Dreamer

𝓟airing : true crime podcaster! ramsay x fem! reader

𝓢ummary : you are the closest person of the last victim of his recent case, and he take the opportunity to interviewed you.

𝒞w : mention of obsession.

The recording studio was nothing like you had imagined before. You’d expected neon lights, glass walls overlooking the city, producers bustling around with clipboards.

Instead, it was … quiet.

Warm lighting. Dark wooden shelves crowded with books on criminology and psychology. A corkboard filled with timelines and photographs from solved cases, every pin perfectly aligned.

Two expensive microphones sat opposite each other at a round table, their polished metal catching the afternoon light.

It almost felt comforting.

Almost.

“Miss ?”

You looked up, startled.

The assistant smiled kindly, “he’s ready and already waiting for you.” Your stomach twisted.

You had listened to Black Archives since university ; during long drives, sleepless nights or even when cleaning your apartment at two in the morning.

Ramsay’s voice had become strangely familiar over the years, slow, measured, and almost soothing despite the horrific and disturbing stories he told.

People joked that he could narrate grocery lists and make them suspenseful.

Now you were about to meet him in person, face to face.

You rubbed your sweaty palms against your skirt before stepping inside, “uhm…Hello ?”

He was already standing.

Taller than you’d expected.

Dark curls slightly messy, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, headphones resting around his neck. Handsome.

His smile appeared immediately. Not too large, just enough, at least warm enough to put people at ease.

“You must be my new guest.”

His voice sounded exactly like the podcast ; Smooth, controlled, comforting. And for one impossible second you forgot why you were here.

“Hi,” you laughed nervously. “I’m… like wow.”

He tilted his head, “wow ?”

“I didn’t think your voice could somehow sound the same in real life.”

A soft chuckle, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It definitely is.”

He gestured toward the chair. “I’m very sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

Reality settled back over you like heavy rain, the reason for your presence here. Your smile disappeared, “so am I.”

Silence, not an uncomfortable one, just respectful.

“I’m truly sorry for your family’s loss.” He said it with practiced sincerity, beecause he had said those words dozens of times.

Hundreds.

Maybe even thousands.

But this time, he watched the exact way your shoulders lowered, how your fingers twisted together or even how you looked toward the floor instead of meeting his eyes whenever your cousin’s name was mentioned.

Exactly the same as in the security footage from the funeral.

Exactly the same as outside the courthouse three weeks ago.

Exactly the same as the video your aunt uploaded after the memorial service.

You still wrung your hands when you were trying not to cry. He’d wondered if it was coincidence the first time he had watched it, apparently not.

Interesting.

“So…” you laughed awkwardly, “I should probably stop acting like a fan.”

“You can be both.”

“Hm ?”

“A grieving relative,” he said gently, suspiciously way too gentle for someone like him, “and someone who listens to the show.”

Your cheeks warmed, “I listen every week.”

“I know.” The words escaped before he could stop them, damn. A tiny pause, “I mean, your email mentioned it.”

“Oh.” you nodded, “right.”

Smooth recovery and he almost smiled.

The microphones remained muted while the sound engineer adjusted levels through the glass.

Ramsay leaned back comfortably. “I don’t like beginning interviews immediately.”

“No ?”

“No. It makes people nervous, and you still look nervous.”

“I am.”

He laughed quietly, “so am I.” That was a lie. Ramsay never became nervous.

Obsessive ? Certainly.

Excited ? Frequently.

Nervous ? Never.

Not after years of interviewing murderers, detectives, grieving parents and liars convincing themselves they were innocent.

You, however… You fascinated him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

It had started as research.

Every victim deserved context. Families deserved humanity.

He liked knowing who they were before recording.

That meant social media, local newspapers, old interviews, memorial pages or even friends. Normal research.

Until your name began appearing, always smiling beside your cousin. Then your university graduation, an interview from years ago, abandoned book review account, your public playlists, your comments and even your voice in a video.

It became difficult to stop, you obsessed him in a way that never happened before.

“I wanted to thank you.”

He blinked, “for ?”

“You never sensationalize victims.”

Something softened behind his eyes or perhaps sharpened, you can’t exactly tell.

“I try.”

“No,” you smiled sadly, “you actually remember they’re people.”

He held your gaze, longer than most people comfortably would. “They deserve that.”

“I think that’s why everyone trusts you.”

If only you knew.

Trust.

That’s such an interesting word.

The producer lifted a hand behind the glass. Thirty seconds.

Ramsay adjusted his microphone. “You ready ?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and if you need to stop, we stop.”

“Okay.”

“No pressure.”

You smiled, “you’re exactly like I imagined.”

Am I ? He wondered, because the version you imagined didn’t exist.

The recording light blinked red and his entire posture shifted to professional and measured as ever.

“Welcome back to Black Archives.”

There it was.

That voice, the one that had filled countless headphones.

“Today we’re discussing the Harrow case. Joining me is someone who knew one of the victims far better than any newspaper ever could.”

He turned toward you, “thank you for being here today.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

For the next hour… you forgot the microphones because he had made it so incredibly easy.

He never interrupted, never rushed you and asked thoughtful questions, even allowed silence.

When your voice cracked describing your cousin’s ridiculous habit of singing terribly while cooking, he waited.

Everyone listening would think he was compassionate, he was but in his own way.

But another part of him catalogued everything ; the rhythm of your speech, the words you avoided, the fact you tucked your hair behind your left ear whenever you lied about being “fine,” the ring you kept twisting absentmindedly, or even the perfume you’d switched since your last public photograph.

Vanilla before, jasmine now.

He preferred this one.

After the recording ended, the producer congratulated both of you before disappearing to edit.

Soon … It was only the two of you again.

“That wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I expected.”

“I try to not to when interrogate people.”

“I noticed.” You smile, “and I can see why everyone likes talking to you.”

“They do most of the talking.”

“You make them want to,” you gathered your bag, “I should let you get back to work.”

He stood as well, “I’m walking out too.”

The hallway echoed quietly beneath your footsteps. “So…” you glanced sideways, “can I admit something that might be a little bit embarrassing ?”

“Please.”

“I was rehearsing what I’d say if I ever met you, and actually I forgot all of it.”

He smiled, “I don’t think you needed a script.”

“You don’t ?”

“No.”

“You seemed genuine.”

Your laugh echoed through the corridor, “I’ll choose to believe that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

Outside, evening rain had begun falling.

You frowned, “Damn, I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“I have one.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay – ”

“I insist.”

“It’s a five-minute walk.”

“And you’ll arrive soaked,” he opened the umbrella before you could protest again.

It was large enough for two.

As you walked together toward the train station, you found yourself talking about anything except murder.

You were surprised by how funny he could be. He was surprised by nothing. Everything you told him fit neatly into the version of you he’d already constructed.

Except one thing that you laughed much more in person and he liked that, clearly more than he should.

When the station came into view, you stopped, “thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“And…” you hesitated, “I’m really glad my first time meeting you wasn’t at some convention.”

His expression remained perfectly calm, “so am I.”

You waved before disappearing into the station.

Ramsay didn’t move, he watched until you vanished beyond the ticket barriers.

Only then did he look down at the umbrella still in his hand, one strand of your hair clung to the dark fabric, almost invisible. He plucked it carefully between two fingers. His expression never changed.

People often mistook obsession for chaos. They imagined cluttered walls covered in red string, messy rooms, frantic behavior. Ramsay knew better.

Obsession is methodical.

Patient and quiet.

As he walked back toward the studio, his phone vibrated, a notification from his assistant. “The interview sounded amazing.”

He typed back a single sentence, “Schedule a follow-up episode in a month.”

Then, after a moment’s thought, he added another, “ and tell her we’d like to stay in touch if she remembers anything else.”

A perfectly reasonable request.

Professional. Expected.

No one would question it.

After all … as far as you knew, today had been the first time the two of you had ever met. Well, officially at least.

taglist : @pinkdoeweirdo, @silkaurum, @lustedbby, @sczlxdy, @killa-mermaid, @starxs-s, @vlarrtrgryn, @sockz306, @outrspaceexplorer, @v4mpireliza, here to be add <3

𝓟airing : true crime podcaster! ramsay x fem! reader

𝓢ummary : you are the closest person of the last victim of his recent case, and he take the opportunity to interviewed you.

𝒞w : mention of obsession.

The recording studio was nothing like you had imagined before. You’d expected neon lights, glass walls overlooking the city, producers bustling around with clipboards.

Instead, it was … quiet.

Warm lighting. Dark wooden shelves crowded with books on criminology and psychology. A corkboard filled with timelines and photographs from solved cases, every pin perfectly aligned.

Two expensive microphones sat opposite each other at a round table, their polished metal catching the afternoon light.

It almost felt comforting.

Almost.

“Miss ?”

You looked up, startled.

The assistant smiled kindly, “he’s ready and already waiting for you.” Your stomach twisted.

You had listened to Black Archives since university ; during long drives, sleepless nights or even when cleaning your apartment at two in the morning.

Ramsay’s voice had become strangely familiar over the years, slow, measured, and almost soothing despite the horrific and disturbing stories he told.

People joked that he could narrate grocery lists and make them suspenseful.

Now you were about to meet him in person, face to face.

You rubbed your sweaty palms against your skirt before stepping inside, “uhm…Hello ?”

He was already standing.

Taller than you’d expected.

Dark curls slightly messy, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, headphones resting around his neck. Handsome.

His smile appeared immediately. Not too large, just enough, at least warm enough to put people at ease.

“You must be my new guest.”

His voice sounded exactly like the podcast ; Smooth, controlled, comforting. And for one impossible second you forgot why you were here.

“Hi,” you laughed nervously. “I’m… like wow.”

He tilted his head, “wow ?”

“I didn’t think your voice could somehow sound the same in real life.”

A soft chuckle, “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It definitely is.”

He gestured toward the chair. “I’m very sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

Reality settled back over you like heavy rain, the reason for your presence here. Your smile disappeared, “so am I.”

Silence, not an uncomfortable one, just respectful.

“I’m truly sorry for your family’s loss.” He said it with practiced sincerity, beecause he had said those words dozens of times.

Hundreds.

Maybe even thousands.

But this time, he watched the exact way your shoulders lowered, how your fingers twisted together or even how you looked toward the floor instead of meeting his eyes whenever your cousin’s name was mentioned.

Exactly the same as in the security footage from the funeral.

Exactly the same as outside the courthouse three weeks ago.

Exactly the same as the video your aunt uploaded after the memorial service.

You still wrung your hands when you were trying not to cry. He’d wondered if it was coincidence the first time he had watched it, apparently not.

Interesting.

“So…” you laughed awkwardly, “I should probably stop acting like a fan.”

“You can be both.”

“Hm ?”

“A grieving relative,” he said gently, suspiciously way too gentle for someone like him, “and someone who listens to the show.”

Your cheeks warmed, “I listen every week.”

“I know.” The words escaped before he could stop them, damn. A tiny pause, “I mean, your email mentioned it.”

“Oh.” you nodded, “right.”

Smooth recovery and he almost smiled.

The microphones remained muted while the sound engineer adjusted levels through the glass.

Ramsay leaned back comfortably. “I don’t like beginning interviews immediately.”

“No ?”

“No. It makes people nervous, and you still look nervous.”

“I am.”

He laughed quietly, “so am I.” That was a lie. Ramsay never became nervous.

Obsessive ? Certainly.

Excited ? Frequently.

Nervous ? Never.

Not after years of interviewing murderers, detectives, grieving parents and liars convincing themselves they were innocent.

You, however… You fascinated him in ways he hadn’t anticipated.

It had started as research.

Every victim deserved context. Families deserved humanity.

He liked knowing who they were before recording.

That meant social media, local newspapers, old interviews, memorial pages or even friends. Normal research.

Until your name began appearing, always smiling beside your cousin. Then your university graduation, an interview from years ago, abandoned book review account, your public playlists, your comments and even your voice in a video.

It became difficult to stop, you obsessed him in a way that never happened before.

“I wanted to thank you.”

He blinked, “for ?”

“You never sensationalize victims.”

Something softened behind his eyes or perhaps sharpened, you can’t exactly tell.

“I try.”

“No,” you smiled sadly, “you actually remember they’re people.”

He held your gaze, longer than most people comfortably would. “They deserve that.”

“I think that’s why everyone trusts you.”

If only you knew.

Trust.

That’s such an interesting word.

The producer lifted a hand behind the glass. Thirty seconds.

Ramsay adjusted his microphone. “You ready ?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to, and if you need to stop, we stop.”

“Okay.”

“No pressure.”

You smiled, “you’re exactly like I imagined.”

Am I ? He wondered, because the version you imagined didn’t exist.

The recording light blinked red and his entire posture shifted to professional and measured as ever.

“Welcome back to Black Archives.”

There it was.

That voice, the one that had filled countless headphones.

“Today we’re discussing the Harrow case. Joining me is someone who knew one of the victims far better than any newspaper ever could.”

He turned toward you, “thank you for being here today.”

“Thank you for inviting me.”

For the next hour… you forgot the microphones because he had made it so incredibly easy.

He never interrupted, never rushed you and asked thoughtful questions, even allowed silence.

When your voice cracked describing your cousin’s ridiculous habit of singing terribly while cooking, he waited.

Everyone listening would think he was compassionate, he was but in his own way.

But another part of him catalogued everything ; the rhythm of your speech, the words you avoided, the fact you tucked your hair behind your left ear whenever you lied about being “fine,” the ring you kept twisting absentmindedly, or even the perfume you’d switched since your last public photograph.

Vanilla before, jasmine now.

He preferred this one.

After the recording ended, the producer congratulated both of you before disappearing to edit.

Soon … It was only the two of you again.

“That wasn’t nearly as terrifying as I expected.”

“I try to not to when interrogate people.”

“I noticed.” You smile, “and I can see why everyone likes talking to you.”

“They do most of the talking.”

“You make them want to,” you gathered your bag, “I should let you get back to work.”

He stood as well, “I’m walking out too.”

The hallway echoed quietly beneath your footsteps. “So…” you glanced sideways, “can I admit something that might be a little bit embarrassing ?”

“Please.”

“I was rehearsing what I’d say if I ever met you, and actually I forgot all of it.”

He smiled, “I don’t think you needed a script.”

“You don’t ?”

“No.”

“You seemed genuine.”

Your laugh echoed through the corridor, “I’ll choose to believe that’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

Outside, evening rain had begun falling.

You frowned, “Damn, I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“I have one.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay – ”

“I insist.”

“It’s a five-minute walk.”

“And you’ll arrive soaked,” he opened the umbrella before you could protest again.

It was large enough for two.

As you walked together toward the train station, you found yourself talking about anything except murder.

You were surprised by how funny he could be. He was surprised by nothing. Everything you told him fit neatly into the version of you he’d already constructed.

Except one thing that you laughed much more in person and he liked that, clearly more than he should.

When the station came into view, you stopped, “thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“And…” you hesitated, “I’m really glad my first time meeting you wasn’t at some convention.”

His expression remained perfectly calm, “so am I.”

You waved before disappearing into the station.

Ramsay didn’t move, he watched until you vanished beyond the ticket barriers.

Only then did he look down at the umbrella still in his hand, one strand of your hair clung to the dark fabric, almost invisible. He plucked it carefully between two fingers. His expression never changed.

People often mistook obsession for chaos. They imagined cluttered walls covered in red string, messy rooms, frantic behavior. Ramsay knew better.

Obsession is methodical.

Patient and quiet.

As he walked back toward the studio, his phone vibrated, a notification from his assistant. “The interview sounded amazing.”

He typed back a single sentence, “Schedule a follow-up episode in a month.”

Then, after a moment’s thought, he added another, “ and tell her we’d like to stay in touch if she remembers anything else.”

A perfectly reasonable request.

Professional. Expected.

No one would question it.

After all … as far as you knew, today had been the first time the two of you had ever met. Well, officially at least.

taglist : @pinkdoeweirdo, @silkaurum, @lustedbby, @sczlxdy, @killa-mermaid, @starxs-s, @vlarrtrgryn, @sockz306, @outrspaceexplorer, @v4mpireliza, here to be add <3

their boys