meh

18+ I sometimes write stuff Stay for the good vibes

[toolonely1]

Masterlist

♡ = fluff, ☆ = Angst

Hi! I plan on writing more, so I made a masterlist :)

Criminal Minds

Imagines:

☆ Goodbye Professor!Spencer Reid x Reader - The beginning of the semester is usually stressful; the combination of finding your classes, meeting professors, and getting used to the workload can be a lot. But nothing could have prepared you to see your boyfriend of three months at the front of the class, greeting students as they walked in.

From Memory, part two Spencer Reid x Artist!Reader - Growing up with a photographic memory shaped the way you saw the world, and eventually led you to cross paths with the FBI in your art studio.

The Rookie

Series:

☆ ♡ Earn it Tim Bradford x Reader - She spent her whole life chasing the badge. Getting it was only the beginning. Starting a year before the events of The Rookie, her story unfolds through the job, the people, and the choices that shape who she becomes.

Imagines:

☆ He Knows Tim Bradford x Traumatized!Rookie!Reader (platonic or romantic) - where Tim’s rookie finally lets her biggest secret slip.

♡ In His Arms Tim Bradford x Reader - In her day-to-day life, she takes control—at work and with others, always the one making the calls. But with Tim, she drifts. He notices what she misses, carries what she doesn’t have to, and gives her the rare space to stop thinking and just be.

Peacemaker

Imagines:

Watching Him Adrian Chase/Vigilante x reader - She’s obsessive, dangerously so — the kind of love that clings, consumes, and never lets go. But it turns out, he’s just the same, the kind of man who doesn’t want to escape from it, who looks at the chaos between them and calls it fate.

Stranger Things

(18+ CHARACTERS ONLY)

Imagines:

♡ A Place To Stay Young single mom!Nancy Wheeler x fem!reader - Nancy Wheeler has always had her life carefully planned—until a quiet classroom connection pulls you into hers. Between late-night study sessions, shared laughter, and the small hands of her daughter Audrey reaching for you first, what was once temporary becomes something far deeper. As love grows alongside the routines of family, you realize you’re not just visiting—you’ve finally found a place to stay.

Harry Potter

Golden Trio

Imagines: N/A

Headcannons: N/A

The Marauders

Imagines:

Minecraft YouTubers AU - Self explanatory, The Marauders (sans Peter) as Minecraft YouTubers.

Headcannons:: N/A

[beardedmrbean]

[theman]

I GOT A FUCKING RAISE THE POTATO WORKED WTF

[tattooedzombigirl]

This potato works. Every. Fucking. Time.

[imanutcase-10]

Then bring me luck

[thirddeadlysin]

the day after I posted this last time I was notified that I was selected for a really cool mentorship gig and got an unrelated glowing review at work

[icantbearsedtothinkofone]

Hey Potato, cure my -ing cold so I can have a good time while away.

[dduane]

Here's the potato. Make what use of it you will. :)

[cangelala]

God I need this so bad for my Midterm so please let this work again for me.

[skwangmbyul]

I could use some luck

[lanadelreysghost]

in waiting on college acceptance letters. PLEASE GOLD POTATO.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

I figure there's no harm in trying lol

[unconcernedlioness]

"fanfic is dying" no it's not. you're not looking hard enough and most importantly, you are not reblogging

[amnmesias]

𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

word count: 9.5k

tags: fem!reader. rockstar!reader. modern au. rock band au. sort of nuisances to lovers, angst. eventual fame au.   

a/n: well friends… we’ve made it to the end. 

part twenty two ˚.⋆♪⋆ series masterlist

—

Sirius pushes a suffering sigh, long enough for you to quickly pick up on his theatrics. You pause your strumming to glance at him, legs tangled together as you drape across each other from one end of the sofa to the other. 

“I can’t even understand what it says here—doll, I love your hands, I really do,” he says, eyes flickering up to wink salaciously before looking back down at your notebook. “But your handwriting is illegible.”

You huff a laugh, nudging his calf with your socked foot in a placating manner. “You’ll get better at reading it,” you say, smirking down at your guitar. 

Sirius ignores you to flip another page. He feigns a surprised hum. “Oh, this is familiar,” his voice has a funny lilt as he draws the notebook closer with a squinty look. His foot nudges your own legs, and you carefully set your guitar aside. Those nudges never lead to anything good.

“What is it?” you lean back against the armrest, stretching. “Read it to me.”

“Can’t even like you less—that one I remember,” he reads off the page, voice airy with mischief. His eyes keep flickering up at you before turning back to your notebook as he reads. “Oh, this is interesting. Why would I want to wake up alone in my bed when I could have you between my…” a pause, followed by his scandalized gasp. “y/n!”

“What?”

He pointedly closes the notebook, setting it on the floor before pushing himself to his knees. You meet his gaze, flashing him an innocent grin. Sirius clicks his tongue, shuffling closer to you until he’s nudging your legs open again. You laugh when his arms come around you, draping himself over your torso and crawling until he’s got you pinned down against the armrest.

“Sirius.”

“What?” he cocks his head to the side, pretty inky curls falling to his face. “I’m just doing what it says there—who am I to deny my girl anything?”

“This isn’t exactly what I meant when I wrote that,” you say, matching his tone. Sirius grins, canines at full display. 

He lowers his head, lips brushing yours. “Of course not, lovely girl,” he kisses you quickly. “But Moony has poured his everything into supper, it would be properly rude to show up satisfied.”

You hold his gaze, gauging his reaction and waiting for him to break. Just like he does with you. 

From the kitchen, someone curses loudly. “Ah—fuck.”

Sirius looks over his shoulder towards the kitchen, lips twitching faintly. “Everything okay?” he asks, not at all concerned. His hand runs up and down the length of your leg in absentminded touches. You look over his head towards the kitchen as well, where Remus is shuffling around opening and closing cupboards.

“Yeah,” he says, a faint twinge of stress in his tone. “Just put too much wine into the stew.”

“Is there any left?” Sirius asks.

“No.”

“Moony!”

Remus throws his arms up. “It was an accident!” he flicks the hob off, wooden spoon clattering as he puts it aside in the sink. “Takeaway okay?”

“Yes,” you say.

“No.” Sirius counters immediately. He pushes himself up, but not much. His hair tickles your cheek as he tries to look at Remus over his shoulder. “My best ideas come after a glass of wine. We need wine, Moony.”

Remus rolls his eyes, shuffling around the kitchen as he types into his phone. “You’ll survive,” he murmurs distractedly. Though his lips curl up faintly into a sideways smirk. “You were just climbing y/n like a tree—I think you can find some ideas from that.”

Sirius gasps again, though his scandalized reaction seems more genuine this time. As it always is whenever Remus is the one doing all the blatant flirting. You laugh, pinching the underside of his jaw. 

“You don’t know what she wrote.”

“I heard,” he mumbles, pacing around the living room as he types into his phone. You look away from his knowing amber eyes when he glances up, lips tilting upwards. “I’m actually quite interested in hearing the chord progression you have in mind for that one.” 

“We’re not releasing a horny hate song about me,” Sirius settles on top of you again, hand traveling down to hook under your knee. A startled giggle escapes you when he squeezes playfully. “But I want to hear it, too. If you don’t mind.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course you do—” the words die when he presses a bruising kiss on your lips. Remus huffs a laugh as he finishes typing your orders for takeaway (with a fake name as you’re forced to do lately), and letting Kreacher know beforehand as well. When Sirius pulls away, you’re already cupping his face in your hands, leveling him with a mock stern look. “You freak.”

Sirius kisses you again. “You’re the freak.”

You can’t help it, you poke at him again. “Why do you assume it’s about you?” 

“I can just tell, it’s a talent. You’d be surprised how many of those are currently residing in Remus’ notebook,” he says, little kisses to your bottom lip before lifting his head again. “Right, Moons?”

“A bit, yeah,” Remus answers, nimble fingers moving over the screen of his phone. When he seems dinner handled, he locks it to toss it to the armchair, lips tugging up into a smirk. “I wonder why.” 

“Yeah, I wonder why,” you add, words muffled when Sirius kisses you again. He quickly shifts gears, going all in as he ducks into the crook of your neck, hand at your knee stroking your skin. “See what we mean?”

Remus shakes his head, walking back from the foyer and patting a little notebook against his palm. He settles on the floor next to the sofa, back pressed to the coffee table. Your eyes find his, a fleeting mischievous glint crosses his gaze as he hums innocently, flipping the notebook open. 

Despite his evident contentment to your (and mostly his) current predicament, Sirius nibs playfully at the underside of your jaw one last time before carefully pushing himself off you. He sits by your legs, draping them over his lap, instead. This boy—always touching you. 

“Ooh,” he singsongs playfully when he spots the notebook in Remus’ hands. Your boyfriend, of course, seems unfazed by Sirius’ brazen flirting as he continues skimming through his notebook. “Bring it on, handsome—let’s hear how much you wanted me and hated yourself for it.”

“If you say so.” Remus shrugs, handing you the notebook. 

It’s hard to push down the giddiness that overcomes you with that single gesture, taking the notebook and his wrist to pull him to you for a quick kiss. He looks delightfully startled when you break apart, recovering quickly to lovingly pinch your calf as you settle back on the sofa. 

You bite back a nervous laugh. “Let’s see,” you hum, drawing the notebook closer. Sirius shifts closer to try and take a peek. “Hm.”

“What?”

“Interesting,” you hum again, nodding along to the lyrics you read. 

“What does it say?”

“You’re so conceited, I said I love you, what does it matter if I lie to you… I wonder who that is about,” you answer instead, eyes skimming through the lyrics with a badly repressed smirk. 

Sirius gasps. “Did you say I’m conceited?”

“I was a bit miffed with you when I wrote that,” Remus says easily, but he rubs a finger on his temple. “But yeah, you were back then.”

You laugh. “What even is a sycophantic, prophetic Socratic junkie wannabe, Remus?” 

“He did not write that.” Sirius says, pulling you closer to him. Laughter spills out of you at both his insistence to read off the notebook and the words Remus has written—very on the nose. “Oh God, you pretentious little shit.”

“It gets better.” Remus says, words heavy with amusement as he leans back on his arms. He juts his chin to the notebook in your hands. 

Your eyes flicker back down. “Oh my god.”

“What does it say?”

“You are a cliché, Remus. This is—” laughter cuts off your words, and the notebook falls to your lap. “What in the world does Epicurean philosophy even mean?”

At this, Remus does laugh. “It’s Greek,” he smirks, eyeing you amusedly. “Epicurus was a philosopher who just believed pleasure was the best part of living.”

“‘It’s Greek’ he says,” Sirius scoffs, pulling your legs closer to him to properly reach for Remus. His hands are at either side of his head as he drags him closer for a bruising kiss. “I’m totally enjoying this muse thing, y’know,” he murmurs, cleaning Remus’ lower lip as they break apart. 

You huff a laugh. “Of course you’re chuffed about this,” you pass a finger over the page, trying to read the little notes younger Remus wrote in the margins. “This song actually has potential, you know.”

They both turn to you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I like the repetition of the chorus. It can be catchy if we find the right sound.”

“Alright, let me see,” Sirius says, and you wordlessly angle yourself for him to finally read the lyrics. You bite back a knowing smirk in anticipation, laughing when he gasps. “Remus—what the fuck.”

“What?”

“That was one time!” he points at him, pale face now a pinkish hue. “You smug bastard—I knew you’d use it against me.”

Remus laughs louder at this. “I told you I was miffed with you when I wrote that,” he says easily, braceleting Sirius’ ankle. He squirms, ticklish in that specific area and holding your waist tighter in response. 

“Well, I think we should table it for consideration,” you say, sending Sirius a sideways glance when he hides in the crook of your neck. You pat his hand commiseratingly before picking the notebook back again. “I thought you loved being a muse?”

“I do,” he grumbles weakly into your shoulder. “Now why are you acting all mighty? I’m sure he has more incriminating material about you.”

Remus’ lips tilt upwards at this. “So what? Nothing she doesn’t know about, don't you, dove?” he turns to you, his gaze swirling with smugness at the way you raise the notebook higher to hide your face.  

“Don’t drag me into this,” you hum, a feigned attempt at nonchalance as you flip the page. “Can I read more?”

“‘Course.” Remus nods, face softening when your gazes meet. A silent permission that he grants you without a single doubt. 

Sirius nuzzles his face into your shoulder again, always touching you in that grounding manner that has turned into second nature between you. His hand travels down your waist into your wool jumper, calloused fingers stroking your skin as you read the different song ideas in Remus’ notebook. Both old, unfinished and the newer ones. His eyes land on your hands, missing a few plasters and bandages—some of the picking wounds have fully healed, but remain scarred from the times you reopened them between then and now. He drops another kiss to your shoulder.

For a moment, all you can hear is the sound of pages flippling. Remus watches you go through his notebook with aching care and patience, eyes flickering from side to side as you read and then up at him when you find something incriminating. He smiles every time, trying to push down the grand and oftentimes consuming feeling that spreads in his chest at seeing you this way. Love, really. Not because he’s shy or having second thoughts, he’s loved Sirius for years and you for months—there are many uncertain things happening right now, but not this. Never this.

You pause. Visibly pause. Sirius turns his head to look at you, noticing the way your eyebrows bunch together very, very faintly at what you read. He chances a quick look at Remus for confirmation before they both turn to you. Gauging your reaction.

Anywhere you go, you don’t need a reason. ‘Cause they never showed you love, you don’t have to be sorry for doing it on your own. Your finger brushes the margins, reading the notes and the doodles—the date it was finished, first night of the tour. 

Your eyes flicker up at him. Remus only nods, pushing himself to sit straight at the way you visibly can’t find the correct words to ask. They’re written all over your gaze the more you return to read, the more you brush a finger over his equally illegible handwriting —and Sirius’. A song they both wrote. 

A kiss is pressed to your jaw, barely a brush of lips first. You shift, brushing hair away from your face, visibly hesitating. Thankfully, Remus is already moving closer, resting his chin on your knee. 

“I started it a long time ago, when we were younger but couldn’t bring myself to finish. It felt too personal, you know?” he explains, voice softer than soft. “I tried to revisit it many times, but after that night I… well, the song just started making sense. It’s about you. Both of you.”

You turn to Sirius, gauging his reaction but finding him already looking at you instead. Nothing surprising about the way his lips quirk up in a tentative smile, like he knows. Like he’s scanning your face for the same reaction you do to him. 

Remus lowers his chin on your knee, dropping a little kiss. You chance another look down at the page, thumb hovering over the lyrics. You can throw a party full of everyone you know, and not invite your family, ‘cause they never showed you love. His lips linger on your skin, eyes soft and understanding as he studies your face.

“It’s…” you swallow thickly, lowering the notebook to your lap. But your fingers don’t stop brushing the lyrics, your badly wrapped plaster sticks into the paper with the movement. “I don’t know what to say.”

He smiles, lifting his head to meet your gaze. “It’s okay, we didn’t want to show it to you right away because…” he cuts himself off, finding the right words. “With everything that was happening, we figured it’d remain a secret project we worked on. But it’s okay, dove.”

“I just…” you brush your hair away from your face, hands dropping in the same beat you shift closer to wrap your arms around him. Remus exhales softly, gathering you against his chest. 

You nearly melt against him, feeling his thumb stroking the baby hairs at your nape in that steady rhythm of his before his palm is moving up and down the length of your spine. A grounding pressure that has become a second nature to him. You hide your face on his shoulder and he turns his head slightly to the side to kiss the skin just shy of your ear. After a beat of silence, he takes Sirius’ arm to pull him in.

Sirius hasn’t really let go of your waist, thumb stroking the skin as he settles around you—letting you be hugged from every side. It drags the raw and soft feeling out of you, then. You immediately reprimand yourself for taking so long to realize this was meant to happen.

“I love you,” you whisper, not quite letting go yet. But they simultaneously, and in their own way, tighten their hold around you. 

Sirius laughs first, an uneven and breathless sound that warms your skin over the soft fabric of your jumper. It sounds almost relieved. His hand flattens on your navel, fingers parted open over your belly button with your piercing in mind. His thumb sweeps your skin in slow, tender touches. An I love you in itself. 

Remus kisses just beneath your ear. “I know,” he says quietly. “We know,” he pulls a part, hands cupping your face. “I love you, too, dove.”

“Yeah?” you ask, the question comes spilling out before you can rein it back. “I mean, sorry it’s just…”

Sirius presses his lips to your shoulder before drawing back. His eyes hold a very specific softness as he scans your face, looking at you properly. Like he still can’t quite believe you said it first, disbelieving but not entirely surprised. 

When he finally speaks, his voice quietens. Softer, too, like his strokes on your skin. “Say it again.”

Remus cups your cheek before his hands coast down your face to the crook of your neck, finding Sirius’ hair and twirling it around his finger. “I love you,” you say again, a whispery confession that still feels new on your tongue. 

He exhales sharply, startled and moved as he tightens his hold around you. Cheek pressed against your back, feeling each of your intakes of air and the soothing thumping of your heart. “I love you, too. Very much,” a pause. “And good luck getting me to shut up any time soon.”

Your back shakes with your startled laugh. “Never expected any less, lovely,” you say, he squeezes your middle a bit tighter in response. “Will we get to see you again?”

“I’m quite content right here, thank you,” he murmurs into your shoulder blade. You share a knowing look with Remus, at the familiarity of the words. “I love you, too, Moons,” he adds, softer.

Remus huffs a laugh, cheeks turning a pinkish hue at this. “I never questioned it, love.”

“Still, I wanted to let you know.” Sirius shifts, pulling away to hook his chin on your shoulder. He sends Remus a feigned offended look. “Now say it back.”

“Greedy bastard.” Remus says instead, rolling his eyes and tone sticky with fondness before kissing him quickly, a bruising kiss to interrupt whatever quip Sirius was planning to retaliate with. “And yet I love you.”

“And yet you love me,” he agrees with an overly saccharine smile, just as sticky sweet as he nuzzles your neck. “Even with all the shit I put you through.”

“Oh, don’t start,” you roll your eyes at him, too. 

“I say we start,” he counters immediately, reaching blindly for your notebook again. “Let’s show our Moony what filthy songs you wrote about me during those first months.”

You cover your face. Remus wordlessly intercepts the notebook before your boyfriend can take it, pushing himself to stand when the intercom buzzes. He presses a kiss to your hairline on his way to the door, pocketing the notebook away from Sirius’ taunting.

Remus smirks. “We can revisit those after dinner.”

 

…

“Ooh, and what does this do?”

Moody looks up from his phone, eyes flickering from you to the monitor. “That’s the fader. Give it a go.”

You do, giddy despite yourself as you play around with his settings. Keys clatter as you try, then move around in his production software with different tools before turning back down to the guitar on your lap, giving a few strums to test. Moody hums in approval, unfazed by you as he wins yet another level of his silly mobile game.

You try the solo you’ve been working on for the song, feeling the corners of your lips tilting up and sideways into a little smirk at the amused sound Sirius makes from the lounge. Lily laughs at the way your cheeks warm, playing around with her camera before snapping a quick picture—she’s really taking her job seriously, capturing every minute of the recording session for the new single. She winks at you. 

Sirius smirks when you glance up. “Stop,” you threaten weakly, fixing the plaster around your forefinger. “Focus on your vocalizing.”

“Why would I?” he hums again, sounding less amused and very mischievous now. And another thing that you won’t even entertain if you don’t want to mess this solo. 

You shake your head, turning back to the monitor to toy around with Moody’s setup. A few clicks around and the solo plays through the speakers, a bit shaky but with the same sentiment. It won’t do, you must do another take.

“Uh, how do I…?” you point at the screen.

Moody’s eyes dart from your guitar to the monitor before pushing his chair closer, gesturing for the mouse. He explains slowly how to redo takes and delete what won’t work, using what you’ve played so far to save in your own personal folder. You bite back down a smile at this, at having your own folder in the studio’s monitor. 

“Alright,” Moody clears his throat, pushing his chair away again. “I’ve set the folder with a password for you—just type it in and hit enter.”

“Password?”

“Security measure, wouldn’t want anyone stealing your projects,” he shrugs, turning back down to his phone. “Bloody vultures the other producers. Let’s not risk it, eh?”

Other producers, you whisper to yourself, turning back down to your guitar. The corner of your lips remains permanently lifted up in a bashful little smile at this. Like clockwork, Sirius hums again from the lounge. Though this time it’s quickly intercepted by a distracted Remus as he places a hand on his mouth to stifle his salacious quip, not quite looking up from his phone, either. But you do see his lips quirking up much like yours.

Moody clicks something on the monitor before gesturing at your guitar, and you start again. Pointedly ignoring the way Sirius’ piercing eyes bore into your hands as you play. Remus, too, but he’s always been better at controlling his ogling. They all watch as you try and redo takes, asking them for input and fixing what’s not working—Moody continues playing with his mobile game, but steps in when you start wandering in different setups that won’t work with your song. He waves you off when you ask him for the fifth time if wasting studio hours won’t have consequences for the band and turns his chair away to focus on the next level. 

“Why is Reg taking so long? It was just lunch!” Sirius groans, draping himself over Remus in that characteristic theatrical way of his. You boyfriend only locks his phone, hand at his hip to steady him when Sirius almost comes falling off the sofa. “You think they got ambushed again?”

“I sure hope so.” Lily says, fiddling here and there with her camera. “That’s what they get for not bringing me my doughnuts.”

“In my defense,” you say, turning in your chair when the take is finished, clicking around the monitor. “I didn’t see your text until you were here.”

“I texted them twice!” 

“That’s what you get for dating the world’s biggest plonkers, Evans.” Sirius jokes where he’s leaned back and taking up most of Remus’ lap, draped over him almost catlike. You roll your eyes fondly, turning back to the monitor. 

Moody stands. “Speaking of lunch, I’ll go check mine,” he pockets his phone, pointing at you. “Remember to always save your progress.”

“Of course,” you nod, flashing him a smile before turning back to the monitor. His lips twitch as he walks out. “Thank you.”

He waves you off, the most you’ll get of him with his serious personality, but his eyes keep twitching until he’s half smiling down at his trainers on his way out. You turn back to your guitar, resting carefully on your lap as you click around the software.

There’s another knock at the door, timid at first before it’s being opened slowly. Sirius pauses his ogling to look up, Remus, too. Frank’s shoulders gravitate upwards when he notices the guitar in your hands.

“Oh, I’m sorry—am I interrupting?” he whispers.

“No, you’re okay,” you shake your head, swiveling in your chair to face him. “We’re not recording anything right now.”

“Great,” he nods. His cheeks are a tiny bit blushed as he steps inside, arm spread open to the door. “You’ve got a visitor.”

You barely have time to react before Alice is walking inside, wide eyed and properly awestruck as she scans the studio. The excited sound that escapes you is funny enough that it draws an amused chuckle from Remus. You set the guitar on its stand to walk up to her. 

“Hi,” you say, with barely contained excitement. Alice continues looking around the studio, lips parted before she’s launching herself to hug you. “Oh—”

“You daft girl! Do you know how worried I’ve been?” she grumbles weakly, arms tight around your shoulders. “And how many arses I’ve been berating back at the mailroom?”

“I’m sorry,” you laugh, hugging her tighter before stepping back. “I should’ve told you to come earlier.”

“Are you joking? I don’t mind waiting, I’m just glad you’re okay,” she nudges your arm. “How are you? Better now?”

You smile. “Much better, yeah,” you nod, biting back a blush when movement swishes behind you on the sofa. Your boyfriends or Sirius, more likely, trying to make himself noticed to be introduced. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“Oh, please.” Alice waves you off. “Don’t worry about it. I knew you’d quit sooner than later—I see you nearly everyday on my tube ride, did you know there’s a few posters in Piccadilly?”

This does make you blush a bit. “There are?”

“We’ll get to that later,” she says again, shifting from her heels to her toes in that giddy way you know it’s just containment for the real thing. Her eyes keep flickering behind you. 

“Oh, right—so sorry,” you brush your hair away, stepping to the side. Of course, Sirius is already up and sporting his charming rockstar smile. “Alice, meet Sirius, Remus,” you explain, trying to keep the smile contained before continuing. “and Lily.”

“Nice meeting you.” Lily smiles, warm and welcoming in true character. 

“You too.” Alice nods, her own grin barely contained as she turns to your boyfriends. It turns into a smirk when her eyes flicker knowingly at you. “Nice meeting you. I’ve heard lots about you.”

Sirius, of course, perks up at this. “Have you, now?”

You ignore him. “And this is Alice, she’s my friend.”

“Ex coworker, too,” she adds, laughing when you roll your eyes at her. 

“Oh,” Sirius nods, eyes flashing with an amused glint. You brace yourself. “In that case, nice meeting you, Alice. We’re the boyfriends—in case you haven’t read the news lately.”

“Oh my god,” you drop your face to your hands.  

“Hi, Alice. It’s nice to finally meet you,” says Remus, sending Sirius a sideways glance before smiling back at Alice, stretching her hand. “We’ve heard lots about you as well.”

Alice’s eyebrows shoot up in delighted surprise. “Have you now?” 

“Of course I’ve talked about you,” you say, feigning defensiveness at the way she eyes you amusedly. “You were the only one keeping me sane in that godforsaken place.”

“Babe, don’t even remind me,” she pretends to faint, slumping into you. Almost as a reflex, you catch her. Used to her theatrics even from your time at work. Your boyfriends’ smile at the exchange. “Whatever will I do now that you’re not there? Gossip with Mark…? Mark?! y/n, you’re killing me.”

“What?” you frown, leveling her with a mock indignant look. “At least he won’t be stealing your lunches.”

“Damn right he won’t,” she shakes her head with resolve. “And I’ll break his bloody fingers if he tries.”

“y/n? Stealing lunches?” Sirius gasps in a scandalous way. You send him a half pleading half fond look. “You hypocrite, I can’t believe you got back at James for stealing yours.”

Alice, of course, piles on. “Oh, I heard that, too. How dare you throw your poor bandmate under the bus on live radio when you used to do the same?”

“Um, no—you specifically said you brought more to share with me.”

“The gall!” she gasps. 

“What? Didn’t you ask me to thank you in my award winning speech? I’m practicing,” you say, failing to contain your smirk. “Don’t know about the ‘finding a rockstar boyfriend’ bit. But give me a couple of days.” 

Like clockwork, Alice’s eyes flicker very fleetingly to the door before turning back at you. “I hate you,” she grumbles, tips of her ears taking on a pinkish hue. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m just following a very thorough list of requests,” you shrug, smirking smugly when you turn to meet Remus’ gaze. He levels you with a look, already picking up on your schemes when he follows Alice’s gaze as well. “Who am I to deny my friend her dreams?”

“You better not,” she nudges you again. “Alright, then. Where’s the stuff?”

You perk up. “Right, I forgot,” you turn, eyes scanning the room before Lily is wordlessly reaching for your bag to hand it to you. “Oh, thanks.”  

While it wasn’t an outcome you really wanted to come to, in the end, you had to quit your job. Your first day back was as hectic as it had been if you stayed out with the journalists, questions and insinuations being thrown at you from every direction to a point you couldn’t work properly. Your boss had been strangely supportive, and even less surprising when he asked for a signed copy of The Sun. And that had been it—no more early morning commutes, bargaining with the coffee shop girl for a quicker coffee order, no more sharing lunches and gossip in passing between hallways. No more of Alice’s theatrics every morning. It was oddly bittersweet, still is. In a way.

“Okay,” you turn back to Alice, who’s already talking with your boyfriends. Sirius’ arm is draped around a blushing Frank’s shoulders—definitely pulling him into the conversation. “These are the keys to my locker. My list of areas and floors, they’re colour coded depending on the priority. Red is the top tier, purple the least important.”

Alice blinks slowly, taking the folder and the keys. “That’s…” she glances down. “No wonder you were always sprinting around.”

You laugh. “You’ll get the hang of it pretty quickly.”

Sirius drops his arm to turn to you, lips twitching into that smirk that you know leads to nothing good. “Sprinting around?”

“Figure of speech,” you say.

“Um, no?” Alice laughs, eyes glistening with mischief when you look at her. “She quite literally flew around the building. It used to cause me headaches.”

“And vertigo,” you add. Fine, if she wants to taunt you, you can taunt back. “Remember that time—”

“Alright!” she says loudly, pressing the stuff to her chest. You bite back a laugh when her eyes flicker quickly towards Frank before turning back to you. “We get it. God.”

“Right,” you nod. “Do you fancy a coffee? There’s a posh espresso machine in the break room.”

She perks up. “Really?”

“Hm. Didn’t you walk by on your way in?” you tilt your head to the side, eyeing her with faux innocence before turning to Frank. “Frank, why wouldn’t you show her the best part of this building?”

Frank scratches his jaw, less blushed but still perpetually shy. “I didn’t know if she liked coffee.”

“I do, yeah.” Alice nods. 

You hum, lips curling up when a hand touches your lower back, squeezing placatingly in a way you know Remus has already picked up on your plan. 

“I actually want one, too,” Lily stands, busy between participating and continuing typing into her phone. Texting her boyfriends, no doubt. She locks it to look up at them, sending you a knowing look. “These boys have definitely been ambushed and can’t even get close to the coffee shop.”

You sigh, mildly disappointed but not at all surprised by this news. 

You’d think the attention would loosen or drift back after the news about Peter’s legal battle with the Black family—but it was the complete opposite. More questions were thrown around and raised upon the news, berating Peter and digging for more information about his betrayal to Sirius and the band. It feels very karmic and a little jarring, but it doesn’t hurt that public sentiment about the band has shifted because of this. You win some and you lose some, as Kingsley said.

Lily shepherds them out the studio with a little warm smile, almost conspiratorial when she glances back at you over her shoulder. The door clicks behind them, but you manage to hear the mumbling answers from Frank in response to Alice’s extroverted questions. You slump down into your chair, feeling oddly melancholic and a little pleased with yourself.

Sirius turns to you, eyes narrowed as he walks up to you. “You,” it’s all he says, draping himself in your lap. “are driving me mad.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“What have I done now?”

His eyes flicker to the guitar, then back at you. He cups your face, feeling the warmth rushing to your cheeks as he brings it closer for a quick kiss. It’s adorable really, how you still manage to turn to mush in his hands when he ambushes you like this. 

“Nothing,” he says, lips curled into a smirk when you break apart. He delights in your dazed expression, finger brushing your hair away from your face. “That’s why.”

You blink, trying to gather your wits. “What?”

“Pads, be nice.” Remus chides, sitting back down on the sofa. But he’s fully smirking now, delighting in your reaction as well. 

“I am being nice,” Sirius says. The audacity. His finger brushes another strand of hair away, swift hands cupping your face once again to kiss you. His lips curl against yours. “You on the other hand…”

“Sirius,” you scrape out, a weak warning. He chuckles when he tries to stand and you hold him back.

“Oh? Now you want in?”

“You’re the one currently sitting in my lap, you tell me,” you level him with a look. It’d work if you weren’t a tiny bit dazed still, stupidly delighted with the way his smile blooms. “Weak.”

“If I’m weak, what are you?” he pinches your cheek lovingly. “Look at this—and Moons hasn’t even entered the game.”

“Would you want me to?” Remus asks easily from the lounge, a bit distractedly as he shuffles a few pages on the coffee table. His lips twitch. “Just let me get these ready.”

You feign indignation, turning to Sirius. “See what you’ve done?”

“I haven’t done a thing,” he shrugs, drawing you closer for another kiss. Then he stands, smirking as he walks back to the lounge. “She’s all yours, Moons.”

There’s more sound of paper shuffling before Remus stands. Your stomach churns pleasantly when he looks up. But the door opens again, letting in a cacophony of sounds and whining as James, Regulus and Lily walk in. You turn to Remus, raising your hands in feigned innocence, almost mocking. Your boyfriend only huffs a laugh, shaking his head with exasperated fondness. 

“Who’s the girl flustering our poor Frank?” James asks, no shame at all. He looks a tiny bit rumpled, either from the wind or the journalists outside you don’t ask. “She’s talking his ear off.”

“I think it’s cute.” Lily adds, winking at you when you meet eyes. 

“That’s Alice,” you explain to James, pressing your fingertips to your cheeks, checking the temperature and making sure they’ve cooled down. Remus smiles at the knowing nudge he receives from Sirius, once again draped over his lap. “She’s my friend, came to pick up some things from work.”

“Ah. The Alice, isn’t it?” he nods, slumping down on the loveseat, dragging Lily down with him. Regulus bypasses them with a fond eyeroll to set camp in the armchair, nimble fingers already typing into his phone. Never resting, this boy. “So nice to finally put a face to the name. Is it safe to assume we will be seeing more of her soon?”

You hum, forcing your gaze away from your boyfriends to turn to James. “Maybe,” you swivel your chair back to the monitor, failing to bite back your endeared smile. “Hopefully.”

Remus huffs a laugh at this, shaking his head when Sirius sends him a questioning look. Never one to be left out of the loop, but then you’re hushing him to do another take. Setting the guitar back on your lap like a magnetic pull. You try with a few notes to find your pace before turning to the monitor again, checking everything’s ready for the take—exactly like Moody taught you. Sirius parts his lips to speak, probably another flustering quip before Remus is hushing him, too. 

It takes a few tries. Moody comes and goes, Alice returns to say goodbye with flushed cheeks and a shy smile, promising she’ll see you later at the pub. Sirius pretends to focus on vocalizing and trying to find the rhythm for the song with Remus’ help. But you won’t be deterred. You still have a week before the label’s deadline, anyway.

“Alright, why don’t we give it one try?” you turn in your chair, eyes immediately finding Sirius with a shy smile. His own is borderline endeared as he stands. “Just to see how it sounds with the mix we’ve got so far. We can come back tomorrow to start vocals.”

“Of course, m’love,” he says breezily, blowing you a kiss on his way into the booth. You look down at your keyboard, biting back an equally endeared smile. “I think I’ve got an idea but you tell me.”

You brush your hair away, trying to focus on the monitor instead. Moody makes a sound that is starting to sound like placations to keep Sirius from flustering you too much—of course, your boyfriend pointedly ignores him. Still as affected by your new creative role as you are of his flustering. 

Remus chuckles when you press your fingertips to your cheeks again. He makes a mental note to up his game for later. 

It’s safe to say you arrive at the pub a flushed mess and a little late—just barely missing the time for your private gig. 

…

Sirius is in the middle of his sixth retelling of how you joined the band when you step out. He winks at you, already anticipating your fond eyeroll as you sit on the chair Remus pulls out for you. A well practiced routine—he doesn’t stop talking, either. Ring clad hands flailing around demonstrating how, apparently, you made him eat his words. You love him too much to correct him on how it actually happened. And a little distracted, too.

Remus wordlessly hands you his pack, wiggling a cig for you without you so much asking for one. “Oh, thanks, love,” you blink, looking away from the pub’s window to take it. He smiles, tender and soft as he lights it up with his. Amber eyes warmed by the fire as he leans closer to you. They get a little mischievous as you both lean away, blowing smoke. “What?” you can’t help it, you smile. 

His eyes flicker to the window, inside the pub where you had been chatting with Alice and Frank. “Come here,” he says instead, speaking around the cig as he brings your legs closer—big fingers sprawled over your knees as he sets them over his leg, dangling casually. You smile, giddy despite yourself even after all these months together.  

“How long has he been at it?” you ask instead.

“A while.” Remus says, flicking ash onto the ashtray before turning back to you. He settles closer, leveling you with a look. “I know what you’re doing, dove.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

He juts his chin towards the window again, Alice is now sitting closer to Frank. When Remus turns back to look at you, it’s too quick you barely have time to school your expression. Looking far too pleased with yourself.

“Oh,” you look away, taking a short drag before flicking the ash as well. “They look lovely together, don’t they?”

Remus huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes in that fond way before blowing the smoke out of the corner of his lips. Away from you before setting the cig away to take your face. Your lips curl against his, teeth almost clinking together instead of a kiss. 

He hums, pulling back and having no qualms to hide his pleased smirk at your dazed face. “They do. Don’t think I’ve ever heard Frank talk that much, either.”

You blink, recovering quickly. “Oh, don’t even get me started. Alice could make a statue talk,” you say, hand flailing and ash flying with your movement. Remus nods, settling your legs over his more comfortably. A ploy to get you closer that you pick up on when your chair scrapes. “She used to get talking bans all the time.”

“Did she now?”

“Hm,” you blow the smoke away from him. “Quite the firecracker, that one.”

“I like her. She’s nice.”

“Yeah,” you smile, eyes flickering back inside the pub. “I’m going to miss her.”

“Well, it seems we’ll be seeing more of her,” Remus says, following your gaze back inside. Frank is finally talking back, or answering a question. Either way, he looks a tiny bit more relaxed as Alice nods along. “By the looks of it.”

“And then she took my guitar and did Purple Rain!” Sirius’ voice carries out, loud enough to cut through your subtle staring into the pub. He gestures at you. “Fucking purple rain! Didn’t you, gorgeous?”

Your shoulders gravitate a bit to your ears, noticing all the eyes on you before recovering quickly. “And you still couldn’t keep up,” you joke, lips curling around the cigarette at your boyfriend’s theatrical gasp. “He threw a tantrum and all. For weeks!” 

“That’s true.” Regulus adds, sending you a conspiratorial look before sipping at his pint. “He was insufferable.”

“Imagine living with him around that time,” James says, pushing his lower lip out in a dramatic pout. 

Remus points at him, nodding in agreement. You nudge his side placatingly. He reiterates with a playful squeeze to your knee, thumb stroking the fabric of your jeans. 

“I was stunned.”

“Try threatened, love.” Remus smirks, tilting his head to the side when Sirius narrows his eyes at him. You laugh, trying to hide it with a quick drag. “y/n agrees, don’t you, dovey?”

You wave the smoke away. “Oh, don’t. You already know my thoughts about it.”

Sirius perks up, pretty eyes flashing with mischief. “Oh, you mean…” you flare your eyes in warning and he cuts himself off with his own laughter. “Relax, baby. My mouth is closed.”

“She wrote an incredible hate song about him.” James still says, and you throw your head back in a dramatic groan. Not the whole truth, but you’ll take it. 

“No way.” Marlene says, perking up as well. She turns to you, putting her cig out. “Did you?”

“It was more like a you annoy me to no end type of song.” you correct quickly. 

“Don’t worry, Marls—she fixed it.” Sirius adds, already walking up to you. The smug bastard has the gall to smirk at you. A knowing look passes between you, and your hand unconsciously flies to the side of your neck. “Didn’t you?”

You drop your hand, letting him take the cigarette from you for a few drags. “Why are you throwing me under the bus?” you frown in feigned upset. “Conceited prick.”

Your group of friends fall into quips and questions when they register your words, knowing what it means. Sirius shakes his head, rolling his eyes fondly as questions are being thrown at him. 

“Oh, don’t ask me,” he raises his hands in surrender. “Ask Remus.” 

Mary laughs. “Of course Remus wrote that song,” she shakes her head, smiling into the rim of her pint. “Answer us this, Remus—what the fuck does Epicurean mean?”

You laugh at this, sound overlapping with Sirius’ in a shared joke. Remus squeezes your knee again, but his lips are twitching in that perpetual smirk. 

“It’s Greek.” Sirius explains, handing the cigarette back before taking one for himself. “Something about the greatest pleasures in life or something like that, isn’t it, Moons?”

“Just the gist of it.”

“Well, be glad your fans dig the self-aware pretentiousness.” Marlene says, always sounding a little judgmental in her creative director kind of way. But her lips twitch as she lights her own cigarette. “They’re already begging for a studio version.”

“We’re on it,” you say distractedly. “Still testing a few arrangements before settling for a final version.”

“The version you performed today was very good,” Mary says immediately.

Regulus hums in agreement. “Well, whatever version you settle on. It’ll definitely be well received from fans after the live lounge cover,” he shifts on the bench they’re sitting, leaning closer to James and bringing Lily’s legs closer on his lap. 

Marlene makes a sound. “Oh, that cover! My god,” she raises her hands in victory. “I’ve never enjoyed a downfall this much before.”

“Marls.” Mary warns her quietly.

“What? It’s true.” She frowns, looking around at you before turning to her. “That scumbag deserves what he’s getting and more.”

Sirius takes a long drag, shuffling to stand behind you. His arm hangs loosely over your front, wiggling his fingers in a silent question before holding his hand. You weave your fingers together, and your boyfriend only squeezes in reassurance. The plaster tickles the back of his hand as your thumb sweeps back and forth. Listening to your friends’ comments on what has been of Peter, the absolute backlash that he has been receiving since Regulus pulled his strings to get the Black Family on the case—rushing the process for his vicious vengeance. 

While it has helped with the public perception of the band, it’s no lie that Sirius still harbors complicated feelings about the whole ordeal—even more now that his family is fully aware and working to make sure Peter is handled. Even if their reasons have nothing to do with helping other than themselves. 

You feel his cheek on the crown of your head, a grounding pressure for both you and him. You bring your joined hands to your chest, careful as you take one last drag of your cigarette before putting it out. 

Regulus finds your gaze across the table, noticing the way Sirius’ mood dims before nodding at you. Your thumb’s sweeps slow down as he stands, ushering his partners and your friends inside under the pretense of spending time with the public and fans gathered in the pub. You send him a grateful smile on their way inside. 

You watch the bell chime and the door close behind them before giving your joined hands a gentle tug. Sirius moves around you and Remus wordlessly sets a hand back on your legs, pulling them with him as he slides to make room for your boyfriend. 

“You okay, love?” he asks quietly when Sirius doesn’t sit, only leans at the edge of the table in front of you. Eyeing the cherry of his cig with a frown. 

“Yeah,” he says after a beat, looking around. The pub, the streets, and the warm lampposts. “Yeah, it’s just… I hate that we still talk about him, that he’s still being brought up.  And I know Marls didn’t mean it but—fuck.”

Remus and you share a look, and you wait until he’s blowing the smoke out to take his hands. Sirius lets you, but he still shoots another glance around. Behind his shoulder specifically. 

“I know, love,” you murmur, thumb sweeping at the back of his hand. Back and forth and in circles that pushes a long sigh out of him. “We don’t have to talk about him tonight.”

“Or ever again.” Remus says after a beat, voice quiet but with endless patience. His eyes rove over Sirius’ face, studying him with that quiet warmth. “If you don’t want to.”

Sirius exhales shakily through his nose, bringing the cigarette back to his lips for a quick drag as he nods. He twists to put it out on the ashtray, and you give your hands a tug towards your chest to pull him closer for a kiss. However, he doesn’t follow. 

“There’s a bloke taking pictures across the street,” he explains when you frown, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. Your lips part in surprise, and when Remus looks around, the softness of both your features changes when you seem to spot him at the same time. “Let’s go back inside.”

“Okay, yeah,” you nod, trying not to cringe when Remus’ arm comes around your waist to stand and help you stand as well. But Sirius conveniently stands in front of you, blocking any possible opportunity for whoever’s across the street to get a glimpse. 

You pile into the pub quickly, but you don’t miss the way Remus shoots a look behind his shoulder. Already categorizing the bloke and making a mental note of handling it later. As he tends to do as of lately.

A few of the patrons and fans try to stop you on your way deep into the pub, asking questions about the new song or trying their chances to get a photograph. You all try to give them as much attention as you can, but it’s clear your attention is elsewhere. 

With a few quick looks, you come to a silent agreement that it’s time to head home. Remus nods at you, but his hand continues flat on the back of Sirius’ back in that subtle way he tends to do as of lately, too. They stall with a few fans that have stopped them to ask about the unreleased songs, and you weave through the crowd in search for Pandora or Regulus to let them know you’re spending the night out. 

“Oh, um. Hello?” a girl says, trying to catch up with you. But it’s too loud and the voices are so overlapping you barely manage to hear her. It isn’t until you reach a dead end with the crowd that you notice her presence. “Hi?”

“Oh,” you blink, quickly schooling your expression into a welcoming smile. “Hi. Sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry,” she smiles, glancing around. Clearly nervous. “Um… this is going to sound a bit weird, but—do you, um, do you remember me?”

You frown faintly, staring without trying to make her uncomfortable to try and remember her. The girl smiles, clearly unsurprised before brandishing something from the pocket of her trousers—her car keys. Then, hanging with the rest of the keychains, a guitar pick. 

“You gave this to me at the end of your first gig,” she explains, albeit a little bashful. “At that festival?”

“Oh god,” you blink, then again as the memory comes crashing on you. Of course—the girl who clapped and cheered all night long with her friends, whose support was a reassuring presence for you the entirety of the performance. Your first gig as the new member of the band. “Oh my god, yes. Yes!”

“Yeah?”

“Of course!” you smile, it’s hard not to when the memory itself is something you still cherish to this day. You spread your arms a bit, a silent question in case she doesn’t want to be hugged, but she jumps straight into your arms in the same beat you start hesitating. “Oh.”

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” she says as she steps back. “It’s just… I wasn’t much of a Marauders fan back then but since you joined...”

“Really?” you ask, feeling weirdly emotional. “Um, thank you so much. I…” you look around. 

She probably reads this wrong, because she’s clearing her throat quickly. “Oh, sorry you probably have somewhere else to be—”

“No, no!” you spread your hands in front of you, stopping her from walking away. “Just making sure no one sees before,” you pause, reaching inside the pocket of your jeans with a conspiratorial look. “before giving you this.”

The girl gasps as you set your pick in her palm, one of the ones you used today at the studio that you forgot to save in your bag. She studies it quietly, thumb sweeping it in awe.

“For your collection.”

“Thank you,” she breathes out.

You shake your head, smiling. “No. Thank you.”

“Alright, dovey. Ready to go?”

You turn your head, nodding at your boyfriend before turning back to the girl. Who’s, of course, gaping when she registers both Sirius and Remus are standing in front of her.

“We hope to see you soon?” you ask her, a shared moment for only you two. 

“Of course,” she nods quickly, already fiddling with the pick. “You did really great today,” she tells the boys.

“Why, thank you, love.” Sirius’ smiles, and you feel the coldness of his rings at the sliver of skin on your back. 

You share a few more pleasanteries and then watch her weasel through the crowd to get back to her friends—they awe and cheer about the pick in her hands. 

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile, accepting your bag from Sirius. “I was just looking for Pandora or Reg—”

“Oh, I wouldn’t if I were you,” Sirius says, hand lowering to hook a finger around your belt loops. One single tug and you’re already following them out the door. 

“Why?”

They share a conspiratorial look, and you try to get a look around the pub in search of your flatmates. All you find, instead, is Barty throwing a tantrum behind the bar in front of three equally flushed Reg, Lily and James. 

“What’s that all about?” 

“Well…” Remus starts to say, sending Sirius a chiding look when he tries to tattle first. “Let’s just say Junior is gonna have to start locking the storage room.”

You laugh, and Remus’ lips twitch as he opens the backdoor for you and Sirius. Swiftly out with an Irish goodbye.  

…

“Shit.”

“What is it?”

“I think I lost the key.”

“No, no. I’ve got it,” you say, patting along your dress for the hidden pocket. “Fuck, let me just—”

Remus tsks, fixing his hold around your waist. “Give it here,” he stretches a hand out, and you wordlessly set the award in his palm to search for the hotel key. 

“Fuck, I really—really need a bath.” Sirius groans, half slumped on the door. His eyeliner is slightly smudged, from the night and the performance and all the emotions in between. “And food, is room service still running?”

“We can arrange that,” Remus hums, balancing the award and now your heels as you start unlocking the door. He levels Sirius with a look when he wiggles his eyebrows. “The room service bit.”

“I actually need a bath, too,” you murmur, stepping into the cool and quiet hotel room. Cleaned and without a trace of the day’s rush, thankfully. “I don’t know about food, though.”

Remus sets the award on the table, then his rings and necklaces with the same quickness you let Sirius nearly come crashing into you—arms tight around your middle as he guides you to the bed for the world’s most tired, sleepy and somewhat glamorous cuddle. He laughs at your sparkly slumped out forms on the bed.

You meet his gaze, just as half-lidded as yours as you spread your arms open. “Come here, handsome,” you mumble, barely coherent. And hell, who even is he to deny either of you anything?

He settles atop of you carefully, smiling into your chest as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, feeling the planes of his back and the soft material of his dress shirt. His breath tickles you when he exhales deeply, fully content and lax between you and Sirius. 

“Is it me or is the room spinning?” Sirius grumbles.

“I think that’s just you, lovely,” you whisper back, lips brushing Remus’ temple. 

“Or the extra drinks you asked that waiter for,” Remus adds in that whispery tone as well. You feel his lips curling on the column of your throat when Sirius makes a disgruntled sound. “I still can’t believe you said that on live television.”

“I think it was attractive.”

Sirius’ hand pats around you until he finds your leg, squeezing lovingly. “Thank you, m’love. I knew you’d think so,” he sends Remus a faux indignant look.

“It was attractive, yes,” he amends, kissing your neck. “Not sure what the press will think about it tomorrow, though.”

“That I’m attractive and very funny?”

“Sure thing, love,” Remus nods, only agreeing because it’s the fastest route to get all of you up and moving to start getting unready. “Come on. You’re not getting into bed like that.”

“Five more minutes?” you ask, voice barely a whisper with the weight of your exhaustion. 

“Five more minutes,” your boyfriends reply. Though while Sirius sounds positively relieved at the prospect of five more minutes of cuddles, Remus sounds amusedly resigned.  

Sirius nudges your face gently with his chin, and you let him kiss you. Little brushes of lips at first before he’s pushing himself on his elbows, chasing your lips as you drop your head back on the mattress. On top of you, Remus sets a hand on your thigh where the slit of your dress is starting to ride up. Thumb stroking idle patterns on your skin. Their touches are reverent and gentle and heavy with exhaustion, but never any less loving. 

Later, Remus will try to rein himself in and shepherd you all to shower—and fail miserably. His hand coasts up your body until it rests on your navel, the piercing glistens with the warm lights, now matching with Sirius. A few minutes of snogging will turn into more, and you’ll all pretend it was a spur of a moment—somewhere in between, you’ll finally shower. You will order room service for Sirius and blissfully maintain the lie that he’s going to eat it all. Then you will get into bed and gossip about the night, who talked to who and who shared cheeky jokes between drinks. Which artist promised to catch up with you and which actress said they just saw you on your festival tour. 

You sigh blissfully at the idea, tightening your arms around Remus’ shoulders to pull him closer. He kisses your jaw, completely surrendering himself that neither you nor Sirius actually meant five minutes.

“I love you,” you whisper, breath stuttering. They both up their tender touches as an answer. 

How could you ever think love was not meant for you?

[transpotato5]

sometimes i forget that i need to talk to my friends in order to talk to my friends

[residentsuperhero]

no fool for discretion

synopsis: Sometimes, dating Adrian Chase means sneaking through basement windows because he really wants you to see his secret basement and really doesn't want you to meet his mom.

gif by @/chaseadrian

pairing: adrian chase x reader tags: 18+!, smut, established relationship, (protected) sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, humor, fluff, quiet sex, hand gagging, mild sensory deprivation, not fully sub or fully dom adrian but a secret third thing, overstimulation, biting word count: 5.8k notes: brought to you by this request! title from the song "big dumb sex" by soundgarden which I firmly believe Adrian would like because it reminds him of all the glam metal songs about sex that Peacemaker likes but it has none of the subtext.

“Honestly, I’m kind of looking forward to meeting your mom!”

Adrian slammed on the brakes so hard you had to brace your hand against the dashboard, your seatbelt cutting tight across your skin. His eyes were wide, a grimace of pure panic on his lips.

“You can’t meet my mom!”

You blinked back at him. “Sorry?”

“There’s no fucking way you’re meeting my mom,” he said again, his tone firmer this time, but not any more elucidating than the last outburst. 

“I don’t understand. Aren’t we going to your house?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“A house you live in with your mother?”

“Also yes.”

“Is she home?”

“Probably!”

“But I can’t meet her?”

“Fuck no!”

You stared back at your boyfriend who looked like he might throw up at any second. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. A blaring horn behind you made you nearly jump out of your skin, and when you looked in the rearview there was a line of cars held up behind you. Right. Because Adrian had stopped in the middle of a busy road. Adrian, however, suddenly no longer seemed to be in a rush to get home.

You put your hand on his forearm. “Ade, you gotta drive.”

“Okay,” he managed, voice a ragged whisper. He pried his foot off the gas and then proceeded to drive a blazing 25mph the entire rest of the way. You waited until the Seabring was parked on a cute, tree-lined neighborhood street to speak again.

“I’m not going to lie, I’m a little offended you don’t want me to meet your mom,” you said finally. Adrian laughed, doubling over so sharply you were afraid he was going to smack his face on the steering wheel.

“She’s the one who should be offended. She’s a total fucking bitch and I don’t want you to meet her because I don’t want her to, like, get her stupidness all over you.”

“Babe…” you breathed. “Respectfully, what the fuck?”

Adrian raked his hands over his face. “You don’t get it.”

“Okay. You’re right. I don’t think I get it,” you agreed. You laid a hand on his arm. “But, clearly it’s stressing you out. So, decision made, easy peasy!”

Adrian peeked at you from behind his hands. “Yeah?”

“Yeah! Although…” you hesitated to ask because you could only imagine you weren’t going to like the answer. “How are we going to get in without your mom finding out?”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you grumbled, wiggling in his grasp. “Your hand is so far up my ass I’m starting to feel like a puppet.”

“Just let go of the window sill!” Adrian hissed. “I’ve got you, I’m not going to let you fall.”

You groaned and finally relented, knowing for a fact that Adrian did not have you. But the boy was going to have to learn his lesson the hard way, you supposed. The two of you fell into a tangled heap, your elbow landing squarely in his ribs, his knee striking against your hip in a surge of pain, your forehead colliding with his chin.

“Ow fuck – ow, ow, fucking hell, Adrian,” you grumbled, trying to gain any sort of leverage, but your hands were sinking into some sort of fabric over and over again on either side of Adrian while he tried to get his hands in between you, making sure you weren’t injured.

“Sorry! Sorry, are you okay? Are you alright? Speak so I know you’re not concussed!” Adrian said, scrambling. You rolled your eyes and batted his hand away.

“I’m fine,” you grumbled. “That is not how you check for a concussion, by the way.”

“What…what is this?” you asked. Whatever it was groaned under your weight as you struggled to your knees. “Is this a futon? Why do you have a futon in your basement?”

You climbed off of him with a bit of difficulty before you turned your attention towards the rest of the basement. “What the f – ”

Adrian clapped a hand over your mouth from behind. He was blazingly warm against your back, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist like he was afraid you were going to run. You swayed slightly in his arms as you regained steady footing, your balance entirely thrown off by his sudden seizure of you. You nipped at his palm gently and he let you go. You turned to find his wide eyes focused on his slightly wet palm.

“Care to explain the drugs, Adrian?” you asked, this time managing to keep a lid on your volume.

He simply shrugged. “What do you mean? Where else would I put it?”

“Where did this all come from?” you asked, turning to look at it all again – pallets of drugs (was that fucking cocaine?) and what had to be millions of dollars, carefully banded and stacked in various places. You reached out to run your hand across the money but Adrian batted your hand away.

“That’s blood money, don’t touch it!”

“Where did all this come from, Adrian?”

“What, you think I’d just leave drugs and cash at crime scenes where anyone could take it? Like corrupt fucking police? Absolutely not,” he asserted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t believe you think I should let the cops have all this.”

“I never said that, Adrian!” you exclaimed. “First and foremost, fuck the police – ”

“Fuck the police,” Adrian agreed with a thoughtful nod. 

“Secondly! I just can’t believe you never told me about this! I thought that we tell each other everything? I mean, you told me you were Vigilante on our first date.”

“Second date.”

“Adrian, we’ve been over this, having sex after a first date does not count as a second date.”

“Agree to disagree.” He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “And it’s not my fault your pussy is like my personal truth serum.”

“Adrian…”

His face contorted. “What, is that a weird thing to say?”

“It’s not really a normal thing…” 

“Whatever,” he pouted. “You don’t get it.”

“Come on, Ade, you were so excited to show me your basement. So give me the grand tour.”

“Fine,” he huffed. He crossed to a workbench and gestured at it vaguely. “These are my power tools. Over there is my wall of chemicals. Tour concluded.”

“Adrian,” you groaned.

“What?” he snipped. “You wanted the tour – there it is!”

“I cannot believe you made me shimmy through a window for that.”

“Yeah, well, sorry it’s disappointing.” It was said in a way in which you knew he was not sorry at all. He was being petulant. 

“It’s not disappointing, it's just…a lot for me to take in. I’m very interested in it!”

“Uh huh,” Adrian mumbled, mindlessly thumbing through what appeared to be a box full of pocket knives?

Well, you could be petulant too.

“Fine!” you proclaimed, hands on your hips. Adrian rolled his eyes and you bit back a grin before climbing up onto the futon. 

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going back out the window,” you explained with a nonchalant glance over your shoulder at him. He was looking up at you with those big eyes of his and you almost caved instantly. It would be so easy to climb down, wrap your arms around him, kiss the grumpiness right off of his handsome face. But you liked teasing him so much more. 

So you stretched up, desperately trying to hook your fingers into the windowsill that was just out of reach.

“You’re not going to be able to reach that,” Adrian said matter-of-factly.

“Watch me,” you countered, wedging your tongue between your teeth as you tried to will yourself taller out of pure spite. 

“Do you think you’re magically going to get taller or…?” Adrian asked like he could read your goddamn mind.

“Be quiet, Adrian, I’m concentrating,” you snipped back. You rolled up onto your tiptoes but the physics of standing on a soft surface made that change negligible. You dropped your arms down with a huff and jumped off the futon.

“Okay, I’m using the door!” 

“What?” Adrian gasped, lunging for you as you feinted towards the basement door. You laughed in delight as he grabbed you by the waist and yanked you backwards onto the futon, pinning you beneath him.

“Oh no! You caught me!” you wheezed out, all the air knocked out of your lungs.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Were you really going to go out the door?”

“Well, well, look at the situation we find ourselves in,” you commented drily, ignoring the question, batting your eyelashes at Adrian. 

“If you don’t answer my questions just know I know a lot of really effective torture techniques,” Adrian said lowly, a familiar hunger already creeping into his expression. You ran your fingers through his curls, dragging your nails against his scalp. “Are you trying to distract me?” 

“Me? Never,” you murmured. He shivered against you and you gave his hair a testing pull. His mouth dropped open slightly and you took the opportunity to sweep your tongue across his lower lip. He whimpered into your mouth as his hips rolled against yours instinctively. 

“Someone’s eager,” you assessed, grasping at his shirt and trying to untuck it from his jeans. “What did it, the puppet thing? Threatening to torture me? Tackling me onto your weird sex futon?”

“It is not a weird sex futon! Just a regular futon!” Adrian laughed against your neck and then winced. “Stop making me laugh, I can feel it in my dick.”

You hooked a leg over his hip. “Then maybe you ought to do something with that dick of yours.”

“I really want to have sex with you right now,” Adrian began.

“Why do I feel like there’s a but coming – ”

“Butts can’t come,” Adrian snickered. Then he shook his head like a hapless puppy, his curls tossing about. God he was such a dork sometimes. But he was your dork. “Though, I do sometimes feel like I could come just by looking at yours.”

You narrowed your gaze at him despite how adorably stupid he was being. “Just say it, Adrian. Why can’t we have sex right now?”

“The thing is…you’re kind of loud?” Adrian said with a wince. Then his eyebrows lifted. “And I love that about you. I love how loud you are. I love thinking about how if we lived in Metropolis Superman for sure would have heard us having sex and he’d be so fucking jealous. Thinking about it right now actually is making me, uh, a little hard – ”

“Adrian!”

“I’m just being honest!” he huffed. You decided not to comment on exactly who was the loud one in the relationship because you knew he would take it as a challenge and you liked hearing all the little pathetic sounds he’d make. He pushed his glasses up his nose only for them to slide right back down again as he looked down at you. “My mom cannot hear us.”

You nodded slightly. “I understand that that might be embarrassing for you. We don’t have to.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be embarrassed!” he said, eyes wide. “I just don’t want her to know you’re here. Because if she hears us then she’ll ask who you are, and then she’ll want to know how we met and if we want snacks and if you’re staying for dinner and it’s a whole fucking thing.”

“Ade, that sounds very normal.” You propped yourself up slightly on your elbows. You hooked a finger into the collar of his rugby shirt. “What if I promise to be quieter than a church mouse?”

“What does that mean? I don’t really have a reference point for how quiet that is?” he replied, his tone tinged with the beginnings of a classic Adrian spiral. “On a scale of like 1 to 10 where 1 is – ”

You interrupted him with a kiss, your tongue wasting no time dipping into his already open mouth. He came alive, wriggling against you, hands grabbing hold of your biceps, grip tight, muscles taut and somewhere between pushing you away and pulling you even closer.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured against your lips. 

“It’s just an expression, love,” you replied, leaning up to kiss the tip of his nose. Then you narrowed your gaze slightly, squinting to study the color of his eyes up so close. In the dark basement his pupils threatened to swallow the dark green whole. Well, the darkness and your hand that had slipped below the waist of his jeans probably had something to do with it too. 

“How about if I get too loud then you just put your hand here,” you instructed, bringing his hand over your mouth and pressing it firmly. 

“Okay,” Adrian said, practically drooling. “I think I can do that.”

“Well then, problem solved!”

You were working to shimmy his jeans down slightly when he grabbed you by the wrist. 

“I wanna go down on you,” he breathed.

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Okay. We can do both things…unless you’re in a rush for some reason?”

“It’s just that if you keep touching my dick like that I’m going to come in my pants, and I really want to put it in you,” he said, practically a whisper. There was absolutely zero reason for that sentence to be as hot as it was.

“Why is it that you seem like you’re begging every single time even though we’ve had sex a lot, Adrian,” you teased gently, brushing a stray curl out of his face. 

“What if you change your mind, hm?” Adrian asked, dipping his head so you could scratch your fingers across his scalp. “What if one day you wake up and you’re like, oh gosh, I never want to have sex with that weirdo ever again?”

“First of all, being a weirdo is strangely part of your charm,” you replied, pausing to kiss his forehead. “Second of all, I do think you’ve ruined me for life. You dick game is incomprehensibly good and you’ve literally made me go temporarily blind with your head between my legs. I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you.”

“Not even Peacemaker? Because I really couldn’t blame you if you did want to have sex with him. Trust me, I get it, he’s kind of a perfect human man,” Adrian insisted like he was rationalizing in an argument he was having with only himself. His lips pursed. “Although he is kind of all hard edges so having sex with him is kinda sharp which you might not like.”

You were already reaching between the two of you to undo your button-down shirt. 

“Not even Peacemaker,” you affirmed. Adrian seemed to wrestle against his own grin, both pleased as punch that you didn’t want to have sex with anyone but him, and also a bit insulted that you didn’t want to have sex with his favorite person in the world. 

Tugging your shirt open, you guided his hands up to the front clasp of your bra and used his fingers to flick it open. Whatever logic war was raging in his brain was struck silent by the sight of your breasts. Maybe it was an unfair hand to play, but you wanted your boyfriend to stop thinking about his best friend and start thinking a little more about fucking you senseless. 

He wasted no time taking each of your nipples into his mouth in turn, because, as always, he insisted it was only fair for them both to get the same amount of attention. Though you’d never asked, you were fairly certain Adrian had been the type of kid to make sure each toy got the same amount of playtime so that no one toy felt left out.

He swapped his mouth for his hand on your chest and kissed his way down the rest of your body. He deftly yanked your pants and underwear down, kissing the inside of your knees as he peeled them the rest of the way off your body. In his eagerness to get down between your legs he scooted down the futon, his boot kicked one of the metal shelves behind him. The whole unit swayed slightly, the metal ringing out in a resonant sound. 

“Adrian?” A woman’s voice called from upstairs. You froze, but Adrian wasn’t deterred. “Are you down there, sweetie?”

Adrian’s mouth was decidedly preoccupied between your legs so he didn’t answer – it was a good thing, because it probably would have involved some absolutely blatant response about the fact that he was, in fact, down there. You pushed at his head but he only looked up at you with a hungry glint in his eyes as he dragged his tongue through your folds, painfully slowly. You hissed in response and he moved his hips slightly against the futon, settling in for a hearty meal. When Adrian ate you out it was almost always multiple courses, a real fine dining experience. 

He hadn’t even put his fingers in you yet – just used one hand to spread you open wider for him while the other still played with your breasts, alternating between them, pinching and palming and scratching. His face was pressed so firmly between your legs, his tongue so deep into you you wondered if he was trying to eat his way to your heart. 

“Jesus, Adrian!” you whispered, your heel kicking at his hip, trying to get him to ease up a little. But he was hyper focused, like he was speedrunning his way to your orgasm. He moved, wrapping his arms around your thighs, pinning your hips down as they tried to wriggle away from him for just a little reprieve. 

You heard footsteps on the stairs and you dug your heels into the futon, trying to pry yourself loose from his perfect, stupid fucking mouth. Instead, he traced his teeth over your sensitive clit and you came hard suddenly. You clapped your own hand over your mouth and Adrian batted it away. You managed to stay quiet, the only sound your own ragged breath in the quiet of the basement and the wet, obscene noise of Adrian’s mouth against you.

Except Adrian continued his ministrations between your legs, letting up with his mouth only to look up at you and grin while he slowly slid two fingers into you. He had that calculated look in his eye again and you knew he was studying you. He liked knowing exactly how each movement, each touch affected you. He crooked his fingers inside you, watching closely as you bit down hard on your lower lip in a desperate bid to stay quiet.

He was doing it on purpose. He wanted an excuse. 

You hated giving him what he wanted so easily when he was being a menace but you could taste your own blood on your tongue and he used his other hand to rub at your clit while he kissed your hip bone. A noise squeaked out past your lips and Adrian’s grin grew into a full fledged smile, the kind where you could see all his teeth. The kind that was both predatory and full of genuine delight. 

He moved his fingers faster, pushed deeper, bit hard at your hip, bruising the skin. You fumbled for his head but you could barely see straight. You managed to pull a fistfull of hair but it only made him giggle before he lapped at your cunt and made you come undone all over again. 

“Adrian!” you hissed through the rheumy film of your orgasm. Adrian pulled his fingers free and popped them straight into his mouth and pure, wet want flooded your own. 

“Adrian?” There was a knock at the basement door. You clapped your hands over your burning face but Adrian just seemed annoyed.

“Fuck off, mom!” he called, sliding his way up your body to bite at the sensitive spot below your ear. He loosely pressed his hand over your lips and you weren’t sure if you were grateful or pissed. When the friction of his jeans between your legs almost made you sob against his hand, you settled on grateful. 

“Do you have a friend in there with you?” his mom asked. “Should I make some snacks?”

“Jesus fucking – no, mom!” he whined, even as he rolled his hips against you. He grabbed at your breast with his free hand again and you bit his hand in retaliation. 

“Ow!” 

“Are you okay, honey? Please tell me you’re not giving yourself stitches in there again!” his mom continued. She seemed kind of sweet – what the hell was Adrian’s deal?

“Your mom seems nice,” you managed, free of his hand. 

“Stop getting ideas, I can see you getting an idea right now!” Adrian protested, pinning your hands above your head and silencing your mouth with a kiss.

“Adrian, hon, who are you talking to? Is that…is that a girl in there?” His mother’s voice noticeably ascended the scale in pitch and Adrian swallowed your laugh, your shoulders shaking silently. 

“I’m talking to my bros in the Fortnite lobby, Jesus fucking Christ! Can you hop off my dick for like five seconds, please?” Adrian shouted back, pulling away from your mouth, making you unacceptably hungry. When he returned to you, you bit his lip in recompense. He hissed but surged forward anyway, his tongue deep in your mouth. 

“Okay, Addy, you just let me know if you need anything! Just holler! I’ll be upstairs!”

You waited for the sound of footsteps retreating back up the stairs to pull back.

“So, I’m one of the bros now?” you taunted.

“Well, you’re better than one of the bros. You’re like…you’re my best bro. A bro for life. But, like, in a romantic way, a romantic bro,” he explained. You nodded like that made sense. Because, strangely, it did.

“So…Addy?” 

“Please don’t – ”

“It’s kinda cute!”

“No, it makes me sound like a fucking infant. And I’m not an infant. I’m a grown man.”

You giggled. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten, Ade. As a matter of fact…”

Your hand slid in between you, grasping at him through his pants. He was, unsurprisingly, already completely hard. He hissed through his teeth and then wrangled himself out of his rugby shirt, treating you to a spectacular view of his chest. A thin sheen of sweat covered him in a way that made him look unfairly hot – like the centerfold in a magazine of hot nerds. You ran your hand up from the waist of his pants to the small, pale trail of hair just above and let your fingertips press firmly into the skin of his stomach. His gaze narrowed at you.

“Flip over,” he whispered, voice husky.

“Make me,” you whispered back. Adrian blinked back at you for just a moment before he slipped his hands around your waist and tossed you onto your stomach like it was no effort at all. He reached up and stripped you of the button down and the bra that still clung to your shoulders. His fingertips bit into the swell of your ass but then he paused.

“Sorry, was that okay?” he asked, sounding breathless in a nervous way. You looked back at him and offered a calm smile.

“That was perfect,” you assured him. “You’re perfect.”

“Okay, because if you want to fuck some other way that’s totally okay too, I just thought – ”

“Oh no, not you fucking me while I’m laying on my stomach! Whatever will I do!” you drawled sarcastically as you started to twist in his arms, bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead like some scandalized, vaguely transatlantic woman. Then you paused and blinked at him. “That was sarcasm by the way.”

“Uh, duh, I totally knew that because you love when I fuck you like that! It’s like one of your favorite things. Remember that time we prone-boned and you like totally ruined your sheets?”

“Oh my god, Adrian,” you whined, your hands flying up to cover your increasingly red face. 

“What! It’s just a statement of fact. And a statement of hotness.”

You finished flipping onto your stomach if only to bury your burning face in the futon. Adrian’s hand ran along your damp inner thigh for a moment before he nudged your leg up slightly, and pulled your hips up and flush against his. 

“Oh shit,” he mumbled, and not in the good way. You lifted your head to look at him over your shoulder.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I have a condom?”

“You have a fucking arsenal down here but not a single condom?”

“Well, it’s not like I’ve ever had a girl down here before!”

“Aw, is that your roundabout way of saying I’m special?” you asked, batting your eyelashes. But Adrian was too preoccupied scrounging around for a condom. He was so cute doing it you were loathe to tell him all he had to do was open your purse. The man was desperate for it and you were willing to torment him just a little bit – he would be handsomely rewarded for it in the end. 

“Hey Ade?”

“Hold on, I’m sure there’s one here somewhere!” He yanked another drawer open, violently rattling whatever was inside. He slammed a cabinet open to no avail. You started to feel bad, even if you were getting a great view of his impressive physical form in the process. 

“Adrian!” you called, louder this time to get through to him over the small ruckus he was making, but hopefully still quiet enough to not rouse his mother’s suspicions again. Finally, he turned and looked at you dangling a condom from your fingertips. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he said breathlessly. “No, seriously, I wish I could paint you Titanic-style right now exactly like this.”

Adrian was on top of you again in the blink of an eye, teeth tearing at the foil of the condom and spitting it aside. You watched over your shoulder as he realized he still needed to take his pants off and was trying to figure out balancing the opened condom while he did that. You giggled and held out your hand for him to rest the condom on your palm. 

He tripped up off the couch, halfway out of his pants before he was even fully upright. He hopped on one foot as he desperately tried to free his other from the leg of his jeans, and you were treated to an increasingly silly whispered string of curses. 

When he was finally free he paused, putting his hands on his hips, his chest rising and falling quickly. 

You giggled. “Are you winded?”

“No!” Adrian said, full volume. Your eyes flicked to the ceiling of the basement, but Adrian’s mom seemed to have gotten the memo. “This is…I’m doing breathing exercises, actually. Gotta loosen up my diaphragm for optimal airflow so I can have so much sex with you.”

“Get over here, you absolute goober,” you replied with a beckoning crook of your finger. Adrian stooped beside you to retrieve the condom you were still holding and pressed a quick peck to your lips, upturned in an amused smile.

He settled back between your legs, kneeling on the futon as he rolled the condom on and you waited patiently with your chin in your hands. The feeling of his warm fingers back between your legs surprised you, dragging through your folds, gathering slick before sliding his hand over the condom. 

“Are you good? Are you comfy?” Adrian asked as he grabbed hold of your hips and angled them slightly upward. He positioned himself at your entrance, dragging the tip through your folds, but waited for your approval. You quietly hissed at the sensation.

“Please, Adrian,” you managed. That was approval enough for him – he wasn’t in one of his taunting moods, determined to draw it out forever to the point of insufferability. No, Adrian was borderline efficient. It was a mood he sometimes got into – careful, precise, skilled. He pushed in, a long, slow stretch of flesh, the warm weight of Adrian partially against your back, keeping you pressed into the futon. A hand groped at the flesh of your hip and he gently guided you into the position he needed.

And that made your eyes water, the perfect depth, the perfect speed, the perfect amount of pressure – a gasp dragged from your lips at the angle. Adrian knew what made you tick. You’d witnessed the man disassemble and reassemble a gun with alarming speed on more than one occasion, and he knew how to disassemble you just as easily. 

It took no time at all for pressure and warmth to mount between your legs. 

“Put your hand over my mouth,” you panted.

“What?”

“I don’t think that I can keep being quiet,” you said, voice ragged. As if attempting to prove you wrong, Adrian buried himself, deep and slow, and a yelp came from your lips before you could stop yourself. 

“Right. Okay,” Adrian said in the kind of voice that sounded like he was processing a direct order. You tilted your head up slightly and Adrian dutifully cupped one hand over your mouth.

“Oh shit,” he managed. His fingers flexed against your skin as he thrust into you again, angling your hips ever so slightly once more, perfecting the position. Your needy hand slid under your body and Adrian groaned as your fingers touched at where your bodies were joined, fingers parting around the slick base of his cock for one taunting drag before retreating to your clit. Adrian’s pace faltered and you grinned into his hand. You nipped at his palm again but he stayed firmly in place and instead responded by draping himself further over your back, his weight pressing you further into the futon and your own eager fingers. 

You were close, close, closer as his fingers bit into your skin and you rubbed desperate circles at the apex of your thighs. You clenched around him and Adrian whined. 

“That’s not fair,” he hummed into your hair. He slowed for a frustrating moment and then his mouth was at your ear. “Can I try something?”

A million things raced through your mind – an electric series of possibilities, some of which perhaps bordered on terrifying. But you trusted Adrian. You loved him. Fucking you was a science at which he was studiously determined to excel. So, you nodded. And Adrian draped the full weight of himself on you, carefully, gently. And then he wrapped his other hand over your eyes, casting you into total darkness. 

“I’ve got you,” he said, his voice low in his chest against your back, words that sounded equally like reassurance and threat. A loving adage and a declaration of total possession. Your body responded unconsciously, pushing back against his thrusting hips, terribly wanting. “I want you to come, just for me, okay?”

You made a noise, something wrenched from deep within, muffled expertly by Adrian’s capable hands. He dragged his tongue along the side of your neck and then his teeth nipped the skin. A jolt of pleasure ran down your spine. You weren’t sure how much longer you could hold out when Adrian was dragging himself in and out of you with a studied speed, burying deep every time, hitting that perfect spot. 

“’m close, are you…close,” Adrian slurred before biting at your jaw, his words barely coherent. 

“Mhm,” you spoke into his hand, sure you were probably drooling. You didn’t care. Adrian nudged your knee ever so slightly with his own, spreading you open just a bit more. But it was enough. In the total darkness of Adrian’s embrace, you crashed over the edge, a shout muffled into his hand. You breathed quickly through your nose, finding it significantly harder to catch your breath and Adrian chased you into bliss only a second later, a curse hissed through his clenched teeth, certainly too loud. His hand released your mouth as his forehead fell into the curve of your shoulder. His sweaty hair tickled at your chin and you turned, still blind, to clumsily press a kiss to his temple. 

“Well, that was new,” you remarked, still trying to catch your breath. In the darkness beneath Adrian’s hand, the edges of your vision sparked.

“Was it okay? Did you like it?”

“It was more than okay, babe,” you murmured assurance. That was Adrian – aiming to please, even when it came to dabbling in something like minor sensory deprivation.

After a long moment, his hand fell from your eyes to the futon with an audible thump and he slipped out of you, laying half on top of you and half wedged beside you on the futon.

“I feel like I don’t have any bones anymore,” he muttered. “You stole them. You’re a bone thief.”

“I’ll keep your bones safe in my bone collection. Promise,” you laughed breathlessly. He perked up slightly, lifting his head so he could look at your face. 

“Yeah?” he asked, eyes wide with puppydog-esque devotion.

“Yeah. You’ve got centerpiece level bones. Real main attraction stuff.”

He brushed your hair from your face, and then wiped your cheeks free of tears, thumb grazing across your lower lip, collecting any errant spit. He popped his thumb into his mouth and you recoiled.

“Adrian, gross!”

“Sorry I just want part of you in me,” he replied like you were the one being unreasonable.

You smirked at him and shifted so that you could slip on top of him, straddling his narrow waist. “Maybe it’s time we revisit that conversation about peg – ”

“Adrian?” 

Adrian’s mother’s voice came from directly outside the door. You clamped your mouth shut, looking down at Adrian with wide eyes. 

“What, mom?” he called back, rolling his eyes, his head falling back onto the futon. 

“Do you and your girlfriend want to come upstairs for dinner? I made a baked mac ‘n cheese with the breadcrumb topping you like so much!” 

“Girlfriend?” he scoffed, voice traitorously too high. “What girlfriend? You’re so crazy, I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, sweetie, Mrs. Peterson from across the street called and she said she saw you sneaking in through the basement window with a very pretty young lady!”

You had to laugh. There was simply no other choice. Adrian groaned and draped his arm over his face, treating you to a wonderful (very biteable) view of his bicep. “Fuck, I knew I always hated Mrs. Peterson. No trustworthy person has that many chihuahuas.”

When Adrian didn’t respond one way or the other to the evidence presented, his mother called out again, “Does the pretty young lady like mac ‘n cheese?”

You grinned down at Adrian who appeared to be going through the seven stages of grief in quick succession. Luckily for him it was going to take a lot more than an overbearing mother to scare you off. If you could survive the Vigilante of it all, you could survive anything. You leaned down, bit Adrian’s bicep and then kissed his swollen lips before he could protest.

“The pretty young lady loves mac n’ cheese!” you called back.

adrian taglist: @countvonklit @tlfg-adrianchase @vigilantexreader @faelvz @a-young-g0d @euinein @fangirl48 @navs-bhat (as always, if you want to join my taglist, just let me know! respectfully, no minors! there are some people who have requested in the past and if you're a minor/I couldn't verify if you're over 18 you've been taken off, I'm sorry!)

[toolonely1]

Earned it, Now What? (6)

Tim Bradford x Reader

Summary: She thought the hardest part was earning her place. She was wrong. The job doesn’t get easier, it just changes, leaving room for choices without clear answers. And somewhere in that shift, her dynamic with Tim becomes something far less certain and harder to ignore.

Word count: 5.7k

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a/n: I don't really know what to say about this one, so... enjoy!

You stood at the entrance to Captain Andersen’s office before your shift was supposed to officially begin, hands loosely folded, trying not to overthink why she’d asked to see you.

She’d mentioned it in passing a couple of days ago with no real indication of urgency. Just that she’d wish to speak to you.

Which somehow made it worse.

Because Captain Andersen didn’t call people into her office without a reason.

Andersen looked up from the file on her desk as you stepped fully inside. “Relax,” she said immediately, as she could already see the tension sitting in your shoulders.

You tried.

The office felt warmer than the bullpen outside and quieter, too. It always surprised you how different it felt in here compared to the rest of Mid-Wilshire, like the walls themselves expected people to think more carefully before they spoke.

You respected her a lot.

Which, unfortunately, meant you were now nervous enough to feel it in your stomach.

“What did you wish to speak to me about?” you asked as you sat down before hesitating. “Have I—um…" You glanced down briefly, then back up. “Did I do something wrong?”

That earned you a chuckle from Andersen as she leaned back slightly in her chair.

“No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”

Some of the tension eased out of you immediately.

“But,” she continued, “I did want to speak to you about how much you’ve improved since coming to Mid-Wilshire.”

You straightened instinctively, unsure what expression you were supposed to have for that.

“You don’t have to look terrified when someone compliments you,” she said lightly.

“I’m working on it.”

Another small smile crossed her face before she set the folder aside completely, giving you her full attention now.

“You’ve been doing exceptionally well,” she said plainly. “Your reports are consistently strong. Your instincts on calls are sharp. And more importantly, other officers speak highly of you.”

You blinked once.

It wasn’t the praise itself that caught you off guard.

It was how direct she was about it.

“You handle pressure well,” Andersen continued. “You observe more than you talk. You don’t escalate emotionally on the scene. And when something feels off to you, you pay attention to it instead of brushing past it.”

Your throat tightened slightly around the unexpected weight of hearing it said out loud.

You’d spent so much time lately feeling like things were quietly falling apart around you that you hadn’t really stopped to consider the possibility that professionally, maybe they weren’t.

Andersen tilted her head slightly. “So. What’s your plan?”

You frowned faintly. “My plan?”

“As a cop.”

The question landed harder than you expected.

Not because you didn’t have an answer.

Because you did.

You just hadn’t said it out loud in a long time.

“I’ve always wanted detective work,” you admitted after a moment. “Eventually.”

Andersen nodded immediately, like that answer made perfect sense to her. “I figured.”

Your brows lifted slightly at that.

“You already think like a detective,” she said simply.

You stared at her for a second, genuinely unsure what to do with that sentence.

“You notice patterns,” she continued. “You read people well. You pick up on inconsistencies quickly, and you don’t let your emotions drive your decision-making on calls.”

There was no exaggeration in her tone. No performance.

Just assessment.

It made the praise feel heavier somehow.

“But,” she added, “I don’t think you should rush past patrol.”

You listened carefully now, leaning forward slightly without realizing it.

“Patrol teaches instincts in a way detective work can’t,” Andersen said. “You learn people out there. You learn timing. You learn how situations actually unfold instead of how they look in reports afterward.”

You nodded slowly.

“And start building relationships with detectives now,” she continued. “The good ones notice initiative. Ask questions. Pay attention during follow-ups. Volunteer when you can.”

“I will.”

Andersen held your gaze a second longer before adding, quieter now, “Your reputation matters more than raw arrest numbers ever will.”

That stuck.

Because you knew officers who chased numbers. Knew how easy it was to start measuring yourself that way in this job.

But hearing her say it like that reframed something in your head you hadn’t realized needed reframing.

For the first time in a while, the future felt tangible.

Andersen seemed to notice the shift in your expression because her voice softened slightly when she spoke again.

“You’re doing good work,” she said. “Don’t lose sight of that.”

Something in your chest tightened unexpectedly at the sincerity of it.

“Thank you, Captain.”

She nodded once toward the door. “Go save the city.”

You huffed out the smallest laugh at that before standing.

The bullpen noise hit you again the second you stepped outside her office.

And almost immediately, despite everything Andersen had just said to you, your attention drifted toward the same place it always did now.

Max.

You spotted him near the far side of the room, halfway through gearing up before the shift briefing.

He didn’t look at you.

Didn’t even acknowledge your presence.

The familiar ache settled low and quiet in your chest before you could stop it.

You missed him.

Not even just the relationship, whatever version of it that had been. You missed riding together. Missed the ease of it. Missed having someone who understood your silence without needing you to explain it.

Your gaze shifted away before you could get stuck there too long.

That’s when you noticed Tim Bradford crossing through the bullpen in plain clothes.

No uniform.

No patrol gear.

Just jeans, boots, and that same closed-off expression he always wore when something heavier sat underneath it.

Your thoughts drifted back to the Isabel situation. Tim hadn’t said much since the Valentine’s Day call—a conversation that had only left you more confused than before. Talking about his feelings had always been nearly impossible for him, which made the fact that he’d called you at all say more than his words ever could. Whatever he’d let people see on the surface, it was obvious he wasn’t handling any of it as well as he pretended.

You found yourself wondering how he was really doing underneath it all, beneath the carefully controlled version of himself he showed everyone else.

Probably not well.

The thought followed you as you moved further into the station, your attention drifting across the bullpen again, then stopped.

Because Angela Lopez and Talia Bishop were also in plain clothes.

You immediately understood.

Plain Clothes Day.

You looked toward the rookies almost automatically after that.

John Nolan looked as if he were trying and failing to contain his excitement. Lucy Chen somehow looked both thrilled and terrified simultaneously. And Jackson West already had the focused expression of someone putting way too much pressure on himself before the day had even started.

Their first hundred shifts were done.

And today they’d be cut loose.

Observed, technically.

But mostly left to prove what kind of cops they were becoming.

You had barely made it to the bottom of the stairs when Jackson West spotted you and immediately changed direction, the other two falling in behind him almost automatically. Lucy Chen looked curious in that openly expressive way she always did, while John Nolan already seemed excited just by the concept of Plain Clothes Day existing at all.

“So,” West started as he reached you, unable to hide the anticipation in his voice, “what was your PCD like?”

You paused for a moment, not because you didn’t remember it, but because you remembered it clearly.

Your mind slipped backward automatically, back when you were still a rookie yourself, still trying to prove you belonged there, still waking up every day feeling like one bad decision could expose the fact that you were learning everything in real time just like everyone else.

And, annoyingly, part of your brain drifted toward Max too.

You remembered how nervous he’d been before Plain Clothes Day, even if he’d tried not to show it. How badly he’d wanted to prove he was capable. How much lighter he’d seemed afterward once he realized he could actually do this job.

The thought hit harder than you wanted it to.

You pushed it away before it could settle and brought your attention back to the three rookies standing in front of you.

West was still waiting expectantly.

You leaned lightly against the railing beside you. “I started the day with a major arrest,” you said.

That got their attention immediately.

“It turned out the guy I picked up was tied to an active burglary investigation detectives had already been working.”

West straightened a little at that while Lucy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“And after that,” you continued, “the arrests just kept coming. One after another, all shift.”

Nolan let out an impressed laugh. “Seriously?”

You nodded once. “Pretty much.”

Then, because it still felt strange enough to say out loud even now, you added casually, “According to Bradford, I hold Mid-Wilshire’s PCD rookie arrest record.”

The reaction was immediate.

Lucy stared at you in awe. Nolan looked genuinely stunned. And West looked like you’d just handed him a personal challenge directly from the universe.

“You’re kidding,” Lucy said first.

“Nope.”

Nolan shook his head slowly. “That’s insane.”

You smiled faintly despite yourself, but your attention shifted back to West almost immediately because you could practically see the pressure building in real time behind his expression.

He’d already been determined to beat Percy West’s record. You knew that much already.

Now he had yours sitting in his head, too.

Another number to chase.

Another standard to measure himself against.

You recognized the look because you’d worn it yourself once, and your voice softened slightly when you spoke again.

“Hey,” you said, drawing his attention back to you properly. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself, okay?”

West nodded automatically, though you could already tell he wasn’t really hearing the warning underneath it.

“PCD isn’t about numbers,” you continued. “It’s about judgment. Making good decisions. That matters more than trying to rack up arrests.”

“I know,” he said quickly.

The problem was, he said it with the exact confidence of someone who had already decided he intended to ignore that advice completely.

Lucy looked thoughtful after that, like she was actually turning the words over in her head. Nolan, meanwhile, suddenly looked far more aware of the fact that today could go badly if they weren’t careful.

And West just looked even more motivated than before.

Which, unfortunately, was exactly what you had been trying to avoid.

“Chen!” It was Tim’s shout that brought the rookies back to reality. “Just because I’m not technically here doesn’t mean you get to hang around the station all day.”

Lucy somehow managed to look both prepared and terrified at the same time as she rushed to the shop.

You watched Tim stop her just before they headed out.

He handed her a sealed envelope.

Lucy frowned immediately. “What’s this?”

“Your PCD evaluation,” Tim said flatly.

Her eyes widened. “Already?”

“You can’t open it until after the shift.”

You saw the panic hit her almost instantly after that, fast and quiet beneath the surface. The immediate assumption that if Tim Bradford had already written the report before the day even started, it probably wasn’t good.

You couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at the corner of your mouth.

Because you remembered that feeling.

The constant uncertainty of riding under him as a rookie. Never fully knowing whether you were succeeding or barely holding onto his approval by a thread. He had a talent for making competence feel temporary until you proved it enough times that he couldn’t deny it anymore.

And judging by the faintly evil calm in his expression right now, he knew exactly what he was doing to Lucy.

Chen looked halfway between offended and deeply stressed as she climbed into the shop beside him, clutching the envelope as if it might detonate.

Tim didn’t react at all.

You shook your head slightly to yourself as you watched them pull away.

The rest followed soon after, shops filtering out of the lot one at a time until the noise and movement finally began to thin.

And that was when it hit you.

You were alone today, not for the first time, but it had been hitting you harder the longer Max refused to ride with you.

The feeling settled in slowly as you headed toward your own shop, keys turning loosely between your fingers.

You wouldn’t have Tim directing your every move, like he did when you were a rookie.

And you wouldn’t have Max to fill the silence and ease the tension of the shift.

That hurt most because riding with him had felt natural in a way very few things in this job ever did. You’d gotten used to the rhythm of another person existing beside you for twelve hours at a time.

And now there was just silence.

You slid into the driver’s seat and shut the door behind you, the quiet inside the shop settling immediately around you without another presence there to interrupt it.

Strangely, it almost felt like your own version of Plain Clothes Day.

Not because it was new.

Because it wasn’t.

This was simply the expectation now. The natural progression of the job. One day, you stopped being supervised, and people trusted you to handle things on your own.

You started the engine and pulled out of the lot, the radio crackling softly to life beside you.

For a moment, the empty passenger seat pulled at your attention harder than it should have.

Then you forced your focus back onto the road.

Whether you liked it or not, this was part of becoming the kind of officer Andersen had been talking about earlier.

Not just capable when someone else was there beside you. You were capable alone.

You were upset with how affected you felt by this.

It was just a patrol. Solo patrol, technically, but that wasn’t unusual. You’d done enough shifts on your own by now that it shouldn’t have registered as anything important. You had a shop, a radio, and an entire district depending on officers to keep moving through it. There was no reason for today to feel different from any other shift.

But somewhere around your third stoplight, you glanced toward the passenger seat anyway.

It wasn’t intentional. Just instinct. The kind built through repetition more than thought. Your attention flicked sideways for half a second before your brain caught up with reality and reminded you there was nobody there.

You looked back at the road immediately, annoyed with yourself.

Outside, the city moved the way it always did. Traffic inching forward in uneven waves, pedestrians stepping off curbs without looking, distant sirens threading through blocks already too crowded to move quickly. The radio crackled softly beside you, dispatch cycling through calls in that constant rhythm that never fully stopped.

Everything about the day was normal.

And yet your brain kept reaching sideways anyway.

You caught yourself mentally forming comments with nowhere to put them. Small observations that would’ve once been automatic conversation. Complaints about dispatch. Sarcastic remarks about terrible parking jobs. Half-finished thoughts about suspicious vehicles or strange behavior outside storefronts.

Every time, the thought stopped halfway because nobody was sitting beside you to hear it.

The realization settled in slowly, uncomfortable in a way you hadn’t expected.

You’d gotten used to having a partner.

Not just Max, though, thinking his name still caused that familiar tightening low in your chest before you forced the feeling back down where it belonged.

Before Max, there had been Tim Bradford.

Back when you were a rookie. You’d spent the year learning how to exist beside someone else for twelve straight hours at a time, learning the rhythm of another person’s silence, another person’s focus. At some point, without fully realizing it, you had learned that the second seat in the shop wasn’t optional.

Now the silence felt wrong.

And what irritated you most was how much it bothered you in the first place.

Because this shouldn’t matter.

You were good at your job. More than good, apparently, if Andersen’s conversation this morning meant anything. You didn’t need someone beside you to function properly. You didn’t need the distraction of conversation or familiarity or routine companionship to get through a shift.

And yet the empty passenger seat kept pulling at your attention like it represented something bigger than it actually did.

That frustration eventually turned inward.

You tightened your grip slightly against the steering wheel and exhaled sharply through your nose, irritated with yourself more than anything else.

Get over it.

The thought landed hard enough to steady you.

Because if your brain were going to keep circling the silence today, then fine. You’d leave yourself no room to think about it.

The next call dispatch put out, you took immediately, even though it wasn’t technically yours.

Then another.

When backup was requested across the district, you answered before anyone else could.

Suspicious person call.

Disturbance.

Traffic assist.

Noise complaint.

You kept moving before your thoughts had time to settle anywhere for too long.

By midday, the city had finally replaced the silence in your head with something more manageable. Reports to write. Scenes to assess. People read. Situations that required immediate decisions instead of reflection.

And that, at least, made sense.

The job always made sense.

Even when everything else didn’t.

///

After hours of bouncing from call to call, you finally admitted to yourself that you needed food.

The city had settled into that strange lull between the lunch rush and the evening chaos, where everything felt overheated and restless. Officers moved in and out of the lot in loose clusters, conversations overlapping with the constant crackle of radios, food truck generators humming beneath it all. It was loud enough that nobody paid much attention to anyone else, which was probably why you’d ended up there in the first place.

You grabbed something greasy and mediocre from one of the trucks and managed to find an empty table near the edge of the lot, tucked far enough away from everyone else that you could pretend you were alone.

You’d barely taken a few bites when movement near the trucks caught your attention.

Max.

He stood near the pickup window with a takeout container in one hand, scanning the lot for somewhere to sit. The sight of him hit you with the same immediate awareness it always did now, involuntary and sharp enough to irritate you. Weeks of distance hadn’t changed that part yet. Your brain still tracked him automatically, like some habit it hadn’t figured out how to break.

For a moment, he looked almost familiar again. Not angry or closed off, just another officer looking for a place to eat before heading back out.

Then your eyes met.

And before you could stop yourself, hope flared painfully inside your chest.

It was ridiculous how fast it happened. One second of acknowledgment after weeks of being ignored, and suddenly your mind was already trying to soften the edges of everything between you.

You smiled at him before you could reconsider it. Tentative in a way you instantly regretted.

Then you nodded once toward the empty seat across from you.

The gesture felt stupid the second you made it, but you couldn’t take it back now. Some part of you still wanted him to meet you halfway. Some part of you still believed that if he just sat down, maybe the silence between you would finally crack enough to let something human through again.

Max held your gaze for a beat too long.

You watched the exact moment something hardened in his expression. His jaw tightened slightly, his shoulders pulling rigid in a way that looked almost instinctive now, like shutting you out had become muscle memory.

Then he looked away.

And without a word, he turned and walked across the lot toward a table on the far side where two other officers were already sitting.

As far away from you as he could reasonably get.

The disappointment landed harder than you wanted it to.

Not because he’d ignored you. By now, that part should’ve been expected.

But because for one humiliating second, you’d genuinely thought he might not.

You stared down at your food again, your appetite fading almost immediately as embarrassment curled hot beneath your skin.

You were angry at yourself.

Angry that a single glance from him could unravel your mood this quickly. Angry that despite everything, despite understanding perfectly well why he was hurt, some selfish part of you kept hoping he would make this easier. That eventually he’d decide enough time had passed and let you back into whatever space you used to occupy in his life.

Around the lot, conversation and laughter carried on uninterrupted. Someone nearby barked out a laugh loud enough to turn heads. Radios chirped intermittently with dispatch updates. Life kept moving exactly the way it always did.

Across the lot, Max laughed quietly at something another officer said.

The sound reached you easily.

And somehow that hurt worse than if he’d stayed cold entirely.

Because it reminded you this wasn’t who he was with everyone else. He was still capable of being relaxed, easygoing, and normal.

Just not with you.

You pushed another bite of food around the container more than actually eating it, your thoughts turning inward despite every attempt to stop them.

Maybe you really had mishandled everything.

Maybe there had been signs you should’ve recognized sooner, moments where Max had wanted more than he admitted out loud, even to himself. Maybe you’d hidden behind rules and boundaries because it felt safer than asking difficult questions about what the two of you had actually become.

At the time, you’d thought you were doing the right thing. You’d been honest with him. Clear. You’d laid out expectations before anyone could get hurt.

But honesty didn’t necessarily stop damage once feelings got involved.

You leaned back slightly, staring past the edge of the lot toward the street beyond it.

Maybe this was better.

Maybe this was simply what happened when you hurt someone who had trusted you more than you realized.

And maybe Max shutting you out completely was the only way he knew how to survive it.

You sat there a little longer than necessary after that, staring down at food you no longer wanted while the noise of the lot carried on around you like nothing had happened.

Eventually, you pushed yourself up.

The movement felt abrupt even to you.

Half your meal was still sitting in the container when you tossed it into the trash beside the trucks, your appetite gone completely now. You didn’t look back toward Max’s table again after that. You knew if you did, you’d end up searching for something that wasn’t there.

So instead, you headed straight back to your shop.

The second the door shut behind you and the engine turned over, you reached for the radio almost automatically.

A backup assist came through less than five minutes later, another unit trying to detain a suspect who’d decided that resisting arrest would somehow improve his situation. By the time you arrived, the guy was yelling incoherently in the middle of the sidewalk while two officers struggled to keep him from wrenching free every few seconds.

You stepped in without hesitation, grabbing control of one arm and driving him back against the cruiser hard enough to finally end the fight.

“Relax,” you snapped as he continued twisting uselessly beneath your grip. “You already lost.”

The cuffs clicked into place a second later.

The adrenaline helped.

Not because the situation had been particularly dangerous, but because for a few minutes there had been no room in your head for anything except immediate action.

You cleared the scene, got back in your shop, and immediately answered the next call before dispatch could even finish repeating it.

Later, you got a traffic stop.

Expired registration turned into a suspended license, which turned into discovering the driver had a warrant he apparently hoped nobody would notice. He spent most of the interaction insisting the system was wrong while you waited for confirmation from dispatch.

By the time another unit transported him, you were already checking the MDT for pending calls nearby.

You barely gave yourself time to breathe between scenes.

And somewhere underneath all of it, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Because every time the city quieted down around you, your thoughts circled where you didn’t want them to.

So you kept moving.

A domestic disturbance pulled you across the division just before evening traffic hit. Another officer was already on scene when you arrived, standing outside a cramped apartment building with visible frustration settling into the lines of his posture.

Inside, the apartment felt thick with tension before anyone even spoke. A couple stood on opposite sides of the living room, both angry enough to talk over each other, neither willing to back down long enough to explain what had actually happened.

The husband was pacing.

The wife looked exhausted in the particular way people do after fighting for hours.

You stayed calm while the other officer separated them, letting each of them talk long enough to burn through the worst of the emotion before stepping in with questions that actually mattered.

No visible injuries.

No signs that things had turned physical.

Just two people tearing pieces out of each other because neither of them knew how to stop anymore.

By the time you walked back outside nearly forty minutes later, the sun had started dipping lower across the street.

The officer beside you exhaled heavily. “I swear domestics take years off my life.”

You gave a tired hum of agreement, already glancing back toward your shop.

Because standing still too long felt dangerous now.

Even paperwork became another form of avoidance.

You filled reports in parking lots instead of returning to the station. Cleared calls quickly. Checked for nearby units requesting assistance before dispatch even assigned you anything. The radio chatter blurred together into a constant stream of movement that kept your brain occupied just enough to stop it from drifting somewhere softer.

Somewhere quieter.

The problem was that exhaustion eventually catches up, no matter how hard you run from it.

Late in the shift, you found yourself stopped at a red light with no active call waiting, the city still around you for once.

And without the distraction of motion, your attention betrayed you immediately.

Your eyes flicked toward the passenger seat.

The silence inside the shop pressed against you harder this time.

You thought about Max beside you during late patrols, elbow resting near the window while he complained about dispatch or laughed at something ridiculous happening outside the windshield.

Then, against your will, your mind drifted even further back.

To Tim, during your rookie year.

To the unbearable intensity of riding with him at first. The constant pressure. The corrections. The feeling that every decision you made was being dissected in real time.

You remembered how exhausting he’d been.

And how strangely comforting it eventually became knowing someone was always there watching your back.

The light turned green.

You hit the gas harder than necessary.

Because thinking about any of that for too long felt dangerously close to admitting you missed it.

Missed them.

And you still weren’t sure what to do with that truth once you said it out loud, even to yourself.

///

At the end of the shift, you stepped into the bullpen and felt your shoulders ease a little as soon as you were inside. You’d pushed yourself hard all day, and it was starting to catch up with you.

Angela was already talking before you fully made it to her desk.

“West is going to be the death of me,” she said, not even looking up from her notes as she leaned against the counter. “Kid spends the entire day in the station like he’s being punished. I swear, if he has to file one more report, he’s going to start recalculating his life choices out loud.”

You glanced over just as Talia gave a quiet snort from nearby.

“He’s competitive,” Talia said. “That’s not new.”

Angela waved a hand. “It’s not that; it’s an obsession. He wasn’t even mad about missing arrests today; he was mad about missing the chance to exceed.”

That earned a small pause from you as you set your things down.

“Exceed?” you asked.

“Yeah, he has this need to prove himself at every step,” Angela clarified immediately. “He’s tracking everything like it’s going to be graded.”

Talia shook her head slightly. “That’ll burn out fast if he’s not careful.”

Angela leaned back. “Yeah, well, he’s got that ‘I will beat my father’s legacy or die trying’ energy.”

You hummed faintly at that, filing it away without comment.

Talia shifted her weight before speaking.

“Nolan, on the other hand,” she said, and there was already something resigned in her tone, “was the classic PCD disaster.”

Angela groaned lightly. “Don’t tell me.”

You frowned slightly. “What happened?”

“He was so focused on proving he could handle things independently that he missed an actual issue.” Talia didn’t sugarcoat it. “While hunting for an arrest, a woman tried asking for help, and he pushed her off.”

Angela’s expression shifted. “That’s not good.”

“No,” Talia agreed. “It isn’t.”

She paused briefly before finishing it.

“She was a victim in an abusive situation. Nolan didn’t pick up on it, and her husband got to her.”

The room quieted slightly at that.

Even Angela stopped moving for a second.

“Thankfully, we were able to save her.” Talia’s voice softened, just a fraction.

“He’ll learn from it,” Angela said after a moment, though it sounded more like she was trying to make it true than stating a fact.

Talia nodded. “He already did.”

You leaned lightly against your desk, letting the information settle in without saying much.

You spot Tim near the edge of the bullpen a little later, leaning against a desk with that same controlled stillness he always had when he wasn’t actively in motion. Arms loosely crossed. Eyes tracking the room without really settling on anything.

For a second, you just watch him.

Not because there’s anything unusual about him being there, but because your brain has been so full all day that you almost forgot other threads were running through your life that weren’t tangled up in silence.

You push off your desk and cross the space before you overthink it.

“Hey,” you say when you reach him.

Tim glances at you, a slight shift in posture that reads more alert than surprised.

“Hey.”

A beat passes, not awkward, just unstructured. The kind that only exists between people who have worked too many shifts together to need ceremony.

You exhale once, settling into the conversation instead of forcing it.

“How are you doing?” you ask. Then, because you don’t want to pretend you don’t know what you’re asking about, you add, “With the separation.”

The shift in him is immediate.

Not outwardly dramatic, but enough that you catch it: the slight tightening in his jaw, the way his gaze flicks away for half a second before returning.

“Yeah,” he says after a moment. “It’s… hard.”

He doesn’t look for a cleaner version of it, which is probably the most Tim Bradford answer possible.

“I still love her,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “That doesn’t just turn off.”

“But I know I’m doing the right thing,” he adds after a pause, like he needs to anchor it somewhere solid.

Silence settles between you for a second.

You don’t reach for reassurance you can’t actually give him. You don’t turn it into something softer than it is.

Instead, you just nod.

“That’s not an easy thing to do,” you say.

Tim doesn’t respond immediately, and for a moment, you can see it sit with him, not comfort exactly, but acknowledgment. The kind that doesn’t try to reshape the weight of it but just recognizes it exists.

He gives a small exhale through his nose.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “It isn’t.”

A pause stretches, but this one shifts instead of stalls.

“So, um—" you start. “How was Lucy today?”

Tim glances briefly toward the far side of the bullpen, where Lucy is finishing paperwork at her desk.

His expression changes subtly, professional mode sliding back into place, because it’s easier than staying where he just was.

“Chen did well today,” he says.

You follow his glance, then look back at him.

“That’s not what I’ve been hearing,” you reply.

A faint edge of something almost like a smirk flickers across his face, gone quickly.

“She did well overall,” he corrects. “But she still misses details. Gets too focused when she’s emotionally invested in a call. That’s where she slips.”

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to.

There’s no malice in it. The same way he’s always assessed people under him.

But something about it catches differently now.

“Mm,” you say slowly. “You’re harder on her than you were on me.”

It’s not accusatory. Just observant.

Tim looks at you then.

Fully.

For a beat that lasts just long enough to feel like it means something before it resolves into words.

“She’s not you,” he says simply.

And that’s it.

Just the statement sitting there between you both is like it has multiple meanings, and none of them are fully spoken.

It should be straightforward.

It isn’t.

Because there’s praise in it, even if it doesn’t sound like it. Familiarity. Trust. A comparison that implies experience rather than distance.

And maybe something else you don’t let yourself name.

You don’t respond right away, because there isn’t a clean answer to give that wouldn’t turn it into something bigger than it needs to be.

So instead, you just nod once.

“Right,” you say quietly.

Tim doesn’t move. Neither of you does.

Then the bullpen noise comes rushing back in, paperwork, radios, footsteps, pulling everything forward again like it never stopped.

And you let it go.

-----

Tags: @ttulipwritezz @shadysoulangel @timbradfordsgirl

[moonstruckme]

how do u feel about like post sex, a nice chill wind from open windows, and just love in the air 😁😁 insert whoever

I feel good about that! Unsure if this was really a request but I wrote it anyway haha

cw: mature themes

a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

Sirius can see that you’re cold, though you won’t say anything. The afternoon is cool and wet; a breeze that smells like damp earth drifts in through Sirius’ bedroom window, and somewhere below there’s the steady dripping of puddles forming. He watches as the skin on the back of your arm pebbles. But Sirius is lying atop the bedsheets you’d use to cover yourself, and you never ask for the things you want. 

“Come here,” he says, opening an arm for you. 

You roll towards him complaisantly, settling with your front against his. Sirius pulls the bedsheets over so you’re cocooned in. 

He kisses your shoulder, feels it with his cheek. 

“You’re freezing,” he mutters. 

You wriggle down until you can rest your face in the crook of Sirius’ neck. Take a piece of his hair between your fingers, and let the ends slip between them. “I feel perfect.” 

Sirius makes a small sound of displeasure, but, well. He can hardly argue that. 

“I need a window like this,” you sigh. 

Sirius draws swirls on the back of your ribs. “You’re welcome to mine.” 

“I know. Why do you think I’m here all the time?” 

“You know, I haven’t given it much thought.” He traces a swirl with the light touch of his fingernail, knowing it’ll make you squirm, and grins when it does. “Why are you?” 

“The window, duh. And the gas hob.” 

“No other reasons at all?” 

You hum. The sound skitters pleasantly over Sirius’ skin and sinks into his bones. “Well,” you muse, drawing it out, “the shower’s nice.” 

“Rude.” Sirius ducks down to kiss beneath your jaw, smooching so it tickles. You gasp out a laugh. “I’m never inviting you ‘round again.” 

“See if I care,” you try, even as you shrink down Sirius’ front, out of reach but close enough to press your smile over his heart. “I’ll get my own window.” 

Sirius scoffs. “It won’t come with a boyfriend to open it for you.” 

You glance at the broken fingernail from your own attempt at working the sticky latch. “I’ll figure it out.” 

A hint of dreariness colors your tone, and Sirius softens. He touches your cheek. “When do you have to find a new place by?” 

“I move out in a month.” Your stare heavies as you tilt into his palm. “So before then, preferably.” 

“Preferably,” he murmurs. 

Your flatmate is abandoning you. It was a sudden thing. You say you don’t hold the short notice against her, but Sirius does, because it effectively puts you out. You can’t afford the rent without her, and you don’t have anyone to take her place. So not only do you have to move out unexpectedly, you also have to sign a lease for another flat before then. You haven’t said the search is stressing you out, but your mind circles back to it often enough for Sirius to know that it is. 

“I’d like to have a big shower, too, if I could get one,” you muse.

Sirius hums. “You should look at places near here.” 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Why?”

“Oh, for the schools.” He dents your cheek with his thumb. “So you could come see me, idiot.” 

“Now who’s rude?” you scoff, grinning. 

Sirius rolls his eyes. He spies a mark on your back, letting go of your cheek to rub his thumb over it tenderly. He remembers being proud of that a few minutes ago, but now Sirius feels sort of sorry. He massages it while your back shifts like waves and you settle with your arms folded beneath your chin on his chest. 

You’re thinking aloud to yourself about neighborhoods and price ranges, the virtues and drawbacks of living on a ground floor, your gaze wandering again to Sirius’ window. He reaches under the covers to pet down the goosebumps on your arm. 

And he feels so stupid for not having thought of it before. 

“Why don’t you move in here?” he asks. 

You blink, your mouth closing on an incomplete thought. Your arm goes stiff beneath his touch. “Sirius,” you say, like he’s playing a mean joke. 

“What? You could.” 

It’s an obvious solution now that the idea has occurred to him. You love Sirius’ flat. You’ve said it over and over again, that you love his bedroom window, his big mirror, that you’d never leave if you could help it. Sirius would accuse you of dropping hints, but you’re too wary of being selfish for manipulativeness. You look shocked enough at the suggestion. 

“No, I couldn’t.” A smile flickers hesitantly at the corner of your lips, still looking for the joke. “It’s fine, it’s not like I have nowhere to go. I just have to find a place.” 

“Or, you could stop looking,” he says, a light fizz of excitement starting in his chest, “and just move in here.” 

“Sirius—” 

“No, listen.” Sirius cups your arm. He’s never been very good at conveying earnestness (that’s always been more James’ strength; Sirius has a face for mischief), but he does his best for you. “If you don’t feel ready, then forget it, but I’m not saying this because I feel like I have to. Forget about me for a second. Do you want to live here?” 

Your bottom lip disappears into your mouth. You nibble at it, even as a teasing light reenters your stare. “You mean, like, if you didn’t?” 

Sirius gives you a dead-eyed look. 

Your voice softens. “I’d only want to if you were here, too.” 

His mouth tugs. Usually, when you’re playing around, Sirius is good at keeping a lock on his expression—but fuck, you’ll do him in every time with your earnest sweetness. It’s disgusting. 

“Would you come here?” He tries to sound exasperated. 

You scoot up Sirius’ chest, letting him take your face between his hands and kissing him with a smile that sticks to his lips even after you pull away. He keeps you close. 

“I’d like it if you moved in,” he says. “Would you like to?” 

Your eyes dart between his. “Only…if you’re really sure you mean it.”

Sirius scowls. “Ugh, you are dense.” You know it’s all talk; he kisses the grin off your lips. “I can’t be arsed to say things I don’t mean, sweetness. Wisen up.” 

“Is this the sort of treatment I can expect all day, every day now?”

“Is that how you say yes?” 

“Well, it’s a tentative yes. I need to test the shower again, I think.” 

Sirius makes a show of rolling his eyes, then delights in your gasp when he hikes your legs up around his hips and sits up. “Fine, fine. Let’s go get that over with.”

[toolonely1]

Love love LOVED the latest xhapter, and it sounds like i say this for every consecutive chapter but i think this one is your best one yet!

I genuinely felt HURT hearing about how max has been acting and at the same time HE GOT REJECTED I GET HIM, but in a way what the reader is going through feels like rejection too. Its kind of a give or take situation, and omg the little snippets with lucy and OH MY GOD. THE WAY-

PAUSE. the way reader was trying to gauge whether or not what she said to lucy changed anything in their dynamic because you DID THAT SO WELL??? like i get the hesitation for having to act or be superior to someone who has initially become your friend in a way, and at the same time the pressure of not acting like tim OR trying to axt like him? The dillema of having to choose that? Impeccable.

AND THAT XOMBINED WITH HOW even the smallest things she did with MAX changed their dynamic throughout the whole year like little by little and in a way thats coming back to haunt her rn so her checking and rechecking the tects to make sure that the way she spoke to lucy (which so smort of her and conpletely valid and so mature ong chefs kiss) didnt affect their dynamic is such a valid valid insecurity to have especially in such a timeframe.

And how she's like almost hyper-aware of tim and her interactions after that ngl- enlightening coversation with max. Which is a very real thing btw, after someone points it out you just start seeing it everywhere.

Shes also hyper awarw of tims abscence and you depict it is such a well done way ong its fantastic, its like its constantly there but still not there???

AND DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE VALENTINES DAY PARALLEL??? MY LITERAL BABIES Omg

I half expected max to show up and yhem to like do the whole one night stand thing again to make it extra awkward 😝😝😝 but like i'm happy wih the end to that chapter regardless, we love emotionally vulnerable tim.

Anyways, 10/10 xhapter but my babies need to make up i cant WATCH THEM BE SO SAD AND DEPRESSED NOOO

I hope your finals went amazing! I know you absolutely crushed it!!! Yayya

And as always, 10/10 chapter, 101/10 execution (cuz i loved this one so freaking much)

THANK YOU!!!!!

Writing max be distant HURTS and I want them to make up asap :(((( but alas, I don’t control him and he’s in pain after he realized he’s been reading wayyyy into things…

Idk though, something tells me his therapist might be talking some sense in him as we speak…. Another tells me might not be taken very well though….. but what do I know….

I’m glad you enjoyed the Lucy bits too!!! Reader doesn’t know what it’s like to be on the other side of the training/superior dynamic and it shows!!

(Probably why grey paired the two of them cause you know damn well Lucy couldn’t gone somewhere else)

When she did have to step up and remind Lucy that they can be friends but not out on patrol it was hard!! She didn’t want to hurt Lucy and part of her didn’t want to disappoint Tim with his new rookie. So yes!! She had to choose her job over friendship at that moment and thankfully Lucy understood and stepped back to her role!

And yess!!! After Max came to her and revealed that he was reading into how she was acting she’s so worried that she’ll mess up another friendship! And before anyone says anything, max was reading into things and sure reader could’ve done better at sticking to her boundaries but he knew from the start what it was! But we love him and his sensitive heart!!

But ughhhh she doesn’t want to hurt anymore people :((( not for her words and definitely not for her missing cues again!

And she’s definitely reading more into things with Tim! Max was trying to push reader away and scare her with what he said but all he did was open her eyes and now she’s overthinking everything that has to do with Tim… including him being out for the day

I know I kinda threw it into your face but I’m glad you enjoyed the parallel!!! Tbh I actually debated on ending the chapter with reader going to Maxs place and it being the reverse of the year before! But as I wrote that part out it felt too on the nose and it really didn’t feel like the move she would make :/

So she decided to sit at home and wallow in her pain thinking about how different this year has been compared to the last, and at the same time Tim sat at his home thinking over his last conversation with Isabel. Who better to call than his ex-rookie who knows what it’s like to finally cut ties with an addict who isn’t benefiting your life?? It helps that he actually enjoys talking to her and doesn’t make him feel bad for his feelings/actions!

Anyways!! I promise max and reader will make up soon, just not too soon lol.

Also!! Finals actually went really well!! I’m waiting for the grades to come out but my hopes are high!!!

[toolonely1]

Earn it (6/24)

Tim Bradford x Rookie!Reader

Summary: She is his rookie, but unlike the others before her, she refuses to break, no matter the Tim-test she has the answer. She’s stubborn, she’s an overachiever, and she refuses to let Tim make her fail.

Word count: 2.5k

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a/n: I wrote this chapter wayyy before anything else, so if anything doesn't make sense, that's probably why. I'm still really excited about it though, so let me know what youn think!

The call came in just after lunch; there was an active robbery at a local bank. You and Tim were the first to respond, your cruiser’s sirens cutting through the late afternoon traffic as you raced toward the bank. Lopez and Bradley got called in for backup and were a few blocks behind, coordinating with dispatch as you approached. Upon your arrival, the lot was eerily quiet. The doors were swinging gently in the wind, and the tellers were huddled together, eyes wide and trembling. Not a single robber in sight.

You stepped inside cautiously, taking in the scene: scattered money, overturned chairs, and a palpable fear that lingered in the air. After speaking briefly with the shaken employees, you and Tim waited for the rest of the team to figure out what to do next.

Later, back at the station, the team gathered around the security footage. All of the men had ski masks on, obscuring their faces, except for one. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, revealing a forearm that immediately caught your attention. While Grey, Bradford, and Lopez debated theories on how to identify the group, you found yourself staring at that arm. The tattoo etched there was unmistakably familiar.

You moved to the computer, pausing the footage and scrolling frame by frame until you had the clearest view. There it was, the tattoo, unobstructed, the design obvious.

Sergeant Grey noticed what you were doing mid-rant. “What are you doing?” he barked, eyes narrowing.

“Could someone zoom in on just the arm and enhance the image? I want a clearer look at that tattoo,” you said.

Grey’s face lit up with curiosity, and he shouted for someone to do exactly that. “Now, what exactly is the importance of this tattoo?”

You feel silly having this many eyes on you, especially since most were your superiors, but you had to explain your hunch, whether they believed you or not. During my time in the army, I saw a specific tattoo a lot. It belongs to a group that calls itself The Blooded Order. They weren’t official, just a club that spread around the ranks. From what I heard, they believed soldiers were above civilians and that rules and regulations shouldn’t apply to them. No one treated them as a real threat; they were just a bunch of guys puffing themselves up, trying to sound tougher than they were. But they used this symbol to recognize each other. A dagger inside a circle, with a single drop of blood at the tip. And I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what’s on that man’s arm.”

Grey crossed his arms, unconvinced. “And how can you be so sure? Your explanation sounds a lot like a theory. I don’t like theories.”

You don't know how to respond to that; you can only stare back and hope he trusts you.

///

Hours later, after running the enhanced image through the military database, the analysts confirmed it: several former members of The Blooded Order had relocated to Los Angeles. Many, disillusioned with following orders, had not reenlisted and instead reconnected on the outside. One name immediately stood out: Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.

Records showed that just months ago, Kellan purchased an old warehouse in Vernon through a shell company. Since then, multiple sightings of Blooded Order members have been reported entering and leaving the property.

Now, a group of officers, including you, Bradford, Lopez, and Bradley, surround a table while Sergeant Grey spreads the aerial photos across the table, the warehouse circled in red. “Alright. We’ve got a warehouse in Vernon, owned by one of their own. That means they feel safe there. That’s our advantage.”

From there, a plan formed: stakeout first, gather intelligence, then a raid once there was proof that this was the group responsible for the bank robbery. Every detail counted. Every move had to be precise.

///

You were clearly stressing about having to stay later, and Tim could not for the life of him understand. He knows that when you’re on the clock, you don’t let anything distract you; in fact, he recalls a moment when you ridiculed him for allowing his personal life to distract him. And especially now, when you practically handed the lead to them. So why were you so upset about staying a couple of extra hours? Sick of watching you pace back and forth while doing something on your phone, Tim finally starts towards you.

“I know for a fact that you knew this was a part of the job, Boot, so why the hell aren't you jumping at the opportunity to help with this case?” Okay, maybe he should have been nicer about that, but Tim was getting sick of your dismissal of the job.

You look up from your phone, though you don’t seem to be pleased to be doing so, and give him the dumbest excuse he’s heard in a while. “My dog isn’t used to me being out this late.”

“Right, and why haven’t I heard about this dog before?” Seriously, if this is so important, Tim would have expected to at least have heard a name. Sure, you don’t talk about your personal life much, but most of his rookies loved to ramble about their pets above anything else.

“I didn’t think it was relevant to the job. But yes, I have a dog. She gets anxious if I get home even ten minutes later than usual.” You look increasingly annoyed the longer you spend talking to Tim. He’s seen your eyes glance back towards your phone twice already. “I’m trying to get in contact with my neighbor to check on her, but she’s refusing to answer.”

Tim finds your choice of contact interesting, especially because it’s taking way too long, and you both have a case to get back to. He decided to tell you exactly that, “Why, your neighbor, don’t you have a friend you can call?”

The look you give Tim confuses him more, but he wouldn’t have been prepared for what you were about to say, “I don’t exactly have friends, Glove. Phoebe takes up my entire social life. Which is another reason why I need to get in contact with my neighbor.”

As you try to get back to your phone, Tim can’t help but want to ask more. He might have if it weren’t for one of the detectives calling for him.

///

Later, the two of you were on lookout, parked in a nondescript vehicle across the street from the warehouse. Both of your eyes were fixed on the building, tense yet alert. Tim remembers your previous conversation and, surprisingly, decides to break the silence.

“You said your dog is your whole social life.”

That was it. Apparently, it was your job to fill in the blanks and answer him.

“She’s my whole world.” You hope that would be enough to satisfy Tim’s curiosity. You’re not in the mood to peel yourself open more than necessary.

Apparently, that wasn’t enough. “So no friends, but what about your family? Any siblings?”

You turn your head toward him, frowning. You don’t know why he’s suddenly digging into your life, and you can tell he doesn’t really know either.

“No siblings,” you say simply.

“And your parents?” he asks, even though he already knows the broad strokes.

You sigh through your nose. “Not people I rely on. Let’s leave it at that.”

He absorbs that, nodding once. There’s no push. No pity. Just quiet understanding. And that somehow makes the air feel heavier.

A beat passes before he asks, “So… Phoebe? That was the best name you could come up with?”

You huff out a laugh despite everything. “I love the show ‘Friends.’ And I found her in a cardboard box during a binge-watch, so yeah. Phoebe.”

Tim lets out a small scoff that almost—almost—sounds like amusement.

“That tracks,” he mutters.

You glance at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” he says, gripping the wheel a little lighter than before, “I can see it. You being a Phoebe person.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and return your attention to the warehouse.

///

Time crawled.

The warehouse stayed dark, still, quiet, and you found yourself checking the time every few minutes. You hated staying out this late, hated the vague anxiety blooming in your chest over Phoebe, over nothing, over everything.

Tim notices. Of course he does.

He shifts in the driver’s seat, glancing over at you like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.

“You know,” he says finally, voice low, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

You keep your eyes on the warehouse. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not.” He pauses. Then—  “Why didn’t you tell me you served?”

Your hand freezes halfway to the binoculars.

You swallow. “It never came up.”

“Came up today,” he counters.

You scowl lightly. “Because you needed the context to trust me on the tattoo.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Tim shifts to face you fully. He whispers your name, trying to get you to understand, “I don’t take the military lightly. You know that.”

You do. Everyone does. Tim Bradford, Army vet, by-the-book, iron backbone of Mid-Wilshire.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “You served four years in intel. Graduated top of your class at the academy. And you said nothing.”

Your throat tightens, but you keep your tone even. “Why does it matter?”

Something flashes across his expression—offense? disbelief? hurt? You can’t quite read it.

“It matters,” he says slowly, “because that’s a part of who you are. A big part. And I’m your TO. I should know what the hell you’ve been through.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

He huffs, frustrated. “Because it shapes the way you work. The way you think. Today, you recognized a paramilitary tattoo before anyone else. You knew exactly what it meant. You knew how those guys operate. That’s not nothing.”

You grip your hands together to keep them still. You stare at him, knowing he deserves something—anything—but unsure how to say it.

So you settle for, “I didn’t tell you because people make assumptions.”

He raises a brow. “Like what?”

“That I’m rigid. Or cocky. Or traumatized. Or stuck in old habits. Or that I think I’m better than civilians.” Your voice grows quieter. “Or that I have something to prove.”

Tim opens his mouth, then stops. Because he knows he has made assumptions.

You look back toward the warehouse. “I didn’t want to be judged before I even started this job.”

For a minute, he doesn’t say anything. Then, “…I wouldn’t have judged you.”

You give him a look.

He sighs. “Okay, I might have judged you. A little. At first. But not now.” He nods, firm. “Not after seeing how you work.”

You don’t respond.

He watches you for a long moment.

Your chest goes tight. You open your mouth, then close it. The words stick to the roof of your tongue.

That’s when you see it. 

The side door of the warehouse creaks open, a man stepping into the fading light. Broad shoulders, close-cropped military fade. Most importantly, half hidden beneath a rolled sleeve, you saw the dagger.

Your blood runs cold.

“Tim.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it slices through the silence.

He follows your line of sight, eyes narrowing. “Is that—?”

“Kellan,” you breathe. “Staff Sergeant Mark Kellan.”

“Are you sure?” Despite his questioning, Tim reaches for the radio.

“No doubt.”

Kellan scans the alley with practiced, predatory precision—checking angles, counting exits, and tracking shadows. He knows you’re watching him, and he’s not nervous. He’s not running.

No, he’s conducting security.

“He’s confident. Too confident.” You glance towards Tim, hoping he saw what you did.

With a quick nod, Timm brings the radio up to his mouth. “7-Adam-19, we have visual on Mark Kellan. confirmed Blooded Order leadership. Requesting immediate units for containment.”

Lopez comes on instantly. “Copy. We’re two blocks out. Hold position.”

But Kellan isn’t alone. Two more men file out behind him, carrying duffel bags—heavy, sagging with the weight of something solid. You don’t need X-ray vision to know exactly what’s inside. Weapons. Gear. Possibly explosives.

Tim tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “They’re gearing up for something.”

Your pulse spikes. “We can’t wait. If they leave—”

“We’re not letting them leave.” Tim’s already reaching for the gearshift.

Before he can move, the radio crackles again.

“7-Adam-15, visual confirmation from the rear alley. Multiple subjects are armed. SWAT is en route.”

You and Tim exchange a look, a silent agreement forged through instinct rather than rank.

This is happening now.

Tim breathes out once, steadying himself. “Boot, call it.”

You blink, momentarily stunned. “Me?”

“You recognized the symbol. You identified Kellan. You got us here.” His eyes are sharp and clear. “You call it.”

Your throat tightens, but you nod and raise the radio.

“All units, suspects are exiting the warehouse with gear bags. Possible weapons. Move in now. Repeat: move in.”

Every officer within range responds at once, sirens in the distance, flashes of movement around the perimeter. The tightening circle of law enforcement is closing in.

Kellan hears it. His head snapped toward the street.

“Go!” Tim shouts, already out of the car.

You’re with him, boots slamming against cracked pavement, rounding the side of the warehouse just as Kellan shoves his men forward.

“Police! Stop!”

Instead of stopping, Kellan draws.

Tim fires the first warning shot. Lopez’s voice roars from behind, “DROP IT!” Max flanks wide left. You move right. Instinctually, tactically, the soldier in you taking over.

Kellan’s men scatter, splitting into a formation you remembered.

“Bradford, go left!” You call without thinking. “Lopez, with me—cut right! Max, take the rear!”

Nobody questions your orders. Tim doesn’t even hesitate.

You break for the loading dock just as one suspect swings a rifle upward. You slam into him before he fully sights you, sending both of you crashing into a stack of crates.

He swings wildly, combat-trained, but telegraphed. You duck, pivot, and pin his arm, wrenching the weapon free.

Tim tackles another. Lopez cuffs a third. Max covers the front entrance.

But Kellan— Kellan is escaping through a side door.

“Tim!” You shout, already sprinting.

He sees him. He sees you gaining on him. And you both take off after Kellan, pounding down the dim hallway toward the back exit.

Kellan throws open the final door, escaping.

Only to freeze as six SWAT rifles snap up in unison.

He’s caught.

Tim skids to a stop behind him, weapon raised. You stop beside Tim, chest heaving, adrenaline burning through your veins.

Kellan finally drops his gun.

His eyes land on you last. He smiles. A slow, cold, knowing smile.

“Well,” he says, voice calm as a heartbeat. “Didn’t expect to see you again.”

Tim looks at you sharply, but you don’t break eye contact with Kellan.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Me neither.”

SWAT moves in, cuffing him, dragging him away.

Tim turns to you with a look you’ve never seen before. Half shock, half worry, half something else entirely.

“Boot…” His voice is low. “…what the hell was that?”

And for once, you don’t have an answer. Not one you’re ready to give.

[imnosuvu]

THE CLIFFHANGER?? GIRL IM RUNNING TO THE NEXT PART FR🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️🏃‍♀️

[toolonely1]

LMAOOO had to give you a reason to come back!!!!

[toolonely1]

Earned it, Now What? (5)

Tim Bradford x Reader

Summary: She thought the hardest part was earning her place. She was wrong. The job doesn’t get easier, it just changes, leaving room for choices without clear answers. And somewhere in that shift, her dynamic with Tim becomes something far less certain and harder to ignore.

Word count: 6k

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a/n: Okay! We aren't exactly back yet, I fear the ao3 curse is getting to me through Tumblr... but with finals done, I was able to get this chapter done! Please be kind about the writing in this one :)

Nothing had blown up after that night. No dramatic fallout, no confrontation that forced anything into the open. It had just shifted. Quietly. Permanently.

The next morning had been the clearest version of it.

You’d walked into the briefing still running on too little sleep and too many unfinished thoughts, already spotting Max out of habit before you’d even reached the tables, only to realize, a second too late, that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Not at your table. Not even near it.

He was across the room instead, sitting with a different group, like it had always been that way.

You’d paused longer than you should have, just standing there with your coffee in hand, trying to make it make sense in real time.

Then Grey had walked in, called the room to order, and dropped it like it was nothing. “Bradley, you’ll be riding solo today. Same for you. Per request."

That had been the end of it. No explanation. No room for questions.

You hadn’t needed one anyway.

Max hadn’t looked at you once.

Not during the briefing. Not when everyone stood to leave. Not even when you passed close enough that you could’ve said something if either of you had been willing to break first.

After that, it settled into something routine.

You tried, at first.

A small wave across the bullpen when you caught sight of him between calls. A half-smile when you crossed paths near the lockers. An offer of coffee one morning when you got there early enough to beat the rush.

Once, you even brought donuts.

He ignored every single one.

Not rudely. Not openly. That might’ve been easier to deal with.

He just… didn’t respond.

Like you weren’t there long enough to matter.

It didn’t take long to figure out what that meant.

You’d hurt him in a way you hadn’t fully understood at the time and still don't have the right words for now. And whatever he’d been hoping for when he showed up at your door that night, you hadn’t given it to him.

So he shut you out.

And eventually, you accepted it. 

Or tried to.

You stopped trying to pull him back into something he’d already decided to step away from. Stopped offering openings he wasn’t going to take. Stopped looking for a version of things that didn’t exist anymore.

If he wanted distance, you gave it to him.

It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t comfortable.

But it was easier than standing in the middle of something that had already ended and pretending it hadn’t.

The rest of the station didn’t stop moving just because your world had tilted a few degrees off-center.

If anything, it got louder.

Angela had been the first distraction.

What started as a single comment about “this lawyer” had somehow turned into a full-time update cycle you hadn’t agreed to but got anyway. Calls between shifts. Texts in the middle of reports. A running commentary on every interaction, like you were supposed to be tracking it in real time.

At some point, it got bad enough that Jackson called you on his break just to fill in the gaps.

“I can’t let you keep listening to this without context,” he’d said, sounding genuinely exhausted. “So here it is.”

And then he’d walked you through the whole thing.

According to him, they had been witnesses to a bag thief; that should’ve been routine, except the victim turned out to be a defense attorney who immediately decided to critique everything she was doing. Not quietly, either. 

Angela, unsurprisingly, did not take that well.

So it turned into an argument. Not a quick one, either, an actual back-and-forth, both of them digging in, neither willing to back off. Jackson described it as “weirdly intense for a stolen bag,” which, coming from him, meant it had been something.

The lawyer was Wesley Evers.

And somehow, despite all of that, Angela Lopez still ended up asking him to be her date to a family wedding.

Nolan had his own version of chaos going on.

You’d heard about his son for weeks before you ever met him. Stories that started casually and somehow always circled back to “Henry did this” or “Henry said that,” like John Nolan couldn’t help himself.

When Henry Nolan finally showed up, the buildup almost made it feel like you already knew him.

Turns out, you kind of did.

It took all of five minutes for the two of you to land on the same conclusion.

“He always does that thing,” Henry had said, watching his dad talk his way through something unnecessarily complicated. “Where he acts like he knows exactly what he’s doing.”

You’d crossed your arms, nodding as if this were a serious observation. “All the time.”

Henry glanced at you, half-smiling. “Good. Thought he might have left it back home.”

Nolan had looked between the two of you like he’d just realized he’d made a mistake introducing you at all.

You didn’t let that stop you.

“Don’t worry,” you added. “He'll get worse when he rides with Sergeant Grey.”

“That is not true,” Nolan had said immediately.

Henry didn’t look convinced.

All things considered, it wasn’t the worst stretch you’d had.

Max was still keeping his distance, and you’d stopped trying to close it. Angela’s relationship drama stayed loud but mostly contained to her orbit. Nolan was just slightly more tolerable now that he’d accepted you weren’t going to stop calling him out.

And around all of that, the station kept moving. Cases cycling through, people dealing with things they didn’t always say out loud, and tension showing up in places you only noticed if you were paying attention.

Then the vice president came to town.

Everything after that got louder, faster, and more complicated than it needed to be. Streets shut down, calls stacked up, and half the city seemed determined to make it everyone else’s problem.

Somewhere in the middle of it, Lucy Chen went down in a homeless encampment and came back up with a needle stick.

The calls started almost immediately after Tim took her to the hospital. At first, just checking in. Then spiraling. Then calling again because the first answer hadn’t stuck long enough to feel real.

You tried to help.

You explained what you could, reassured where it made sense, and filled the silence when she didn’t want to sit in it alone.

It didn’t land the way you wanted it to.

At some point, the phone shifted hands.

“You need to stop scaring my boot," Tim Bradford said flatly.

You pulled the phone away from your ear slightly. “I’m not scaring her.”

“Then try calming her down instead.”

The line went dead a second later.

You stared at your phone for a beat longer than necessary, somewhere between annoyed and vaguely aware that he might not have been entirely wrong.

Thankfully, Lucy had no reason to worry. Her tests came back negative.

Isabel was a whole different issue.

After the bust, after everything that went wrong and somehow didn’t end worse, she’d been put into rehab. You heard pieces of it when they filtered through the station, bits of information that never quite formed a full picture.

You didn’t go looking for more, it wasn’t your place.

And even if it had been, you weren’t sure you would’ve known what to do with it.

Through all of it, Max stayed exactly where he’d put himself.

Distant. Professional. Gone, in every way that mattered.

And Tim, Tim stayed close to something else entirely.

You saw it in passing. In the way he moved through the station, in the way conversations stopped short around him, in the way his attention never quite settled anywhere for long.

You didn’t talk to him, he didn't talk to you.

Not until a few days ago.

He’d caught you between tasks, just long enough to say it.

“Thanks,” he’d said. "For helping with Isabel."

No elaboration, not that he needed any. 

You’d nodded once, like that was enough.

Because it was.

And then everything kept moving.

Like it always did.

///

The morning doesn’t come in gently.

It never really does at the station, but there’s usually a rhythm to it, coffee brewing, lockers slamming, and the low hum of people easing into whatever version of normal they’re pretending at for the day. Today feels slightly off. Like someone adjusted the volume on everything without telling anyone.

Valentine’s Day does that.

Nobody says it outright. Not really. But it’s in the way people show up a little earlier than usual or a little later, in the way conversations feel deliberately casual, in the way even the most hardened officers suddenly develop strong opinions about candy hearts and overpriced reservations.

You clock it immediately.

Angela is half on her phone, half not in the room at all, typing something with the kind of intensity that suggests she’s either in love or in the process of committing a felony. Nolan is doing that thing where he acts like he’s fine, too fine, like enthusiasm can overwrite loneliness if he pushes it hard enough. Chen and West are orbiting each other in a way that looks like teasing but feels like something closer to comfort.

And Max is absent in the most precise way possible.

Not physically. He’s there. Same station, same briefing space, same walls you’ve memorized without meaning to. But he’s built distance into every possible angle of himself. He doesn’t look at you unless he has to. He doesn’t linger near you unless there’s no other option. Even the accidental near-misses that used to feel normal now feel engineered to avoid recognition entirely.

It’s almost impressive how thoroughly someone can decide not to see you.

But today still pulls at something older.

Because there was a version of this day, last year, that didn’t feel like this.

It had started badly, as most things worth remembering do. Too much tension sitting under your skin, the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t go away with sleep so much as it rearranges itself. You’d shown up at your apartment, not thinking much beyond the idea of shutting your brain off for a while.

And then Max had been there.

No expectations. No pressure. Just presence.

You still remember the way you’d tried to define it, even then, carefully, deliberately, like naming something could keep it from changing shape on you.

“I don’t want this to turn into a thing.” The words had come out sharper than you meant them to.

He’d just looked at you, steady. “What kind of thing?”

“The kind with expectations,” you’d said. “Feelings. Complications.”

He’d taken a second. Then nodded once. “I’m not looking for that either.”

And somehow that had mattered more than anything else.

Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. It had been clean in a way most things aren’t, two people agreeing on the shape of something without pretending it was anything else.

“I like you,” he’d said after a beat, like it wasn’t a performance. “I like being around you. And I like that this doesn’t have to mean more than what it is.”

Your shoulders had loosened before you even realized they were tight.

“So,” you’d said, quieter now, “friends.”

“Friends,” he agreed.

A pause.

“And if either of us wants out,” you’d add, “we say it.”

“Immediately,” he’d said. “No weirdness.”

“No weirdness,” you’d echoed.

It had been simple. That was the point.

And for a while, it worked exactly the way it was supposed to.

Now, standing in a station that feels too bright and too loud and too aware of itself, you can’t quite reconcile that version of him with the one who won’t look at you at all.

Because whatever that agreement was, whatever it was meant to be, it doesn’t exist in any usable form anymore.

The briefing room is already full when you get there, which feels wrong in a way you can’t immediately name.

Grey walks in, and the room settles the way it always does when he takes control of it, all at once, showing that this job doesn’t care what day it is.

He doesn’t waste time.

“All right,” he starts, already in motion, “we know what today is.”

A few quiet groans ripple through the room.

“The most dangerous day of our year,” he continues.

Nolan shifts immediately, like he can’t help himself. “Valentine’s Day, sir? Really? Not Black Friday, not New Year’s—”

“That’s right, Officer Nolan,” Grey cuts in, flat. “Breakups, jealousy, betrayal, regret. All of it gets amplified. People make bad decisions for very human reasons.”

His eyes move across the room. “Sometimes violence finds you whether you’re looking for it or not.”

Assignments go out. Movement starts. The room breaks apart into smaller conversations.

You stay where you are a second longer than necessary.

Max is across the room.

Not next to you. Not near you. Not even in a way that feels incidental anymore.

He’s listening to Grey, technically. But he’s not looking at anyone. Not Chen when she laughs. Not West when he leans over to say something. Not you, obviously not you.

It shouldn’t still register like that.

But it does.

You almost say something without thinking. Not anything important. Not even a full sentence. Just his name, maybe. Something easy. Something that used to be easy.

Your mouth opens slightly and then you stop.

Because you already know what happens if you try.

Nothing.

So you don’t.

You just shift your attention away like it was never there to begin with.

Around the room, things keep moving.

Chen is already halfway into teasing West about something unrelated. Lopez is scanning the board with that focused expression she gets when she’s trying not to think about her personal life.

And Tim isn’t here.

You notice it late, but not too late.

It shouldn’t matter in the context of everything else happening today.

But it does, in a quieter way.

Because absence at this station is never neutral. It always means something. 

You file it away without letting it become a question.

The briefing ends like it always does, abruptly, efficiently, with everyone dispersing before anyone can linger in anything uncomfortable for too long.

Last Valentine’s Day, everything was defined, even if only temporarily. Boundaries set. Terms agreed. A version of closeness that didn’t require translation.

Grey doesn’t stop you as the briefing breaks apart, but you feel it before he needs to say anything, that slight shift in his attention that means you’re not done yet.

"Chen.”

Lucy’s head snaps up first, like she’s already trying to guess what she did wrong. 

Grey jerks his chin toward his office. “A word.”

That alone is enough to make Lucy straighten like she’s been called into judgment. You follow her in without comment, closing the door behind you.

Grey doesn’t sit right away. He stands behind his desk instead, hands resting lightly on the edge like he’s already decided this is straightforward, even if it isn’t going to feel that way to you.

“I'm pairing you two together for the day,” he says.

There’s a beat where neither of you responds fast enough.

Lucy blinks first. “Sir—together as in—”

Grey nods. “She'll be your stand-in TO while Tim's out.”

That lands differently.

You glance at Lucy, then back at him. “There are no TOs available?”

“No,” Grey says. “Valentine's Day doesn't give us many options.”

Lucy is already trying to contain the smile that wants to show up, doing that thing she does where excitement tries to escape through posture instead of expression. She nods a little too quickly. 

You don’t answer right away.

Something about it doesn’t sit right in your head. Not Lucy, not specifically. Just the fact that this is happening at all.

“Respectfully,” you say, carefully, “I’m still a P2. Some more qualified officers could—”

Grey’s gaze shifts to you immediately. Not sharp, not angry. Just direct enough to stop the sentence before it finishes itself.

“You’re not unprepared,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

But it hits like one anyway.

You hesitate, and that hesitation is enough.

“I trust you,” he adds. “And it’s one day. You’ll be fine.”

There’s a quiet beat where you realize pushing this further is not going to help your case. It’s only going to expose the thing you were about to admit.

“Understood, sir,” you say instead.

Lucy is still nodding like she’s trying not to bounce in place. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Grey exhales once, already moving past it. “Gear up.”

Lucy practically vibrates on the way out of the office.

“I can’t believe this,” she whispers as soon as the door closes. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to ride with you, and—all respect to Officer Bradford—someone who won't be testing me all day.”

“I get it,” you say, grabbing the doorframe as you pass. "But we'll see about those tests.”

That gets a quick, shocked laugh out of her.

At the kit counter, she’s already halfway into her gear checklist like she’s afraid the assignment might disappear if she doesn’t move fast enough. You linger just long enough to sign out what you need, then head for the shop.

As you walk out toward the shop, you feel it again.

Max, somewhere behind you in the building, is still not looking your way.

Lucy is already talking through scenarios under her breath like she’s trying to prepare for everything at once.

And Tim's just… gone in a way that doesn’t get explained.

You adjust your pace without thinking, letting the day settle into something operational instead of personal.

For now, it’s just patrol.

Just the job with more responsibility than you're used to.

The shop ride is quieter than Lucy seems to expect.

Not uncomfortable, exactly, just unfilled in a way she keeps trying to correct.

She adjusts her seatbelt twice before you even pull out of the lot.

“So,” she says, brightening like she’s decided to set the tone herself, “this is already way different than riding with Tim.”

You don’t look over right away. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the radio as you ease into traffic.

“How so?”

Lucy hesitates, like she’s deciding whether honesty is safe or not.

“Well, you know… he’s… intense,” she settles on. “Like, all the time. Even when he’s not saying anything, he’s saying something.”

That gets a quiet huff of something that almost passes for amusement from you.

“Yeah,” you say. “That's accurate.”

That small acknowledgment seems to relax her. Just a fraction.

“So I guess I just mean this feels more normal.”

You glance at her then, briefly, assessing without meaning to be.

“Normal is relative in this job.”

Lucy nods quickly, like she’s filing that away.

“Right. Yeah. Of course.”

A beat passes. The radio crackles, someone calling out a routine stop you’re not assigned to. You let it pass.

Lucy shifts again, then tries a different angle. “I was thinking I could, like… learn your style today. Pick your brain and all that.”

That lands somewhere between earnest and slightly eager.

Your response is measured. “My ‘style’ is just doing the job correctly.”

Lucy smiles at that, like she’s not entirely sure if it was a joke. “Okay. Then I can definitely learn that.”

That earns her a look, quick and sharper in focus now. Not disapproval. Just calibration.

She catches it immediately and straightens a little.

“I mean—I want to learn that.”

“Good,” you say, and that’s the end of it.

For a while after that, Lucy fills the space on her own.

She talks about the briefing, about Grey’s speech, about how she still can’t believe Valentine’s Day is considered “predictably chaotic” in law enforcement. She even tries a half-joke about candy hearts and emotional instability.

You let her talk.

Not because you’re disengaged.

Because you’re listening in a different way, tracking cadence, impulse control, and judgment patterns. The things Tim probably drilled into her loudly. You’re noticing what she does when no one is pushing back hard enough to correct her.

She mistakes your silence for ease.

It makes her bolder.

“So what about you?” she asks eventually, glancing over. “Do you have, like… a thing about today?”

Your eyes stay on the road a moment too long before you answer.

“No.”

Lucy accepts that too easily.

“Cool. Me neither. I just thought maybe everyone does, because of Grey’s speech.”

You hum lightly, noncommittally.

Lucy keeps going, filling the air again before it can settle.

You don’t interrupt her.

But you also don’t fully step into it.

Because somewhere in the background of everything she’s saying, everything she’s trying to build into a connection, you are very aware of what you are not doing today.

Max isn’t in this car. And that absence has weight, even when Lucy is talking through it without knowing.

So you let her talk.

You steer.

And you stay just far enough inside yourself that nothing slips out that shouldn’t.

You're back at the station sooner than expected.

The two of you had just finished booking an angry ex that had gone from loud to destructive to “I’m being emotionally victimized” in under ten minutes, which Lucy is still mentally sorting through like she’s trying to find the logic in it.

You find Nolan standing near the reception desk with a basket of muffins.

That combination alone is never neutral.

Lucy notices at the same time you do.

“What is that?” she asks.

You’re already walking. “Nolan. What's the story?”

Lucy follows you in, still slightly keyed up from the call, energy nowhere to go yet.

Nolan is mid-explanation with another officer when you arrive.

“She just showed up,” he’s saying, gesturing at the muffins like they’re evidence in a friendly court case. “Very kind. Unnecessary, but appreciated.”

You glance at the basket.

Then at him.

Then at Lucy. 

“Denise,” Nolan continues, oblivious to the collective shift happening around him. “She wanted to say thank you for earlier. That’s all.”

Lucy tilts her head slightly. “She brought muffins… to the station?”

He answers immediately. “Yes.”

Lucy again, “To thank you?”

“Yes.”

You lean slightly forward, your voice low enough not to derail him mid-confidence. "Thank you for what?"

He chuckles, "For saving her life earlier."

You look at Nolan.

Lucy looks at you, then back at him, like she’s starting to sense there’s a second layer here.

“Oh,” you say. “So she’s in love with you. That was fast.”

Lucy’s eyes widen slightly. “Wait—what?”

Nolan finally hears something off in the tone.

“What are you all talking about?” he asks.

You gesture casually toward the muffins.

“This is not a thank-you gift,” you say. “This is a pretext.”

Lucy is now fully tuned in. “A pretext for what?”

You glance at her.

“Emotional escalation,” you say.

Nolan looks between you two. “It’s muffins.”

You nod. “Yes.”

A beat.

Then, gently:

“But it's never just muffins.”

Nolan exhales. “You’re being dramatic.”

You finally take a muffin, like you’re participating in evidence collection.

“You realize she didn’t just randomly drop baked goods at a police station because she had spare time.” You say, “She tracked you here.”

Lucy, half under her breath: “That’s kind of intense…”

Nolan points at her. “Thank you.”

You don’t look away from him.

“She’s attaching meaning to the interaction,” you continue, calm and almost conversational. “You saved her life. You represent something to her now.”

Nolan frowns. “I’m a police officer. That’s not unusual.”

Lucy, now fully in it, adds carefully, “It is… when they bring muffins to your workplace.”

You take a bite of the muffin and consider it.

Then, “You’ve been claimed.”

Nolan freezes. “I have not been—what does that even mean?”

Lucy is fully amused, shoulders relaxed for the first time since the shift started.

You finally glance at her.

“You’ll see,” you say.

Nolan looks genuinely unsettled now. “This is ridiculous.”

You nod once.

“Usually is,” you agree. “Right up until it isn’t.”

Lucy leans slightly closer to you, quieter now but still entertained.

“So what happens next?”

You glance at Nolan again.

“Now,” you say, “we find out whether he puts a stop to it first… or she escalates.”

Lucy laughs under her breath.

And for a moment, the station stops feeling like a pressure cooker and becomes what it always is underneath everything else:

People pretending they understand the rules of each other until they don’t.

The patrol continues with Lucy trying to turn every block into something worth analyzing.

She’s talkative.

Not in a bad way. Just in a way that suggests she’s decided silence means she’s doing something wrong.

“So if someone reports a domestic,” she’s saying as you roll through an intersection, “do we always assume it’s escalating, or is that like context-dependent?"

“It’s context-dependent," you say.

“Right,” she nods immediately. “But also statistically—”

You glance over briefly.

“Lucy.”

She stops.

Then, quickly, “Right. Sorry.”

A beat.

Then she starts again anyway, just redirected this time.

It doesn’t feel like defiance. It feels like momentum she hasn’t learned how to manage yet.

You let her talk while you drive.

You’re listening differently than she thinks you are.

Not to what she’s saying.

To how she stops listening when she gets excited.

The call comes in faster than the moment can really settle.

“7-Adam-15, respond to a 415 disturbance. Male subject in a public park, reportedly naked, covered in body paint, attempting to propose to strangers with flowers.”

Lucy sits up immediately beside you.

“Is that real?” she asks.

You’re already easing the shop into motion.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you say. “It’s always real.”

The park is worse in person, as these things usually are. There’s a crowd already forming, phones out, laughter spilling too loudly, that uneasy mix of amusement and discomfort that always shows up when something stops being funny the closer you get to it.

The man is standing on a bench in uneven red paint, glitter catching the light in patches that look almost ceremonial if you don’t look too closely. He’s holding a bouquet as if it means something sacred, as if it’s the only stable thing he has left to hold on to.

Lucy is already reacting before you’ve fully stepped out of the shop.

“Oh my God,” she mutters.

You close the door behind you.

“Stay with me,” you say.

“Yeah,” she answers quickly. “Got it.”

You approach together, but you can already feel the shift in her. She’s not just observing. She’s moving ahead of the situation, trying to get in front of it, trying to prove she can carry it.

The man spots you, and his voice lifts immediately, loud and unfiltered.

“LOVE IS A LIE UNTIL IT’S NOT!”

Lucy steps forward before you tell her to.

“Sir,” she starts, already in motion, “we just need you to step down from the bench—”

You watch her carefully. Not because she’s doing anything wrong yet, but because she’s doing too much too soon.

“Lucy,” you say quietly, a warning.

She doesn’t look back.

The man holds the flowers out like an offering.

“I PICKED THESE MYSELF WITH INTENTION!”

Lucy keeps going, a fraction too fast now. “That’s great, but you still can’t be—”

He steps down suddenly.

Too quickly.

Too close.

Lucy flinches back, then recovers just as fast, straightening like she’s trying to prove she didn’t need to flinch at all.

“I’ve got this,” she says, more to you than to him.

That’s where it shifts.

Because it isn’t about confidence anymore. It’s about control.

And she’s lost it before she realizes she’s lost it.

“Lucy,” you say again, sharper now.

She still doesn’t fully come back to you.

The man turns away from her just as quickly, escalating toward the onlookers instead, feeding off the attention now, feeding off the chaos. Lucy moves to intercept again without waiting for instructions.

That’s when you step in.

You close the distance between you and him, not rushing, not escalating, just taking the space that’s already slipping out of control and putting yourself in it. Your voice drops, not louder, just absolutely.

“Back up. Now.”

The effect is immediate.

Not because you’ve overwhelmed him, but because you’ve removed ambiguity. There’s nothing left for him to argue with.

He hesitates, then steps back.

Lucy stops completely this time.

She doesn’t speak while you take over, guiding him down, handing him off cleanly when backup arrives. She just watches.

When it’s over, and the scene finally releases its hold, there’s no adrenaline left to ride.

Just silence.

Lucy is quieter in the shop. Not shut down, just focused in a way that feels more deliberate than before. She’s watching the road, tracking intersections, thinking instead of reacting.

You let it sit for a while.

When you finally speak, your tone is calm. “We are not equals, Chen.”

She looks at you immediately.

Not defensive or hurt.

Just listening.

“You’re still a rookie,” you continue, “still being trained. While I like you, and I think you can do this job well, you aren’t there yet.”

That lands.

Her expression changes slightly, but she holds steady.

“So while you’re out here with me,” you say, “you listen to me, you learn from me, and you remember where you are in your training. Understood?”

A beat.

Then she straightens just slightly in her seat. “Yes, Officer.”

And that’s it.

And in that shift, something else settles into the car with you.

A distance you didn’t explicitly create but now have to operate inside of.

She isn’t trying to talk to you like a peer anymore. She’s listening to you like a mentor.

And you didn’t realize how much you had been relying on the version of her who wasn’t doing that yet.

The one who filled the silence. The one who made the car feel less like hierarchy and more like an exchange.

Now it’s just structure.

Back at the station, the shift dissolves into paperwork and recovery. The kind of end-of-day work that feels less like closure and more like documentation of everything that didn’t quite break.

You’re at your desk finishing your report when Lucy Chen finally steps away from hers, hovering for half a second like she might say something casual again and then doesn’t. She just gives you a small nod instead and heads off to complete her own paperwork.

That, more than anything, tells you that your words stuck.

It doesn’t feel like success. Not exactly.

You finish your write-up, sign off on Lucy’s performance notes, and make your way toward Sergeant Grey’s office to give your end-of-day report. He listens without interruption, only asking one question about the earlier call before nodding once and dismissing you with a simple, “Good work today.”

It’s not praise. Not really.

But it’s acknowledgment, and at the moment, that’s enough.

When you return to the bullpen, the station has shifted into that liminal post-shift state: half-empty desks, half-finished conversations, and the sound of lockers closing like punctuation marks.

Max is at a nearby desk, posture loose in the way it only is when he’s actively not engaging with anything around him. Close enough that you don’t have to look for him, far enough that he’s made it clear you won’t accidentally fall into conversation.

You don’t look at him for long.

You don’t need to.

Across the way, John Nolan is already in motion, his energy unchanged by the fact that the day is over. He spots you before you fully settle into your space and immediately makes his way over, like he’s decided you’re part of whatever he’s about to say next.

“I’m organizing something tonight,” he says, already mid-explanation. “Low stakes. No work talk. Anti–Valentine’s Day situation. Just food, drinks, general emotional recovery.”

You glance past him once, briefly toward Max.

He hasn’t moved, hasn’t reacted.

Nolan follows your line of sight without realizing it. “You should come,” he adds, a little too quickly, as if filling space before you can decline.

Max finally shifts slightly at that, but not enough to mean anything. Not enough to read.

You make your decision before you fully analyze why.

“No,” you say. “I’m just going to head home.”

Nolan accepts it without pushing, already shifting gears into his next attempt at convincing someone else.

You pack up slowly after that. Not because there’s anything left to do, just because leaving feels slightly more complicated than it should.

Max is still there when you walk out.

///

Home is quieter than you expect it to be.

Not peaceful. Just emptied in a way that makes everything feel slightly too present, your phone, your keys, and the sound of the fridge kicking on like it’s trying to fill the space no one else is.

You just exist in it for a while, still half in the station without meaning to be.

Then your phone buzzes.

Lucy Chen: So… Denise showed up at Nolan’s house.

Lucy Chen: Long story

Lucy Chen: I think you were right again???

There’s a second message after that.

Lucy Chen: Also, I'm really happy we were able to ride together today!

Relief hits first, small and steady, almost surprising in how simple it is. Lucy isn’t pulling away. She isn’t rethinking earlier; she isn’t making it into something heavier than it was. If anything, she’s still there. Still Lucy.

And that pulls your mind back, briefly, to how you’d been earlier with her. The way you’d spoken without fully softening the edges. Not unkind, but not careful either. Just direct in a way that might’ve landed differently depending on how she heard it.

You turn your phone over in your hand, then back again, like the motion might sort something out for you. It doesn’t.

Still, nothing in her messages feels distant. Nothing feels changed.

That’s what you hold onto as you finally set the phone down for a moment.

You end up eating something simple later, nothing thoughtful, nothing elaborate, just enough to make the evening feel anchored instead of floating. The kind of routine that doesn’t demand attention but still keeps you grounded. You move through it slowly, letting the apartment feel more like a place you’re actually in rather than somewhere you’re just passing through.

You’re half-reclined against the cushions, phone resting loosely in your hand, not really doing anything with it. Just there. Just part of the moment.

When it rings, the sound cuts through the quiet, sharper than it should.

Tim.

You answer before you give yourself time to overthink it.

"Yeah."

There’s a short pause on the other end, like he’s already in motion somewhere far away from where this conversation is about to land.

“I visited Isabel today.”

You shift slightly, glancing down at Phoebe like she might have an opinion on this, then back to the ceiling.

“Okay?” you say, not pushing, just… acknowledging it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. “I um… I’m done with her.”

That makes you pause for half a second, your gaze drifting unfocused as you register it.

“Oh… wow.”

“Yeah,” he continues, quieter now. “We just… it’s not the same. You know?”

You exhale softly through your nose, your hand absentmindedly settling on Phoebe’s back again, more for something to do than anything else.

“I um… "I think so?” you say honestly, after a moment. “Drugs change people. That I know.”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

A few seconds pass. Not awkward. Just open.

Then you ask it, gently, because it’s sitting there anyway. “Tim… why are you telling me this?”

There’s another pause, longer this time, like he’s actually considering whether there’s a better answer than the one he already has.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” he says finally. A small exhale follows it. “I just needed to tell someone.”

That’s it. No expansion. No justification. Just that.

You nod even though he can’t see it.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

Neither of you moves to end the call.

So it stays.

Just the two of you on a line that doesn’t need to be filled, the silence between words not uncomfortable, not strained, just present. Like something that doesn’t have to be solved to exist.

Phoebe shifts slightly against you, then settles again.

-----

Tags: @ttulipwritezz @shadysoulangel @timbradfordsgirl

[ang3l0fde4th4ndd0gs]

I don't get political on here. I simply don't. But right now I am viscerally pissed the fuck off.

The U.S. Supreme Court Has Eviscerated the Voting Rights Act — What’s Next?

A 6-3 U.S. Supreme Court decision in Louisiana v. Callais has eviscerated Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act (VRA) and opened the door for s

Please. Anything you can do, especially if you're from Louisiana or ANY southern state, call your senators, protest this, be fucking loud about it PLEASE.

Reblog, repost, share the link, anything. I haven't seen anything online about this yet, I had to search for it which is bad enough.

PLEASE BE FUCKING LOUD ABOUT THIS.

[toolonely1]

I swear i didnt check in and I MISSED CHAPTER 4??? LIKE GIRL WHY AM I A WHOLE 10 DAYS LATE TO THE PARTY HELLO???

Anyways, heres my thoughts on this AMAZING, SPECTACULAR 9K WORD MASTERPIECE YOU'VE WRITTEN. you have really outdone yourself because WHAT.

OH. MY GOD. I KNEW MAX WAS BOUND TO BURST SOONER OR LATER BUT THIS WAS JUST THE BEST BEST WAY YOU COUKDVE DONE IT. In the quiet, just between the two of them and building up all that sweet tension and the subtle realisations sprinked leading up to the whole thing OH MY GOD. Idk how you do it but you made me feel for BOTH of them??? and Like its the dichotomy of her realising max's feelings for her and her changing dynamic with tim and all of that happening withing the same senxond, the same sentence is an absolute masterpiece. I could write SO. So. Much about this xhapter ong. The imagery, the words you use, certain phrases i wouldve never imagined just go so so well with your style oh my daysni love them your honour. And the way shes there for tim constantly without it feeling pushy or too heavy??? Like its the most perfecf slow burn i've ever read.

100/10 chapter I LOVED IT take your time with the next one darling and i hope you do AMAZING on your finals because YOU DESERVE IT, lots of love mwah mwah i hope you're doing splendid!

Hiiii!!! I was wondering where you were (jokes obviously, I'm glad you were able to find the chapter!!)

Now for the fun stuff!! I'm SOOOO glad you liked the chapter!!! I was a little worried about how people would take tbh lmao

AND YES!!! Max was holding SO MUCH in, and it really was the straw that broke the camel's back for him to finally blow up! We are all just glad he waited until they were alone to do it!

I'm so glad that it came across the way I wanted it to! I didn't want anyone to be upset with Max; he's going through his own things, and feelings can be complicated!! and YES, poor reader is also struggling with her feelings and understanding how she feels for Tim, it's not her fault Max got stuck in between it all!!!

Ugh, I love that you enjoyed the actual writing too!! This was my favorite chapter to write so far and that was deffinetly a part of it!

WE'RE FINALLY GETTING TO THE SLOW BURN OF IT ALL!!!!!!!!! EVERYONE GET READY!!!!!!!!

And lastly, thank you for understanding it might take a while to get the next chapter up!! I'll do my best to get it out soon, though! Finals will be over next week, and after I secure my intership (super unrelated, but I'm sooo excited for this istg I'm screaming inside and out!!!!) I'll dive right back into the series!!

[amnmesias]

𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader

word count: 6.2k

tags: fem!reader. rockstar!reader. modern au. rock band au. sort of nuisances to lovers, angst. eventual fame au.   

a/n: the plan is in motion my friends 

part fourteen ˚.⋆♪⋆ series masterlist    

—

“Oh, and then we can end with Billy, so it matches the sound of the Weird Sisters.”

Remus pauses his absentminded plucking, letting his hand drop to his lap as he glances up. “I thought we agreed to end with the single?”

“Isn’t it better to start with that one?” you muse, not pausing your own strumming. Something to do with your hands, to distract yourself from the grounding pressure of Remus’ knee on the side of your thigh. Relatively away from you, but the touch sends shivers down your spine when he shifts, pressing closer to you by accident. 

Sirius continues pacing in front of you, fiddling with the microphone cord as he thinks. “Yeah, but how are we going to make an impression if we start with that one?”

“So they can recognize us?” James supplies distractedly, not quite listening to the conversation as he types furiously on his phone. 

“How about y/n’s song?” Peter adds, sounding slightly far away as he, too, types on his laptop. He’s set camp by the lounge near the entrance of your rehearsal room—especially requested for the band to begin preparing for this supposed tour. 

Your fingers freeze around the fretboard, a microscopic movement that passes by to the untrained eye, but Sirius pauses his pacing to glance down at you. 

“Maybe,” you hum, resuming your strumming like this one comment hasn’t rocked your world off its axis. Like you’re not feeling your heart pumping in your ears at the implication.

Peter, of course, is too far to pick up on your hesitation. “Why isn’t it on the setlist, by the way?” he looks up from his laptop, eyebrows furrowed like the thought has just occurred to him. “It’s the one song that’s getting more attention with the general audience.”

From across him at the lounge, Marlene hums in assent. “That’s true,” she says, her voice overlapping with her own furious typing as she works on the final touches for the band’s stage image. At the lack of answers, she glances up. “I mean, have you seen the stuff that has come up with the song? I’ve never wanted to participate that much in a trend before—how’s this?” she turns the screen to Kingsley.

You look away, finding it hard to think of logical counterpoints when their arguments are right. When there’s no point in arguing if it’s the plain truth. The song is doing well, along with your single, it makes for a nice mirroring experience for the EP in general—a cohesive question and answer about a situation that can be interpreted as similar, even if it isn’t. The fall in love phase versus the come down. It’s almost funny how you’re stuck between both.

The trend, itself, is sweet. Something out of youth culture and fantasies when you first fall in love, where they use inspiration from your overall band aesthetic and EP cover to post photobooth strips that started their love story. It’s all you can see when you search the song on different platforms—a bloody nightmare. Especially when you can’t find yourself to glance at the one photobooth strip that started this whole mess in the first place.

At your lack of answer, too deep in your head, Remus bumps his knee into yours to get your attention. His gaze is warm and understanding when you look up, nibbling at your lower lip with contained anxiety. He nudges your knee again, a quiet check in that makes your heart flutter.

You clear your throat. “M’m not opposed to it, it’s just… it’ll be a hassle to play live,” you shrug, all feigned nonchalance as you begin strumming again. The notes you pick are unconscious, but no one mentions how it’s basically the chorus of the song. “With the synth and all.”

“We can make it work,” Kingsley nods. “Add a synth to your instrument list for the set.”

“But,” your eyebrows pinch together, not quite stopping your strumming as the thoughts begin picking up in intensity inside your head. “How? I don’t have time to learn it, or maybe not for the first dates. And how about the guitar parts?”

Sirius clears his throat, lowering himself to sit at the edge of the makeshift stage to be at eye level with you. “I can play it,” he says, genuine care in his tone as he holds your gaze. “I can play the synth so you don’t have to compromise the guitar parts. If we decide to add the song, that is.”

He tilts his head slightly to the side, softening his expression when you begin drifting off. A curl falls off to his face, and you’re cruelly brought back to the rooftop, your whispered conversation, trading secrets in the dark like to lovesick teenagers. Your fingers tingle over your fretboard at the memory, pulling you back to the way he melted into your touch. 

You look away, dropping your hands to your lap. “It’s not just my decision to make,” you mumble, shifting your position. Remus does the same, not at all minding the way you’re now sitting a bit farther away from him. “We should put it to a vote.”

“I think you should add it,” says Peter.

“Band vote,” Sirius answers back, not quite glancing up. He turns to look at James over his shoulder instead. “What d’you think, Prongs?”    

James’ head snaps up. “Huh?”

At your side, Remus sighs. “Jamie, have you even been listening?”

“Yeah,” James pushes his glasses up, nearly missing his glasses with his drumstick. A testament of how distracted he is. “Yeah, about playing the single.”

You all groan. Unsurprisingly, yours sounds a tad more exasperated at this stalling—at the fact that you must revisit the entire conversation to put James in context before casting his vote. From the lounge, Kingsley exhales deeply, looking back down at his phone, and typing whatever he paused for this conversation. 

Sirius sits properly, twisting just enough to send James a halfhearted glare. “What are you even doing back there?”

“Yeah,” you pile on immediately, with the hope of, maybe, stalling enough to drop this vote thing altogether. “What’s got you so distracted today?”

“Nothing.”

Remus’ lips twitch amusedly when James’ face, as always, betrays him with a soft blush. “That’s not nothing,” he murmurs.

James scoffs, banging an absentminded rhythm. The tips of his ears are turning pink between his curls, bouncing as he grows momentum with his drums. A silent dismissal to the interrogation and conversation altogether. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to his phone, lingering just enough to make him miss a count.

At your side, Remus shifts as he draws his bass closer. “He’s been like this all day,” he tells you, quiet enough to pass like a secret he’s sharing with you. “Sirius and I suspect he’s stressing about leaving Lily and—” he stops himself.

You nod, prompting. “…and?”

“And his mum,” Sirius says. Too quickly. You don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to Remus before returning to you. “They never go a day without talking or seeing each other.”

“Oh,” you say, lifting your chin to look at James behind Sirius, still going at it with the drums. He’s unconsciously practicing your song as well. Jesus. You force your gaze back to your guitar. “That’s sort of sweet.”

“Yeah, she’s a very sweet woman, our Effie,” Sirius hums, grey eyes scanning you curiously. A fondness that clings to his expression every time James’ mum is brought up to the conversation. Totally not because he’s looking at you. “She’ll love you.”

You blink. “What?”

“She already does,” Remus adds, lips curling up into a tentative smile when your head whips to him. “Has been nagging both Sirius or James to invite you over.”

“That’s…” you frown, feeling an echo inside your body at their certainty that she would love you. Or that she already does. “I haven’t even met her?”

“She sort of has—Monty, that’s James’ dad,” Sirius shifts closer over the edge of the stage, unconsciously or not creating a bubble of you three as James continues in his own world and the managers in theirs. “Said she’s been playing the EP nonstop.”

Remus huffs a laugh. “It’s like that first demo we showed her, remember?” his voice is laced with nothing but warmth at the memory. You’re startled to hear it seep into his eyes when he turns to you. “When we recorded our first demo, she kept playing it day and night, every single day. The neighbors had to make a house call ‘cause they thought something had happened and they left the record player going.”

The story is so silly, and his eyes are so full of mischief, a surprised laugh escapes your lips. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Sirius laughs, too. “Wish I was, lovely. And that’s not where the story ends.”

“There’s more?” amusement and warmth drips from your words as you speak, shifting in your own makeshift seat to listen closely. 

“She got all up on their faces,” Sirius goes on, lips widening into a genuine smile at your curiosity. “And then the police was called.”

“It was a whole fucking thing—woke up the entire neighborhood and everything,” says Remus, smirking as well at the way your lips part in delighted surprise. “And want to know what she did?”

Your eyes glisten when they flicker to meet his. “What?”

“She started telling them about the band.” 

“Oh, god,” you say, your chuckles grow in intensity at the implication. The absurdity of their story and how much sense it makes when you think this is James’ mum they’re talking about. “She didn’t.”

“She definitely did.”

You glance back at James, slowly coming down from his own spiraling. “That makes sense,” you mumble, feeling the vulnerability wrapping around your little bubble, trying to find a way in. “That’s so sweet.”

“Yeah,” Remus nods, leaning back over his arms. “Now you know why we can’t put it past her if she starts harassing people with the EP.”

You smile. “And I’d highly recommend you let her,” they share a look at your easy tone, the way you’re slowly but surely beginning to relax into the conversation. “Maybe James’ mum appearing on the news is all the promotion we need.”

This does pull a bark of laughter out of Sirius. You blink in surprise at his suddenness. Remus takes a second to bask in your reaction before dipping his chin low to whisper conspiratorially at you, “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your eyebrows snap up. “Not the first time?”

“Oi, you’re talking about George Harrison’s biggest fan,” Sirius says between chuckles. “Effie invented Beatlemania.” 

“You’re joking.”

“He’s not,” James says, voice less stern and stance more relaxed he stops banging his drums. “She used to be in tons of fan clubs when she was younger. M’sure you can find some footage if you go looking.”

“Wait,” you turn, leaning over Remus to look at James. “you’re not joking?”

This does pull a smile out of him, eyes tinkling with mischief as he nods. “Of course I’m not joking,” he laughs. “Why do you think I am the way I am?”

You laugh. “That’s fair, yeah.”

Of course, your shared moment doesn’t last much. The bubble bursts with a boisterous movement as the doors of the room slide open, ricocheting against the walls as a few of the label’s technicians walk in carrying a synthesizer. 

At the way your face slackens, spine straightening like a coil snapping loose, Sirius pushes himself to stand. He reaches for the mic, “Oi, what’s all this?” he asks the room, or the technicians, anyone who can answer. 

Kingsley clears his throat. “I’ve ordered them to bring it, so you can begin practicing the song,” he explains distractedly as he points at the synthesizer then at the makeshift stage. “We’re already running behind schedule with rehearsals so best to get on with it now.”

Sirius frowns. “But we haven’t even decided if it’s going on the setlist,” he argues, a faint edge to his tone. 

At this, Kingsley does look at him with surprise. Sirius tilts his chin up, a quiet challenge across the rehearsal room. 

Of course, Remus senses the tension beginning to engulf the room. “Why don’t we give it a feel first?” he asks tentatively, cutting a quick sideways glance your way before turning to Kingsley. “We’ve never even performed this song. We can’t decide if it’s stage ready if we don’t give it a go.”

His eyes flicker from Remus to Sirius, then at you. His head follows as he levels you with a look. “What do you think?”

Various sets of eyes land on you, like a badly timed horror film scene or a cruel joke from the universe. Instinctively, you pull your guitar closer to you, fingers finding the neck in a reflexive reaction. 

“Uh…” you pretend to look down at your phone, checking the time like you may have somewhere to be. Nerves prickle at your palms when a sigh comes from the deep end of the room, sounding awfully similar to Kingsley. “Okay, yeah,” you nod slowly.

“Yeah?” Remus asks again, searching for your gaze. If he shifts to lean back, pointedly blocking your view of Kingsley, you’re too busy fiddling with your strap to notice. 

“Yeah,” your voice quietens, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “You’re right, how would we know if the song should be added if we’ve never played it?”

Remus holds your gaze, and for once, to let him. His amber eyes rove over your face, cataloguing any micro expression that may show him how sure you are about this. And you let him. You let him study you closely until he’s somewhat decided to go along with this. You carefully hold your guitar to push yourself to stand, swallowing with simmering nerves when he does the same. Your arms brush when you both walk to the makeshift stage.

Sirius wordlessly stretches a hand out to you, pointedly ignoring how he’s in the way to let the technicians finish setting up the synth, to help you up. He does the same to Remus until you’re all back standing on your marked places.

“It’ll be just a quick run through, yeah?” he still says, like he can’t help it. You nod rigorously, wetting your lips nervously. The movement makes a strand of hair fall to your face, and Sirius unconsciously unfolds an arm to tuck it away behind your ear. Careful of your earrings as he waits for your nerves to settle down. You glance up. “We don’t have to play it live, or decide anything right now. This is just so he can leave you alone, yeah?” he whispers to you.

You let out a sharp exhale. “Okay, yeah.”

His lips twitch into a small smile, sincere in his reassurance as he looks over your shoulder, nodding at Remus behind you. “Great,” his eyes flit back to you. 

“All done,” the technician says, walking away from the synth that has been installed next to Sirius’ microphone and guitar stand. Sirius only sends them a curt nod in dismissal. 

“Thanks,” it’s all he says, stepping closer to begin testing it and doing a few practice notes. It makes your nerves settle into something more bearable, something less intense. 

It takes a few trials and errors, trying to come up with the right balance of timing and placement. A lot of messing up the lyrics and Sirius giving you tips about how to ease the nerves of actually having to sing. Both his tone and his answers to your question are infinite in their patience, taking his time to answer each question and not at all minding when you pause mid song to ask another question. 

By the time you feel a bit closer to being ready, Kingsley is already frowning with certain impatience as he types something on his phone. The song is barely starting, synth leaking into the room and humming from the speakers before he’s whispering at Peter to excuse himself and walking out.

It’s enough to set free the knot inside your chest, around your ribcage and awfully close to your heart as you take a steadying breath to begin singing. Sirius smiles down at the synth, it harmonizes with your voice in a humming mix of nostalgia and longing. 

When the beat drops—in a deafening bang of drums behind you, the song nearly leaps out of you with the intensity of your frayed nerves and complicated emotions and the quiet intensity of your own voice—it seems clear to everyone, even you, that a decision has been made.

…

“No, no—that’s not how it happened and you know that, Moons!”

Remus is too busy chuckling into his hands to offer a counterpoint. You blow the smoke out of the corner of your lips, watching in quiet awe how Sirius, even in his feigned upset, pulls Remus by his sleeve. Saving him from walking into traffic as you stop by a red light. 

“Don’t listen to him, lovely,” he tells you, still clinging to his theatrics as Remus’ laugh fades slowly. It still spills quietly with a silent shake of his shoulders. “It was just an accident, I’m not secretly a robber, or anything.”

You laugh. “So you took her backpack by accident?” you reiterate, forcing him to reconsider his excuse. “Inside the girl’s lockers?”

“It was an accident! The doors didn’t have signs—and it was my first day!” he spreads his arms out. Remus laughs louder at this. Sirius only rolls his eyes, handing him his cigarette in hopes of making him stop taking the piss at his teenager self’s expense. “I wish James was here—he’d back me up.”

“James is the one who keeps retelling this story,” Remus chuckles, a puff of smoke leaving his lips at this. He waves it away when the wind drags it in your direction. “If anything, he’d back me up.”

“Love,” Remus levels him with a look. Love. You look down, taking a long drag and feeling your lips curl around the cigarette. “He’s the one who came up with Pads.”

Sirius swats him lightly, making a show of struggling to steal his cigarette back. “That traitorous snake—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Remus rolls his eyes, setting the cigarette between Sirius’ lips before shoving him away lightly, almost playfully before turning to you. “There you go, big baby.”

“You’re so cruel to me.”

“Cruel?” you ask, voice twinged with mischief as you smirk at him. “How about that poor girl you stole her pads from?”

Sirius gawps. “Et tu, gorgeous?” he points at you, taking a long drag before snubbing his cig out onto the pavement. “Bunch of traitors, the lot of you.”

Remus nudges your side. “Don’t forget her backpack.”

Before Sirius can come up with a witty response, the light turns green and he’s being lovingly manhandled to continue walking as the crowd moves. You follow after them without a second thought, feeling the corners of your lips permanently curled the more they bicker around you. Their quiet affections and the even quiet knowing smiles they share between them.

“…dove?”

You blink, shaking your head in one swift movement before looking up. “Hm?” you exhale, letting the smoke curl away from them before snubbing out your own cigarette. “Sorry, what d’you say?”

Remus’ lips twitch. “You’re fine—just wondering if you’re up for a quick pick-me-up before heading home?”

“Oh,” you blink again. Mostly to make your brain work. It’s hard when you’re under their combined attention. “Uh, sure, yeah. I could have a drink.”

Sirius flashes you a grin, arm looping around yours before you can finish speaking. He guides you through the crowd into a small pub at the very corner of the street, slightly full despite how hidden it can be if you’re not seeking it out. Remus walks a few steps behind with a smile that’s proving hard to shake off. 

He holds the door open for you two to walk in, smile turning fond when your gazes meet. The lights engulf you in that warm way that softens your features as Sirius guides you to the first empty table he can find. A small disco ball hangs from the ceiling in the middle of the room, spinning slowly and reflecting into every surface, every face and every person inside the pub. The music overlaps with the chattering of laughter and voices, clinking of pints and whistles. Remus feels the ever consuming and oftentimes unbearable tenderness hitting him square in the chest when he glances up from the bar to find you and Sirius whispering in one of the booths. 

He walks up to you with your orders and a pack of salted peanuts tucked under his arm. You scramble to stand and help him take them to the table, looking somewhat bashful when he smiles at you. Remus sends you one in return. 

“What’s this—ooh,” Sirius says, taking the bag of snacks for inspection. “You’re taking advantage that James isn’t here, aren’t you?”

Remus only shrugs, sipping at his pint without offering another explanation. His eyes wander to you, taking the pack from Sirius. You rip it open down the seam, pushing your torso closer to the edge of the table to stop them from falling down before setting the bag flat between you over the table. His heart does another somersault at this, at your ease and lovely smile that turns bemused when you notice them staring a bit too long.

“What?” you pop a few into your mouth. “I thought it was to share?”

Sirius watches from his peripheral as Remus takes another sip of his pint. Coward. “It is, gorgeous—help yourself.”

Your cheeks warm at the moniker, now less distracted to process how it sucker punches your heart. You reach for your own pint instead of offering an answer.

Sirius decides he’ll be benevolent for now. “Why didn’t James come, anyway? This was a band outing.”

“Oh, he said he had a thing with Lily,” Remus explains. Sirius turns to him, raising an eyebrow. Now you speak? Remus only winks at him in response before turning to you. “Didn’t really specify, right?”

“Yeah, he was being dodgy again,” you pass a thumb over the corner of your lips to clean the foam from your beer. An involuntary and well practiced movement that still makes their eyes follow your finger. “I get that he’s worried about his mum and Lily but this vagueness is excessive. Even for me,” you go on, unaware.

“Vague, yeah,” Remus clears his throat, drawing a finger over the rim of his pint. “But not really strange.”

“No?”

“No,” Sirius agrees, stretching his arms over his head. Remus sends him an unimpressed look when he leans back to rest a hand over the back of the booth. Sirius pretends not to have noticed, or like it was an accident. “He always gets like this when—” 

“When he’s stressed.”

Your eyes flicker between them, eyebrows raised in curiosity before crossing your arms over the table. “Alright, tell me what’s going on.”

Remus looks away from the warning glance he’s sending Sirius to focus on you. “Huh?”

“Yeah, what’re you talking about, lovely?” Sirius adds, his arm over the booth nudges your shoulder. “Nothing’s going on—unless you want to talk about that killer performance.”

“You’re being weird,” you say, leveling them with another mock stern look. “Every time I ask about James.”

“James?”

“Yeah.”

“Our James?”

You roll your eyes, leaning back on the booth. If Sirius’ arm brushes around your shoulders, you do a great job hiding it in your expression. “Alright, fine—be as sneaky as you want…”

“They’re at the pub. Him and Lily,” Sirius blurts out.

Two sets of eyes turn to him. One with resignation and the other with confusion. Your brows wrinkle to accompany the evident confusion in your gaze. “Why? They should’ve come with us.”

“Yeah, well,” he reaches for a fistful of salted peanuts for himself. “Maybe they wanted to go to that specific one.”

“They’re always there,” you send him a look. 

“Or maybe they just want a night for themselves?” Sirius presses, flashing you an innocent grin. He pointedly pops one into his mouth at your fond eyeroll. “Now that is settled and your curiosity has been quelled—”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“How did it feel?” Sirius goes on, like you hadn’t tried to cut him off. He sends you another cheeky smile, popping more salted peanuts into his mouth. From across the booth, Remus draws out a long suffering sigh. “Actually performing the song?”

Under the table, Remus nudges his boot. “Let her breathe, Pads,” he chides him softly before turning to you. “You don’t have to answer that, dove.”

You pause your sipping to meet his gaze. “No, s’fine,” you shrug one shoulder, seeming, surprisingly, fine with the question. “It helped. Performing it, I mean.”

“Yeah?” Remus asks, feeling his lips curling into a smile when yours do as well. He drops his chin to his palm, studying you in that quiet fondness as you try to find the words. “How so?”

His open curiosity tugs at your heartstrings, but there’s a nudge at your shoulder that makes the feeling more bearable. “Um, well,” you brush your hair away from your face, slightly rumpled with the air from outside. “Not having an audience was nice. I mean—I know it won’t always be like this, but… to start? It felt easier to let it all out, I s’pose.”

Sirius shifts by your side, scooting closer enough that his arm is one wrong moment away from properly curling around your shoulders. “We’ll ease you into it. First few shows, we test the waters… keep it small, see if the audience likes it, and build up to it, yeah?” he says, voice soft and steady when you turn to meet his gaze. He smirks at you. “Unlike that Kingsley, we’re not in the habit of throwing you to the wolves.”

Your smile is bemused when you hold his gaze. “You sort of did, not sure if you remember.”

“Oi,” he gasps, curling an arm around your shoulders to jostle you playfully. “Will you ever let that go, free me from my penance?”

All you answer with is another eyeroll, a much common reaction to his antics and how openly freeing it is to see them do it with you. Not around you. You give your pint another sip before the thought can show on your face. Of course, Remus notices when your eyes glance up at him. He gives his own pint a sip while holding your gaze. 

When his eyes linger to the side to Sirius’ arm still draped around your shoulders, you swear you can almost see his smile turn smug.

“Oh!” Sirius perks up, nearly choking with his own beer as he points at something behind Remus. You both follow his gaze only to stall enough to compose yourselves. It lasts shortly when you notice what he’s pointing at. 

As the crowd parts at the deep end of the pub, slowly emptying, you can make out the form of a large and very vintage looking photobooth sitting at the corner. There’s a small line outside, two couples and a large group of friends that you’re sure will struggle to fit into such a compact space. 

“I have an idea,” Sirius says, turning to Remus. 

Remus sighs. “I’m not carrying change.”

“I have,” you murmur. 

Sirius draws you closer by the shoulders. “Thanks, lovely—but that’s not the whole idea I had in mind.” Your eyebrows furrow. Not because of his sudden closeness, but because you can’t quite understand what his idea is. He only smiles, eyes flickering between the side of your face to an amused Remus. “We should seek one of those at every stop we do on tour,” he finally says after his dramatic pause.

“Every stop.” Remus repeats, mostly curious and not at all surprised by his boyfriend’s antics. “That’s going to be a big waste of paper.”

“Not true. They’ll be for safekeeping,” he argues, winking like his argument has a hidden meaning. Whatever it is makes Remus look away, giving you two a clear view of his blushed cheeks. “Or we can post them on our socials! Join the trend!”

“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” you say quietly. “It can be fun.”

Sirius’ smile spreads at this. “You think so?”

“Yeah, why not?” you shrug, trying to control the fluttering in your stomach. “It can be like a little souvenir.”

“You get it!” he reaches for his pint, nearly downing it before he’s sliding off the booth. “Come on, then. Let’s start.”

You blink, momentarily stunned. “Now?”

“Yeah, why not?” 

“But James isn’t here,” you say, watching as he begins running his fingers through his hair. “We can’t start the tradition without him.”

To your surprise, Remus stands as well. “Best to humour him, dove,” he whispers conspiratorially at you, lips twitching when you hesitate to stand. “or he’ll be nagging us all night about this.”

“Oh,” you nod slowly, watching as he waits for you to stand. Sirius has already made a run for the photobooth to stand in line. His smile is borderline ridiculous in its affection when he winks at Remus. Oh. “Right, yeah.”

You follow after him, reaching inside the pockets of your jeans for the spare change of your coffee run mid rehearsal. You’ve got enough for just their strip, but that’s fine. 

When you catch up to them, Sirius is already chatting up the group of girls standing outside waiting for their turn. He’s sporting his usual charmingly annoying frontman smile as they slur and flail their arms around trying to answer his questions. Remus watches by his side with a sort of bemused smile.

“Hope we get to see you at our next gig,” Sirius is saying, winking in their direction and causing exactly the reaction you knew it’d happen. You’re trying to copy his confidence when his eyes find you. “Oh, come here, lovely—look, this is y/n. She’s the mastermind behind your life changing night out.”

Your brows wrinkle in confusion, a reaction that Remus mirrors as you both turn to Sirius. Who, of course, doesn’t jump to explain as he points at one of the girls.

“Hi,” you smile at her, stretching a hand out. She takes it with wonky and overly excited energy. “Oh—um, nice meeting you.”

“I loved it,” she slurs, letting her friend hold her up. “And thank you.”

“Thank you,” you laugh, startled. “And… thank you?”

When she doesn’t jump to explain, either, a friend of hers clears her throat. “She kissed the girl she fancies during a night out while dancing to your song,” she explains. “The love one.”

Recognition dawns on you. “Ah,” you nod. Then you fix your tone immediately when you realize what it actually means. “Oh, fuck—that’s so lovely. I’m very happy to hear that,” the words stumble out of you, sincerely touched by the story. “I didn’t… wow—”

You feel a hand at your spine, pressed between you and the wall but still managing to stroke up and down. Remus makes an amused sound at your struggle to find the correct words. 

“That… actually means a lot,” you settle for, turning to the girl. “I’m glad you took the leap. What happened then, if it’s okay to ask?”

The girl, clearly sloshed, blurts out, “We shagged.”

Her friend nudges her. “Babe.”

Your startled laugh is louder this time. “Oh,” you cover your mouth, trying to control the giggles. The girl copies you in her own inebriated state. “That’s… I’m glad it turned out well.”

She parts her lips to speak, but her friends are already guiding her away. Clearly too gone to even stand still for a photobooth. 

“Sorry about that,” one of them says, staying back. “We really do love your music—it was an honour meeting you.”

Sirius smirks. “Why, thank you, babe. The pleasure was all ours,” he winks, then juts his chin out to the path her friends walked to. “And be careful on your way back home, yeah?”

Something twinges inside your chest at this, but Sirius is too busy talking with the girl to notice. Remus’ thumb strokes your back instead. Like he felt it too. The girl walks away to catch up with her friends, leaving behind a silence without their drunk ruckus. Or as silent it can be this part of the pub. 

“Right, so,” he clasps his hands, turning to the booth. It’s their turn now that the girls have walked away from the line. Sirius smiles when his eyes land on Remus’ arm, the direction it’s stretched towards. “Shall we?”

You blink, shaking yourself off the moment before stepping away to insert the coins. “Right, sorry,” you mumble, pausing before inserting the last one. “I’ve only got enough for one attempt, are you ready?”

Sirius is already stepping inside, pulling Remus along. “Yeah, s’fine,” they settle side by side. His arm comes around Sirius’ waist. You look down at the coins. “Hurry up, doll!”

You insert the coin quickly, even quicker in your movements to draw the curtain closed for them. But then, Remus’ finger is curling around your belt hoop, pulling you inside in such a hurry you stumble into their laps.  

“What—”

“Quick!” Sirius hurries, wrapping his arms around your middle, giving it a gentle squeeze when the countdown starts. Remus wordlessly draws the curtain closed. “Oh, fuck, we didn’t think poses—”

Remus twists, hooking his chin over your shoulder, flashing his characteristic soft smile for the camera. You do the same on instinct, though it appears wonky as the flash goes off when Sirius smooches your cheek at the last second. It makes the ground give out under you—thankfully, they’re there to hold you steady. 

“Wait, wait, I have an idea—we should do yours,” Sirius says quickly, between fits of giggles as he brings his palms to his cheeks. He pulls a face similar to yours in a way that is so absurdly cute, it pulls a startled laugh out of you. Of course, the flash goes off at that exact moment. 

“Prick,” you grumble with no real heat, pretending to shove him away. Sirius only holds you closer to his front, his thumb brushes the sliver of skin that shows up with your tee that keeps riding up with all the jostling. His ring is icy cold against your skin, and you instinctively put a hand over his. 

Instinctively as well, you raise an arm, clumsily reaching to curl it around Remus. He shifts closer, and you’re acutely aware of how this pose can look to the untrained eye when his cheek rests over the side of your head. The flash goes off before you can overthink it. 

The three of you are pressed so close together, it’s hard to know where you end and where you begin. Remus nuzzles his nose into your temple, fingers pinching your jaw to guide your face closer. He drops a quick kiss to your cheek at the same time Sirius does at the corner of your lips. The final flash goes off.  

A silence follows as the camera hums, then stirs like it's printing the strip. A beat where Remus’ lips linger, resting there before he’s pulling away in the same breath Sirius, slowly, grows the courage to move them slightly to the side. Enough to line them with yours. 

Someone bangs the side, cruelly dragging you back to reality. “Oi—what’s taking so long? Your turn’s over!” they call out.

You jump to your feet, brushing your hair away from your face without giving them so much as a second glance to step out of the booth. The boy outside blinks in surprise, and you offer him a sorry smile while Remus and Sirius stumble out behind you. 

The booth whirs loudly, and the strip comes out. Sirius, of course, is the one to reach out to take it. You cross your arms over your chest, wetting your lips nervously when he looks down at it. His expression is far from readable, eyebrows pinched together and lips downturned in a slight frown to match Remus. They lean closer to peer down at the strip before he’s turning to hand it to you.

“Oh, that’s not—”

Remus presses it to your hand, lips twitching into a tentative little smile. “It’s yours.”

You hold his gaze, then glance over at Sirius who’s studying you with the same intensity. Cracked open in vulnerability as you press it face down against your chest, lest someone catches a glimpse. 

The tension that embraces you makes your skin crawl. The walk back home is almost unbearable where they refuse to let the silence get longer, and you refuse to talk or answer to their attempts. Not when all you can think of is their lips on you, your cheek, your face, your lips. The way they had acted on the same impulse—fuck, and how you let them. How much you enjoyed it.

Their goodbyes are careful, bordering on iciness if there wasn’t actual proof of how not cold they feel towards you. Your navel feels warm where Sirius touched it. 

The strip remains pressed to your chest all the way up to your flat, and you don’t let yourself look at it until the door of your room clicks closed behind you.

You uncover it slowly, feeling your heart thumping and your ears ringing when your eyes land on the last picture. Your thumb brushes it in an absentminded manner, trying to ignore the realization that something has fundamentally shifted between you. And worse—something that you don’t think you’d pull away from if it happened again.

[toolonely1]

Stoppppp the ending????? I’ll be anxiously waiting for the next part!!

[pinkynore22]

bare minimum

adrian chase x reader

adrian yells at you for the first time.

i feel like not yelling or cursing at your partner is the bare fucking minimum hence the title lmao

warnings: mention of killing, adrian yelling/cursing at you, insecure adrian, that’s it lol

authors note: please do not interact with my fics if you are under 21 you will be blocked! :)

you’re sat on your couch, sitting criss cross with adrian right next to you, your knees bumping one another’s. you’ve been playing super mario wonder together for what seems like hours. you like video games too but adrian takes it very seriously.

you two have been trying to beat this level for 30 minutes but both of you keep dying. you can tell he’s starting to get frustrated.

you make a silly mistake causing both of you to die yet again.

GAME OVER

“OHMYFUCKINGGOD WHY CANT YOU—“

he turns to see your wide eyes, a pout forming on your lips.

you genuinely did feel bad, it was your fault but he’s never yelled at you before, never even slightly raised his voice. it’s rare for you two to have an argument but if it happens, you talk through it calmly or he lets you yell at him until you feel better (another rare thing, you don’t like to yell at him either). he never yells back and he’s never called you a bad name.

the only time he’s ever “raised his voice” at you was when he was drunk and way too excited to tell you this fact he learned about anteaters.

you’re mainly just surprised as you lean away from him a bit.

adrian realizes his mistake and is immediately no longer angry.

he takes a deep breath to calm himself.

“s-sorry, we can try it again babe,” planting a small kiss to the side of your temple. you stay quiet, trying to process what just happened.

he’s silent for a moment before he finally speaks again,

“i didn’t mean to yell at you,” he’s now facing toward the tv, brows furrowed.

“this game is just pissing me off. how have we not beat this level yet, fuck!” he slumps and throws his head back.

“sorry, i-“ you start.

his head shoots back up as he looks at you,“nonono, don’t apologize, please don’t apologize. i’m sorry.”

“it’s okay, you just…surprised me, i guess. i’ve never heard your voice sound like that,” you try to find a way to word it, forcing a small awkward laugh to the end of your sentence.

“it is so not okay, i promised id never talk to you like that.” his voice gets quieter and he turns away from you again.

“you promised? to who?”

“myself. it’s not— you don’t deserve it. you don’t talk to people you love like that.” he’s looking down at the controller in his hands. you know it’s hard for him to be vulnerable like this, even with you.

“baby i really appreciate that, thats really sweet.” you run a hand through his hair, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck.

“and you’re right you shouldn’t talk to people you love like that. but i also know you were mad at the game, not me. i didn’t take it seriously, i promise.”

“but i still shouldn’t do it. because i still yelled at you, not the game.” he looks at you with those sad puppy dog eyes.

you’re quiet for a moment trying to figure out what to say. you can tell he really is sorry. he must’ve just forgotten who he was playing with.

“i know you’d never be mean to me on purpose,” you smile at him and kiss his cheek. he nods and leans into you.

“never, i swear!”

“maybe we take a break?” you brush some hair off his forehead.

“we can order some food, maybe makeout for a while and then come back and beat this level?”

he nods his head so fast you think his neck might snap off.

“yepp,” he’s already getting up and grabbing your wrist to drag you along behind.

he orders your favorite fast food place and gets extra desserts as another way to say sorry. and little do you know you’ll wake up to breakfast and your favorite flowers in the morning because he still feels bad. you remind him that you’ve already forgiven him and he’s the sweetest boyfriend in the world but it doesn’t stop the thoughts in his head that you could leave him if he doesn’t treat you right. not that he ever treats you wrong, why would he want to?

you’re his entire world, he loves you more than he’s ever loved anyone or anything. so of course he’d never curse at you or fight with you. and of course he’d buy you whatever you wanted or kill anyone who even mildly inconveniences you.

it’s the bare minimum.

he stays true to his word and never raises his voice at you again, even when it’s your fault you both die and lose the final bowser battle.

when you scrunch up your nose like that and give him that apologetic smile, you’re so cute it makes his heart swell, there’s no way he could be mad at you anyway.

————————————————————————

[hollis-art]

mind you, only one of these people has the right to think this

[toolonely1]

Hello! Love love LOVE your writing! I was wondering, do you have a posting schedule? I've been checking your page basically daily for when you post 😅

Hi thank you so much! I actually don’t have a posting schedule and I try to get the anything out as soon as I’m done writing it :)

Unfortunately I’ve been SUPER busy with my job and classes (finals are coming up and I’m STRESSED) so I’ve been a little slower writing :/

Buttt give me a month or so for life to slow back down and things will hopefully kick back up!!