offering yourself to vampire sylus (unsuccessfully)
🐦⬛🩸
tw: self harm and suicide attempts, mental health, negative self talk. this is disconnected from canon. maybe a little bit of hurt/comfort at the end? nonmc reader in the sense that there is no mc. male reader, but it only comes up in 1 sentence at the end
wc: ~1k
thinking about angst again because i feel yucky. my initial thoughts on this idea are here, though the sylus i wrote in this post is less heartless. kinda a vent post in the form of an x reader blurb.
Your chest heaves with shallow breaths as you approach the vampire lord in his study. He let you into his home, left his front doors unlocked, didn't stop you when you stumbled through them on wobbly legs. He didn't speak when he heard you bumbling through his manor, didn't even move enough to creak the floorboards. You don't know what he was expecting to find, but maybe it was just boredom and curiosity that led him to allow you to do as you pleased.
He is beautiful, in a way you've never witnessed before. His red eyes are just as piercing as the rumors said they would be. He's leaned back in his grand chair, watching you with a furrowed brow. It seems that he is waiting for your first move as much as you're waiting for his. Maybe he thinks you're some sort of assassin, since you have a knife on your person.
You don't see his eyes slightly widen in surprise as you shakily get down on your knees before him, head bowed. You can barely gather enough coordination to do so, as your legs are trembling so violently that you nearly collapse. Though from hunger, exhaustion, or fear, you're not quite sure. Maybe all three. Well, if your plan goes as you intend, you won't be feeling them for much longer.
"Lord Sylus, I-I'm here to give up my life," You speak barely above a whisper, your voice shaking more than it ever has in your life. Even in your last moments, you can't pull it together. Pathetic. You swallow before speaking again, trying to steady your tone. You doubt you need to repeat yourself; it's said that vampires have exceptional hearing. "Please take it, m-my lord."
You wait in silence for a few moments, trembling on the floor, but a response doesn't come. You look up to find the vampire staring down at you in silence, an unreadable expression on his handsome face. "Please," You beg, now in a desperate whisper. The hopes you had are crumbling in the face of his composed stare. Maybe you're too worthless even to consume. Maybe he is just so disgusted by the sight of you that he has no motivation even to taste your foul blood.
"...No." He rumbles, returning to his reading.
You feel your stomach drop as tears prick in your eyes. From the rumors you heard, you figured he wouldn't mind a free meal. Is there something wrong with you? God, you must look pathetic. Maybe he misunderstood your meaning. After all, you'd never heard of someone attempting suicide by vampire. You're not quite sure why you've chosen this method, either. You just have.
"Please," Your voice is a little louder now, desperation causing it to crack. "I-I'm not here to bargain, my lord. I don't need any favors. No one will notice I'm gone, you won't be suspected of a thing." Surely if you cleared up any confusion, he'd take your offer. Surely the tears welling in your eyes prove that you're being genuine.
"My answer is the same. If that's all you are here for, then leave." His tone is cold, and he doesn't even take a moment to look your way as he speaks. He must see you as another mortal who has lost their mind. Though... isn't that what you are?
It's no matter, though. You feel a bit bad about this, but you did bring a contingency plan in case something like this happened.
Your hand quakes as you pull out the knife you had attached to your belt, the dirty metal gleaming in the firelight. You hadn't bothered to clean it, as you won't need to worry about getting an infection once you're dead.
You pull up your sleeve, revealing an arm already marred with scars upon scars. You take a breath, then perform the familiar act of carving a line into your skin, only acting with much less care this time, just going as deep as you can. The sharp pain disconnects you from the aching knot stuck in your chest, as time seems to slow and you start to hear your heartbeat thrum in your ears. You watch, mesmerized, as blood begins to ooze from the fresh wound. You've always found the sight oddly comforting.
You hear a hiss from across the room, and your body is quickly pinned to the ground, your knife wrenched from your grasp and tossed across the carpet. It almost feels like you're watching this happen to someone else.
The vampire above you is a far cry from the composed, graceful, mysterious figure you had walked in on. His fangs are fully extended, his nose flared, his red pupils turned to slits, as if restraining himself is taking all of his effort. He's out of breath, and his expression holds a level of fury you don't think you've ever seen in a person before.
"Have you gone mad, boy?" he growls, reaching into his front pocket to grab an expensive-looking handkerchief to press tightly to your wound. Even while enraged, he's still the most beautiful person you think you've ever seen. It would be a blessing to die by his hand.
"Damn it," he huffs, saliva dripping off one of his fangs as he cinches the cloth tight around your arm. You can feel blood pulse out of your arm with every thump of your slowing heart. Your aim must have been pretty good. "Were I a lesser creature, you would be drained dry by now. Was my answer not clear enough to you?"
"Why...?" You ask, feeling as if you're floating through a fog of numbness and the pain that has always brought you relief. He hoists your limp body into his arms and starts off towards a different wing of the mansion.
"My reasoning is none of your concern, human. The idiocy in your generation is unparalleled." You try to think of a response, but instead start to drift off in his arms, and he doesn't stop you. "Go on, sleep. You will be explaining yourself to me when you wake."
“Well, I was doing homework and you were busy… So…”
It falls back into awkward silence. Peter looks to the side. Mr. Stark is still next to him, trying to make sense of all of this. The bots are watching curiously. Dum-E beeps something Peter can’t understand yet.
“Hey,” Mr. Stark lowers his voice, “look at me.”
He says it rather gently. So gently, Peter feels his eyes watering again. He hides himself further.
“Hey, it’s okay, buddy.”
Stop, Peter wants to say, stop talking to me like this. He’ll give it all away.
“It’s okay,” Mr. Stark whispers, sitting on a bench next to him.
Peter shakes his head and hides his own face. Stop doing this, stop, stop, stop.
“Whatever you’re bottling up, you can let it out. You hear me? You can let it out,” Mr. Stark tells him, wrapping an arm around the boy.
That. Just that makes Peter tremble and let out the most painful sob. And Mr. Stark only sticks by his side, no matter what. He doesn’t get annoyed, he doesn’t bombard Peter with questions (for now), he just rubs Peter’s arm and lightly squeeze his shoulder. The teen breaks further and pretty much launches himself towards Mr. Stark, wrapping both arms around him.
Peter will sob so loudly, the entire workshop stops. The music, the bots, the currents, everything is mute. You only hear Peter’s sorrow—and Mr. Stark’s heart, his calm breaths, and his hands rubbing Peter’s blue sweater.
summary / she doesn’t think she’s pretty. joe tries to help her see just how beautiful she is.
warnings / fem!reader, angst, body image issues, some self-projection
note / a vent fic based off of snow white by laufey
tags / @willowsnook @irishmanwhore @iosivb9 @softburrow @burrowdarling @jburrgf @wickedfun9 @hotburreaux @starsinthesky5 @hannahjessica113 @joeyfranchise @joeyburrrow @joeyb1989 @burrowswomen @kazsbrckkers @sportyphile @ebsmind @justhereforthetea200 @joecoolburrow (comment/send an ask to be added!)
IT WAS ROUTINE. It was normal. She refused to look at herself in the mirror. When she’d get up, shuffle into the bathroom, she’d cast one look at herself and notice every flaw. Acne scars. Her nose shape. Her stomach. But no one wants to hear a girl complain about insecurities.
Especially not the girlfriend of Joe Burrow.
So, she continued on her day. She went to work. She dressed in clothes that hid the worst parts of her, but she still looked good. She would fake confidence, fake security. No one saw that she compared every part of herself to the girls that she saw walking by.
Not skinny enough. Not tall enough. Not enough.
She got home that evening, exhausted. It wasn’t that work was hard or draining. It was a long day, filled with the same monotonous tasks and mind loops. Her stomach grumbled; she’d not eaten anything since lunch. She dropped her keys into the wooden bowl by the door, the jingle echoing in the house.
Joe knew she was home. Like a dog, he jumped up from his office chair and he padded down the stairs. His nearly slipped, his sock-covered feet not gaining enough traction for him. He wrapped her in a hug, a boyish grin plastered on his face. He tried not to focus too much on how she stiffens, or how she does that fake laugh whenever she’s upset or uncomfortable.
“How was work?” He asked, pulling away from her. He looked deep into her eyes, seeing the sea of emotions behind her eyes. It nearly took him back, but he knew how to sail her ocean. He’d done it a number of times. She couldn’t scare him away.
“Tiring,” she sighed, slouching her purse off of her shoulder, “but I’m starving,”
“Yeah?” Joe smiled, leading her into their kitchen. Warm light filled the room, the granite countertops glistening. She slid onto the barstool at the island, watching as Joe tugged open the fridge.
“I made lasagna,” he offered, tugging out the larger container of the Italian dish, “I haven’t had any yet. I wanted to wait for you,”
It was so thoughtful. Her eyes peered down at the container, watching as he scooped her some. She felt her chest clench at the portion, but she didn’t complain. Joe wasn’t doing it because he thought she was fat, right? He was serving her that much because she said she was starving, right?
Joe slid it over, the grating of the plate against the counter slicing through the noise in her brain. Joe noticed how her face dropped, how her hand hovered over the fork he gave her. She said she was hungry, starving even.
“Baby,” Joe hummed. He knew what her mind was doing. He knew how to read her and how to tell when the world told her lies. He knew when she believed herself over him.
It was all in her body language. Stiff shoulders. Round eyes. Creased eyebrows. She looked at her food as if she was debating on eating it fast or slow. How many calories was it? How hard would she have to workout tomorrow to burn it off?
“What?” She asked, cutting a piece of lasagna with her fork.
“What’s going on?” He leaned down on his forearms, becoming eye level with her. She studied him. His eyes were focused on her like a camera, studying her back. He saw one girl and she saw another. He saw the woman of his dreams and she saw convenience.
“Nothing,” she shrugged off, “why?”
The silence answered her question. Joe sat up and he walked over to her. He guided her up out of her seat, and he led her to their bedroom. Confusion was written across her face, her stomach still growling. She padded into their bedroom, the soft rug dipping under the weight of her feet.
Then she was looking at herself.
“Joe,” she sighed, watching in the mirror as his hands settled on her shoulders. There was nothing sexual about his touch. Nothing that suggested he wanted her to make those pretty sounds. Joe knew better. He knew her body.
“I want you to see what I see,” He told her, his voice smooth and steady. He helped her out of her blouse, the soft silk slipping from her torso. Her arms immediately folded over her body, and Joe untangled them with practiced ease.
“You’re hiding yourself,” he pointed out, “why?”
“Joe,” she protested, her eyes meeting the skin of her stomach. She felt her disgust rise in her throat, the tension in her chest worsening.
“This body,” he started, hands settling on her hips, “has endured so much. The traumas of college, the change of having a healthy relationship. Your arms have carried my and your heart, and just because it’s been years since you’ve last competed, doesn’t mean you’re not strong,”
He noticed so much more than she did. He always did. He always saw her as a woman to be worshipped, and she barely saw herself as the beggar on the steps of the church.
Joe settled his chin on her shoulder and helped her slacks off of her hips. She felt bare under his eyes, seeing his body and seeing hers. It didn’t look right. She wasn’t a model, she wasn’t like those other girls. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t always kind.
“Listen to me,” Joe whispered in her ear, resting his forehead against her temple, “you’re beautiful. You’re pretty. Your body is a reflection of your inward beauty, and God babe your soul is gorgeous. If anyone’s lucky, I am,”
His words force a tear down her cheek. She lets her eyes roam. Her thighs. Her calves. Her stomach. Her breasts. Her arms. The way Joe’s arms snaked around her waist, holding her to him, it added an extra layer of security.
But then he walked away.
Her eyes followed him, desperate for his touch and his reassurance. Please, tell me I’m pretty again.
He reemerged from their closet with a shirt of his and some boxer shorts. He helped her into them, covering her up with the warmth of him. She looked back in the mirror, seeing how he so easily wrapped around her. Like home.
“No one compares to you,” he whispered, hoping and praying she believed him. He needed her to see what he saw. He saw a beautiful woman, someone with strength and intelligence. Someone who held herself in a manner that demanded respect but also gave the tiniest creature kindness.
She leaned back in his arms, curling herself as best she could against him. Maybe she was meant for him. Maybe she was meant to be his. Joe squeezed her, pressing a gentle kiss to the soft skin of her neck. He turned her around, cupping her face in his hands. He looked deep into her eyes, telling her in the deep silence that there wasn’t anything she threw at him he couldn’t handle. He was a vessel in her ocean, and he’d ride the waves with ease.
“I love you,” he hummed, a subtle crack in his voice, “I love all of you,”
She rested her forehead against his. The ache in her chest blossomed, forcing tears to spill from her closed eyes. Joe wiped them away, keeping her right in front of him. He loved every part of her, even the parts that she felt were broken. She wasn’t broken to him, she was loved. She was rusty, but she wasn’t old.
She was his girl. His pretty girl. Always and forever.
i’m literally so annoyed with work right now so i will subject you to a quick mini fic about dazai being a good worker for once while his favorite fem!reader colleague is enjoying some time off.
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“Wow, Dazai, you’re actually working?” Atsushi leans over his colleague’s shoulder, watching his pen scribble down his report for the case he just finished, and even has his work laptop up to review notes or other related information. Dazai sighs inwardly, not really believing it himself.
“Yeah, my favorite secretary isn’t here, so I need to actually try this paperwork stuff on my own,” his eyes hasn’t left the work splayed out in front of him, Kunikida pleasantly surprised to see his partner working diligently on his stuff, so much so he’s just staring in awe.
“I’m impressed, Dazai,” he mumbles, pushing his glasses up and tries peering over the device to see if he is writing his actual work or jotting down useless words to appear busy. “We should give her more time off then if this is all it takes to motivate you.” Dazai grimaces, the thought of you not being at work for him to bug and ask for assistance, following you around like a lost puppy with corny jokes and cheesy one-liners to garner your attention. It works, obviously, but sometimes it can be distracting when you have important things to do. Such as peer review his papers before sending them off to the president for a final check.
“I messed up last time she was away,” he mutters, almost under his breath. “I wasted time and just waited for her to come back so she could help me. Instead, she yelled at me then ignored me the rest of the day.” His fingers rub into his sockets at the memory of you finally exploding on him after you returned from your last mini vacation, telling him that you aren’t his personal secretary, and you already had so much other work piled up that the others didn’t bother maintaining for you while away — even though they’re literally supposed to. It’s in their job description. You left, off with a huff, and didn’t speak to him the remainder of your shift, trying to fly through not only the stacks of papers that needed reviewing, correcting, and filing away, but also everything he left for you to help him with.
You ended up “in trouble” more than Dazai for going ahead and just completing the reports for him, since “it’s his work, not yours”. You wanted to pull your hair out and Dazai, despite arguing with Fukuzawa on your behalf, letting him know it wasn’t your fault, caught you sobbing in the break room after the entire fiasco. Since then, he’s been trying to do better, especially if you’re not there.
“Took a month’s worth of coffee runs and lunches to get her to forgive me,” he adds with another light sigh, scratching his head, and eyes accidentally flitted off in the direction your empty desk.
“Could always just do your own work,” Kunikida offers, a suggestion he’s constantly reminding his partner of.
“I’m really proud of you, Mr. Dazai,” Atsushi gives him a smile then a pat on his shoulder. He has to fight rolling his eyes at their behavior. He isn’t doing any of this for the approval of anyone but you.
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he huffs, fingers tangled in his hair as he goes back to doing mundane tasks his brain finds too boring to complete in any other instance.
When you come back a few days later, you did half expect to see a huge pile of work from Dazai alone sitting on your desk with a pink Post-It note saying: “To my favorite secretary, I really need your help. - O. Dazai” with some type of poorly drawn heart next to it. However, upon entering the office and heading to your desk, you noticed the surface has only your usual makeup work sitting there, awaiting your completion. Alongside a to-go cup of your favorite latte with a pink Post-It note that says instead: “Welcome back”. It wasn’t signed, but you recognize the handwriting, and there’s one person there that knows your order by heart.
“Hey,” Dazai greets, stepping closer to you after waiting the socially acceptable time of sixty seconds once seeing you walk in. His fingers rest on the desk surface, his glasses placed on his nose, and he wears a weirdly sweet smile. “Did you have fun?” You smile at him in return, your bag being dropped to the floor at your feet before rummaging in it for your work laptop.
“Hey, you’re here early,” you begin setting up, nodding slightly. “Yeah, just took some time to be away, did errands, chores. Dumb life stuff.” You shrug, tucking some hair behind your ear before looking back up at him. “Is this from you?” You point toward the cup, his eyes following, then he nods — sheepish.
“Yeah, yes,” he clears his throat. “I was already stopping by, thought I’d get you something too.”
“How thoughtful,” you murmur, caught off guard completely by this behavior. Still a bit thrown that he isn’t jumping down your skin to help him with paperwork. “How was work while I was away? Anything exciting happen?”
“No,” he answers immediately, the perfect segue opening up for him to brag, to impress you. “No, just, ya know, boring paperwork that I had to complete.” His body relaxes then, becoming his standard casual self, a lopsided smirk forming as he gazes at your shocked face. “I know, I know, I’m incredible, finishing it all on my own. Even had Kunikida peer review for me.” Your eyes get impossibly bigger at that last statement, surprised an understatement. Impressed not the appropriate word either.
“Wow, Dazai, that actually is incredible!” You suddenly beam, and his heart swells ten sizes, bashful and lips stretching into a grin of his own. “I’m so proud of you!” Your hand accidentally comes out and rests on his forearm, too elated to hear you won’t have extra work to do to realize what is happening. He breathes out a lighthearted laugh, getting flustered, not used to hearing all of this praise. All of it seems to be more meaningful when it’s coming from his favorite secretary.
“I know you have a lot that you work on, hard enough with me bothering you constantly,” he pushes his glasses up further, trying to find something for his hands to do, overcome with a foreign happiness of having you back and seeing your smiling face. “I didn’t want to make things harder, I guess.”
“You’re so sweet,” you tell him with sincerity, batting your lashes some, and your thumb carefully caresses his sweater sleeve. It’s really soft. “Thank you again.” He falters, noticing the way you’re looking at him, and his teeth sink down into his lip briefly before rushing through a mental pep talk.
“May I take you to lunch today?” He blurts. Your smile only grows, cheeks hurting from it, actually, and nod instantly.
“Of course, I’d love that.”
“It’s a date,” he states, testing waters he’s been preventing himself from completely diving into. You stare up at him, head tilting, and you simply giggle. God, she’s so cute.
“You call all of them dates.”
“You haven’t corrected me.”
Why on Earth would I?
yes i wrote this instead of doing my actual job. sue me!!!!!
When Jason comes home from his job at the mechanic—something he does part time for a chance at normalcy that isn't the apartment—shucking off his coat and putting up his keys and helmet, hes confused when theres no blurry figure crashing into his chest, not even a shout of "Welcome home boyfie!" Like he usually gets.
He frowns taking off his boots, you both hate having to mop and vacuum, thus no shoes in the apartment.
Peeking around the end of the hallway, he can see all the over head lights are off but he spots a few of the lamps on, soaking the apartment in soft warm lighting, comfortable.
From the hallway he can hear the TV playing faintly, the voices from it mingling together into a steady stream of unintelligible white noise to him.
Eyes landing on the sofa just barely visible from where he stands he can make out the pile of blankets— and what he can only hope is you under it —on it, he can only see the blanket wrapped around you from the back.
His brows pinch together, frown deepening, while its not unusual for you to turn off all the "big lights" in favor of the warm colored lamps and for you to bundle yourself in blankets he can already tell something is wrong.
Very wrong.
Even when your bundled up with just the lamps turned on you greet him happily if a bit tiredly at times, always something. Tonight you've still said nothing.
With socked feet thumping gently against the wooden floor Jason quietly, carefully, makes his way to the kitchen. His worry grows when he doesn't see any dirty dishes in the sink that are supposed to be there, that are always there when he gets home. It tells him you haven't eaten dinner yet.
Quickly he washes his hands, he uses the soap you love, the lavender and sandel wood scented one you bought him specifically to get rid of the motor oil smell that sticks to his hands after work.
Most days you don't mind the smell of the oil, but it's glaringly clear to him you're having a bad night, bad day probably. He doesn't want to make your mood worse with the strong smell of a mechanic's work.
After he scrubs the grime and dirt from under his nails he turns the sink off and drys his his hands on the towl hanging over the oven door. Making sure his hands are dry and at least room temp. He knows how you hate it when his hands are cold and he touches you on days like this.
He tip toes over to the couch, pausing an arms length away while he tries to decipher whether its a angry bad day or a none stop crying bad day. One runs the risk of him getting slapped if he gets to close.
Deciding its safe he creeps infront of the Tv and crouches down infront of your place on the couch.
His brow is furrowed and a frown pulls heavily on the edges of his mouth, expression pinched.
"Hey," he murmurs, keeping his voice low and soft, "Whats wrong, baby?"
Your eyes avoid his face and you shrug your shoulders, pulling them up to your ears.
"Hey, hey, look at me, whats the matter?" He continues, gently prodding, you chew the inside of your cheek, lips pressing into a thin line.
"I just, its— I dunno." You meet his eyes, in the warming lighting their hazel color makes them look like honey. It hurts how sincere he looks, concerned.
"Its just— don't you think I'm to… heavy?" You mumble oh so quietly, and if you didn't have his rapt attention he wouldn't have heard you.
His heart breaks when the words fall from your lips, and you can see it happening in his eyes.
"Oh, sweetheart." He whispers, and he reaches his hand out to you, hesitantly you untangle your own from the pile of blankets you hide under, placing it in his.
"No, I don't think your too heavy. I think your perfect the way you are." He reassures, squeezing your hand and you squeeze back.
"Who told you you were to heavy?" Jason asks, and again you shrug, turning your face away from him.
"Nobody. Just my brain." You answer, voice still so quiet, like your afraid something will happen if you speak up, like your fragile reality will shatter if you're to loud and he'll leave.
He hums, he knows how cruel your brain can be to yourself, his is the same on his bad days. He knows how thoughts can turn against you at a moments notice and ruin your whole day.
"Well, your brain is wrong." Jason squeezes you hand again, "You're not to heavy. And anyone who says otherwise can take it up with me, ok?"
Your free hand rubs at your eyes, wiping away unshed tears, you don't want to cry again.
"Ok." You murmur back, forcing a wobbly smile.
"Ok." He repeats, smiling softly back, his brow is still furrowed.
Jason raises up slightly to kiss your forehead and you lean into it with a little sigh, some of the tension leaving your body.
When he pulls back he's still smiling.
"Now, I for one, am starving. What do we wanna eat for dinner?" He asks, standing back up to his full height.
You both agree on pasta, something easy to make and usually a safe food for you, though Jason can tell your reluctant at just the idea of eating.
He lets you continue to hide in your pile of blankets on the couch, the TV still playing softly, while he heads into the kitchen.
Half an hour later and Jason is walking back into the living room with two plates of pasta in his hands, the couch dips under his weight as he sits down next to you.
The plates of pasta get put down on the coffee table and Jason reaches over and pulls the blanket off from around your head, the fabric pooling around your waist.
"I almost thought you and the blanket would be one by now," He teases, handing you your plate of pasta from the coffee table, "Eat up."
The plate is warm in your hands, the smell of pasta wafts up into your nose, usually its a smell you love, right now? The thought of eating and the smell makes you want to puke.
You look over at Jason, settled on the couch after a long shift at work, watching whatever trashy TV show that's playing. he made you pasta, he took the time that he should have to rest between jobs to take care of you and make sure you eat.
You stare at the plate of pasta and try to swallow the imagined feeling of bile raising up your throat.
Water gathers in your eyes silently as you take the first bite, fat tears rolling down your cheeks, as you lift the fork again and again.
Jason looks over to see your wet face and his frown returns, he sets his own plate of pasta down, he was already half way finished anyway.
He doesn't say anything as he begins to rub your back, knowing words wont help at this point and all he can do is be there. So thats what he'll do.
You eat and he rubs your back with a sad smile, he only hopes the food will stay in your stomach.
When your plate is empty he takes it from your hands and puts it back on the coffee table with his half finished one.
He pulls you into his side, leaning back into the couch and taking you with him, he wraps his arms around you and lets you continue to cry silently as he rubs circles into your back, leaning his face into your hair.
Your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, relaxing into his hold best you can as the tears continue to flow unbidden, soaking into his shirt which you know you'll feel bad about later when given the chance. He couldn't care less.
Exhausted, you pass out there, cryed out and drained, in his embrace.
TW - Suicide ideation + plan + S/H (YES this is self indulgent ✌️😂)
It’s rare for someone like you to stick out. Laid-back, carefree, borderline lazy— pretty much the average person in their 20’s. You were the BAU’s Cheshire Cat, never putting in the effort until they needed you most. Not that it was a problem or anything, because— as stated before— you got things done (albeit without much cheer for it.)
What stuck out to Reid was between the lines.
The subtle frown that graces your face for a second when the team recovers from a joke of yours. Your tendency to have a drink too many when the team heads out to the bar. Most of all, that perpetually blank look in your eye no matter how you’re feeling. You could smile as big as a rainbow, and not even a sliver of a glint would cross your features.
It worried him.
Worried him enough to stick around and get you home.
“Hey, hey,” you dragged out, giggling quietly about nothing in particular. “Don’t gotta carry me, I can walk.”
Ignoring the potent smell of tequila on your lips, he repositioned you on his shoulder.
“You couldn’t tell me the time.” Reid countered gently, without any real firmness. “I doubt that you could take more than 5 consistent steps without stumbling.”
Rolling your eyes, you push off of the man. In a matter of seconds, you prove him completely right, tumbling to the floor without much of a grunt. Your name escapes him quickly, only sharp out of shock as he scrambled to pick you back up again.
“Please— stop moving.” He sighed, looking around for nothing in particular. “We’re almost to your house.”
What’s really worrying him is the fact you’re not talking. Even drunk, you would average about 140 words a minute. At your worst, you’d crack a joke or two.
You’re silent. Radio silent. Eyes downcast, a weakened shield protecting the vulnerability in your eyes.
“‘Kay.” You mumble, seemingly unaware of your surroundings as the two of you reached your apartment.
As always, the key is under the welcome mat.
Do you.. not watch movies?
Opening the door, Reid maneuvers you inside before shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.
Sitting you on the couch, helping you out of your jacket, and so forth was easy. What was harder was making it hard to notice his lingering eye.
Too hard.
“Got a staring problem.” You mumbled, lying down and burying your head into the sofa. “Stop.”
Okay. He’s really thrown off guard. You’re so uncharacteristically serious and he’s fighting the urge to sweat.
“Are you..” he began, hesitant to even speak.
Like clockwork you huff without humor, waving your hand in general dismissal. “Yup. Just tired. Like, what, 80% of drunk people?”
“High amounts of alcohol decrease sleep quality by 39.2%” he corrected quietly.
Your hand shifts to a thumbs up, before promptly plopping to your side.
…No. He can’t just let this go. He should’ve noticed this longer ago— well, to be more accurate, said something about what he noticed awhile ago.
“I don’t think you are.” He countered, this time with confidence, his gaze hardening— not at you, but at what you’re going through.
Your head shifts toward him, eyes narrowing.
“Reid—“
“—You never open up to anyone about how you’re feeling,” he started, beginning to pace to-and-fro. “Even when we notice how it’d gotten to you— if we noticed that. Hotch has noticed your lack of care for yourself in the field, JJ’s seen how tired you look, Penelope is worried about you—“
But they can’t prove it. None of them can. They know as much as they don’t, and you keep it that way. You’re frustratingly good at telling and hiding. Revealing and concealing.
“—I’m worried about you.” He finished, a whisper.
A beat passed, before you slowly sat up.
And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the exhaustion— you hadn’t slept well in a couple of days— honestly it may have been how gently he handled you, but your jaw loosened.
“Was supposed to kill myself at 18, yknow.” You slurred bluntly, stilling Reid in his tracks.
The shock doesn’t last long, though, replaced with hidden heartbreak.
You continued. “Living wasn’t worth it anymore. Woke up, went to school, felt s’upid, came home, felt worse, went to sleep, repeat. Sufferin’ was meaningless, and nothing was worth enough to keep it going.”
Your mouth pulls to a thin line, as if discussing a minor annoyance rather than what would’ve been your death.
“But I de’ided to call the hotline before I left. Speak to someone who’d atleast pretend to care.”
What came next was hesitant, the pace of your confession bringing you down to reality for a second. Were you really sitting here and dumping all of this on him? Then you look up, and see those stupid puppy-dog eyes of his, and the dam breaks loose.
“This— this guy picked up. My dad’s age. His voice was all,” you once more wave your hand aimlessly, as if it demonstrated your point. “Father-like. As if he knew me. As if he knew exactly why I was callin’. Called me ‘sweetheart’ as I sobbed my eyes out on the floor ‘nd whatnot. Didn’t wanna hang up. Was too scared to come back t’reality.”
The wall was always your safe space. When conversations got hard. When life got too much, you’d stare for what seemed like hours at the roof. It was almost like a life-line. Plus, it saved you a few times from letting tears fall, so that’s a plus.
“How’d it end?” He whispered, finding you again. Grounding you again.
You cracked a smile. “He told me he’d check on me t’morrow. That I should get some sleep. He knew I wasn’t gonna d’it.”
To keep the story sweet, you don’t tell him you didn’t pick up when the hotline called again tomorrow. You don’t tell him how you cut up your thighs the next day. You don’t tell him any of it—
“Were you going to kill yourself tonight?”
Was what why you’ve been so distant? Patting him on the shoulder more than usual, celebrating more often— drinking more often? Was this your last hurrah, decorated with alcohol and mindlessness?
It’s quiet. You’re not responding, and his breath just hitched. You’re not talking, and it’s scaring him. Forget the sweat, forget watching from the side, you’re not confirming or denying that you were supposed to die tonight. You’re staring. And staring. And staring, until your not.
Until your eyes shift to him, without your head, and your mouth opens again.
“‘s in the cabinet.” You mutter, your head tilting towards the cabinet before you.
Slowly, and with his eyes still on you, Reid made his way to the wood, slowly opening it with hands shaking harder than cymbals after a hit.
Your gun, beside your badge.
And a single bullet.
No note. Nothing.
Just a ticket out.
Everything sounds like static as he put it into his satchel. He’d put it somewhere else, somewhere smarter, but he wasn’t thinking. All he knew is that in his bag was the very thing that could’ve taken you from him.
“Wasn’t gonna write a letter.” You tried, your words meshing together. “You’ve read enough of ‘em,” you began, before his arms wrapped around you so tight it almost hurt. His nose pressed against your scalp, almost embarrassed at how hard he was vibrating.
“Stop.” He managed, though weakly. “Just— just stop.”
You two don’t know how long you stand there, and you don’t know why you let him. You just do. There is no explanation, and there’s nothing in you that moves you to stop.
And he hates it.
He hates how you don’t feel anything. How lives messed with you so profusely that you feel nothing towards the potential end of your life. How, come morning, this would simply be yesterday. Most of all, he hates how he knows the feeling. The desire to get worse, and feel nothing about it at all.
“Let’s go to bed.” Reid hiccuped, trying his absolute hardest to keep his voice still. It didn’t work, obviously.
After a beat, you nodded into his shoulder.
“Y’sayin’ that like y’r staying.” You both knew he would. Any smart person would.
When the sun rose, you’d go to work. You’d smile, and laugh, and make up a million excuses for tonight.
“I was drunk,” you’d snort, shaking your head with an all too familiar carelessness. “People say anything when they’re drunk.”
When the sun rose, the gun would be fully loaded. It’d likely be pointed at an UnSub. It’d be saving a life instead of taking one. No one would mention its original purpose, and no innocent would die.
But the sun hasn’t risen yet.
To tonight, with only the stars as witness, he’ll lay beside you. He’ll hold you close, and whisper just how important you are to him. He won’t mention the tears, or the ache, or the wail. It won’t negate him, nor will it shake him.
And come the morning, everything would look just fine.
(END.)
A/N: hi!! this wasn’t my best work. I’ve had a horrible week and wanted to write smth about it. It’s not 100% accurate to ME, but some elements of myself are in it. also, if Reid is OOC, sorry. Again, I was writing to vent 🥹✌️
Summary: Oscar isn’t himself and he’s not talking. Lando takes matters into his own hands.
Rating: T
Word count: 2.7k
Warnings: This is a vent fic as my grandad is currently in hospital, so focuses on grief 🧡
Read on AO3 | or read below 👇🏼
~
Wind roared in his ears.
Gravel crunched beneath his feet.
Salty air whooshed through his mouth.
He welcomed the harsh sting of the spray against his exposed skin.
Thick grey cloud suffocated the coast, the dark waves battering the shoreline as his feet took him further away from the car. It should’ve been frightening, the forces of nature this early in the morning, daylight barely existing. He only found it comforting. Like the sea and sky were in turmoil right along with him.
He pushed and pushed, sprinting until his legs and chest burned. Almost slipping on the gravel, he stopped himself, hands on his hips as his breath heaved. Tears pricked at his eyes, and acid nausea swirled in his belly.
The crashing of the waves absorbed his guttural scream.
~
Lando woke up to an empty bed.
It wasn’t uncommon. While Osc was a night owl like him, he often found the early morning haze was the perfect time for his run. Lando thought he was a bit mad with that routine sometimes, but the best part of it was when he snuck back into bed. Sometimes without showering.
His stomach rumbled, so he stretched and lazily rolled out of bed, taking his phone with him to the bathroom. Sure enough, there was a message waiting from his boyfriend.
Morning beautiful, gone for a run up the coast. Back soon. Love you ❤️
[05:18]
Sent at five in the morning, much earlier than he usually left. He checked his phone. It was almost half past eight now.
“Osc?” he called out, assuming he was somewhere else in the apartment.
Getting no answer, he ventured out of the bedroom. There was no lingering smell of breakfast, and both bathrooms were bone dry. His running shoes were still missing, as was his water bottle.
Maybe he ended up going for a longer drive. It could be especially nice when there was no one else on the roads.
The overcast sky was clearing up as he opened the balcony doors, the boats in the tiny harbour clinking in the delicious breeze. It hadn’t rained, so at least he wouldn’t have to fuss over Oscar not taking a jacket with him.
He brought up his boyfriend’s contact to give him a ring when the apartment door opened.
“Oh, hey!” Lando greeted. “I was just gonna get started on some breakfast. Anything in particular you fancy?” He started looking through the cupboards and fridge for what they had to use.
Osc didn’t answer, simply trudging over to him and embracing him fiercely. Lando was knocked back a few steps, startled. His boyfriend was tense, cold, and trembling. Maybe he should’ve taken a jacket after all.
“Whoa, hey, everything okay?” he asked, rubbing his back. “You were gone for a lot longer than normal.” He felt Oscar finally melt against him.
“Lost track of time. Didn’t feel so good.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Lando drew back, his hand going straight to Oscar’s forehead. He was pale and didn’t feel hot, but he looked exhausted and didn’t answer. “Go and lie down, yeah? I’ll bring you some soup. Actually, do you want a bath first? I don’t mind doing all the work.”
Oscar turned his head and kissed his hand. “No, just some sleep. Sorry.”
“It’s okay, I’m just glad you’re back safe.” Lando kissed his cheek. “At least change into something warmer, yeah?”
He watched as Osc nodded before he stepped out of his space, looking like his legs carried him automatically, more than him actually consciously walking. Lando frowned as he kept staring at the now-empty doorway. He wished Oscar had woken him up before he left.
There was a growing pit in his stomach as he moved around the kitchen gathering things he needed. They could both be stubborn mules when sick, but something about Osc not complaining made him think it wasn’t physical.
They had nowhere to be all day. Though even if they did, Lando would’ve cancelled it all.
~
He sat on the bed as Oscar spooned himself the chicken soup. He was playing with it more than eating it, but at least he was wearing one of Lando’s hoodies and jogging bottoms. Colour had returned to his face, and he was no longer shaking.
“M’sorry, I can’t eat anymore,” Osc said quietly. He put down the spoon and pushed the tray away.
“You sure?” Lando wanted to hug him. He looked so…distant.
“Yeah, sorry. It’s nice, just can’t stomach it.”
“Don’t worry, baby. Get comfy, and I’ll clear it up.”
He kissed his temple before standing up and grabbing the tray. He’d taken maybe three steps, when:
“Will you come back?”
He turned to see Osc settling under the sheets, sleepy eyes peering up at him. “Of course, honey. I’m not leaving you alone unless you ask me to.”
“Thank you,” he heard faintly as he left the room.
Covering the bowl with cling film and putting it in the fridge, he filled up an extra water bottle for Oscar before heading back to the bedroom.
He leaned against the doorway, taking him in. He’d chucked off the hoodie and bottoms, and curled up with his back to the door. The top of his head was just about visible, his honey brown hair standing out against the white sheets.
Oscar didn’t get like this too often. Mostly, it would be homesickness, a deep longing for his family, his childhood home, and the sights and smells of Melbourne. Leaving so early to try and clear his head would also support that.
He’d had a few days last year, during their championship fight, but those hadn’t been about missing home. He’d been angrier then, more visibly stressed. Sometimes, Lando was glad they weren’t going through that again twice in a row. He’d take an easier season for them both to chill, even if that did mean no more guaranteed wins. Though that was easy for him to say. Oscar probably wouldn’t think that.
When he slipped back under the covers as he’d promised, Osc immediately pillowed his head on his chest. His hair smelled like the sea, and his smooth skin was perfectly warm. Lando kissed his head and traced shapes over his bare back, fingers creeping up into his hair when he kept fidgeting.
He’d happily lie here all week if Oscar needed him to.
~
Time passed weirdly.
He didn’t sleep. Lando’s closeness and warmth helped him sink into the mattress, but the hours ticked on by as he lay there. Not fully present.
When he tried to move to the bathroom, his whole body felt like lead. Stomach in knots, so accepting food was impossible. His head ached dully, nothing water or his boyfriend’s gentle fingers could even touch.
He was grateful for Lando’s presence.
For the soft music playing from his phone.
His body might be in Monaco, but his mind was elsewhere.
On the other side of the globe.
~
Lando was starting to get worried.
Even on the days he encountered homesickness, Oscar would still talk to him. It would usually help to share stories from his childhood and chat about what his sisters were up to.
Last year, he’d tried to keep himself busy, the intense race calendar leaving little room to truly wallow and lose himself. Artturi would take him out for bike rides or training sessions, he’d play padel with Alex, or have lunch with Charles. Then come home to him.
He hadn’t moved from the bed unless to go to the bathroom, and he would cling to Lando every time he tried to leave to bring back food. He should tell someone that his boyfriend was having a bad spell, but at the same time, if it only lasted a day and he perked up tomorrow, Lando would feel awful for tattling. Oscar was capable of seeking out his own team for support, and he didn’t want to overstep.
When he woke up the following morning, and Oscar was still there, clinging to him, yet his eyes were far away, he knew he had to pass it on. To Artturi, at the very least, even if Oscar would be mad at him for it.
Reassuring he was gonna be back with breakfast, he untangled himself from his koala bear and stepped out into the kitchen. He opened Artturi’s contact, but instead, a different urge hit him, and he walked through to the lounge, curling up on one of the sofas. He pressed his phone to his ear, eyes fixed on the photos of Oscar’s family on the bookshelf.
“Hi, my darling! How are you and Oscar doing?”
“Hi, Mum,” he sighed, hating how his voice shook.
She picked up on it immediately. “Talk to me, lieverd. Is it a bad day?”
“Yeah. Osc isn’t leaving the bed. He disappeared for three hours early yesterday morning, and he’s barely said a word since. He’s not eating properly, and he just wants cuddles. I let him have yesterday, but if this keeps going–”
“–You two should come here for a bit. Let us look after him.”
Lando frowned. “I mean, we could. But no offence Mum, if he’s missing his home, I’m not sure how much it’ll help having a different family fuss over him.” He could see Oscar refusing the offer. Being around Lando’s parents and siblings might make his own homesickness worse. It would look like he was playing in his face. Totally unfair.
“Oscar is our family, too, darling. If he’s this upset, maybe some motherly coddling is necessary. I’m sure you can understand how terrible he’s feeling, losing Moeke two years ago. It’s got to be worse for him being so far away.”
His stomach dropped. “Wait, what’s wrong with Nicole?”
“No, no, Lan, Nicole’s father. Oscar’s Bompa.”
“I’m confused.” Lando sat up, eyes flickering to the hallway. “I thought he was just homesick–”
“–Oh darling, did he not tell you? Nicole called me the other day. He was taken to hospital, but it looks like he’s not going to be coming home.”
“Shit.” It explained Oscar’s quiet and clingy behaviour. His need to get out and get lost for a few hours. Grief was something that could be unpredictably overwhelming.
When Lando had lost his Bomma in 2024, it had been before the Belgian Grand Prix, making that race weekend one with a persistent ache in his chest that was still there to this day. He’d been run down and barely functioning, with a bang average performance to show for it.
His family, Oscar, his team, and his friends had all helped comfort him and make the days pass more easily. Then he’d gone back home after the funeral and cried for days.
It wasn’t fair that Oscar was separated from his biggest source of comfort.
“I’ve got flights to book,” he said. “Thanks for the offer to have us, Mum, but I think we need to go a bit further afield.”
~
Lando didn’t come back with breakfast.
He sat on top of the sheets instead of joining him underneath. Instead of cuddling him and providing the safety and comfort he craved. It made his stomach churn. Like he was in trouble. Like his boyfriend was about to tell him to get over himself.
He hadn’t been able to tell him–
Oscar didn’t wanna face it. But he hadn’t been able to pretend everything was fine either. His body betrayed him, lying weighed down into the mattress, stiff and heavy. Crying might have sent Lando the message, but his eyes remained desert dry.
He wasn’t floating but he wasn’t tethered either.
He wanted to burrow himself deeper into the bed.
Lando stroked his hair. Kissed his head. Whispered to him.
“Just wanna let you know that I’ve booked us flights. We’ll need to pack at some point today. I can do it if you don’t wanna, but I think you might wanna be up and about.”
There it was. Lando thought he was useless.
“I don’t wanna go to England, Lando,” he snapped. His stomach screamed at him. He didn’t mean to be nasty.
“We’re going to Melbourne. I’m so sorry about your grandad, baby.”
Breath stuttered in his chest.
He was going home.
His eyes found the monsoon rain.
~
Lando watched as Oscar hugged his sisters goodnight.
He’d spent most of his time so far helping Nicole and Tim while his boyfriend glued himself to his sisters and Basil, the family cocker spaniel. It was what he was here for, as well as not wanting Oscar to fly all this way on his own.
Basil was settled in his lap, clearly wanting to spend the nights on Oscar’s bed while he was here. There was a heaviness all around the house, the anxiety of waiting for the inevitable.
Osc hadn’t slept since they’d arrived, insisting they head straight to the hospital. Lando wasn’t going to tell him no, so he had their driver take them there, then their luggage to the Piastri house. Nicole, Tim, and Hattie had all offered to pick them up, but Oscar had told them no, knowing they’d take him home and force him to try and rest first.
Lando knew he wouldn’t until he’d seen his grandad for himself.
“Goodnight, Lando!” Mae called over to him.
He waved at her with a tired smile. “Goodnight, everyone.”
Each of Oscar’s family members had taken him aside at one point to hug and thank him for bringing their brother or son home, and for being here. Lando had hugged them back and promised that he would help with anything they needed.
Oscar shut the door and flopped down onto the bed beside him. Basil whined, moving to lick his face.
“Bet you’re so confused having me back so early,” he giggled. “Just a warning though, Baz, Lan tends to kick in his sleep.”
“I do not!”
He watched as Osc played with Basil, while he messaged his parents to update them. There was around a ten-hour time difference, so it was still the middle of the day back home. He had slept on the flights over, but his back was ready for proper sleep in a comfortable bed again.
“Baz, stay,” Osc commanded as he stood up. “Time to get ready for bed.”
Lando stripped off his hoodie. It was autumn here, the trees outside gorgeous shades of amber and gold. While it was warmer than back in the UK, hoodies still felt the most comfortable. Certainly the most comforting. He and Oscar had swapped without even meaning to. Well, maybe his boyfriend had meant to.
He kept his eyes on Oscar as they both stripped down. His movement was slower, and he was fighting back constant yawns. They’d be up first thing in the morning to go back to the hospital, so the earlier they tried to settle down, the better. He hoped Oscar would sleep anyway.
“Where do you want me?” he asked.
Osc frowned at him. “Well, in the bed, obviously.”
He rolled his eyes. “I meant which position, you muppet. On my back, on my side, behind you, in front of you, I dunno.” He shrugged. It was Oscar’s childhood bed. He felt like he was overstepping, just diving in and arranging himself as he did at home.
“Just how we normally do, I wanna cuddle.”
“Okay,” he nodded.
Basil moved out of the way as he slid in, Osc joining him not long after, directing his dog where to settle by their feet. His boyfriend got himself comfy where he wanted, his head over Lando’s heart. His fingers carded through his hair, the other gently stroking his back.
“Thank you for this,” Oscar whispered. “For bringing me, for being here. It means everything.”
Lando kissed his head. “I told you I wasn’t leaving you alone unless you asked me to.”
“Does it ever get better? The pain?” His heart broke at the words, Oscar’s voice cracking.
“In time. The pain means he’s loved, and that’s a good thing. He’ll always be with you in tiny ways. Something reminds you, and you’ll think of him.” Lando thought about his grandma, how random things brought her to mind. Her favourite ice cream sundae, the smell of the woods, and market stalls with designs that echoed her wallpaper.
Oscar shook beneath him, and he felt wet drops hit his bare skin, and Basil whined softly.
“It’s okay, honey. Let it all out.”
He held Oscar through the sobs.
Through the devastation.
Then through the aftermath, when Osc screamed at the waves.
