#How To Fold A Pocket Square

[freshlyprinted]

Ngl kdrama ads are getting to me, kinda want to dramatically open a flip phone…

[terrestrialnoob]

"Hey, Bats, can I have a word?" John asked as everyone started filling out of the meeting room.

Batman gave him the side eye. "You don't usually come to meetings."

John raised his hands in surrender. "Caught me, I'm really here to ask you a favor."

Batman looked over by the door, where it looked like Superman, Wonder Woman, and the Flash were there waiting for him. But, he turned back to John and asked "What do you want?"

John tried not to cringe at the tone in his voice, telling himself that's just what a tired after meeting Batman sounded like. "I need help with a puzzle box."

John pulled said box out of his coat pocket and held it up for Batman to take, but the man examined it closely without touching it. "What's in it?"

"A world-ending weapon, probably. There's like, a 10% chance it's a world-ending monster." John helpfully provided.

"And you want to open it..."

"Yeah..." John sighed then explained, "It's part of a pair, with this-" John pulled a gear shaped dial puzzle out of his pocket. "But, since I solved this one, that one wont work for me."

"Why do you want to open it?"

"Because, whoever solves the puzzles control it."

"But you've been magically locked out of solving this one." Batman pointed at the box still in John's hand.

"Yeah, so I need someone good at solving puzzles -you- and who's dabbled enough in magic to effect the box -you again- and who I trust not to use whatever's in it to destroy the world."

Batman gave him the patented bat-interrogation glare. "You still haven't explained why you want to release this weapon."

"It's a fail safe. Like the two keys thing governments put in front of their nuclear bombs. According to the texts I read, this isn't the only way to release the whatever-it-is, but once we solve both these puzzles, you and I will have control of it and absolutely no one else can get it." John wiggled the box at Batman. "We do this now, we don't have to pray I can track down all the alternate methods, and neither of us can use it without the other's permission."

Batman closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You're certain this is the best method to ensure the safety of as many people as possible?"

"Yep."

"And you're certain I'm the right person you want as the other half of your fail safe? Not another magic user?"

"I feel the degree of separation will be useful in determining what situations call for using a world-ending weapon."

Batman let another deep sigh and took the puzzle box.

"You two staying late?" Superman asked as John and Batman sat back down at the table. Him, Wonder Woman, and the Flash came over to check on them.

"Sorry, we can get dinner together another time." Batman said without taking his eyes off the box. Each side had nine squares, each with a rune on them that glowed when pressed. There was a pattern, John was sure, but after he'd solved the dial puzzle, the runes where blurred and the squares didn't light up when he pressed them.

"How long do you think your puzzle thing will take?" Flash asked, looking over Batman's shoulder as he seemed to solve the puzzle quickly. Or so John hoped, again, he couldn't actually see what kind of progress Bats was having.

"Ten minutes, tops." Nightwing interrupted. Batman did glance at him, but then went right back to work on the box. "We still have plenty of time to go to Bobby's before closing."

"I thought you had better things to do?" Superman asked.

"And pass up on burgers with you? Never." Nightwing said with a wink. "Is John joining us when this is done?"

"I'll have to take whatever comes out of the box back to the house of Mystery." John said, though burgers did sound good at the moment.

Silence lapsed into the room as they watched Batman work. And ten minutes later, it was done. The puzzle box glowed and one of it's faces folded into itself, leaving a hole shaped just like the gear puzzle. Batman held it out and John dropped the gear into it. The room filled with a bright flash, and once it faded, sitting on the conference table between John and Batman was a toddler. He had black hair and bright blue eyes and freckles scattered across his face. He reached out a little hand towards them and started babbling.

"Fuck."

[iydiamartinx]

GOD SAVE THE PROM QUEEN II

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 2.6k synopsis: Crowned prom queen, she waits for Jason Todd—never knowing he died that night, betrayed by the mother he hoped would love him. a/n: Still angsty but happy-ish ending!

Jason didn’t come here often.

He told himself there was no point. No use in standing over old stones and pretending it meant something. The dead didn’t care for flowers. And he was never very good at pretending.

But sometimes—on quiet, grey evenings when Gotham’s skyline blurred into a jagged scar against the clouds—he found himself here anyway. Standing still. Hands buried in his pockets. Breathing in the damp, earthy petrichor scent of graveyard.

The wind always smelled like rain here, even when the sky held back. Like the world was trying to weep for him, but couldn’t quite bring itself to shed the tears.

It was peaceful, in its own bleak way.

Silent in the way only graveyards could be.

And yet, no matter how long he stood there, staring down at polished stone and his own name carved deep into the granite, he never felt like he belonged on either side of that grave.

Jason Peter Todd.

Beloved son.

Gone too soon.

He scoffed under his breath. The sound was rough. Bitter.

Bullshit.

He was neither beloved nor gone.

What stood here now was just what was left behind of the boy he’d once been. Not alive. Not dead. Just… stuck. Practically, a ghost with blood in his veins. 

And yet, here he stood again—staring at the marble that tried to summarize a life in three hollow lines. A stone that meant to mark an end, but never came close to telling the story.

But today… today was different.

There was a bouquet already there. 

Fresh. Still wet with morning dew. Peonies, lavender, and black calla lilies—the exact mix he used to see you draw in the margins of your notebooks.

Jason’s breath caught as he knelt down beside them, knees pressing into the wet earth. He reached for the bouquet with a kind of reverence, fingers brushing over the stems before finding the folded note tucked between them.

Still miss you, you pain in the ass.

– Always, Y/N.

And just like that, the air left his lungs.

He didn’t need to see the signature. He knew that handwriting better than his own. The looping curve of your Y. The confident, slanted cross of your T. He’d watched you scrawl it on the back of his hand a hundred times during lectures—hearts when you were happy, flowers when you were feeling soft, and sarcastic jabs when he annoyed you.

You still came.

After everything.

After all this time.

After how he heard how he hurt you.

It hit him harder than the crowbar ever had.

From his place by the grave, half-hidden by shadows and trees, he saw you.

You were walking toward the exit now—coat cinched tight against the late-autumn wind, hair pulled back, shoulders squared the way they always were when you were trying not to feel too much. Your heels clicked lightly on the path, a steady rhythm against the hush of damp leaves and distant city hum.

You looked older. More refined. Sharper around the edges. Like time had carved you into something tougher.

But you were still you.

He could see it in the way you paused before leaving, glancing back at the headstone like it still had the power to hurt you. Like you hadn’t made peace with it—even after all these years.

And in that moment, something inside him began to shift.

You were no longer the girl with the silver crown and crushed corsage.

That girl had died the same night Jason Todd did.

Now you were the woman people called terrifying behind closed doors. The one whose heels echoed through Wayne Tower like a woman on a mission. Bruce Wayne’s right hand, the assistant no one dared to cross. Sharp-eyed. Ice-voiced. Efficient didn’t even begin to cover you. Ruthless might have been closer.

No one handed you crowns anymore. They handed you problems—and you solved them.

“Three board members in the conference room. Two more on video. Coffee’s on the table—black, extra shot, because I know how this morning will start.” You placed the folder in front of Bruce with a flick of your wrist, barely pausing. “Your notes are inside. Don’t ad-lib. Shaw’s already looking for excuses to delay the merger.”

Bruce gave you a long look over the top of his glasses. He didn’t say thank you. He never did. But then, he didn’t need to. You were his best weapon behind the scenes, and you both knew it. There was a reason why the employee called you the Ice Queen, and were more scared of you than they were of Bruce Wayne himself.

You left the room before the door even fully shut behind you.

Later that afternoon, you were back at your desk—one heel slipped loose beneath you, phone cradled between your shoulder and ear—you barely looked up from your screen.

“I’m not moving the board meeting again because Shaw’s having a midlife crisis,” you snapped, scrolling through the projected quarterly. “He’s had three decades to prepare for his hairline receding, and that is not a justifiable excuse to stall the merger—”

A sharp knock on your desk broke your concentration.

Your eye twitched.

You let out a long, irritated sigh. “The final answer is no. Now I need to go.”

You hung up without waiting for a response and finally turned your attention to the source of the interruption, expecting yet another intern who couldn’t read a calendar.

But it wasn’t an intern.

He leaned just slightly on the edge of your desk—not enough to be disrespectful, but enough to suggest he didn’t mind waiting. He wore a leather jacket that had clearly seen better days, paired with worn boots and dark hair tousled by wind and time. A streak of white cut through the strands near his temple—unmistakable, and in need of a trim.

He didn’t look like he belonged in Wayne Tower.

And he sure as hell didn’t look like he was here for a scheduled meeting.

Your eyes narrowed, every instinct flaring to attention. Something about him caught at the edge of your memory—frayed the edge of something you’d tucked away years ago.

He tilted his head, gaze moving over you in a slow, thoughtful sweep. Not lecherous. Not even flirtatious. Just… observant.

Still, your expression didn’t budge. You raised a brow, tone clipped and dry.

“Can I help you?”

He blinked, like shaking off a thought. “Maybe. Not sure yet.”

Your jaw tightened. Cryptic wasn’t a language you spoke anymore. Truth be told, you didn’t have the patience for much these days. Somewhere along the way, you’d adopted Jason’s no-bullshit approach to life—only without the charm and biting humor that had once softened his edges.

“Is there a reason you’re at this desk, or are you just in the mood to get escorted out?”

That almost made him smile. Almost.

“I was just looking around,” he said simply. “Place has changed a lot.”

You didn’t answer, still sizing him up.

He glanced around the room, then back to you. “Didn’t expect the assistant to be running the tower.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, arms crossing. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake. Most of them don’t last long.”

That earned you a small nod. Respectful. Not mocking.

Then his eyes met yours again.

And this time, he looked. Not at the expensive cut of your suit, not at the stack of color-coded schedules or the headset you’d tossed onto the keyboard. And for a second, something in his expression flickered. A flash of something soft. Grieving. Nostalgic.

But it passed.

“You got a name?” you asked, tone even but no longer impersonal.

He hesitated. Just long enough to make you notice.

“Jay,” he finally said.

You nodded once, pushing down the strange knot in your chest. You tried to ignore how that reminded you of another who’s long dead. 

“Well, Jay,” you said, gesturing with your pen, “unless you’ve got a meeting or an appointment, you’re done looking around.”

“I figured.” He straightened a little, not pushing back. “Just curious. That’s all.”

He turned, stepping away with a nod.

You watched him go. And long after he was gone, that strange, electric prickle stayed curled at the base of your spine.

You didn’t know it yet.

But the boy you buried four years ago had just walked back into your life.

He left without pushing.

No clever remark. No lingering glance. Just a quiet nod and the soft, fading sound of worn boots tapping over marble tile.

But hours later—long after the last intern had clocked out, after the boardroom lights had dimmed, and the final elevator chimed shut—you were still thinking about him.

Jay.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more—his calm, unassuming presence, or the way his face lingered in your mind like a half-finished memory. Familiar, but off. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun, its edges faded, the details too blurred to fully get a good look.

You tried to forget it.

You had bigger problems to handle than cryptic strangers in weathered leather. Tower politics. Corporate vultures. Logistics. Mergers. Deadlines.

But three days later, he was there again.

In the east corridor outside Bruce’s office, half-shadowed beneath the soft white light of the hanging fixtures. Talking in low tones with Alfred—Alfred, of all people.

You’d only caught the tail end of it as you turned the corner. Alfred’s voice, warm and measured. And Jay’s… quieter than before. Almost cautious.

Your steps slowed. Not by much. Just enough to get another look at him.

Alfred glanced your way first, ever perceptive. He gave you that small, knowing nod he always did—acknowledging everything without needing to say a word.

And Jay only turned away, as if he hadn’t meant to be seen.

But before he gave you his back, your eyes met for the briefest second.

And something in his expression faltered. Hesitation. Maybe even regret.

Then he turned and slipped away.

No words exchanged. No excuses made. No cryptic remarks. But everything about this situation felt off to you, like you were missing an important detail.

You didn’t call after him.

Didn’t confront Alfred.

But the thread tugged.

Subtle. Persistent.

The kind of thread, you didn’t let go of until you unravelled it.

You didn’t mean to go looking.

You told yourself it was just cleaning. Just a lazy Sunday and a little long-overdue organization.

But your fingers hesitated when they brushed the edge of an old box at the back of your closet. One you hadn’t opened in years. Not since you moved into this apartment. Not since before you learned how to build your armor from pressed suits and five a.m. coffee.

The lid creaked.

Inside were fragments of a girl you no longer let yourself remember—

Notes passed under desks.

A half-finished journal.

A dried corsage, fragile and browned at the edges, still curled around a faded ribbon.

And tucked beneath it all… was the photo.

Worn. Creased. The corners soft with time.

Jason Todd. Sixteen. Captured in front of the Gotham Academy library, hoodie unzipped halfway, hair wild from the wind. One hand in his pocket. The other flipping off the camera with that shit-eating grin that had made you laugh even as you rolled your eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

You sat down, slowly, the box on your lap, the apartment suddenly too quiet.

Your eyes stayed on the photo. Then drifted to the memory behind it—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand brushing yours as he walked you to class, the way he’d rest his head back and smirk when he caught you staring.

And then…

That face.

That same smirk.

The man in the lobby.

The one with the jacket.

The one who called himself Jay.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He was dead.

He was dead.

But your chest was tightening, your pulse loud in your ears.

Because it was.

It was him.

Older and harder but still him.

The boy they buried four years ago.

He wasn’t a memory anymore.

Jason.

Your Jason.

You didn’t knock.

You stormed into the East Wing guest suite at Wayne Manor where you figured out he was staying, bypassing Alfred and Bruce and the rest of the kids with a glare that could level buildings. No one stopped you.

Jason opened the door expecting someone else—Tim, maybe. Or Dick. One of the people he was still learning how to be around again. He hadn’t prepared for you.

You slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

“You son of a bitch,” you hissed, eyes already glassed with unshed tears. “You let me think you were dead. For four goddamn years.”

Jason didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch.

“I was dead.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare use that like an excuse when you’re clearly here.”

You shoved him hard, hands balled into fists against his chest. He didn’t move to stop you.

“I buried you,” you choked out, the words scraping past the lump in your throat. “I visited your grave. I cried over you, Jason. I—” your voice cracked, “I loved you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What it took to keep going after that?”

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice came quieter, rawer.

“I didn’t know how to come back into your life.”

You laughed—sharp and broken. “But you came back for him, didn’t you?” you snapped. “For Bruce. For the rest of the family. You came back for all of them—just not for me.”

His eyes flinched at that.

“I watched you,” he admitted. “At the grave. The first time I saw you again, you looked… different. Stronger. Harder. Like you didn’t need me anymore.” He swallowed, gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “And I—I’m not the same. I’m not who I was. I’m broken, and you… you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

You shoved him again. Fiercer this time. “That’s not your call to make,” you hissed. “You think I cared? I didn’t care then, and I sure as hell don’t care now.”

“I know,” he said, softer. “You were always too good for me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and relentless. Years of grief and fury pouring out in streaks you couldn’t stop.

Jason stepped toward you, slow and careful, like a man afraid that one wrong move might send you running.

“I wanted to come back,” he whispered. “A thousand times. But I was angry. And lost. I thought I lost you the second that bomb went off. I didn’t know who I was when I woke up. I didn’t know what was left of my old life—if there was anything left to come back to.”

You shook your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “You were mine. That’s who you were. Just like I was yours.”

The silence that followed stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. Years of grief. Of longing. Of questions that never got to be asked—let alone answered.

Then—tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he still had the right—Jason reached for your hand.

You let him.

And when he pulled you into his arms, you didn’t resist.

You just sank into him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For the crown. For the dance. For everything I never got to give you.”

“I don’t care about that stupid dance,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you might slip away. Like he needed the contact to believe this was real.

And for the first time in four long, fractured years, you let yourself breathe.

Not like someone surviving. Not like someone holding their grief together by sheer force of will.

But like someone who had finally, finally reunited with the other half of their soul.

← Previous Chapter

Tag list: @swagangelllamawolf, @lou-diaries, @salvatt1

[vanillefawnn]

Leather & Lace 𖹭.ᐟ

Dean winchester x fem!reader

Warnings: suggestive content, Sam being the poor third wheel and getting stuck between you Dean's freakness, language

Summary: You like to leave Dean little trinkets when he goes on hunts, just little things to help keep you in his head when he's out on the road.

Authors note: I'm gonna tackle this man and get him PREGNANT !! (I also did NAWT proof read this sooo ye)

Dean wasn't a sentimental guy—not really. Not in the way people wrote sonnets about or cried over in movies. But there was something about you that rewired the whole system, made him soft in places he'd spent his whole life keeping armored.

It started with a polaroid.

The two of you at a diner somewhere in Missouri, your face squished against his shoulder, both of you grinning like idiots. He found it one morning tucked into the crease of Baby's dashboard, right between the speedometer and the gas gauge.

"Figured you'd miss my face," your neat hand writing read on the back.

He chuckled, thumb brushing over the image as he slid it into the glovebox. He would miss your face, hell, he already did.

From then on, it became a thing.

Every time Dean left for a hunt—wether it be with Sam or solo—there was always something left behind. A sticky note on the steering wheel that said "Drive safe, handsome. I'll be thinking about you." Sometimes, a folded square of paper that smelled just like you, perfume soaked into the fibers until it clung to the leather seats like memory.

Dean had never told you how much it meant. He didn't have to.

But then—somewhere along the line—it stopped being just sweet.

One week, he found a photograph.

And not the diner kind, either.

It was tasteful, if not exactly safe-for-work—your body clad in soft, black lacy lingerie, all curves and skin and confidence. Dean found it when he was rummaging for a cassette tape. Sam was two feet away, completely unaware.

Dean coughed—choked, really—and shoved it into his jacket pocket like it was a contraband. His ears were pink the entire drive to Minnesota.

The next time, it was a lipstick kiss on the rearview mirror. A perfectly formed pout of crimson that made his gut twist in all the right ways. He sat there for a moment, hand resting against the glass like he could somehow hold it.

Sam noticed that one.

"Oh my god," he'd muttered "Can you two not?"

Dean just smirked and peeled out of the parking lot.

But nothing—not one thing—compared to what he found this time.

He was loading up the impala, tossing a duffle into the trunk, shotgun shells rattling in his pocket. Sam was still inside. Grabbing coffee, grumbling something to himself about early mornings and the lore of the case they were working on.

Dean slide into the driver's seat, ready to start the engine—and froze.

There they were.

Hanging from the rearview mirror like the worlds most scandalous charm.

Baby blue lace panties.

Your panties.

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Nope. Still there.

Delicate, floral patterns, tiny enough to fit in the palm of his hand. His name was stitched in tiny cursive into the inner waistband—Dean, in pale silver thread. His jaw clenched.

The fuck were you trying to do to him?

He practically snatched them off the mirror, glancing around like some cop was gonna pull up and arrest him for public indecency. His fingers brushed the lace. Soft. Still warm from wherever you'd hidden them. Maybe even your skin. His brain was officially out of commission.

You'd attached a note to them, of course.

"Thought you might like to keep a little peice of me with you."

Dean was gonna die.

Actually, no—Sam was gonna die. Because the second he saw these? it was over.

Dean shoved them into the glovebox like they were ticking explosives, slamming it shut just as Sam rounded the corner with two cups.

"Something wrong?" Sam asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

Dean cleared his throat. "Nope."

"Your face is red."

"It's hot."

"It's forty degrees."

Dean started the car. "Shut up."

Sam blinked. "Why does it smell like her perfume in here again?"

Dean said nothing.

Sam groaned, leaning back in his seat, already regretting this entire trip. "You two are disgusting."

Dean just smirked, hand resting on the wheel.

But later, that night, when they checked into a ratty motel, Dean opened the glovebox again—just to see them. To touch the lace. Hold them against his chest, breathe you in.

And that night, when he slipped between the sheets. He tucked the panties beneath his pillow and fell asleep to the ghost of your perfume and the sound of your voice in his head.

Yeah.

Maybe he was sentimental, after all.

[loulou-land]

'Cause all of my enemies started out friends

So, I have no idea what this is, I just needed to work through some feelings. This was a challenge to write because its 95% dialogue heavy and that's never been my strong suit. But I really needed Tommy and Eddie to argue apparently. Fair warning, this isn't Eddie friendly, though I really tried not to go into character bashing. Please let me know if I need to include a warning for that.

Spoilers for 8x17 | arguing, mentions of grief, mild physical altercation, dialogue heavy, mild hurt/comfort | 1,625 words

“What did you say to him?” Tommy asks when he comes into the kitchen. 

“Oh, so now you’re talking to me?” Eddie doesn’t look at him, just keeps stacking dishes in the sink. 

Tommy folds his arms, keeping a careful distance. “You’re the one who cut ties, Diaz. And believe me, I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t have to.” 

He hates that it’s come to this. Eddie had been a good friend—someone Tommy genuinely thought understood him. But then he’d dropped him without a word, like he was yesterday's trash. And yeah, that had hurt more than Tommy wants to admit. He gets it, loyalty is complicated, and Evan was Eddie’s best friend. Still, that doesn’t excuse whatever’s been going on between them lately. Not when it’s left Evan looking so small and acting skittish. 

Eddie scoffs. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Tommy says, locking eyes with him, “I’m pretty sure Evan left a lot out when he told me what happened. He downplayed it. I can see it in how careful he is around you. Like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. So I’ll ask again—what did you say to him?” 

“Jesus,” Eddie mutters, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about? We had an argument. We moved past it—or at least I thought we did. But of course, Buck’s making it out to be bigger than it was. Making it all about him again. Has to be the one hurting the most.” 

Tommy stills. His voice, when it comes out, is quiet but razor sharp. “Is that what you told him? That he’s making it about himself?”  

Eddie finally looks at him, like he’s surprised Tommy’s even making an issue of this. 

“Eddie,” Tommy continues, voice tight with restraint, “Bobby died. His father in everything but blood. Evan’s allowed to hurt. However loud, however long he needs to. You don’t tell someone how to grieve.”

Something shifts in Eddie’s expression, turning defensive, bitter. “I lost Bobby too. And you—god, you don’t have any idea what that was like for me. For any of us. You’re not part of the 118. Not our 118.” 

The words cut straight through him, but Tommy doesn’t flinch. He takes a breath, rubs a hand through his hair, grounding himself. 

“You’re right. I’m not part of your family. But Bobby still meant something to me. And I was there Eddie. I might not have seen what it did to you, I saw what it did to Evan though. You didn’t—”

He pauses, remembering how helpless he felt, watching Evan break through a tiny screen, being unable to get to him. He meets Eddie’s stare, “You didn’t watch him fall apart.” 

“I should’ve been there,” Eddie says, sidestepping Tommy’s statement. Tommy wishes he could be surprised, but he’s starting to understand why Evan doesn’t feel like he can talk about his feelings. “I could’ve done something. I—”

Tommy lets out a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry, did I miss the part where you’re a miracle worker? A genius scientist with a cure in your back pocket?” 

Eddie squares his shoulders, puffing up with practiced intimidation. Tommy nearly rolls his eyes, but he knows baiting him won’t help. 

Still, Eddie stalks closer, jaw clenched. “Fuck you. You—”

“We all did what we could,” Tommy snaps, finally losing some of his own restraint. “I’m sorry you weren’t there. I really am. But don’t take your guilt out on Evan. He’s already drowning in his own and still trying to take care of everyone at the same time.”  

Eddie scoffs. “He’s spiraling, that’s what he is. And what the hell do you even know about Buck’s guilt? His pain?” he shoots back. “You dumped him. Left him.  And now what? He puts out one time and suddenly you think that gives you the right to waltz back in. He’s hurting, and you’re using that to your advantage.” 

Tommy’s whole body tenses. He can’t believe Eddie is insinuating he’s using Evan. That he would be that kind of person. And using the worst mistake he’d ever made, leaving Evan, against him? Something he’s regretted from the moment he left. 

He inhales sharply, fist clenched at his sides. Not because he’s thinking of swinging—never that. But the bite of his nails digging into his palms helps ground him. 

“Don’t you ever say that to my face again, Diaz. Or to Evan, for that matter,” he says, trembling with anger. “I’m here for him—in whatever way he needs me. I’m not asking for anything. I’m not expecting anything. Which is more that I can say for you.” 

Eddie reels back, nostrils flaring. His eyes flash angrily and Tommy braces himself. 

“No,” Eddie growls. “You don’t understand. Don’t pretend you know anything about our relationship.” 

“I know Evan!” Tommy interrupts. He refuses to let Eddie bait him with that dig. 

“You don’t know what Buck and I have been through. The bond we have. He’s like a brother to me.” 

Tommy stares at him, incredulous. “Brother?” He huffs out a sharp breath. “You barely treat him like a friend.” 

Eddie’s face twists. He jabs a finger toward Tommy’s face. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t talk about shit you don’t understand.” 

Tommy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just meets Eddie’s fury head-on. 

“Diaz,” he says, voice tightly controlled. “Back off, before I break that finger.” 

“I love Buck. He’s family,” Eddie snaps, using the words like a defense. Like that single word erases all the damage he’s done.

Tommy bites the side of his cheek to hold in his immediate response. He breathes through it. Damn it. He’s not going to throw a punch. Not at someone Evan still loves, still looks up to—even if they don’t deserve it right now. 

He won’t be the one to hurt the people Evan holds close. Not even when they’ve done plenty of damage themselves. 

Tommy exhales, slow and steady. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.” 

“Excuse me?” Eddie asks, a hitch in his voice now. 

Tommy meets his eyes, unflinchingly. “You call it love, Eddie. But love doesn’t make someone feel like a burden. Love doesn’t kick you when you’re down. Love doesn’t twist the knife when they’re already bleeding.” 

The words seem to land like a strike. 

Eddie flinches, staggering back half a step like the air’s been punched from his lungs. 

For a second, Tommy thinks that’s it. That he’s finally gotten through to him. 

Maybe now Eddie will actually take a look at himself—really look—apologize to Evan, try to do better. 

He gives him too much credit. 

Eddie’s face hardens, shutters down—and then he comes swinging. It takes Tommy off guard. He moves, but not fast enough, and the punch clips him on the side of the head. He’s already bracing to restrain Eddie when—

“Stop!” 

They both turn toward the entryway, where Evan stands. He’s breathing hard, eyes wide, clearly upset. It’s obvious, he’s been there a while, listening. 

Tommy feels a wave of regret crash over him. He never wanted Evan to hear any of this, let alone witness them like this. 

“You should leave,” Evan says quietly. 

Tommy’s heart sinks—until he realizes Evan isn’t looking at him. He’s staring straight at Eddie. 

“Me? Are you serious right now?” Eddie asks, incredulous. 

“Yes, Eddie. You.” Evan’s voice is sharp, angry. “You swung at Tommy. What the hell?” 

“Oh, of course you’re taking his side,” Eddie mutters, rolling his eyes. 

“This isn’t about sides,” Evan snaps. “You need to cool off. Before you dig yourself an even bigger grave.” 

His voice shakes with fury, but there’s a note of something else underneath. Hurt, exhaustion. Tommy sees it in the tremble of Evan’s hands, the rigid way he’s holding himself upright. 

“Just…leave. Don’t come back unless you’re ready to talk like a civil person, and apologize. To Tommy. And…to me.” 

He meets Eddie’s eyes squarely, head held high. Tommy watches, quietly awed. He knows how much it’s costing Evan to say this, but he’s doing it anyway. 

Tommy turns to Eddie worriedly. He can see it—the poison gathering behind his teeth, just waiting to spew out. 

“Eddie,” Tommy says softly, tiredly. Almost pleading. “Please. Take a walk.” 

Eddie glances between them. Something finally sinks in, because the fight drains out of him. He turns without another word and walks out the back door. The door slamming shut behind him. 

Tommy exhales in relief. He looks at Evan, who’s still watching the door with a sad, distant expression. 

“Hey,” Tommy says gently. “I’m sorry.” 

Evan frowns, eyes welling with tears. “Tommy, you don’t have anything to apologize for. You—” he pauses, swallowing hard. “You stood up for me.” His voice cracks on the last word. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He moves toward him, and Evan meets him halfway. They fall into each other, hugging tightly, grounding themselves in each other. Tommy runs a soothing hand down Evan’s back, trying to steady the tremors in his body. 

After a long moment, Evan whispers, “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that. I…I could’ve done it. But th—thank you.” 

“Anytime,” Tommy says fiercely. “I’m here for you.” 

Evan shudders, then pulls back slightly, offering him a small, smile. “I know.” 

He squeezes Tommy’s hand, then glances down at his lips. 

Tommy lifts his hands, cradling Evan’s face gently, and kisses him softly. 

They stay there, foreheads pressed together, breathing in sync, taking comfort in each other. 

They’ll have to deal with Eddie later. Sift through the wreckage and make sense of where they go from here. But for now, it’s enough that they have one another. They’re in this together. 

[wroetolando]

𝙶𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 | 𝙼𝚅𝟷

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: max verstappen x reporter!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where max and his reporter wife accidentally adopt five chaotic rookies and become the unofficial grid parents

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: sweet disposition - the temper trap

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The paddock was a hive of noise and motion as the sun began to dip over the circuit, golden rays catching the sweat on mechanics’ foreheads and the gleam of carbon-fiber wings. Post-race buzz hummed in the air—victory for some, frustration for others—but at the very center of it all stood the one woman who could command the attention of five energetic, half-exhausted rookies with nothing more than a look.

“You are not skipping cool down, I don’t care how much your legs hurt,” she said firmly, arms crossed as she stood just outside the Mercedes hospitality unit. “And Jack, stop trying to convince Gabriel to trade media slots with you.”

Jack Doohan blinked innocently. “Worth a try.”

Max, leaning a few feet away with his arms folded and an amused tilt to his lips, watched the scene with the same fondness someone might have when watching a cat try to wrangle five puppies. His wife—ever composed, ever commanding—had somehow become the gravitational center of the rookie pack, and Max had long since accepted his role as the silent co-pilot in their little operation.

“We need a whiteboard,” you muttered as Isack Hadjar arrived, hair still damp from his post-race shower. “I need a whiteboard. And a whistle.”

“You want a whistle?” Max asked.

“I want a bullhorn.”

Oliver Bearman arrived next, tugging off his cap and brushing sweat-damp curls back. “Are we doing interviews first or eating first? I swear I might pass out if—”

“You’ll eat after you give me one sentence that isn’t ‘the car felt good’ or ‘we take the positives,’” you cut in, tapping your iPad. “No bland quotes. I want actual thoughts.”

Gabriel Bortoleto offered him a protein bar from his pocket. “Here, you can survive five minutes.”

“You’ve had that in your pocket for two hours,” Oliver recoiled. “That’s like a biological weapon now.”

Kimi Antonelli, fresh from a P3 finish and visibly trying to act cooler than he felt, walked in just in time to see Oliver shoving the protein bar back at Gabriel like it was radioactive. “Children,” Kimi muttered under his breath.

Max straightened from the wall, clapping a hand lightly on Kimi’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way. Good race.”

Kimi perked up at the rare praise from the four-time world champion, nodding once. “Thanks. Felt good after last weekend.”

Max didn’t say more, but the nod he returned carried weight—and Kimi caught it, posture squaring slightly.

You were already directing the boys into a loose circle outside the Red Bull hospitality tent, setting up for your impromptu group media debrief. The usual reporters had already swarmed them post-race, but yours was different—somewhere between an interview and a therapy session, half professional, half familiar. The boys trusted you. And Max… well, Max mostly observed, speaking when necessary, stepping in when the chaos got too loud or the mood shifted too dark.

Like now.

Isack had slumped onto the couch, jaw tight. He’d DNF’d—again. Three times in five races. The media had already started with the “overhyped” murmurs, and even though you hadn’t asked him to speak first, you noticed the way his leg bounced, eyes fixed on the floor.

You gave Max a look.

Without a word, he moved to sit beside the younger driver, not pressing, not announcing himself. Just… there. Solid. Real. Isack noticed, of course. Everyone did. It was rare for Max to show warmth like this outside the Red Bull bubble—but when he did, it hit hard.

“Tough race,” Max said simply.

Isack let out a breath. “Felt like I was driving blind. Car didn’t respond. Almost clipped the wall.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I might next time.”

“You won’t.”

There was no false encouragement in Max’s tone—just certainty. That unshakable Verstappen steel. Isack didn’t say anything, but his shoulders dropped a little, the tension leaking out.

You watched it happen, heart softening.

God, how had this become your life?

You—the paddock reporter who used to get mistaken for an intern. Max—the closed-off, stone-faced champion who’d once swore he’d never babysit rookies. And now here you both were: grid mum and dad, sitting on uncomfortable couches with five boys who had no idea how deeply they were cared for.

You cleared your throat. “Alright. Rapid-fire. Best moment of the race—go.”

“Overtaking Jack,” Gabriel said immediately.

“Hey!”

“Jack’s reaction, then,” Gabriel added.

Kimi smirked. “Probably my start. Got the jump on Piastri.”

“Oliver?”

“When I didn’t pass out from heat stroke on Lap 42.”

You nodded. “You hydrated?”

“Define hydrated.”

Max groaned. “You’re getting electrolytes now.”

“You sound like my physio.”

“I’m scarier than your physio.”

“He’s right,” you said. “He once threatened to throw Lando in a lake because he wouldn’t stretch properly.”

“It was a very shallow lake,” Max defended.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two nights later, the paddock chaos traded its background of engine whines and pit lane screeches for the quieter hum of your home — though “quieter” was a stretch with five young drivers crammed into your kitchen like it was a race briefing gone feral.

“I’m telling you, the mushroom ones are not real tortellini,” Jack insisted, poking at a package of fresh pasta like it had personally offended him.

“They are,” you sighed, pushing him gently out of the way as you balanced two saucepans and a tray of garlic bread. “They’re gourmet.”

“Italians would riot,” Kimi muttered from the dining table, scrolling through his phone.

“Then they can come over and cook,” Max deadpanned from the stovetop, where he was fiercely focused on carbonara like it was an FIA directive.

“Do you actually know what you’re doing?” Oliver asked suspiciously, leaning over Max’s shoulder.

Max didn’t even look up. “I’ve watched like six Gordon Ramsay videos.”

“That’s not the same as cooking.”

“I beat two of you last week,” Max said, stirring the pasta. “You really want to test me on this, too?”

You hid your smile behind your wine glass. There was something inexplicably funny about watching your world-champion husband in sweatpants and socks, bickering with young adults over parmesan cheese.

And even funnier watching the rookies actually respect it.

Dinner, somehow, made it to the table in one piece — pasta, garlic bread, salad (which no one touched), and three types of fizzy drinks because “we’re not hydrating with water off-duty, Mum.”

Plates clinked. Conversation overlapped. Gabriel told a wild story about nearly missing a flight. Jack roasted Kimi for accidentally texting “love u” to his race engineer. Isack, now with a better result under his belt, looked lighter, laughing easily between bites.

It was loud. It was messy. It was perfect.

At one point, Max leaned back in his chair, just watching them. The dim kitchen lights caught in his hair, and his arm brushed against yours beneath the table.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is our insane,” you whispered back.

Halfway through dessert (store-bought tiramisu because you were not a miracle worker), Oliver spotted the old Nintendo Switch docked to the TV.

“Oh hell yes,” he gasped. “Do you guys have Mario Kart?”

Max blinked. “Yeah, but—”

“I’m calling dibs on Yoshi,” Jack declared, jumping up.

“No fair! You always play Yoshi!” Isack protested.

You blinked. “Wait, you guys… actually want to play a game here?”

Gabriel grinned. “We’ve literally been waiting for an invite.”

Kimi, still cool as ever, shrugged. “Let them embarrass themselves.”

You stood with your empty plate. “Max hasn’t lost a Mario Kart game in five years. Good luck.”

“Five years?” Oliver echoed. “Challenge accepted.”

And just like that, a Mario Kart tournament was born.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two hours, three arguments, and one broken Joy-Con later, the living room looked like a war zone.

Jack had screamed loud enough during one of the rounds that your neighbor’s dog had barked. Isack got so invested he’d physically ducked during a turn. Oliver tried to cheat by leaning over to press Gabriel’s buttons. Kimi sat straight-faced the entire time and still won twice. Without Max playing of course.

Max, of course, held his crown with quiet smugness, holding his controller like a weapon of war.

You sat curled up on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold, your heart full.

Because they weren’t just rookies. They weren’t just kids with team uniforms and talent and pressure pressing against their ribs. They were yours in a way that no one outside this circle would ever really understand.

You remembered how scared Oliver had looked when he’d been called up mid-season. How Isack had cried quietly after his third crash. How Gabriel had pulled you aside after a brutal interview, asking, “Do I actually belong here?”

How Kimi — calm, quiet, composed — had once confessed during a late media day, “Sometimes I think I’m boring. Like I’ll never be more than a name.”

And you’d been there. Max, too. Quiet in different ways, but always present.

You looked over at Max now. He had his arm slung along the back of the couch, eyes focused on the screen but clearly aware of the way you were watching him.

“You’re soft,” you whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “Don’t say that in front of them. They’ll never let me live it down.”

You leaned in. “Too late. I already told Kimi you teared up during that baby penguin documentary.”

“You what—”

You pressed your fingers to your lips. “Shhh. Grid dad’s gotta keep his edge.”

From the floor, Oliver shouted, “Okay but seriously, can we do this every week?”

Jack added, “I’ll bring dessert next time!”

Isack: “I’m bringing my own controller. I don’t trust these ones.”

Kimi, dry as ever: “Just admit you suck.”

Gabriel, mouth full of more tiramisu: “This is better than half the sponsor events we do.”

Max gave you a look.

You smiled.

“Every week?” he repeated, voice low, wry.

You looped your arm through his. “Every week.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The door clicked shut on the last of them just before midnight, leaving behind only the echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a faint smell of burnt garlic bread.

You stood in the hallway, arms crossed, staring at the living room like it had personally betrayed you.

“Did Jack really spill soda on the couch again?” you asked, voice exhausted.

Max wandered in behind you, barefoot, rubbing the back of his neck. “At least he didn’t put the controller in the freezer this time.”

You blinked. “He what?”

“Long story.”

You groaned and collapsed onto the couch—carefully avoiding the suspiciously damp spot—and tossed your head back with a dramatic sigh. Max stood over you for a second, as if deciding whether to help clean or collapse next to you. Predictably, he picked the latter.

He sat with a grunt, thigh brushing yours. The room had settled into that warm, familiar silence that followed a day well spent—TV off, dishes drying, the chaos of earlier fading into the comfort of shared space.

“Do you ever wonder how the hell we got here?” you asked.

Max tilted his head toward you, brow raised. “Here as in… couch stained with soda and Mario Kart casualties?”

You gave him a dry look. “Here as in… being the unofficial grid parents to five emotionally chaotic, underfed children in motorsport.”

Max smirked and looked up at the ceiling. “Sometimes. But I think I’d miss it if it stopped.”

You fell quiet, surprised.

“I used to think I was done with caring about anything outside my races,” he added after a beat. “Media, the circus, the drama. But now…” He glanced sideways. “You care. So I guess I started caring too.”

Your throat tightened.

“You do more than care,” you said softly. “You show up. Even when it’s quiet. When they need something and don’t know how to ask for it.”

He looked at you for a long moment. “So do you.”

You leaned into him slightly, shoulder pressing to his.

There was a pause.

Then: “You think Oliver’s okay? He seemed distracted tonight.”

“Yeah,” Max said. “I caught him staring at his phone a lot. Could be pressure.”

“Or homesickness,” you said. “He mentioned something about his sister’s birthday.”

Max nodded. “I’ll talk to him at the track.”

You blinked. “You just volunteered for emotional labor.”

“I didn’t volunteer. I just said I’ll talk.”

“Which counts as—”

“Don’t.”

You grinned, sliding your hand into his. His palm was warm, calloused, familiar.

The two of you sat like that for a while. Just holding hands in a room that smelled like pasta and bad decisions, with a broken Joy-Con on the coffee table and your collective future somehow resting in the ability to balance mentorship, love, and motor racing chaos.

You hadn’t meant to become this. You hadn’t planned for the jokes about “grid mum and dad” to stick. But somewhere along the line—somewhere between media sessions and debriefs, late-night calls and race weekend dinners—it had turned real.

And despite all logic, it felt… right.

“I swear if Kimi calls me mum in public again, I’m walking into the ocean,” you muttered.

Max snorted. “I think he does it just to make you flinch.”

“I think he does everything just to make someone flinch.”

Silence again. Comfortable.

Then Max said, “You think they’re gonna be okay this season?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“They’ve got each other,” you said. “And they’ve got us.”

He nodded.

And that was it. That was the truth of it. The unspoken contract written in pasta dinners and post-race pep talks, quiet hallway chats and raucous living room tournaments. The family you never saw coming—but wouldn’t trade for anything.

Not even clean furniture.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The group chat was cursed.

You knew this the moment Jack renamed it “Grid Orphans Anonymous” and Kimi promptly changed it back to “Grid Children of Max & Mum.”

You groaned as the notification pinged at 2:12 a.m. on a race week.

Gabriel:

jack you absolute maniac you left your fireproofs in my hotel room

Jack:

I panicked! we swapped bags after the media thing remember???

also why is there a half-eaten protein bar in the pocket

Isack:

can we please just have one week without emergency?

Oliver:

guys max saw me spill my drink on the simulator

he didn’t say anything

just gave me the look

Kimi:

may God have mercy on your soul

You closed your phone and rolled over to Max, who was half-asleep and glaring at the ceiling like he could feel the idiocy through the walls.

“Tell me again why we let them have our numbers,” he mumbled.

“I don’t know,” you whispered, pulling the duvet up to your ears. “This is your fault. You made eye contact with Oliver once and now you’re legally his father.”

“They need a manager,” he muttered.

“They need a babysitter. A live-in one. With military training.”

Max exhaled. “I’m not old enough to be a dad.”

You rolled onto your side. “Max, you yelled at Gabriel for not bringing a jacket in the rain. And earlier today, you said the phrase, ‘You’ll catch a cold like that.’ You are thirty.”

He blinked into the darkness. “That’s not that old.”

“You also made Kimi take a nap before media day.”

“He was cranky!”

“Oh my God.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Two days later, at a sponsor event, it happened.

You were mid-conversation with a McLaren comms rep when you heard it—clear as day, across the crowd of journalists, VIPs, and crew.

“Hey, Dad, can I borrow your pen?”

Max visibly froze. The world slowed. Cameras clicked. PR reps turned.

Jack was holding out a Sharpie and looking at Max like nothing was wrong with the words he’d just said out loud, in front of dozens of people.

You slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Max turned so slowly you thought his neck might snap.

“Don’t—call me that,” he said through clenched teeth.

Jack blinked. “But you are?”

“I’m not your dad, Doohan.”

Jack grinned, unbothered. “Sure, dad.”

You wheezed behind a camera rig.

Later, Max hissed in your ear, “He’s dead. I’m removing him from the will.”

“You’re not even his real father!”

“Exactly!”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The final straw came at 7:04 AM on a blessedly rare day off.

The doorbell rang.

Twice.

Max, still shirtless and half-asleep, cracked the door open to find Oliver and Gabriel standing on your porch with smoothies and matching expressions of deep panic.

“…Why?” was all Max said.

“There’s a sponsor Q&A at nine,” Gabriel said. “They changed the location last night, and our hotel’s shuttle won’t get us there in time.”

Oliver held up a phone with the email. “We’re begging you. We didn’t know who else to call.”

Max looked like he aged ten years in five seconds. “Do I look like an Uber to you?”

You emerged in his hoodie and pajama shorts, took one look at the situation, and sighed like a saint.

“Get in the car,” you said. “No talking. If I don’t get coffee first, I’m leaving you in a parking lot.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Later that day, after the boys had been safely dropped off (with strict instructions not to text before 10 a.m.), Max and you sat in the Red Bull motorhome, sipping your respective drinks in complete silence.

Max finally spoke. “We could’ve had another cat.”

You snorted. “We have enough cats.”

“So?”

“I think you secretly like this.”

“I don’t.”

“You like being the dad.”

“I don’t.”

You leaned over and kissed the corner of his mouth. “You do.”

He didn’t argue.

Just laced his fingers with yours under the table, silent and soft.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Somewhere across the paddock, five rookies sent the same text to the same chat:

Oliver:

race weekend dinner at yours again?

Gabriel:

i’ll bring snacks if Max promises not to cook

Kimi:

i’ll win mario kart again. just letting you all know.

Isack:

we should do a team quiz or smth. losers do pushups.

Jack:

do we think mum and dad will ever realize they adopted us

You smiled at the messages as they came in.

Max didn’t even look up from his phone.

“They’re coming for dinner again, aren’t they?”

You grinned. “Yup.”

He sighed. “Fine. But if Jack calls me ‘Dad’ again, I’m unplugging the Switch.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[sexy-monster-fucker]

In a World of Boys, He's a Gentleman

SSA Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader

Summary: Reader finally gives in after her coworkers begged her for months to let them set her up on a blind date.

CW: first dates, fluff, first kiss, not really any warnings

a/n: I love writing bau!reader bc then I get to write the team like a big ole family

title track 🎶🤍

~~~

“I cannot believe I let you talk me into this,” you sighed as J.J. touched up your makeup. Staring yourself down in the vanity at her home. Eyeshadow perfectly accenting your eyes and a beautiful neutral lip stain. Never being one to take the time to do a full face of makeup. You worked out in the field and you sweated… a lot. So what was the point?

“You look beautiful,” Emily complimented resting her hands on your shoulders.

“He’s a lucky guy,” Penelope added with a bright smile.

And that was the thing: you had no clue who the guy was. No clue what his occupation was. No idea what he looked like. No idea if you could even like him.

You had always been the type to prioritize your profession. Dating took time and work. Energy you did not have to spare. And your Team knew that. Pestering you constantly about ‘hopping on the saddle’ or ‘just going for it.’ Ended up with your cheeks flushed and an awkward smile on your face.

You just did not care for dating.

But finally, after years of them begging and pleading with you, you caved. Pulling an excited squeal from all your girlfriends. They told you they would handle everything. All you had to do was show up. Even inviting you over to let them get you ready for the evening.

“Voila!” J.J. proclaimed as she put the final touch of highlight on your cheeks. All the girls gawked and cooed as they looked at you. Clapping and boosting your confidence. Causing you to smile widely.

“How do you feel?” Penelope asked wide eyed.

You thought for a moment. Really taking in your look. Stunning dress that hugged your figure perfectly. Eyes sparkling. Not having cared about how you looked since you were young. Especially not when it came to what a boy would think of you.

Well.

That was not entirely true. In passing years, you had developed a sort of fondness for one of your superiors. Older than you. Stoic and handsome. Somehow, more dedicated to the BAU than you could ever hope to be. Your Team Leader, and boss, Aaron Hotchner. Divorced, emotionally unavailable, and entirely your type. It almost embarrassed you that you swooned like a high schooler over him. Receiving giggles from the other Girls of the BAU. Embarrassingly explaining yourself. And of course, they understood. But they would never let you forget it.

“Nervous,” you exhaled.

J.J. patted your arm, “Don’t be! You look hot! He won’t be able to take his eyes off you the whooooole night.”

The girls all laughed. But the pit in your stomach hardened. Anxieties of the night ahead playing through your mind. Fear creeping through your veins the more you thought.

“Can’t you just tell me his name? What if I know him and can’t hide how embarrassed I am?”

“No!” J.J. over pronounced the word.

“He’s single. You’re single. What else is there to know?” Emily folded her arms.

“What if I think he’s ugly?”

They laughed again.

“Trust us, you won’t think that,” Penelope chuckled.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. Finally breaking your facade of anger and smiling with them.

“Okay, one last thing—“ Emily dug through her pocket, pulling out a small, blue piece of fabric. Holding it out to you, “Take this.”

“What… is it?”

“This will make sure you and your date recognize each other. He will be wearing a pocket square that’s the exact same as this,” Emily smiled, wagging it in your face. Taking the soft silk in your hand. Putting it away in your purse to insure you would not lose it.

“Oh! You’ve gotta get going— your date’s in thirty minutes,” Penelope jumped up and down.

All the girls reassured you as you took one final deep breath. Unprepared for the night ahead of you.

…

You took your seat at the small round table. Flowers in a fancy looking vase in the center. Table cloth cascading down the sides perfectly. You clutched your purse tightly in your lap. Staring down at the blue square at the top. Your leg bounced with anxiety, trying to steady your breathing.

“Y/N?”

That familiar, monotonous tone sent a shiver down your spine. Shoulder tensing up as you hesitated to look behind yourself. Meeting his glowing brown eyes.

“Hotch—“ you stood up to greet him. Extending your hand as to not break formality. Hotch smiled at you. Eyes glazing down your body, never seeing you outside of work clothing. “You look beautiful,” he complimented you.

Your face flushed, “Th-Thank you. You look handsome in your suit.” Hotch smiled with your words. Cheeks growing pink as he looked into your eyes.

“What are you doing here?”

Hotch chuckled, half defeated. Looking away from you, allowing his head to drop as he admitted, “I… let Morgan set me up for a blind date.”

And your stomach flipped. Almost making all the delectable smelling food seem grotesque. Realizing one of two things was true: either Hotch had been set up with another woman, or he was your date.

You laughed awkwardly, “Oh! Wow— that’s uh—“. Hand coming up to cup the back of your neck, feeling suddenly hot. Not prepared to confess to him that you were here for the same reason.

“He even told me to wear this blue pocket square so she knew it was me,” he pointed to the silky fabric peaking from his breast pocket.

Blue. Pocket square.

Just like what Emily told you your date would be wearing. Matching the square of fabric they had given you to make sure it was the right guy. Hidden away in your purse.

Deciding factor of how the rest of your evening would go. Would you blur the lines of what was appropriate? Crossing a bridge that was sure to crumble behind you. Could you really do this with him? A remnant of frustration bounced around your mind. Angry that they had set you up with him without telling you. Already formulating the text you would be sending in the group text after this night ended.

There was no way you could follow through with this.

“Lucky lady,” you sighed, fists clinching around the strap of your purse. Shaking softly as to not give into your desire. Because you did like him after all.

Maybe the risk of embarrassment was worth it all?

Hotch chuckled, cheeks glowing. Flashing his beautiful smile as he looked around the restaurant. Silence washing over the otherwise chipper conversation between you. “Well,” Hotch patted down his suit jacket, “I’m going to try and find her. I hope you have a good night, Y/N.” Turning to walk away from you. Watching the glimmer of hope you had fading away with each step.

It was your last chance.

“Hotch—“ you called out. He spun around to face you once more, eyebrows heavy with concern. You dug through your purse, pinching the soft silk. Taking a deep breath before revealing it to him.

Hotch’s eyes widened. Realizing what you were showing him. His face flooded as he exhaled. Smiling awkwardly at you, starting to speak when you cut him off.

“I let the girls set me up on a blind date… too,” your face was hot to the touch. You felt defeated. Like you had just completely ruined any form of professionalism between you. Your eyes fixated on the small fabric square in your hand, unable to look Hotch in the eyes.

Looking up when his footsteps directed past you. Walking behind you, assuming he was leaving. It was completely inappropriate to go on a date with your boss of all people. You knew that. But it still hurt.

The sound of your chair moving brought your attention behind you. Hotch was pulling your chair out for you, standing with his hands on the back of it. Waiting for you to take your seat.

Your heart pounded in your chest. Such a simple act of chivalry causing your skin to tingle and throat tighten. You mouthed sounds that refused to escape, taking your seat and allowing him to push you in. Cheeks burning with your mixed feelings for him.

“Hotch—“

“It’s Aaron tonight,” he smiled taking his seat directly across from you. You returned his beam. Fighting off the sweat that dared develop along your forehead. Taking the opportunity to really look at Aaron Hotchner. Brow heavy with thought, lines decorating his face from years of work, a small beauty mark on his cheek, brown eyes that you could see yourself getting lost in more often than not.

Being pulled away when the waiter approached your table. Greeting you both politely, asking what he could start you both off with to drink. "Bring us a bottle of your house wine," Aaron spoke. Giving you a knowing look with a raise of his eyebrows. Server complimenting his choice before hurrying off to the back. Leaving you and Aaron alone to finally talk. Neither of you sure how to start the conversation. Fidgeting with your fingernails as you darted your eyes anywhere but his.

"I—"

"So—" Aaron started at the same time as you. Causing both of you to smile and laugh. Breaking away at the thick tension that was forming between you. Not used to being so vulnerable with a member of your team. Unable to rid your faces of the warmth that pooled in them.

“I’m no good at this,” you admitted with a bright smile. Running your fingers along the silverware on the cloth napkin.

“It’s not like we have time to practice,” Aaron joked.

“Especially when I already see you more than I see my own bed,” you snickered.

Aaron’s brows raised with a part of his lips, pretending to be hurt by your insinuation. Both of you attempting to bring down any walls you previously had pitched. Easier said than done when you know each other well enough already.

The Waiter returned, pouring you both a glass of the wine. Taking both your orders and scurrying back to the kitchen. Aaron held his glass out to you initiating a toast, “Well. Let’s get to know each other a little better tonight.”

You nodded in response, clinking your glass to his. Taking a small sip of the wine, fancier than you normally partook in. It practically melted down your throat. Some of the best you had ever tasted. Hotch had good taste.

"Tell me, what kinds of things do you normally do outside of work?" pressing his lips to the glass with his question.

"I really enjoy reading. I tried to join a book club, but really did not have the time. I usually pick something that I normally wouldn't read when I have the time to really focus on it. I like trying new things," you said with a sip of wine.

Aaron's eyes were sternly on you. Taking in every word you said as if he was going to be quizzed on it later. Or maybe he actually thought you were that interesting. Finding it difficult to let your guard down around him. Somehow feeling like you were being interrogated.

But.

You were not. Hotch's cheeks were glowing and round. Completely lost in how you told him about your hobbies. Closed mouth smile knitted along his jaw. And it never changed. The entire meal. You and Hotch went back and forth asking questions and learning more about the other. Sharing embarrassing stories of your youth, shocked when Hotch admitted to being such a big fan of Star Wars. And about the costume he had hand-made one Halloween that was definitely a far reach from what a Storm Trooper looked like.

Slowly, your walls were collapsing all around you. Revealing truths about yourself that you did not know you were willing to share with someone else. Finding comfort in his deep laugh. And how he watched every single mannerism of yours. You learned that Hotch was secretly funny. A side of him you so seldom got to see. His wit was quick, somehow already knowing what made you laugh. Your food was delectable, pairing perfectly with the wine Aaron had chose. Hours went by, but it only felt like moments with him. And of course, he refused to let you pay.

What a gentleman.

You found yourself walking closely at his side, arms linked together. Circling the park that was nearby. Chill in the air, but otherwise perfect. The moon illuminated the ground you walked on. Reflecting against the fountain in the center. The sound of Aaron telling you another story like music to your ears. Enamored by his voice. Laughing when he got to the end. Separating to stand in front of one another at the park gate.

You sighed heavily, "Ugh... I have not been on a date in years. And the first one they set me up on is with... you." You gestured towards him.

"Should I be offended?" He cocked a brow with a tilt of his head.

"Oh God! No! Sorry— I did not mean that to come off that way. I just mean... They knew I liked you," you said slowly at the end. Realizing there was a good chance Hotch had never mentioned any prior interest in you. Merely being set up with you after a conversation Penelope and Derek had. Embarrassed that you had just admitted to harboring a crush on your boss. Meeting Aaron's eyes to see him smirking at you. A twinkle in his eyes with your confession.

"Don't look at me like that," you hid your face with a grin.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” Aaron lowly said, guiding your chin back to meet his gaze.

You could have sworn time froze. Never being this close to your boss before, let alone with his hand caressing your face so tenderly. Eyes darting between his. Their color reminding you of the trees in Autumn. One of the most beautiful things you had ever found yourself lost in. And you could see the same look from him. His lips parted slightly.

"I think you're very beautiful, Y/N," Aaron closed the gap between you. Lips tenderly meeting yours. Electricity shot through every inch of your body. Feeling your chest tighten as your heart raced. Your hand coming up to caress his face. He rested his forehead against yours as he pulled away. Grinning widely as he softly gleamed.

"I guess I should've told you myself," you giggled.

"Should've told me sooner," Aaron kissed you quickly once more. Stepping back and offering his arm to you once more. Walking in a comfortable silence back to the parking lot at the side of the restaurant.

"Guess this is goodbye," you said as you leaned against the cold exterior of your car.

"It doesn't have to," Aaron suggested, pulling an eyebrow raised look from you, "You could come home with me. We can watch a movie or something."

"Aaron Hotchner, are you trying to get laid tonight?"

"No," he laughed, flashing his perfect teeth, "I just like spending time with you."

You thought for a moment. Considering if this was overstepping for a first date. But it was Aaron. You had known him far before tonight.

"Okay."

~

You texted the group chat.

"I could kill you guys."

"Are you sending this from Hotch's apartment?" Emily questioned with the emoji that had its tongue out.

You replied with a rolling eye.

"We will take that as a yes! I'm texting Derek right now!" Penelope sent with a overuse of exclamation points.

"Get off your phone and enjoy your night!" J.J. sent.

You looked up from your phone as Hotch entered the room. Changed into a t-shirt and some pajama pants. Carrying some clothing in his arms, "I don't really have much for you, but you can try any of these. Wear whatever makes you most comfortable." He smiled like a giddy teenager. Finding yourself fond of this new version of Aaron you had gotten to know.

"Thank you," you accepted the wadded up clothing. Excusing yourself to his bathroom to get changed. Opting for one of his pairs of shorts and a t-shirt that had to be too big for him. Coming back to see him on the couch with drinks sitting on the table before him, a blanket folded in your seat. You had no idea he was such a romantic. Trying his best to impress you and make you feel safe here with him. You took your place beside him, his eyes watching you sit.

"Anything in particular you want to watch?"

"Just put on one of your favorites... so I can judge if you have good taste in movies like you do wine," you teased.

Aaron smiled. Arm rested on the back of the couch, softly around your back.

You spent the rest of the night binging each other's favorite movies.

~~~

[END]

// Thank you so much for reading! Happy to be back writing for Hotch again, I have kinda taken a hiatus from watching Criminal Minds right now. No particular reason, just am. Anywho- I really hope you enjoy this fluffy fanfic. Reblogs and Comments are appreciated! //

{tags}

@viennasolace ~ @bondwithme-murderstyle ~ @cherriready ~ @mrs-ssa-hotch ~ @khxna ~ @justyourusualash ~ @boybandbaby ~ @hoffmanfan13 ~ @megangovier ~ @maybe-a-pilot ~ @michasia24 ~ @gottalovebroody ~ @bedouinpoet ~ @lovelykat001 ~ @pastelpinkflowerlife ~ @ravennawritesfanfiction ~

[luveline]

𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐲 | 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐨'𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚

miguel assumes you're mad when you stop initiating kisses and tries to get back on your good side —featuring grumpy but lovelorn miguel and his head-in-the-clouds spider-girl. requested here. fem!reader, 3k.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

"Gàn de piàoliang!" cheers the puppy at the bottom of your screen. Well done.

You smile at him and slide your finger across a lilac candy to make another three-match. 

The music playing from your phone quietens as a text lines the top of the screen. You click it as soon as you recognise the contact picture beside it, your handsome Miguel with a filter over his face that paints rosy pink hearts over his high cheeks. 

Finished. his text says. 

Miguel is a man of little words. Over the phone he talks even less, easier to draw blood from stone than harness a conversation with him that isn't in person. His text demarcates the wall of messages you sent him earlier, not wanting for a reply but bursting to tell him things as they happened. 

You put your phone down carefully. It's one of your most treasured possessions, shimmering and high tech, you can fold it down the middle to fit in your little spider suit pockets, though the amount of charms and beads hanging from it now impedes that particular functionality.

Miguel gave it to you as a gift without any fanfare around the time you started staying in his apartment in the society, and while your bunking with him was supposed to be temporary, the phone is for keeps. You've decorated it accordingly.

The best charm is a beaded translucent jellyfish, and not solely because it's beautiful: Miguel has a matching one that he showcases shamelessly. 

You rush into his neat bathroom and lean heavily on the counter, propping your hand on the faucet to hold your weight as you assess your reflection in the mirror. When you turn your face, your nose shines in the light. 

You decide it's best to wash up. Miguel will be back soon enough. 

You get distracted by skincare, toner pads resting on your cheeks when you hear the door opening. A waste to take them off prematurely, you pat them flat to your skin and meet Miguel in his bedroom half ready. 

"I can see why you didn't text me back," he says, giving you a quick glance from the corner of his eye as he walks past the bed and your waiting phone. He beelines for the kitchenette and disappears around the corner. "What do they do, the squares?" 

"They're calming, I think," you say, following his path from the bathroom to the small kitchen. 

His apartment is big but not huge. The main room is his bedroom, with enough space for a couch and a TV he never uses that comes out of the wall. To the right is a utility closet for storage and a walk-in wardrobe, and to the left lies the kitchen and the bathroom. It takes you all of ten seconds to be by his side. 

Bottles rattle as Miguel opens the fridge. He grabs sparkling water for himself and a fruit tea concoction for you. You hadn't followed him for that, but you accept it anyway. 

He looks tired. Tilting his head back to drink, you eye the stiff set to his shoulders and the way he rolls his arm out, orchestrating an offer for a massage in your head. 

Miguel squints at you. "What?" 

"What?" you ask back. 

He doesn't explain. He screws the lid back on to his water and closes the fridge. 

With his empty hand, Miguel reaches for your face. You stay very still in anticipation of his touch, imagining how he might take your cheek in his hand and pull you close, or perhaps curl thick, long fingers behind your neck and guide your chin up. He can be rough in odd ways, as though he's unaware of his strength. 

"It's slimy," he says in disgust, pulling a toner pad from your left cheek. 

"It's going to make my skin clearer." 

"There's nothing wrong with your skin." True or not, you know it's Miguel's way of being sweet. He takes the second toner pad too, tossing them in the trash with a huff. "That's better. You look normal. Or, as normal as possible." 

"Jerk!" you say through a smile, thinking now's the moment. 

But Miguel hasn't peeled away your skincare to kiss you. He pats a spot of dampness on your cheek away with the back of his hand and turns on his heel, gunning for a change of clothes and a shower, if you know him. "Drink your tea. Did you eat? Me preocupo por ti." 

You sigh and trail after him. "I was waiting for you to come back. It's Vietnamese week in the cafeteria, they're making cá kho tộ. Do you like that? It's sweeter than hake." 

"It's fish?" 

"Catfish. Caramelised catfish." You sit down on the bed, flipping your phone open to play your game while he decides. 

That, and to ignore the inkling of doubt blossoming like mould under heat in your chest. An achy sort of worry… 

Does Miguel not want to kiss you? 

"What's the other option? I don't like sweet foods." 

You knew that already. "You could make pasta?" you suggest. 

"You'd love that." 

"Are you teasing me?" 

Miguel pokes his head out of the wardrobe, and with it comes his naked chest. His muscles are insane, lean tanned stretches of cord pulled taut as he grabs a shirt. "I'm making an observation. You like carbs." 

"Everyone likes carbs, Miguel, especially Spiders." 

"I know, but I don't make anyone else dinner." He's definitely flirting now, his voice playful and soft. "I'll make you pasta if you want." 

Why hasn't he kissed you? Offering to make you dinner, smiling at you just as soon as his face has been pulled through his t-shirt. He's acting as affectionate as a man who'd like to kiss you without pulling through. 

Well, maybe you kiss him too much. Come to think of it, you initiate the vast, vast majority of kisses, and you must kiss him twice a day at least. Miguel clearly favours you, but it's possible he isn't interested in as much physicality as you and hasn't had the heart to say. He likes watching vintage movies at night and half the time you're not interested in those. You haven't said a word about it because things between you are new and you like his being happy watching the things he enjoys. Miguel could be doing the same, allowing hugs and kisses he doesn't necessarily want in order to avoid hurting your feelings. 

A favourite phrase of his cuts through your thinking, "¿Alguien en casa?" Anyone home?

"Oh, sorry, were you not getting enough attention?" you ask him, pretending to be more nonchalant than you are as you open the match game on your phone. 

The puppy barks hello. 

"Ah, you're a cómico now." Miguel sits on the bed beside you in sweatpants, reaching across the sheets to give your arm a shake. "I said, I'll make you pasta if you want pasta." 

"I want what you want," you say honestly. 

He stares at you. You're not sure what he's confused about. "Alright. Did you want it now?" he asks. 

"Yes, serf," you say, laughing when he knocks your phone out of your hand and stands in a dramatised annoyance. 

You play a couple levels of your game to give him space. He's quiet as he washes his hands and gets out the cookware, but he appears curious in the door, rag between his hands. "You're not gonna come and sit with me? I really am your maid." 

Eager for an invitation, you join him in the kitchen. You brace yourself behind you to hop onto the counter and find his hands on your hips, helping you up. 

Miguel meets your eyes as he does, not close but enough to beckon down for a kiss. You think about doing it. He might let you, his straight lashes pointed with his gaze, his eyes a heavy weight where they trace your features unhurried. 

"How come you didn't text me back earlier?" he asks. 

"Oh, I didn't know you were expecting me to. I'm sorry, handsome, I was kind of grody–"

"Grody? I doubt that–" 

"–I figured I'd wash up before you got back." 

"So you were busy?" he asks, returning to the chopping board at the left of the stove. He picks up a glinting-sharp knife. "Not something else?" 

"No, why? Was I supposed to do something today?" 

Miguel begins slicing into a tomato, red skin splitting to reveal greener insides. "No. No, just wondering." 

You lean back against the wall, crossing a leg over your thigh. He's being kind of off. Your first impulse is to try and kiss it better but that directly fights your new theory. Being nice physically is far from your only weapon. 

"Did you have a good day?" you ask, and here's where you'd pull him close or sidle up behind him and twist his hair around your finger. "I was thinking about you a lot. Did the strike mission go okay?" 

"Fine. You didn't come see me, but it was fine." 

You eye him from the corner of your vision. He's still cutting up tomatoes, a pan of olive oil and minced garlic simmering between you. 

"I sent you all those photos," you say. 

One of the Peter's you hang around with got his arm stuck in a window after he said, "Is that a bad idea, do you think? I really wanna try," and Hobie said, "They can't stop you." 

The 'they' being unknown, Hobie was right. No one could stop Peter once he started climbing, but the window could certainly stop him from getting down. You'd sent Miguel pictures of his dangling body up in the atrium like a dark splodge, as well as a blurry photo of your face when you'd accidentally turned the camera. He responded to that one with a heart but the rest he didn't touch. 

"They got him down eventually," you continue, "but I had to stay for moral support! And to feed him popcorn so he didn't starve. Was it peaceful without me?"

"You know I like when you visit me, right?" he asks carefully. 

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah?" he mimics, waving his hand at you. "Can't deal with you. Get the cream from the fridge." 

You eat dinner as you and Miguel tend to do —you talk your way through it happily, smiling and joking, and he puts extra helpings on your plate when you aren't looking. 

The alien quality of what you're doing rears its head briefly. He's trying to stop the quasi apocalypse. You're willing to help, though you'd been more interested in Miguel and getting to know his enigma than your responsibilities. Weird how love makes you want to be better. 

"What was your course like?" Miguel asks, when the dishes have been set aside for washing and you've showered for the night. 

He's talkative tonight. 

"They taught us how to wield a baton," you say, climbing into his bed with a tired sigh. "One girl was crazy about it. She kind of looked like me…" You yawn, looking for his waist as he settles in the sheets and pillows next to you. "You're lucky I got my claws into you when I did. At least I'm not murderous. Much." 

Miguel covers your hand on his ribs. He squeezes your fingers together gently like he's collecting them under his palm for borrowing. 

"You didn't get your claws in me. I'm not easily led." 

"Course not," you snort. You actually agree with him, but he said it too seriously for bedtime. 

Miguel abandons your hand to pull you in, encouraging your head and upper chest onto his, hand coasting up and down the length of your arm lovingly. Firmly, like a massage, but adoring nonetheless. You languish in his touches and rub your lips, still tingling from spearmint, against the collar of his shirt gently. As indirect a kiss as you can manage, practically sick with longing after a day unkissed. 

"Are you mad at me?" he asks into the quiet.

You pause, fingers with a mind of their own as you take a long strand of hair that curls under his ear between them, combing it flat. "Why, have you done something?" you ask, hiding your confusion with a delighted lilt. 

"I've been trying to work that out." Frustration seeps into his voice, roughened syllables drawn tight, "But you're evasive." 

"I'm evasive," you say softly, tilting your head back to meet his eye. "Miguel, why do you think I'm mad at you? I'm not mad." 

Miguel glares at you. Brows furrowed, an especially formidable downturn to an otherwise pretty mouth, he looks as though he wants to start a fight with you, and as though he doesn't believe it. 

"I'm not mad," you insist, sitting up a little. 

"Then…" 

You scrunch your brows at him. "You've been thinking I was mad at you all day? Why didn't you say something, handsome?" 

He might roll his eyes at your pet name if he weren't knee deep in relief. You didn't know being mad at him was something he'd be sad with, and yet there he is lying beneath you, blowing a big enough exhale to ruffle the hair from his forehead. 

Miguel takes your face into one hand. Your eyelashes flutter against his palm like a shuddering butterfly wing as you lean into his touch, more than happy to offer him whatever relief it is he needs while enjoying in the feeling of being close to him. 

"You haven't kissed me all day," he says quietly. "I thought I must've pissed you off, 'cos you're more piranha than girl sometimes, but you weren't acting any weirder than usual beyond that." 

You roll your eyes and hide your face in his hand. He's kidding around, and his thumb rubs over your skin tenderly to prove it. 

"You're not mad?" he asks again. 

You kiss his palm. You kiss his wrist, happy when he knows the moves like a well practised dance, his fingers sliding behind your ear to steady you as you dip down for a kiss. 

It's a good kiss. Warm mouths vying for one another but trying not to seem desperate, Miguel's hand behind your ear growing harsher as you pull a breath against his lips. You press your hand into his pec too hard. 

"Sorry," you murmur, stealing another fast kiss and pulling away. 

You barely feel how uncomfortably you're skewed, you're that happy. 

"Is there a reason you wouldn't kiss me?" he asks. 

"I'm, like, always the first one to initiate and I kinda got it in my head maybe you didn't want me kissing you that much…" You grin at him. "The whole time you're playing twenty questions with me wishing I'd lay one on you. You know you have a voice for more than yelling at people, right?" 

Miguel gets this look in his eyes then, rolling his jaw a touch at the supposed audacity of what you've said. The tip of his tongue works at his canine tooth, his eyebrows rising as he asks, "Oh, is that how you're talking to me tonight?" 

"How else should I talk to you, Miguel?" 

He doesn't bother with swiftness nor a show of strength as he rolls you onto your back. He settles above you with measured movements, a pleased smirk playing on his lips now. His eyes are dark, pupils wide as dimes.

"With compassion, mi cielo," he says.

"Have some sympathy for me," you implore him, wrapping your arms around his waist. It diffuses the tension, though neither party minds, evidenced by Miguel's easy relaxation and your ecstatic mood. Happiness bubbles up like carbonated bubbles, your chest awake with a fizzing excitement. "You really thought I was mad 'cos I wasn't kissing you?" 

He avoids the question. "You think you're the only one who initiates?" he asks genuinely. 

"Why didn't you kiss me, then? When you came home?" 

"Your face was wet." 

"And after when we were eating dinner?" 

Miguel smiles at you. No sarcasm, no stress. He leans down to kiss you chastely, pulling away to say, "I thought you were definitely mad at that point." 

"A kiss would've made me feel better." 

You realise how quiet your bubble of the world really is for that handful of seconds, Miguel holding himself above you, your hands loose behind the broad stretch of his back. 

"You know you can just ask me, yeah? You don't have to worry and wonder how I'm feeling. I'll tell you how I'm feeling if you want to know." 

"Cariño, I always want to know," he says. 

You breathe out slowly. Miguel takes your face into his hand for another kiss, or so you think —he pinches your cheek. 

"And I always want to kiss you," he says quickly, climbing off of you. 

"Where are you going?" 

"I need a drink." 

A break from sincerity. You don't mind that he needs to walk it off as long as he comes back. You stretch out on your back and cover your face with your hands. 

"People think I'm the weird one," you say into them.

A hand clamps around your ankle and tugs you down. You shriek with startled laughter and climb away from him as he lands on top of you, a cold water bottle held to your bare neck. 

"No!" you laugh. 

Miguel laughs in tandem and presses it further down. 

"I really am going to be mad at you if you don't quit!" You yelp as condensation wets your collar. "Miguel!"

"You're a wimp," he says with a bright smile. 

You push him with some enhanced super strength and manage to get the water bottle off of your neck, but Miguel makes up for any differences in strength with enthusiasm and muscle alike, shoving you down. 

You're laughing and pleading at the same time, "Please, Miguel, stop, it's sooooo cold." 

Miguel laughs, dropping the bottle somewhere above your head, covering the cooled stripe of your skin with his big hand. The sound is warming enough, but you let him sweat for a second, content to be doted on. 

He gives you a once over. "I'll kiss you first more," he promises. 

"Starting now, please, handsome. Mi cielo." 

Miguel groans and digs his arms under your back. You don't fight it as he drags you back to the top of the bed. In fact, you quite enjoy it. You lay back to receive his sorry pecks and his all encompassing hug, forgetting what you'd been worried about one damp crescent moon of a kiss at a time.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading!

[honey-pages]

Fluff Fics - Viktor x Reader - Kiss Me

Description -

This is Part 2 of my fluff mini series. Part 1 can be found here.

Viktor makes table toppings for an event.

0.4k words

F/M. Fluff.

The lab had been hard work today. Students had flocked from all over Piltover to see the talk prepared by a partner professor from a nearby institution. You and Viktor had been given the task of hosting his appearance- sweeping the lab, dragging up chairs and tables, and organising little snacks and sweet treats. Catering was neither of your passions but the event was important to the department and so you treated it with importance. You had made the hike up and down the stairs to spare Viktor the job. He instead sat at one of the catering tables, setting out glasses and putting together the spread of food.

“Is this a usual event?” You asked

“I haven’t been present at one in a very long time. I suppose with the upcoming hextech research, professors are drawn to hold their lectures here.” Viktor replied, folding the napkins into little cats.

You sit at the seat beside him at the large round table. His little cats were pristine, crisply folded and with moving tails.

“How did you learn to do that?”

“When I was a child, I used to make lots of things like these.”

Viktor grabs a square piece of paper this time and shields his work from you as he folds. He takes a pen from his pocket, marking up the paper.

“See this?” He presents the folded cube shaped paper. It is sitting between his four fingers, each digit in a different fold of the paper as he manipulates it to fold and unfold. There are numbers written on each corner. “Pick a number between one and four.”

“Three.” Viktor flips the corners three times, presenting you with eight choices.

“A number between one and eight?” He asks.

“Seven”

“Back then, we used to make these from paper scraps and have people choose options to tell them their future- or some joke message.” He smiles fondly.

He flips the inner paper seven times. He looks at the paper happily, tilting it to you, showing you the message it has landed on. ‘Kiss me’.

“Ah see, now you have to do what the paper says” He laughs, “I don’t make the rules, it’s all probabilities.”

You lean in and kiss him deeply. He drops the paper and it unfolds. All eight numbers say ‘Kiss me’.

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Five: failed kintsugi

tw: none

Simon Riley does not exist. 

Right now, he’s far away, tucked in bed in that dilapidating apartment back in London, hibernating as the cold chill of winter swallows the city with algid fingers. Everything he loves is hidden away in a neat little box compartmentalized somewhere in the grey matter of his brain where neither light nor susurrus can reach it. He sleeps soundly—dormant, but creaking the way the earth does when magma boils beneath the surface, waiting to spew forth and devour. 

For now, there is only Ghost, and he is all sharp canines and malice. There is enough iron on his body—in the form of guns, bullets, and knives—to drown a man, and still he persists. Old viscera haunts the soles of his boots leaving behind stains that he can never quite rinse free, and a skull balaclava clings to his face like a second skin. He is nothing but dark eyes, ichor, and compos mentis among strewn offals for it to leave a sour taste on his tongue. A trained killer. A honed blade. 

But there are instances where Simon Riley and Ghost intersect. They intertwine like roots from different trees, or how blood from different bodies mix when they meet on a cold floor. One can’t survive without the other. 

At the moment, they’re both infatuated with a handkerchief. 

Black fabric patterned with silly, cartoonish dogs stare up at him as he holds it as gently as he can in his gloved hands. Though the soft leather and stiff fabric dulls his tactile senses, his thumb still runs over the cloth with mesmerizing motion. Something whispers low and dangerous in Ghost’s ear—Simon’s desires cut through the hum of the transport aircraft with a saccharine lull. 

Ghost smothers it before it can bear fruit. 

“Think he’s got a kid?” 

Though it’s difficult to hear Kyle over the humming of the engines as they soar thousands of feet in the air, Johnny hums as he leans back in his seat. “Sure hope not. I have a hard time imagining him around a kid.” 

Chuckling, Kyle glances back over at his lieutenant for a short moment, eyes still focused on that handkerchief. He’s bent forward, elbows resting on his knees, lost in his own world. 

“No, I think he’s got someone else waiting for him back home,” Johnny comments as he toys with the strap on his rifle. The red lighting inside the airbus makes his eyes throb as if they’re about to melt, but his lips quirk into a sly grin. “He’s got himself his own little ghost.” 

“Little ghost?” Kyle repeats incredulously. 

“Yeah, you know. A little phantom. A spectre. Ghostette?” Johnny eggs. 

Kyle shakes his head. “You’re taking the piss.” 

“What?” Johnny asks as if actually offended. “We call him Ghost. It’s only fitting that his girl gets a nickname, too.” 

“If there is a girl,” Kyle corrects. 

Lips pressing together, Johnny looks back at his superior just in time to watch him fold the handkerchief. It’s neatly done; a perfect square with crisp edges. Once finished, he leans to the side and shoves it into his back pocket for safe keeping. When his hands return back in front of him, he stares down at them as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. 

“Oh, there’s a girl alright.” 

The next few weeks are brutal. October gloom slowly morphs into an algid January bite, and throughout it all, Simon fights. His trigger finger cramps with how often he pulls it these days, and he manages to snag a new hole in the sleeve of his jacket as barbed wire slices through his flesh like a butcher’s knife through a pig. For him, this is nothing new. He’s well acquainted with the way scar tissue mends over a wound and how gunpowder coalesces with blood into some noisome aroma that lurks in his dreams. 

Still, he has a slight reprieve in the form of that handkerchief. Thumb running over the threads, he fusses over it in the darkness of a safe house or in a snowy foxhole. Even when he’s halfway across the world, you still haunt him. 

The chill of winter follows him all the way back to London where he’s greeted by an empty apartment and a lugubrious heater that’s slow to turn on. He drags himself into the shower where he washes off weeks worth of toil and incessant eye black that still traces the rim of his eyes. When he’s finished, he can still smell the way death lingers on him, and he doesn’t feel any lighter and absolved from the violence he so expertly executed, but his freshly washed skin and clean clothes will have to do. 

He lays in bed on his back, ready to catch up on the infinite hours of sleep he’s lost, but it does not come easy. The rainy afternoon sun bleeds through his blinds and stains his floor with pale silver, but it’s not enough to snuff out that throe in his stomach. He’s being watched. That silly piece of cloth stares at him from the corner of his nightstand. 

You promise? That you’ll come see me? 

You’re in the living room when a knock interrupts your evening. 

Hands twitching, your head snaps towards the front door as your eyes narrow. The time on your phone says it’s just past seven—not exactly obnoxiously late, but concerning enough when you aren’t expecting any visitors. Pushing yourself to your feet, you carefully hop along the hallway as you avoid all the squeaky spots in the floor as you approach the door. You press your face against the wood as you gaze through the peephole, and the very moment your brain registers the hulking figure on the other side, your hand flies to the lock. 

Simon Riley stands in front of you with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket. Water droplets from unforgiving rain adorns the fabric of his balaclava, framing his obsidian eyes like rhinestones. Once you’re able to get over your shock, a smile pulls at your lips. 

“Simon,” you exclaim softly as your hand falls from the door. 

It isn’t until you speak that you realize just how disheveled you are. Donning nothing but loose pajamas and large house slippers to stave off the cold, you feel underdressed. Naked in your own home. 

“It’s good to see you,” you continue breathlessly. “Do you want to come in and warm up a bit? That rain is brutal today.” 

Simon shifts and the wet heels of his boots squeak against the floor. Though his balaclava and hood obscures his face, his eyes are plenty easy to read. He studies you—observant as ever—as he traces the features of your face with his gaze. His shoulders loosen once he’s soaked you in.

“Don’t waste your evening on me,” he says. His voice is stiff and gruff; worn down from rigorous and relentless use. “Just keepin’ my promise.” 

As he speaks, his eyes unmistakably wander to the scar on the wall behind you. The hole Eric had punched into your wall has become nothing but a faint memory with a less than perfect patching job. Still, its presence has burned a hole in Simon’s mind, and he feels acrid annoyance boil in his stomach at the mere idea that it had ever soiled your home in the first place. 

“Please,” you insist as you step to the side to let him through. “I was just about to put the kettle on, and it’s freezing out. It’s no trouble at all.” 

There’s a short pause as Simon mulls your proposition over. “Alright,” he finally says. “Won’t keep you long.” 

The cold radiates off of his body as he takes a step through the entryway, closing the door behind him. He kneels to the floor to undo the shoelaces on his boots, halfing his height. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long as you step backwards to give him space as you wander into the kitchen. 

“When did you get home?” you ask as you retrieve your kettle. 

“Couple hours ago,” he answers, voice still coarse. 

Running water spews from the sink as you begin to fill the kettle, and Simon’s boots gently thunk against the wall as he lines them up next to yours. You steal a glance at them and you try to ignore the fluttering in your stomach when you see the stark difference in size between his boots and your flimsy work shoes. 

“Late night traveling, then?” you ask as you set the kettle on the stove. You turn the heat on with a few clicks and then watch as the electric coils burn a bright red. 

“Something like that,” he mumbles. Once his boots are situated, he turns to face you as he stands in the doorway to the kitchen. Your throat grows dry when you note how his shoulders almost brush against either side of the frame. 

Nodding, you gesture to the lone couch in your living room. “Feel free to grab a seat. I’d hate to make you stand around. I’m sure you’re tired.” 

Simon hums as he follows your prompt and you watch his eyes dilate before he slowly stalks into the next room. “What’s in the box?” 

“Oh, that? Don’t mind that,” you wave off as you curiously follow behind him. “I bought myself a new lamp. I tried to glue the glass base of the other one back together, you know with like the gold glue and stuff? It didn’t really work out and I hate using the overhead light so I figured it was about time I bought a new one. Haven’t quite gotten it put together yet, though. Feel free to move it out of the way, it’s kind of an eyesore.” 

Teeth sinking into your lower lip, you duck back into the kitchen while Simon continues to wander around the room. As the water begins to boil, you rummage through your cupboards to raid it for tea. You’re met with mostly empty shelves coated with a painfully minute amount of sparse food. Rent has become a little more difficult to keep on top of these last few months. Though Eric wasn’t good for many things, he at least kept the kitchen stocked. Still, you’re saved by a stray box of breakfast tea shoved to the very back of the bottom shelf, and you eagerly snatch it with a huff. 

“You alright with breakfast tea?” you call as your fingers sort through the bags. 

Simon is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Plain.” 

You manage to catch the kettle as soon as it begins to whistle, and you remove it from the stove as you prepare your cups. Retrieving your favorite Halloween mug for yourself, and a cheeky don’t talk to me until I’ve had my morning tea one for Simon, you let the bags steep before you’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of tearing cardboard. 

Wandering into the living room, you find Simon sitting on the floor with the box that belongs to your new lamp ripped open. Several parts and pieces lay out in front of him in their own separate bags, seemingly sorted into piles based on screws and main structural pieces. A small piece of paper sits in his hands as he carefully reads through the instructions. 

“Simon, you don’t have to do that,” you insist, dumbfounded. 

Ignoring you, he continues to read through the instructions before his eyes narrow. “Where the hell did you buy this from?” 

“Ikea…”

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grumbles as he tosses the paper to the side. “Useless.” 

Without the help of any sort of direction, Simon begins to put your new table lamp together. Really, there doesn’t seem to be too many pieces, but even from a short distance you can make out about twenty different screws with several varying sizes. With his balaclava on and his hood pulled up over his head, Simon looks more like a robber than a handyman, yet here he is, building your lamp as if it’s his favorite hobby. 

Chuckling, you return to the kitchen to grab the tea before meandering back into the living room. After setting Simon’s mug on the coffee table, you curl up on the couch as you warm your hands on the ceramic while watching him work—brows furrowed, eyes steady, hands moving. 

How did the two of you get to this point? When did you go from strangers to… whatever this is? 

How do you name this feeling in your stomach—this fluttering sanguinity?

As you sip on the tea and revel in the warm liquid pooling in your stomach, you notice Simon has rolled the sleeves up on his jacket. It’s up far enough to reveal a myriad of tattoos on his left forearm—the very one you had seen a hint of that night at the pub all those weeks ago. Skulls, smoke, and dog tags wrap around his arm in a monochrome mural, bringing depth to his otherwise pale skin. On his other arm, you notice a still healing cut. It’s deep and angry with red, puffy scar tissue freshly formed over a long gash, and you watch as it pulls taut while the muscles underneath it dances as he works. 

“What happened to your arm?” you ask, unable to hide your solicitude. 

Simon turns his attention away from your lamp and looks up at you. His head tilts to the side in a way that sends butterflies scrambling in your stomach, and you feel your skin begin to tingle and burn as if you’ve been set ablaze. 

“Right,” you say with a breathy laugh. “Stupid question, I suppose.” 

Something of a titter leaves Simon as he stands from his spot on the floor. It feels like you have to break your neck just to keep looking at him, but the lamp is finally put together—lightbulb, lampshade, and the works. He picks it up from the floor and places it on the side table next to the couch before plugging it into the wall. You excitedly place your half finished tea on the coffee table before leaning over the arm of the couch and twisting the switch. Warm light pours out of it like a fond memory. 

“Well, would you look at that,” you beam. Really, it’s not anything spectacular; after all, it’s just a silly lamp. But it feels like—in some way—you’re getting a part of your life back. “Thank you.” 

“It’s nothing,” Simon responds simply. 

A small string of tension weaves throughout the room as Simon continues to stand with eyes flickering back and forth between you and the lamp. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you glance back at the coffee table. His tea remains untouched, and now cold. Really, you don’t know why you had expected him to drink it. He never takes his mask off. 

Perhaps that's why he asked for it plain; he doesn’t want to waste any milk or sweeteners. 

“I missed you,” you suddenly blurt out. 

This sudden revelation that spews from your lips surprises not only you, but Simon as well. You see it in the way his eyes land on you; how they flicker over your face—how they linger on your lips. He always lingers on your lips, but you know it’s not in the way the fuzziness in your stomach wants them to. Your tongue swipes over the corner of your lip as it prods against the painful reminder that Eric gave you all those months ago. 

“I never used to worry about you,” you continue as you shift in your spot on the couch. You feel smaller than a bug as he stands tall, looking down at you. “I mean, I knew you were in the military, so when you’d vanish without notice I would just assume that you were out saving the world, or something. But I… I worried this time.” You pause as your words and embarrassment begin to choke you. “What I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you’re back.” 

“Course I came back,” he says as if stating a fact. “Had to make sure you weren’t getting into any more trouble.” 

You laugh, thankful for his teasing tone. It’s comforting to know he’s not put off by all of your awkward ramblings, or at least if he is, he’s good at hiding it. How you’ve managed not to annoy a quiet man like Simon is beyond you. 

“Yeah, well, I think you scared off any trouble that would find me,” you admit with a shy smile. 

“Brute force will do that.” 

Simon is… funny. In his own weird, macabre way. Everything about him seems to lure you in like a moth to a flame, and at this point you don’t think you even care about getting burned—you know the butterflies in your stomach certainly don’t. 

“Do you wanna catch a movie this weekend now that you’re back?” Once more, your mouth is opening and spewing out words before you even have the chance to think them through, but instead of retracting your statement, you double down. “It would be more relaxing than the pub, I’d imagine.” 

“What? Need protecting?” he asks dryly. 

You grin. “You never know when trouble is gonna find me.” 

Humming, Simon digs his hands into his coat pocket and retrieves his phone. The screen illuminates his face with dull light for a few seconds before he passes it over to you. It’s his contact list—the keyboard is waiting for a new recipient. 

“Text me the day and time, and I’ll be there.” 

The butterflies in your stomach begin to bloom. They flutter and tickle the walls of your stomach as you take his phone into your hands, but they begin to thrash the moment you write your name and number. They want more—need more. You fear that if you don’t give them more, they’ll devour you, bones and all. 

“Alright,” you say, handing his phone back to him with a coy grin. “It’s a date, then.”

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[matts-hersheys-kisses]

"you should've stayed"

-matt sturniolo

warnings: mentions of death/funerals soul shattering angst.

i wait for you - alex g

It was raining when Matt found her letter.

Not in a cinematic way, not with thunder cracking or the world falling apart around him—though maybe it should’ve been. The rain was quiet, barely there, like the kind that gets under your skin and stays, and everything smelled like the end of something.

The envelope was pale pink. Her favorite color. His least favorite now.

Matt,

You’ll hate me for this. Maybe you already do. Maybe I’m just finishing what’s been broken for a long time.

He stopped reading after the third line. The ink bled at the edges where his thumbs had pressed too hard, and his heart felt like it was caving in slow motion. It didn’t matter how long the letter was. It was enough.

It was the end.

--

They met when they were kids. She wore those dumb star clips in her hair and had the loudest laugh in the world. He used to tell her to shut up every time she laughed. She never did.

She called him “Matty” even though he hated it. She said he looked like a Matt, but sounded like a boy who needed a hug.

She was always saying things like that.

--

He saw it coming. That was the worst part.

The pieces didn’t fall all at once—they slipped. She started wearing long sleeves in July. Her texts got shorter. Her eyes didn’t glow the way they used to when he made her laugh.

She never laughed anymore.

He told himself it was a phase. That people get sad. That she’d come back, that she’d snap out of it.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t make her tell him.

And now—

Now he was standing in the middle of her empty bedroom, the walls bare except for one thing: a photo booth strip stuck to the mirror. Four blurry squares of a time before the ache took her voice. Her leaning into him, eyes squinted, both of them grinning like idiots.

His hand shook as he reached for it.

--

The funeral was too quiet.

They didn’t play her favorite songs. They didn’t mention the way she used to sing off-key on purpose just to make Matt cringe. No one brought up the time she dared him to jump into the lake in January and he did it just to impress her, even though he got sick for a week.

They made her sound like someone else. Like a girl who was just sad, not someone who had once been made of fire and noise and reckless joy.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to break the goddamn silence and shake someone and say, She was more than this. She was everything. She was the reason I stayed.

But he didn’t.

He just sat in the back, hands clenched in his lap, trying not to throw up every time someone said her name.

--

He visited her grave every Friday.

It was a quiet sort of ritual. He never brought flowers. She hated flowers. Said they always died too fast and made her feel like she was looking at something already grieving.

Instead, he’d bring her things she liked.

A bag of sour candy.

A book she never finished.

Once, he brought his hoodie. The one she always stole. He left it folded on the stone, even though it rained that night and he knew it would be soaked by morning.

He didn’t care.

--

Months passed, but the ache didn’t.

He heard her laugh in dreams he never remembered.

He thought he saw her once, standing by the gas station, hair tangled by the wind, hands in the pockets of a hoodie that looked too familiar.

But it wasn’t her. Of course it wasn’t.

--

She wrote one last line in her letter. He hadn't read it until now—sitting in his car outside the cemetery with the envelope unfolded beside him, hands numb.

I loved you, Matty. God, I loved you so much. I just didn’t know how to stay.

His chest caved in again.

Because he would've stayed for her.

He did stay. And she didn’t.

idk if yall fw this but imma force it on you anyway sorry chat✌️💕

xoxo

-𝒜 💋

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[hatethysinner]

Saw you were taking requests and I’ve been thinking about what would happen if one of your OCs gave Remmick a gift. You know this pathetic wet man would not have a normal reaction

ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴇʏᴇꜱ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ɢᴏᴅ

I LOVE LOVE LOVE THIS REQUEST! i think it'd be so fun to return to my previous fics and do requested add-ons! no warnings for this, just pure unadulterated pathetic!remmick fluff. this will be a an add-on to the weary blues, but there's no need to read it before this one (though i do highly recommend it).

The hour was late. Not just late in the way clocks measured it, but in that shapeless, misty sort of late that made time feel slippery. The bookstore breathed around you, shelves and walls wrapped in deep shadow, the kind that folded itself politely out of the way so nothing would feel truly alone. No people passed outside. No wind stirred. Even the moths had given up circling the single lamp hanging on the other side of the tinted glass.

Remmick was here, of course.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, spine curved against a low shelf, thumbing absently through a forgotten paperback whose cover had long since faded. His coat was off, neatly folded over the back of your favorite armchair. His sleeves were rolled past the elbows, exposing pale forearms marked with the soft dents of old scars. Every few minutes, he glanced up. Not like he was expecting anything, just to check that you were still there.

That you hadn’t disappeared.

You were at the counter. Pretending to tidy something. A stack of journals, maybe, or that tin of bookmarks that no one ever bought but he always seemed to mess with. Your fingers moved in idle little patterns, but your mind wasn’t on the task.

It was on the box in your pocket.

Small. Softly wrapped. The kind of thing that would disappear in someone else’s hands, but felt almost too large here, in this strange, suspended pocket of midnight and quiet.

You hadn’t meant to give it to him tonight.

It hadn’t felt like the right time. Then again, you weren’t sure what the right time looked like. There were no birthdays tonight. No holidays. No calendar hanging by the register to count down days or circle occasions. There was only now. The dark, and the dust, and the low crackling of the candle you'd light when the chill tried to settle too deep into the floorboards.

But tonight had been soft. That rare kind of soft, the one that didn’t ask for anything but gave something anyway. You’d spent most of the evening in shared silence, passing dog-eared books back and forth, occasionally reading aloud when the words called for it. Remmick had listened like it meant something, like your voice could reshape the air around him if he let it. He hadn’t said much. He didn’t need to.

His presence was enough.

His quiet was never empty.

You watched him now as he flicked through another page, mouth twitching faintly at some line that landed just right. There was a smudge of ink on his finger, probably from that pen he kept tucked behind his ear. His hair had dried funny after his earlier shower, curling up at the ends like it had forgotten how to behave.

He looked good.

Not polished. Not composed. But full.

Alive in the way that only people who have been half-dead know how to be.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the box in your pocket again.

You weren’t sure what he’d do when he saw it. If he’d laugh. Or cry. Or try to give it back. He wasn’t used to gifts. He’d said that once. Quietly, like it wasn’t important, like it hadn’t gutted you on the spot.

He’d never had a proper gift before.

Not one that wasn’t transactional. Not one that wasn’t a favor owed or a mistake forgiven. Just… something someone saw and thought, this is his. Just because.

And yet you’d bought the cufflinks anyway.

Found them in a little antique shop two towns over, tucked away in a velvet-lined tray between cracked lockets and pins with missing stones. They weren’t flashy. Weren’t modern. Just a pair of old silver squares with the faintest etching at the edges.

You’d known they were his the second you saw them.

You weren’t sure why. Just that they were. Like they’d been waiting. Like he’d left them behind in some past life and they’d been clawing their way back to him ever since.

He shifted, drawing your attention back. His foot knocked against a stack of books, and he winced like he thought you might scold him.

You didn’t.

You just looked at him.

Really looked.

At the sharp angles that softened when he was tired. At the curl of his lashes, too long for someone who hated being seen. At the way he held the book like it was breakable, even though his own hands bore proof that he rarely was.

And suddenly, it didn’t matter what the right time was.

You just wanted him to know.

That he was thought of.

That he was wanted.

That something in this world had been chosen for him. Not because he earned it, not because he begged for it, but because someone looked at it and thought, yes, this belongs to you.

You closed the distance slowly.

Not rushed.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

And the box in your pocket felt heavier with each step.

“Hi,” he said, like he hadn’t already been in the same room with you for hours. His voice was soft, a little warm burst in the cold bookstore air, and when you looked at him fully, his whole face lit up. Like you were the one thing in the world he’d been waiting for all night, even though he’d never left your side. “Ya looked busy. Didn’t wanna bother ya.”

His thumb held his place in the book, but the rest of him leaned in your direction. Eager. Not in a loud, desperate way. Not like the first night, when he clung to your presence like it was the last lifeline he’d ever have. This was smaller. Gentler. The kind of eagerness that didn’t ask anything, only bloomed quiet and patient in your light.

You felt the box again, the corners pressing faintly into your palm where you'd slipped it free from your skirt. For a second, you hesitated. Not out of doubt, but because something about this felt so sacred, it needed to be right.

“You weren’t botherin’ me,” you said. Your voice was low, meant just for him. “I was just… thinkin’.”

He tilted his head, that little inquisitive tilt he always did when he sensed something beneath the surface. But he didn’t press. Not yet. He gave you the space, like always, but you could feel his attention. Sharp as a blade, soft as a breath.

You took the few remaining steps that brought you close, until you were standing in front of him. You didn’t sit down yet. You just watched him for a moment, memorizing the way he looked like this. Curled up and content, but always on the edge of some deeper ache.

“I have somethin’ for you.”

That got him. He blinked up at you, startled. His fingers fumbled slightly over the spine of the book, and he sat up straighter, gaze flicking between your face and your hands. “For me?” His voice cracked a little on the second word, like he didn’t quite believe it. “Why?”

You held out the small box. It wasn’t wrapped extravagantly, just enough to protect it, just enough to keep it a secret until now. He didn’t take it right away. He looked at it like it might vanish if he moved too fast.

“Because I saw it,” you said, your voice steady, “and I thought of you.”

That did it.

He reached out slowly, reverently, and took the box with both hands. His fingers hovered over the lid like he didn’t want to ruin whatever magic kept it sealed. For a second, he just stared. Then he glanced up at you again, like asking for permission. When you nodded, he opened it.

The cufflinks caught the faintest sliver of light from the lamp above. Silver. Old, quiet silver. The kind that never shouted for attention but demanded it anyway. Etched at the corners with delicate, almost-forgotten lines. Not a pattern, exactly. More like a memory.

Remmick went still.

Completely still.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

“...What are they?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper, though he already knew. He just needed to hear it. Needed to make it real.

“Cufflinks,” you answered softly. “For when you want to feel like yourself. Or someone you used to be. Or someone you might become.”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed fixed on them, wide and dark and glassy. His hands trembled a little. Just enough that you saw it. Just enough that he knew you saw it, too.

“I’ve never had…” He stopped. Swallowed hard. “Not like this. Not somethin’ just mine.”

You sat down next to him, close enough that your knees brushed. His shoulder leaned into yours automatically, seeking warmth, steadiness, anything to anchor himself in the moment.

“They’re yours,”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath that sounded like it’d been trapped in his chest for years.

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly you barely caught it. “Thank you, thank you, thank you…”

He said it like a prayer.

Like the world was about to crack open under his feet and this was the only thing that might hold it together.

And he hadn’t even tried them on yet.

He kept staring at them like they might disappear if he blinked. Still cupped in his palms, the cufflinks looked small. Delicate, even. A stark contrast to the calloused stretch of his fingers. The silver caught the lamplight again, this time bending it into something gentler, something more secret. Like moonlight in a locked room.

“Do you wanna try them on?” you asked.

He startled, just a little, blinking up at you like he’d forgotten where he was. “Now?”

You nodded. “Unless you’d rather wait.”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly. His thumb brushed one of the cufflinks again, like he was reassuring himself they were real. “No, I-I wanna.”

You smiled. He looked like a man asked to wear something sacred, too stunned to argue but too enthralled to rush. You let the silence linger, soft as silk, while he reached slowly for the buttons at his wrist.

He worked them loose with unhurried hands, his sleeves coming undone without fanfare. You could see how he rolled his cuffs neatly back each time. Habit more than style, probably. He always looked like he was halfway between rest and running, like he never knew which the night, or you, would ask of him.

“Here,” you said, holding your hand out gently. “Let me.”

He hesitated for a breath, then gave you his left wrist.

His skin was warm. A little clammy, a little shaky, but he didn’t pull away. He let you unroll the cuff and align the holes, his knuckles twitching every time your fingers brushed bone. You took one cufflink, turned it just so, and slid it through with ease. It clicked softly, the metal cool against his pulse.

He stared at you the whole time.

Not intensely. Not like he did when he first met you, all nerves and hunger and that shaky, desperate pull. This was quieter. Like he couldn’t believe you were here, doing this. Like you were something delicate he was afraid to breathe too hard on.

You moved to his other wrist. He offered it just as easily.

The second cufflink slid in just as smooth. When it clicked into place, his breath caught.

Not loud. Not sharp.

And then you looked up, and the light hit his face differently.

It wasn’t dramatic, not really. The lamp on the shelf behind you didn’t flicker. The air didn’t shift. But something in his expression sharpened, just for a heartbeat. His lips parted slightly, and the faintest glint of teeth showed. Not sharp enough to be a threat, but too pointed to be forgotten. His canines always gleamed, small and precise and not quite right.

And his eyes. His eyes, already so deep and unreadable, caught a color you hadn’t noticed before. In the heart of that ancient blue, there was red. Not bright. Not fire. Just a thread of it, like old embers buried under ash. Watching. Waiting.

He didn’t blink.

You didn’t look away.

You liked his canines. You liked the strange glow in his eyes. The way it made him look like he belonged to something older than night. You didn’t flinch. You never had. Even when part of you knew, knew he wasn’t just some poor soul from the road. Even when nothing about him quite added up, you’d let him in anyway.

You smoothed down his cuff with your thumb.

“They suit you,” you said.

He blinked like he’d forgotten how to.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He looked down at his wrists, then turned them gently in the low light, watching the silver catch. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. More of a stunned, breathless awe. Like you’d handed him a second name.

“Do I look,” he said, hesitating, “like I belong to somethin’?”

You paused. Then leaned in, resting your chin on his shoulder. “You look like you finally believe you do.”

He let out a small, helpless sound. Not a laugh. Not a sob. Just something deep and quiet that lived in his chest and finally found a way out. He pressed his cheek into your temple, breathing you in like he didn’t need air, just this.

His arms came around you, hesitant at first. Still so careful, like you might vanish. But you didn’t. You leaned into him, solid and real and warm, and he sank into it like it was the first real place he’d ever been allowed to rest.

For a long time, you didn’t speak. You just stayed like that, curled together on the floor between bookshelves and forgotten time. The town beyond the window didn’t exist. The cold couldn’t reach you here.

Eventually, he whispered, “Nobody’s ever given me anythin’ like this.”

You drew slow patterns on his sleeve. “You deserve things like this.”

He kissed your head. Not urgently. Not hungrily. Just once. Just thank you.

Then: “You’re not scared of me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“No,” you said, eyes closed.

Even when you should be. Even when something old stirred just beneath his skin. Even when the shadows moved different around him than they did around anyone else.

“No,” you said again.

He was quiet after that. His breath slowed. His shoulders eased. You stayed tucked into him, cufflinks catching the glow of your little lamp. He held you like a promise, soft and otherworldly, and you let him.

This was your secret, after all.

Yours and Remmick’s.

And out in the world, maybe that wouldn’t mean anything. Maybe they'd hate it if they knew.

But here, here in this forgotten bookstore, in the hush between hours where nothing else dared to breathe, it meant everything.

[zorosgirlfriend]

Haiii :3 I hope you’re doing well <3 i was just wondering if you could please write something about yearner sanji x fem reader ^w^

hello! im so sorry this took so long 😭😭 i hope you'll like it! <33

Vinsmoke Sanji ~ !! Just a Little Closer.

warnings: none. mentions of zoro

masterlist and rules || have fun reading!

Sanji always stood just a few steps behind you.

Whether it was on the deck,

His sleeves rolled up and apron dusted with flour,

Or in the town square,

Hands in his pockets and eyes quietly trailing your smile.

He was always there.

Close enough to see the sparkle in your eyes…

But just far enough to keep his feelings folded away.

He didn’t know when exactly it started.

Maybe the way you tilted your head when you asked if he was okay,

Or how you always brought him a cup of tea after a long day.

Not coffee.

Not wine.

Tea.

Because you said it calmed the heart.

He never told you it made his heart beat faster instead.

Sanji wasn’t subtle,

But this.

His quiet yearning for you.

He kept that tucked deep in his chest.

He memorized how you laughed,

How your eyes softened when the wind played with your hair,

How you always sat in the galley when you thought no one noticed,

Just to watch him cook.

He noticed.

God, did he notice.

But he never said a word.

The others teased him about it.

Zoro, mostly.

With snorts and sideways glances when Sanji froze the moment you entered a room.

"You gonna stare holes into the back of her head forever, cook?"

He'd grumble and wave him off,

Always with a cigarette between his fingers and his feelings behind a smile.

But even you had noticed the way he looked at you.

Like you were something far-off,

A constellation just out of reach.

Not unattainable, but sacred. Precious.

One night,

The ship was quiet, the ocean gentle, moonlight spilling like silver across the deck.

You stepped out for fresh air and found Sanji at the railing,

A cigarette glowing softly between his lips.

He didn’t notice you at first.

Not until you said his name, so softly it barely reached him.

“Sanji?”

He looked over, caught, flustered.

“Ah, mademoiselle—I didn’t mean to stare—”

“You always say that,”

You said, stepping closer.

“Why?”

He went still.

You kept walking until you stood beside him, close enough for your shoulders to brush.

“Why do you look at me like that, Sanji?”

He hesitated.

“Because… if I look any closer, I might fall in love right in front of you.”

You blinked, surprised.

Then, smiling gently,

You reached for his hand and laced your fingers with his.

“I think you already have,”

You whispered.

His breath caught.

“And… maybe I did too.”

He turned to you slowly, his expression unguarded for the first time.

No smooth words, no charming act, just Sanji.

A man who loved you from just a few steps behind… until now.

No more watching from afar.

No more pretending.

Just him.

And you.

Finally close enough.

[ramp-it-up]

Encore

Read Bossed | Read Planting Seeds

Summary: Your boss, Henry Cavill, is CEO of a company that changes lives. You and he changed your life when you both finally admitted how you felt for one another. Tonight, Henry takes you to the Opera.

Pairing: Ceo!Henry Cavill x reader au

Word count: 2.3 K

A/N: I think Henry Cavill is a beautiful man, idc, idc. He is the faceclaim to my fantasies. Today. Big props to @nissaimmortal for inserting her lust in my inbox and giving advice. Feed me through reblogs, comments, and likes. Also asks are fun!

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. Read at your own risk. Smut! Employer/employee dynamic, age gap, masturbation, fingering, edging, orgasm denial, public sex acts, raw p in v. praise kink, breeding kink, squirting, creampie.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

-----

The knock at the door sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. 

You took one last glance in the mirror, smoothing the silk of your dress before making your way to the door. 

The second you opened it, Henry was there, standing tall and incredibly handsome in his classic black tuxedo, the crisp bowtie and neatly folded pocket square adding a touch of effortless sophistication.

His dark curls, which were artfully tousled, framed his handsome face, and his strong jaw and piercing blue eyes held an allure that was both polished and rugged. 

And those impossibly beautiful eyes swept over you with an appreciation so intense that it made your breath hitch.

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. 

"I was prepared to be impressed," he murmured, accent lilting as he stepped inside your door as if he owned the place. 

That BDE was in full effect. And rightfully earned, you knew from delicious first hand experience.

"But this?”

Henry’s hand grazed your bare arm, causing goosebumps to raise on your skin.

“This is dangerous, Little One."

You tilted your head and raised your eyebrow, letting the compliment curl around you like Henry’s scent. A chord struck in your brain and you wanted to be naughty.

"And here I thought you appreciated a little danger."

Henry’s eyes traced the curve of your neck down to the cleavage that your gown elegantly displayed. He stepped forward into your space and you craned your neck so that your lips were available.

But instead of kissing you, he looked down, reached out, and fingered the high slit of your dress, his touch barely there, but potent. 

"Oh, I do. But we have an opera benefit to attend. And if I linger here much longer…" 

His voice trailed off, the promise thick in the air, as he leaned down and pressed his lips to your pulse point, earning a quiet whimper from you. Your nipples pebbled and you wanted to drop to your knees as Henry pulled back.

With a smirk, he offered his arm, leading you to the elevator. The moment the door shut you were facing off in the enclosed space and Henry’s eyes were all over you, taking you all in, but pausing several times at the tight nipples that your gown showcased. 

You were a vision, a goddess, and he felt extremely fortunate to be in your company tonight.

His cock pounded in his pants and he licked his lips, then cleared his throat. He lifted his eyes to yours and ran his fingers around the collar of his shirt, as it suddenly became too tight.

“I want very much to ask if you are wet, but I can’t know the answer to that right now.”

“Oh.”

You lifted your hand to your neck and trailed it down your dress, stopping to circle your own nipple through the silken fabric, then continued down to the slit in your dress. You reached inside and fingered your pussy, collecting the wetness there. 

Henry’s mouth dropped slightly open to gain air and his eyes dilated as you touched yourself, looking boldly in his eyes.

As you reached the bottom floor, you moved toward him and stuck your fingers in his mouth, and he wrapped those strong lips around them and sucked them hard.

Your pussy clenched down and you realized that you played yourself while you were trying to get him caught up.

Henry pulled off with a plop, and then extended that wide wet muscle of a tongue and licked your fingers again.

You wanted to cry.

“Hmmmmmm. Delicious. You’re not wearing any panties, are you, Little One?”

Henry’s eyes were lust blown, and you had to concentrate to breathe. Luckily, the elevator doors opened to give you more air.

“No, Sir.”

Henry held you in his glare of steel as his jaw clenched, then came close and placed his hand on your bare back, made possible by the low cut of your dress. He extended his hand before you.

“After you.”

Henry was the epitome of restraint.

You walked out of the lift through the lobby to the waiting car. After climbing in behind you, enclosing you in the intimate darkness of the leather-clad interior, Henry turned to you, his gaze burning.

"Do you have any idea what you are doing to me tonight? This dress, your skin, your taste? Your incredible verve. God, you make me feel so alive." 

His voice was coffee and fire, rich and dangerously low.

“I swear that I’m going to make you feel a fraction of what you do to me. And it will practically burn the place down tonight.”

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his fingers tracing the curve of your thigh. His hand slid beneath the slit, fingers teasing, exploring, daring you to keep still. His long thick finger caressed the keyhole and the slit of you, teasing, but never quite reaching where you needed him to be. 

The city lights flickered past, but all you could focus on was Henry, the way his lips hovered near your ear, his whispered promises dark and intoxicating.

“You’re so soft, wet and hot, and you’re all that I want forever, Little One.”

You reached over and felt the steel rod in his pants and he let you, but he kept you at arms length for the entirety of the drive, your soft whimpers and moans the most beautiful prelude to the evening’s events.

By the time you arrived, your pulse was unsteady, and your skin was flushed with barely restrained desire.

Henry, cool as ever, adjusted his cufflinks as if he hadn’t just unraveled you in the backseat of his car. He stepped out first, then offered his hand, his grip firm as he helped you onto the red carpet.

He led you into the grand entrance of the opera house, his dark eyes sweeping over you once more, this time with a knowing smirk. The chandeliers cast golden light over the room, illuminating the way his gaze lingered at the plunging neckline and the scandalous slit that teased just enough to make him scowl a little with disapproval now that you were around other people.

He didn't want anyone else to see you like this, beautiful with need. But then he smiled at you, wicked, dangerous.

“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, stepping forward, his fingers grazing the bare skin of your arm as he leaned in.

His voice was a low hum, like a perfectly played overture. 

“We should have skipped the opera altogether.”

A slow smile tugged at your lips as you met his gaze. 

“And miss the performance?”

His fingers trailed lower, brushing the delicate silk of your dress. 

“The only performance I’m interested in,” he whispered, “is the one where I have you gasping my name.”

Your pulse fluttered as he offered his arm, ever the composed gentleman despite the wicked promise he just made. He led you through the entrance, his touch possessive yet controlled, a stark contrast to the hunger you can already sense beneath the surface.

You passed acquaintances, and Henry introduced you as a consultant, a new title gained when you were let go of the company and formed your own. Your office stayed the same, right beside his, but your responsibilities and pay increased greatly.

Henry was ever the professional, and charming as he spoke, but the glances he gave you were unsettling. 

You knew something was coming.

—----

When you were finally ensconced in Henry’s private box, the velvet of the balcony seat was plush beneath you, though it was nothing compared to the warm, firm pressure of Henry’s hand on your thigh. 

The lights dimmed, and the orchestra swelled, a cascade of violins trembling with anticipation. Your breath caught as Henry’s fingers traced lazy circles just above the slit of your dress, his touch featherlight.

“This aria is breathtaking,” he stated lowly, lips dangerously close to your ear as he pulled your legs apart and settled his hand between them.

“But I can’t seem to keep my attention on the stage.”

You barely registered the soprano’s soaring notes as Henry’s hand slid higher, fingers grazing the silk at the juncture of your thigh and your hip. A low, slow burn rolled through you that had nothing to do with the grand romance playing out below.

“Henry,” you whispered, half warning, half invitation.

His lips quirked in amusement, but his fingers didn't stop until he reached the very apex of you. And all the while, he feigned that he was watching the stage.

You certain sure that what he was focused on was driving you mad.

“Shh,” his breath teased the sensitive skin of your neck as his fingers did the same to your wet and aching slit.

He found out just how wet you were as his fingers glided through your slippery pussy lips. You were on the verge of begging as he rocked his knuckle back and forth, never quite penetrating you, but making you dream dreams of him deep inside you.

“I need it.”  You rushed, gaze locked on the stage as Henry looked lovingly at you.

“Need what, Little One?” Henry asked. 

“Need you to finger me.” 

Henry tsked and he pulled his hand away, turning away from you a bit. You wanted to cry and scream and beg for him to touch you again. He watched your agony for a moment then patted your thigh and rested his hand there.

You heated up all over again.

“Good girl. We wouldn’t want to cause a crescendo before the second act.”

A shiver coursed through you as the audience below sat in rapt attention, oblivious to the far more sinful performance unfolding in the shadows of Henry’s box. The forbidden thrill of it had your pulse racing, your breathing staccato.

Henry teased you for the better part of an hour, driving you as mad as Anne Boleyn. He drove you to the peak of your fulfillment, and then snatched you away from the crown jewels time and time again.

As the opera neared a crescendo, so too did Henry’s touch, his fingers stroking your wet and aching slit, and slipping your over-sensitive clit between his knuckles. He was playing you like a piano, and it made you want to sing.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just below your ear. 

“Tell me… is it the music? Or me?”

You turned your head, lips inches from his, eyes dark with need. 

“Both,” you admit. 

“Please put your fingers inside me,” you begged.

Henry smiled, dark and knowing. 

“Hmmmm. Let’s see if we can make this night end on a high note.”

The soprano held the final note that filled the grand hall. But nothing could compare to the symphony Henry played with your body. His digits slipped further, exploring you with slow, deliberate intent. 

His touch turned demanding, each movement calculated as he coaxed you higher, unraveling you right there in the box. Henry's long thick fingers crooked and pressed deeper inside you, reaching that bundle of nerves, and made your body hug around his hand.

Tiny stings of pleasure dotted across your skin with your goosebumps and Henry sighed. 

“Fuck you’re tight.”

His words made you topple over the edge into bliss, the risk of being discovered heightening every sensation. You barely suppressed a cry, fingers digging into Henry’s arm as your pleasure crested, wave after wave crashing through you.

He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he whispered, “Exquisite.”

Your breath was ragged, heart hammering against your ribs as you fought to stay composed. Henry withdrew his hand, smoothing the fabric of your dress with infuriating nonchalance. 

“We should stay for the second act,” he mused, eyes flicking to the stage as if nothing had happened. You stared at him mutely, telegraphing your need.

“Or… perhaps you’d like a more private encore? I mean, it wouldn’t do to leave a puddle of my cum on the opera house floor.”

You whimpered at the image, but you stood, legs still unsteady, and barely able to suppress the smirk tugging at your lips. 

Henry led you down the stairs and out of the opera house, and you didn’t know why you were surprised to see the car exactly where it was a little over an hour earlier. You brushed your body against his as he ushered you into the back seat.

As soon as the car started rolling, Henry’s cock was out and in his hand. Your attention was torn between his magnetic stare and the glorious organ in his fist. 

“Climb on,” he gritted, and you didn’t hesitate to move.

You hiked your skirt up and positioned your legs on either side of his thick muscular thighs, trembling as he swiped the thick, swollen mushroom head of his cock through your sopping wet cunt.

“You drive me absolutely….mad! Fucckkkk!”

Henry gasped as you slid down his dick. He leaned back as you rose and fell on his thick shaft, coating his cock with your sticky, sweet fluid. His huge hand wrapped around your throat and held you in place while he drove up inside you, thumb on his other hand collecting your wetness as he tortured your clit again.

He pulled you down for a filthy kiss, the first of the night, and then smacked your ass. When he was done ravaging your mouth, he purred in your ear.

“This is the best pussy I’ve ever had. The hottest, the tightest, the wettest.”

You threw your head back and Henry took the opportunity to mark you up. After breaking capillaries on your neck, he growled at you.

“Cum one more time for me. My balls are so fucking full of cum from watching you in that box tonight. Gonna fill you so full of my seed Little One.”

One hand grabbed your slicked back bun and pulled your head back, making you arch for him, a feast for his eyes. His fingers travelled down your collarbone to your breasts and free them from the least restrictive neckline ever. 

“But what if you get pregnant?”

He looked at you when you clamped down around him, eyes burning through your soul.

“Won’t it be amazing when you’re round and full of my child? I’ll be able to pull your sweet sustenance for my self. These beautiful breasts will be even more sensitive to my touch. Your curves even more bounteous and enticing.”

As his fingers and lips, tongue, and teeth teased your hard nipples, you picked up speed, your ass slapping against his thighs. You were breathless at his words, the epiphany of his sentiments such a turn on.

“Oh shit,” you moaned, cumming and holding on to him for dear life.

You wound your arms around Henry’s impressive shoulders as he pistoned into you until you released all over him and the fine leather seat, screamed his name, and shivered as his hot seed shot inside you.

“With this kind of performance and work satisfaction, you deserve more money for your services.” 

“I hate you,” you chuckled.

Henry kissed your forehead as you fought sleep against his broad chest, his heartbeat lulling you into slumber, and him still half hard inside you. 

You’d figure out how to get out of the car when you got to his place you thought distantly.

“Love you too, Little One.”

[lostintransist]

The Boys' Home | Part 7

Part 1 | AO3

“Fucking ninjas make more noise, Simon!” It was a screechy sort of volume that escaped you.

Sweeping your gaze over the windows you find him, eyes and up peering in the window above the sink.

“Must not be good ninja’s then.” He lifted a nonchalant brow.

Your eyes drift shut as your lips purse and hands settle on your hips. One deep, slow breath, and you are ready to try again. Simon does not deserve your anger fueled by your children. Opening your eyes you find his already on you.

“What can I do for you?”

The tips of his ears draw your attention with their chameleon-like change. His fair skin shows off embarrassment exceptionally well.

His words were swallowed by the siding. Blinking a few times at him you made a choice.

“I didn’t understand a damn word of that, come in through the back door. I’m putting groceries away.” Turning back to doing that you let him decide how important whatever drew him to you is.

The backdoor creaks as it opens. Glancing over you see Simon shifting it back and forth, assessing. Opening the cabinet you pull everything off the bottom shelf to put your new cans of beans at the back. Now empty you grab the new cans. Simon speaks as your back is to him.

“Why do you have five jars of peanut butter?”

God setting your bed on fire would not have got you moving so fast. Spinning away from the table you cross the space in two steps.

“Don’t touch those!” You grab his hand in both of yours before it touches the jar labeled SETH in your neatest handwriting.

Simon’s eyes narrow and while you feel the barest prickles of unease you squeeze his hand the tiniest bit harder.

“Can I ask you to trust me on this?” You straighten up, pulling your lips between your teeth.

“No.”

With a sigh, you lean back against the counter. Noticing you still have his hand in yours you release him. Folding your arms, to keep them from touching him again, to give them something to do you explain.

“I don’t know which one of them started it and which ones of them have done it but it is possible that the boys all stuck their dicks in their jars of peanut butter.”

Simon sent you the most concerned/confused look you had ever seen on a grown man’s face.

“I don’t understand it, but something about growing up in a healthy and not abusive environment means kids, boys, do weird things.”

The look you share speaks to a level of understanding that you hate that you have. As nice as it is to connect with other children that made it made it to adulthood, it hurts to know that pain built them like it did you.

Unfolding your arms you brush them down your overalls and stand upright. Looking up at him you catch the movement of the hand you had grabbed being shoved in his pocket.

“You didn’t come by to discuss my boys’ odd habits. Did you need something or did you come by for a chat?”

“Uh..no.”

Eyebrows lifting you slid your hands into your back pockets. Simon seemed like one to wait out if you wanted answers. The slamming of a door upstairs and feet tromping down the steps set a rigid shape across his shoulders.

“It’s Seth.” When Simon glanced at you, face emotionless you continued, “My oldest. He’s eleven and loud.”

“Mom! I’m going to the Fishers!”

“Dinner is at six!” You cup your hands and shout back knowing he is likely to slam the door before you finish.

“You let them out alone?” Simon doesn’t sound like he is judging but you give a bit more of an explanation than he was owed.

“My boys know the rules of safety, and everyone around here knows they are mine. As much as I would love to sock some of the old biddies square in the nose I know they would go toe to toe with a bear for my kids. Sam and Darren are wandering the woods currently probably bringing me back a collection of rocks. Reggie is playing video games with a friend of his who moved a few months back, they have a regularly scheduled video call.” You spin around and angrily start stacking everything back in the cabinet. “I know my boys. Every one of them has experienced awful things and knows the rules we set out together are to keep them safe. They don’t stray from those, just the common sense ones like sticking their dicks in peanut butter.”

Simon shifts behind you, his hand appearing with a can. Looking from his peace offering of peas to his face you can’t glean much. He keeps his silence until the only thing left from your grocery trip is a pile of plastic bags on the table. Scooping them up in your arms you head to the door for the basement that sat opposite the back door. A five-gallon bucket with a large hole cut in the center of the lid sat on the top step. You shove the bags in with their brethren and leave them for the demons that haunt the darkness beyond. Basements were scary.

Shutting the door firmly, because if you didn’t it would spring open at the worst times, you turn back to Simon.

He is standing in the middle of your kitchen, boots spread wide nearly touching the fridge, and the toe kick at the same time. Shoulders and curled forward, fists shoved in his pockets.

“I didn’t mean to offend with my question. I know that the world isn’t as safe as when I was a kid.” He glances up at you and then back to the peeling linoleum.

Pushing a breath out through your nose you rub the back of your neck. Seems you might have overreacted. That tends to happen about your boys.

“Apology accepted. You’re new here and I shouldn’t have assumed anything by the question.”

He let out a near-silent breath as his shoulders descended from his ears. Where others would have fidgeted Simon stilled.

“I came by to ask for more of that sweet tea you gave us last time we were over.”

The smile that blooms over your cheeks sends color straight back to the tips of his ears.

“Happy to help. I’m out currently, so why don’t I teach you how to make it and we can sit on the porch while it cools?”

Simon’s single nod carries a lot of weight. Pulling out a saucepan you start explaining every step of making a simple syrup and how long the tea bags would need to steep.

“Now understand if you tell any of the ladies in town how long I steep my bags I will feed you to the basement demons. Steeping time is highly contentious around these parts and I will not be defending my timing choices.” You point at him sternly as you stir the sugar water.

Since he could reach you set him in charge of opening the tea bags and pulling your pitcher down from the highest shelf. Simon’s lips twitched as if he fought a smile. Then nodded all the same.

When all the sugar has completely dissolved you transfer it to the pitcher and add water from the tap until you are pleased with the height. Simon then adds what he deems to be a ‘ridiculous amount of bags’.

“You wanted to know,” you shrugged one shoulder as you settled the tea in the fridge. “Can’t be upset at the knowledge you asked for.”

Once the door sealed shut you paused, handle still in your hand, “Well I guess you can be but that would make you ungrateful.”

Turning with a smile you invite Simon to follow you to the porch. Despite the seating options, you find yourself tucked in close to him on the porch swing. This time you don’t need to ask him before the gentle movement starts.

“You got any family, Simon?” The bunch of his muscles under his jeans is what you watch as you wait for an answer.

It’s a long time coming. The swing never changes tempo.

“Not…anymore.”

A glance at his face, the tears simmering at the corners of his eyes tells you everything you need to know about the answer as a stranger.

“Losing people is hard. The time doesn’t make the hurt less, only that we think of it less.” Patting his leg twice you search for a happier topic and find one that Reggie had stumped you with. “If you could go to any planet and explore which would you choose?”

The time it takes him to answer has you glancing at him.

“It’s Uranus, isn’t it? You an ass man, Simon?”

Creaky laughter bubbles out of him like he hadn’t laughed that hard in too many years to count.

“While I might be an ass man,” he wiped his face, chuckles of laughter still burbling out of him, “I would have to say Saturn. Those rings must be a sight.”

“Interesting. I want to visit Jupiter.”

He glances down at you.

“Well I would have said Pluto but my kids like to remind me that it isn’t a planet anymore.”

There went the unused laughter again, music to your ears. He stayed chatting with you until the tea was ready. Simon didn’t object when you used his knee to stand. The almost smile you got when you presented him with the largest glass you could tell you so much about this man.

Settling back into the swing, that Simon paused for you to sit, you enjoy the silence with him.

“Feel free to come use the porch swing any time you need. Alright?”

He grunts once in reply. The quiet lasts until it’s time to start dinner and you leave him to enjoy the serenity you fought so hard to build.

Boys Masterlist | Masterlist

@leahnicole1219 @harperstyles @sigynxlokiwifelover @fluffysmiko @lily-bug3 @demothers-empty-blog @literallegendicon @littlelovebug98

[the-merry-otter]

How To Make A Market Wallet (medieval bag)

First, you’re going to get a rectangle of fabric that’s as long, and twice as wide as you want the bag to be. A nice big one is about 1.5 metres by 1 metre. The fabric should be something sturdy - a thick linen is probably most period-accurate, but a sturdy cotton drill works quite nicely.

You also want 2-4 little squares, about 1 to 1.5 inches. These are a surprise tool that will help us later.

First off, fold the rectangle in half across the width. Work out how big you want the pockets of the bag to be, and pin on both sides (I usually fold lengthwise to get similar proportions). Make sure to leave a good amount of space in the middle, as this will become your opening.

It should now look like this.

Next, backstitch from the ends up to where you’ve pinned, leaving a slit in the centre.

Fell the seam by cutting one side of the seam allowance down by half, folding the other side around it, and securing with a whipstitch (this stops it from fraying AND creates a very strong seam).

(Sorry for the bad lighting I was in the car).

Next, fold the bag so the seam is in the centre. This is almost what the finished bag will look like.

Sew along the ends with more backstitches, and fell the seam. We’re nearly done!

Then you wanna hem the centre slit. I rolled the fabric over twice, and whipstitched into place.

Next, you want those little squares of fabric. At each end of the opening slit, you’re going to position them diagonally, with their edges folded inward. I like to do one on the front and reverse sides (so 4 squares total), but you might be able to get away with just 2. Whipstitch these into place. They will stop the slit ripping open (this is a real problem).

Well done, your bag should be finished!! Wear it by folding it across the centre slit, twisting it slightly, and slinging it over your shoulder. It is best to weight the sides fairly evenly, but I’ve never found this to be too difficult. The wide “strap” does make it very comfortable though.

Feel free to comment/reblog, or send an ask if you have any questions, or I haven’t made anything quite clear enough! The photo limit makes it difficult to show every step as it happens unfortunately. I am considering doing some video tutorials in future for a couple of my bigger projects (likely hosted on YouTube with the link sent here). Let me know if you’re interested!