in" You say even though you've already opened the door and stepped inside. Levi just stopped writing, looking at you from beneath his eyelashes, not bothering in lifting his head.

"You're already inside" He mumbled unamused.

With a grin, you stepped forward and placed the papers on his desk. "Erwin wants you to check these as well, he says they're top priority"

Levi glanced at the stack of papers and rolled his eyes. "When everything is top priority, nothing really is" That's all he says before turning back to the paper in front of him.

"Look at you, being the philosopher of the century!" You tease, pulling a chair across him and sitting down. "Have you had lunch yet?" You question, noticing his dry lips.

"Not hungry" He says uninterested, not even looking at you.

"Really? Because the new rations just arrived and everyone is having a feast..." Your voice sounds sarcastic yet enthusiastic. Levi puts his pen down and finally looks your way.

"Like I said, I'm not hungry. When I feel like I need to eat something, I'll go grab something." His voice is curt and dry. If you didn't know better, you'd think he's about to kick you out.

"Then what about taking a break? The weather outside is lovely..." This time he doesn't even acknowledge your comment, focusing only on signing documents. You get up from your seat and sigh, clearly ticked by his demeanor.

"Are you still upset because I didn't kiss you goodnight last night?" You mention casually.

"Seems like you were too tired to even do that, right?" He says back, there is no bite in his words, instead he sounds offended, something that makes you hold back a laugh.

"Levi, I didn't mean to do that! You know I love to kiss you goodnight and will always do it! I just happened to fall asleep before you came back from your meeting with Erwin" As you explained yourself, he huffed and rolled his eyes as if your explanation was the most absurd thing he's ever heard. "Besides, you could've kissed me even if I was asleep." You add with a shrug.

"What do you think I am? A creep?" He retorts, clearly offended by the suggestion.

"No, you're not a creep for kissing your sleeping wife goodnight" You answer and giggle a little.

"No, don't touch me" He says pretending to be offended as you try to wrap your arms around him.

"Come on Levi, don't be so stubborn" You're still chuckling as you hug him, his childish demeanor still amusing to you after all these years.

"It's not like we get to kiss goodnight every day, that is why I was so heartbroken that you fell asleep before I could kiss you" He says in almost a whisper and you could swear you saw a ghost of a pout on his lips.

"I know Levi, and I already told you I'm sorry, didn't I? I even kissed you twice this morning to repair the damage" Even without looking at you he can tell you're still smiling, his eyebrows furrowing even more.

"That doesn't compensate it" He says, still fixed on the missing kiss.

You pull away far enough to look at him and cup his face with both hands, he pretends to be annoyed but does nothing to pull away from your hold.

"Then? Should I kiss you a 100 times to repair my oh so awful mistake?" You ask with a dramatic voice.

"Yeah, for starters you could do that..." He replies and can't hide the smirk that spreads across his lips at his bratty request.

You let out a hearty laugh, his cheeks turn pink as you start to map his face with small kisses. "Okay, but you count" You say with a grin.

"One.... One.... One" Levi's voice is soft and tender, something nobody would ever believe if they heard, good thing is nobody besides you will ever listen to it.