#you’d never catch him mismatching that’s for sure

[666silco]

Been looking at Hannibal’s interior (as one does) and I literally cannot figure out what this man’s favorite color is?? Now I’m spiralling though because is it normal to not have a FAVORITE color? Like you own most things in said color? Or is this what truly, definitely, once and for all proves that Hannibal Lecter is a psychopath. It’s because he doesn’t have a favorite color. Or am I the psychopath in this situation? I want any and everything to be my favorite color (green).

His house is so many mixes of reds, blues, browns, even some oranges and greens. Also his overall interior aesthetic is really odd. Not in a bad way though, at least in my opinion. I’ve seen some call it ugly, but that’s besides the point. He has a lot of very vintage-y feel, almost grandmacore furniture. But the decor (wall hangings, lamps, etc) feel very rustic? I think would be the word? He literally has a table with deer hooves for legs I’m pretty sure. Or maybe that was a dream. ANYWAY. Very all over the place aesthetic, it’s driving me mad.

I don’t know. Maybe I’ve come to the conclusion that I shouldn’t be this curious as to what Hannibal’s favorite color is. But now it’s killing me from the inside out.

I am under the assumption that his favorite color is blue. Almost his entire bedroom is blue, the trim(?) in many of the rooms is the same blue, as well as the wallls in his dining room, and lastly a lot of his smaller decorations like throw pillows and such are blue.

Also, I’m Pretty Sure a majority of his suits are blue. The only thing that deters me is his most iconic suit (in my opinion) is red. It’s the one that both Bryan Fuller and Mads have a replica of. And yk, corny horror character obviously loves red because it’s the color of blood! But I doubt that’s an actual factor. Maybe Hannibal just wore red on his murderous days because he didn’t want to get his beloved blue suits covered in blood.

This post was longer than intended..

[n1ght0f-nyx]

MHA BOYS- you're pregnant

how the mha boys react when you tell them your pregnant. tags/warnings- pregnancy (obvi) aged up (post-canon) no negative reactions, this is so corny i hate it characters- izuku midoryria, katsuki bakugo, shoto todoroki, denki kamanari, ejirio Kirishima, fumikage tokoyami, koji koda, mezo shoji, tamaki amajiki, hanta sero, tenya iida 

Izuku Midoriya

When you told Izuku the news, he froze mid-step, his eyes widening as your words sank in. “Really?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. You nodded, watching as his mind raced, almost seeing the gears turning behind his green eyes.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Then, without warning, he pulled out his notebook, scribbling down notes and making lists at lightning speed. Baby-proofing the apartment, researching the best cribs, figuring out how to balance work and fatherhood—his brain was in overdrive.

But amid the frantic planning, you caught him stealing glances at your stomach, his lips curving into the smallest of smiles. He wasn’t saying much, but his actions spoke louder than words. When he finally put down the notebook, he reached for your hand, squeezing it gently.

“We’ve got this,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet determination. “I’ll be there every step of the way.”

Katsuki Bakugo

Bakugo didn’t say anything at first when you broke the news. His usual fiery demeanor was replaced by a heavy silence as he processed your words. His red eyes were locked on you, intense and unreadable, as if trying to figure out what to do next.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally spoke, his voice gruff but steady. “You serious?”

When you nodded, he didn’t explode or rant like you might have expected. Instead, he reached out and pulled you into a rough, but secure embrace. His arms tightened around you protectively, and you felt the shift in him. His protective instincts, already strong, seemed to go into overdrive. He wasn’t one for soft words, but his actions said it all.

Over the next few days, you noticed him being extra cautious—keeping a close eye on what you were eating, making sure you were comfortable, and even being more mindful of his temper around you. He wasn’t suddenly soft, but there was a newfound depth to his care.

One evening, you caught him looking at baby clothes online. “Just making sure the kid isn’t weak,” he grumbled when you asked. But there was a glint of something in his eyes—an excitement he’d never admit out loud.

Shoto Todoroki

When you told Shoto the news, he took it with his usual calm, his expression barely changing. But there was a brief flicker in his mismatched eyes—something deep, something reflective. He took your hand, holding it gently as he nodded.

“We’ll figure this out together,” he said simply, his voice steady.

You could see the wheels turning in his mind, though he didn’t voice all his thoughts. Instead, he became even more attentive than usual. He took on more around the house without a word, ensuring you were as comfortable as possible. It wasn’t overt, but you could feel the shift in him—a quiet resolve to be better than the father he’d had.

Sometimes, you’d catch him lost in thought, his gaze distant as he seemed to contemplate the future. But there was also a softness to him that hadn’t been there before—a subtle happiness that radiated from him whenever he was with you.

Denki Kaminari

Denki’s reaction was instant—a wide grin splitting his face as he practically bounced in place. "No way! We’re gonna be parents?!" His excitement was infectious, and I couldn’t help but laugh. He pulled me into a playful hug, his energy buzzing. "This is gonna be so awesome! I’m gonna teach them all about music, and video games, and... oh man, this is so cool!" But then, his expression softened, and he looked at me with surprising seriousness. "I’ll be here for you, babe. Every step of the way."

Eijiro Kirishima

Kirishima’s reaction was nothing short of pure joy. "We’re gonna be a family? That’s so manly!" he exclaimed, pulling me into the biggest hug. His enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself smiling as he rambled on about all the things he wanted to do for our baby. "I’m gonna be the best dad ever, I swear!" he declared, his eyes shining with determination. Then, more quietly, he added, "And I’ll be here for you, no matter what. We’ve got this."

Fumikage Tokoyami

Tokoyami’s reaction was more subdued, but the depth of his emotions was clear in his eyes. "A child," he said softly, his voice filled with quiet reverence. He took my hand in his, his touch gentle yet firm. "This is a profound responsibility, one I’ll carry with pride." His gaze met mine, filled with a determination that was uniquely his. "I’ll protect you both from any darkness that comes our way," he promised, his tone resolute. "You have my word."

Koji Koda

Koji’s eyes widened, and for a moment, he seemed almost overwhelmed by the news. But then, a warm, gentle smile spread across his face. "We’re... we’re going to have a baby," he murmured, as if trying to wrap his mind around the idea. He reached out, his large hands enveloping mine in a comforting hold. "I’ll take care of you both," he promised softly. And then, almost as an afterthought, he added with a shy smile, "The animals will be so excited to meet the baby."

Mezo Shoji

Shoji’s reaction was calm, his many arms moving to gently envelop me in a protective embrace. "This is big news," he said quietly, his voice filled with a steady resolve. "But we’ll handle it together." He looked down at me, his expression softening. "I’ll make sure you’re safe, that you have everything you need." His touch was reassuring, a reminder of the quiet strength he always carried. "You and our child are my top priority now."

Tamaki Amajiki

Tamaki’s reaction was a mix of emotions, his face shifting from surprise to anxiety, and finally to a tentative smile. "Y-You’re... pregnant?" he stammered, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and excitement. I nodded, and he reached out hesitantly, his hand trembling as it rested on my stomach. "I’ll... I’ll do my best," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Then, more firmly, he added, "I’ll protect you both. I promise."

Hanta Sero

Sero’s reaction was instant and full of excitement. "No way! We’re gonna have a baby?!" he exclaimed, scooping me up in a playful hug. His smile was infectious, and I found myself laughing along with him. But then, he set me down gently, his expression turning serious. "I’m gonna be here for you, okay? Whatever you need, I’ve got your back." He squeezed my hand, his usual carefree demeanor giving way to a deeper sense of responsibility. "We’re in this together."

Tenya Iida

Iida’s reaction was immediate and methodical, his mind already racing with plans and preparations. "We need to start organizing everything," he said, his tone serious but filled with a quiet excitement. "Doctor’s appointments, a nursery... we’ll need to make sure everything is ready." But then, he paused, his expression softening as he took my hand. "But most importantly, I want to make sure you’re okay," he added gently. "I’m here for you, every step of the way."

[gghostwriter]

Hi was wondering if I could make a request?

I was thinking of a scenario where reader is a artist and Spencer catches her drawing him and willingly poses

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Fluff! Just fluff Warning: Tooth rotting fluff A/N: I think this would be the mushiest I've ever written, it's so cute. I hope you enjoy it! Main masterlist

Birds of a Feather. // Spencer Reid

There’s a common belief that states opposites attract and you’d say you and Spencer were a perfect example of this—he lives opposite your apartment, his career is part of the law enforcement industry while yours is from the creative industry, he’s a man of science while you’re a woman of art—to name a few. But all these were insignificant when you got to know him as a person. As Spencer Reid rather than SSA Dr. Spencer Reid. The same man who helped you carry boxes up to your floor when you first moved in. The same man who shyly accepted your dinner offer as a ‘thank you’, and the same man who tried his best to paint you a flower just to ask you out. 

All these small sweet nothings were what led to this lazy Sunday morning where the sunlight streams into your windows—the curtains softening its glow—hitting his brunette hair, turning strands into gold as he lounges on the sofa with a book in hand and as you hunch over your sketchbook, pencil scratching the paper, trying to capture this moment in time. 

Spencer was brought out of his riveting book on Quantum Physics when he felt your adoring gaze leaving and returning on him. He stealthily adjusted his position to take a peek at the sketchbook placed on your lap. 

He sucked in a breath when he realized what, or more specifically, who it was. 

“I-is that suppose to be me?” He clarified. 

You peeked at him through your lashes and nodded. “Yeah. Doesn’t it look like you?” 

“He’s too—pretty. Are you sure it’s me?” 

You giggled, catching on where he was going with it. “And you are! Derek calls you ‘pretty boy’ for a reason.” 

“That’s just him teasing me, Y/N.” 

You took his cheeks in your hands, minding the charcoal smudges on your fingertips. “Well I for one think you’re very pretty—inside and out.” You leaned in to give him a kiss. “So handsome, I can’t believe I get to call you mine.” 

Spencer melted under your affections. You always did have a way with your words in soothing his insecurities when they reared their head. Two years, six months, and eleven days of being together, you could read him like the back of your hand—an extension of you. 

“Sometimes I wonder—” he took your hands into his as the self-doubt started pouring out of him. “—how I got you to like me. We’re so different. You could have any man and—” he bit his lip. “—you still chose me.” 

“Hey, hey. Spence. None of that, okay? I’m the lucky one. I love your mind—” you placed a kiss on each side of his temple. “—and all the facts that you keep in it. I love your quirks—“ a peck on his left cheek. “—how you wear mismatched socks and always have an extra lipgloss in your bag since I lose mine. I love how you take care of me—” a kiss on his right cheek. “—how I���m the first person you talk to in the morning and the last one at night. And I love you—” a peck on his lips. “—in all of your entirety.” 

He cradled your head and leaned in for a longer kiss. It was as if he was communicating his adoration and devotion with each caress of his mouth on yours. He pulled away, noting the glassy look in your eyes and how swollen your lips looked. “I love you, Y/N.”

He looked down at your sketchpad. The drawing of him now messy and smudged in between your bodies. 

“That’s alright, Spence. I can always draw you again.” 

He placed the abandoned pencil back into your dominant hand. “Would you want—like me to pose for you?”

A smile blossomed on your face. The type backed by such delight and pleasure that he’d do anything for it to never go away. “You would?” 

He nodded, stunned with how you seemed to glow. 

“Okay, okay! You can just—” she pointed back to where he was a while ago. “—relax and continue reading.”

Following instructions, he lounged and open back his book—mindful of each movement that he made. As you were studying him—how the light casts a shadow on cheek, how graceful his neck looked. Spencer was also studying you—how each stroke of your hand was precise, how your tongue slightly peeked out when you concentrate, and how your cheeks would turn pink in color each time your gazes meet.

And although you’d like to believe that opposites attract, Spencer would like to believe that you and him were just ‘birds of a feather’. All the differences were inconsequential because he saw all the traits that you like to point out as his strengths—his empathy, his warmth, his brilliance, and even his beauty—in you, just infinity multiplied. 

And so on that very same day and minute, surrounded by the scratching of your pencil, the muffled noise of the city life outside, and the love that seemed to pour out of you like honey, he knew. He knew you were the one. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[spencereidluver]

E is for Even Guys Like Me?

september 12, 2008

summary: You tell Spencer about the conversation you'd overheard with his mother. He gets embarrassed, and even a little angry.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: the slightest teensiest bit of angst. mostly just a lot of spencer crushing for reader

It had been a little over two weeks since you overheard Spencer’s phone call with his mother. You’d been making it your mission to drop little hints at him about your feelings being the same, but they all seemed to just go over his head. You decided it’d be best to find a moment and tell him directly before it’s too late. 

You were on a case right now, you and Spencer once again staying back in the PD to work on the intellectual side of things. Though a lot of time was spent together, this was not a time for deep conversations. You’d wait on the case before you said anything. You didn’t want to distract the genius. Because, despite what he had told Hotch in your meeting last month, Spencer did most of the work. You were just there on the off chance that he didn’t know something, which was pretty much never.

Three days went by, you had to try your best to not be too flirtatious with Spencer. He got flustered fast. And you weren’t sure how experienced he was, you didn’t want to move too quickly. Though your guys’ carpooling and coffee sharing was normal, it felt different for you now. More meaningful. You caught yourself blushing sometimes when the tall boy would bring in two cups of coffee, one with his name and one with yours. He’d even begun leaving sticky notes on them sometimes, ever since you did the morning of the phone call. You’ve saved them all in your desk, his handwritten script being some of the most effortlessly beautiful things you’ve ever had the pleasure of laying your eyes on.

_____

You’re seated on the jet on the way home from the case. Directly to your left, is Spencer, who is deeply entranced in a book, “A Study in Scarlet,” by Arthur Conan Doyle, the book that he received in last year’s white elephant gift exchange, which took place before you began working at the BAU. Across from you is Emily and Derek, and Hotch and Rossi are at the booth behind her. JJ stayed home for this case as she is pregnant. She is in charge of files until she gives birth and returns from maternity leave. 

The silence in the jet is broken by a head turn from Hotch who clears his throat. “Are you three up for dinner tonight?” He says.

“My treat,” Rossi adds. 

“Well, if Papa Dave is paying, then of course I’ll be there,” Emily says.

“Sure, I’ll go,” you said, glancing over at Spencer who hadn’t even looked up from his book. “I’m sure Spence will come too.” Derek kicked you under the table and gave you a wink. His teasings were the main reason you haven't made any moves on Spencer prior to hearing him speak to his mother about you. 

Almost on beat, Spencer looks up, “Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ll just need a ride if that’s alright,” he said. His eyes met yours.

“I’ll give you a ride, Spence.” Another kick from Derek, this time, you kick him back. Emily catches on to the teasing game of footsies going on under the table and gives you and Derek a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes at the two of them and pull your feet into your lap. Sitting criss-cross now, you pull out your book of crossword puzzles and begin scribbling answers.

_____

You weren’t quite sure how much time had passed. Emily and Derek had fallen asleep, and not a peep had been heard from Rossi or Hotch either. Spencer was still awake and was coming up on the final few pages of his book. He was curled into a small ball against the wall in the corner of the seat, his knees to his chest and feet pointed toward you. His mismatched socks peeked out from beneath his khakis, one pink and one yellow. The shoestring of his left converse was coming untied. Untied! That was the answer to the last line of your puzzle! You subconsciously thank Spencer for his accidental aid to your old woman games, and it’s almost as if he heard it. He looks at his watch, then up at you.

“Hmm, we should be back in Quantico in 17 minutes. Taking to account the wind speed, maybe even 16,” he says. He crinkles his nose and returns to the last pages of his book. You scribble in the final word of your crossword puzzle and begin to pack up. You slide your puzzle book into your small carry on backpack, and begin to clear off the rest of the table. You pick up yours and Emily’s empty coffee mugs and reach around Spencer’s elbows which were rested against the table to grab his. You stack the three mugs together and grab Derek’s plate. Derek was the only person you knew who would eat four pork chops at 3pm, then agree to go to dinner only two hours later. 

Spencer sees you take his mug and looks up at you. He gives you a smile and whispers a soft “thank you.” 

_____

Spencer was seated on the passenger side of your car. His eyes were following the flashing lights as you drove down the city streets in the darkness. It was 7:30pm. A little late for dinner, but it’s when the jet got back. Plus, you were hungry.

The light was hitting Spencer’s face in a way that made him look ethereal. Maybe you shouldn’t have said anything, but you couldn’t help yourself.

“Hey, Spence,” you say, alluding a hum in response. Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” he looked at you. Somehow, from the repositioning of his head, the lighting somehow hit his face even better. The yellow luminescence shining through the windows made the honey brown of his eyes almost 3-dimensional. It felt as if he was looking inside of you. He was truly breathtaking.

“Okay,” you sigh, “please don’t hate me, but I kind of overheard you and your mom’s conversation…”

“What?”

“Well, just your side. I know I shouldn’t have, but I just couldn’t… I just… I need to-”

Spencer interrupts you. It was dark, but you could tell his cheeks were red. “So you were eavesdropping?”

“Spencer, I’m sorry. I just…”

“How much did you hear?”

“It was only the end. If you would’ve been talking about something personal I would’ve left but-”

“How is me opening up about my feelings for someone not personal?” He seemed a little angry.

“No, it is, and I know I shouldn’t have, but…”

“Yeah, you really shouldn’t have, y/n.”

“Spencer, I…” You looked at the man in the seat beside you. You didn’t want this conversation to upset him. You really wished you hadn’t spoken. You could see the betrayal in his eyes. You felt truly awful.

“You what?” He broke the silence, eyes meeting yours. He stared at you intently. 

You took a moment, trying to find the words to say. You didn’t want to break his trust even more. “Spencer, I like you too.”

His eyes were blown huge. “Huh?” “I like you too. I’ve liked you since I first started working here. I didn’t want to try anything because I didn’t know if you felt the same, or if you even date because I know some people with this job don’t. And-”

You were rambling. You were trying your best to defend yourself. Spencer’s eyes were searching your face. He was profiling you. You were telling the truth.

“I, wow. I didn’t know you felt that way, y/n…”

You reached for his hand. It was cold and shaky. You ran your thumb over the back of it, letting it raise and drop with the veins it crossed. He began shaking even more, so you let go. He snaps his hand to his thigh, and with his other hand, traces the tracks you’d left. He smiles to himself and lets out a large sigh. 

_____

“You guys have a good night,” Rossi says as he climbs into his luxury sedan. The team had just finished a large dinner and were beginning to head their separate ways. 

“Don’t worry, Papa Dave, I’ll get the kid home safe,” Derek says, giving Spencer a playful noogie. 

Spencer agreed to a ride home from Derek at dinner. Maybe it was because their houses were only a few streets away from each others’, or maybe, he still felt a little awkward from your previous conversation with him. You didn’t mind all that much though, after all, you’d finally openly expressed your feelings for him. That was enough for one night.

Rossi carefully backs out of the parking lot, leaving you, Spencer, and Derek still remaining. You stuff your hands in your coat pocket; it’s chilly. You want this night to last forever, yet simultaneously, you hoped it’d end right now. You tilted your head toward your car. Spencer understood.

“Derek,” he says, “are you about ready?”

“Yeah, we can head out whenever you want.”

Spencer ran his hand through his hair before turning around to look at you. He gave you a smile. “I’ll see you Monday, y/n.”

“Bye, Spence,” you say, returning the smile.

_____

“Hey, Derek,” Spencer says as he rubs his fingers over his knuckles. 

“What’s up, kid?” Derek responds. He looks over to meet eyes with him quickly.

“Can I, um… can I ask you a question?” Spencer looks at Derek like a lost puppy.

“Woah, the boy genius asking me a question? What has this world come to?”

“It’s about girls.”

“Oh. I see.” Derek knew of Spencer’s trouble with girls. Despite the darkness, he could see the light in the skinny man’s eyes. “Come at me, big guy.” He gave Spencer a pat on the back.

“How do I like… ask one on a date?”

“Oooh, who’s the special lady? Hmmm?”

“Derek, I’m being serious. Please.” 

Derek could hear Spencer’s plea in his voice. He understood that Spencer was confiding something foreign to him and truly needed the help of an experienced man.

“Well, what does she like? Don’t take her somewhere too extravagant. Maybe a nice dinner or a breakfast date. Start simple and see how it goes.”

“Okay, but like, how?”

“Step one is speaking to her.”

“I have spoken to her… a lot.”

“The main thing, kid, is just to sound confident. Even if you’re not.”

“But what if she says no? Like how do I turn away from that?”

“There’s no reason for her to say no.”

“Yeah, but like… what if she does? What if she thinks I’m weird? Maybe this is a bad idea…” 

Spencer was spiraling. Derek reaches over and puts his arm on Spencer’s shoulder. He turns to him, meeting his eyes.

“Even guys like you are capable of love, kid. Any girl would be lucky to have such a kind and caring man like you, okay? Just go with your gut.”

Derek rounded the turn to Spencer’s road. 

“Thank you, Derek, really. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

“Have a good night, lover boy.”

“You too, Derek.”

_____

next chapter: F is for First Date

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

a/n: i've spent the most time on this out of any post i have in a while. kinda hit writer's block pretty bad the other day. i'm really hoping i can get the next part out by sunday, but i work all day tomorrow and idk how much time i'll have time to work on it saturday, but i'm trying my best, i promise.

_____

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[benispunk]

All Is Bright

logan howlett x reader

For the first time in years, you decided to celebrate Christmas with Logan and Laura by your side.

TW: yesterday I re-watched Logan (2017) by accident and now I need to fix it, so here we go. he's alive and well, everybody's okay and he just needs to celebrate christmas with his family.

Masterlist

Even back at the mansion with the other X-Men, he wasn’t one to stick around for the Christmas parties. The lights, the laughter, the warmth—it all reminded him of what he’d lost, or worse, what he never thought he deserved. After everything he’d done, Christmas wasn’t for someone like him.

But now, things were different.

Because of you.

You’d been through your own losses. You hadn’t celebrated Christmas in years either—not since the family you’d found in the X-Men had been torn apart. Without Charles, and after Logan’s long recovery, the three of you—Logan, you, and Laura—had found some semblance of peace in a small cabin tucked away from the world.

For the first time in a long time, life felt still. And watching you thrive in that stillness, seeing you create a home where he never thought one could exist, meant more to Logan than he could ever put into words.

So that morning, when he woke to the faint sound of Christmas music and laughter, his first instinct wasn’t annoyance. It was curiosity.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he rolled out of bed, grabbed a flannel shirt, and followed the sound.

When he stepped into the living room, he froze.

The cabin, once simple and practical, had been transformed. Garland lined the mantle above the fireplace, and three stockings hung in a neat row. On the coffee table, a mismatched collection of Christmas candles flickered softly. And in the corner stood a scrawny Christmas tree that you and Laura were decorating.

Laura, still in her pajamas, was balancing on her toes as she reached up to hang a shiny red ornament. You stood beside her, laughing as she stretched too far and nearly toppled over.

For a moment, Logan just stood there, watching. He wasn’t sure what hit him harder—the warmth of the scene itself or the realization that he was part of it. That you’d made him part of it.

“He’s awake!” Laura said, grinning as she caught sight of him.

You turned, your smile faltering slightly. “Oh no, we ruined the surprise!”

Logan huffed a laugh. “With all this music and noise? Yeah, that wasn’t staying a surprise for long.”

“Shoot, I’m sorry,” you said, hurrying over to him. “You probably wanted to sleep some more.”

He caught your hands in his, silencing your apology. “It’s okay,” he said softly, his voice rough with emotion. “That’s not a bad sound to wake up to.”

Your smile returned, and he couldn’t help himself. Leaning down, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, he let his eyes wander back to the tree.

“So,” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice, “what exactly are you two up to?”

“We’re decorating the tree,” you said, your excitement bubbling over. “And before you say anything about it being too early, let me remind you we missed several Christmases in a row.”

Laura chimed in, a candy cane dangling from her mouth. “We’re catching up.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Fair enough.”

Before you could say anything else, Laura grabbed an ornament shaped like a tiny, crooked star and held it out. “Here. You do this one.”

Logan blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah. It’s tradition. The grumpy one has to put up the ugliest ornament,” You teased, making Laura laugh.

He sighed, rolling his eyes, but there was no hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips as he took the ornament. Stepping up to the tree, he found an empty branch and carefully hung the star, giving it a satisfied nod.

“There,” he said. “Ugliest ornament, front and center.”

“Perfect,” you said, grinning.

The three of you spent the rest of the morning decorating, laughing, and sipping on hot cocoa you insisted on making. Logan couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this... light.

Later, Laura sat at the kitchen table, a notebook and pencil in front of her, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked on some grammar exercises, occasionally glancing at the pages of a book nearby. You and Logan stayed by the fire. He sat on the couch, watching as you added the finishing touches to the stockings.

“You’re really into this, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice softer now.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, smiling. “I guess I am. I just... I think we need this, you know? All of us.”

He nodded, his gaze steady on you. “Yeah. We do.”

You walked over and sat beside him, pulling a blanket over both of you. “I know it’s not much, but I thought it’d be nice to give Laura something to remember. Something good.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he looked at you. “She’s not the only one who needs that.”

You blinked, taken aback by his words. For a moment, you just looked at him, and he looked back, his usual walls cracked wide open.

“Logan...”

He shook his head, a faint smirk on his lips. “Don’t go getting all mushy on me now.”

You laughed softly, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Too late.”

You stayed like that for a moment before nudging him gently with your elbow. “Okay, so… are you going to ask?”

He looked at you, eyebrows drawn together. “Ask what?”

You rolled your eyes, a grin tugging at your lips. “I know you’re dying to know where all this Christmas stuff came from.”

Logan huffed a laugh. “Alright, alright. Where’d you get it all?”

You smiled, leaning back against the couch. “There was a garage sale in that little village we visited a few weeks ago. I went last weekend while you were chopping wood.”

He raised an eyebrow. “And you came back with all this? What’d it cost you?”

You shrugged, a playful glint in your eyes. “Practically nothing. The woman I bought it from gave me half of it for free when I told her it was for my daughter.”

Logan raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Your daughter, huh?”

“Our daughter,” you repeated, grinning. “The woman said she didn’t need it anymore, and honestly, I couldn’t resist. I mean, look at that star,” you added, nodding toward the ugly ornament Laura and you had insisted Logan hang.

Logan chuckled softly, his eyes lingering on the tree. “Definitely a good choice.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, watching as Laura carefully copied a word from the book into her notebook.

Then Logan spoke, his voice quieter now. “I don’t know how you do it.”

You turned to him, frowning slightly. “Do what?”

“All this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the tree, the stockings, the warmth filling the room. “You’ve been through hell, same as me. But you… you can still find something good in it. Something worth holding onto.”

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing against the rough calluses on his palm. “I don’t know if it’s about holding onto the good. It’s more about making it.”

He looked at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. “It’s not that easy for me.”

“I know,” you said gently. “But you’re here, Logan. That’s something. And you don’t have to do it all at once. Just… be here. With us.”

He let out a slow breath, his gaze dropping to where your hand rested in his. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just waiting for it all to fall apart again.”

You squeezed his hand. “It won’t. Not this time.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then his shoulders slumped, and he leaned back against the couch, letting his head rest against the cushions.

“I don’t deserve this,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Yes, you do.”

He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. “I’ve done things, Y/N. You know that. Things I can’t take back.”

“I do know,” you said, your voice steady. “And I also know you’ve done everything you can to make up for it. You’ve saved lives, Logan. You’ve saved us. That counts for something.”

He was quiet for a long moment, staring at the fire. “I don’t know if I’ll ever believe that.”

You shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder. “Then let us believe it for you.”

His arm came around you, pulling you in closer. For a moment, neither of you spoke, letting the quiet warmth of the fire fill the space. Then you shifted slightly, looking up at him, and he met your gaze.

There was something in his eyes—a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. You didn’t say anything; you didn’t need to. Slowly, Logan leaned in, and your lips met in a kiss that was both tender and unhurried. When you pulled back, your faces lingered close, your foreheads almost touching.

His gaze searched yours, and you noticed how glassy his eyes had become, his defenses crumbling even further. Before either of you could say anything, Laura’s voice broke the moment from the kitchen table.

“How do you spell ‘hope’ again?”

Logan blinked quickly, his hand brushing against his cheek as he straightened up. You glanced at him, catching the faintest hint of a smirk before turning to answer Laura.

“H-O-P-E,” you said, your voice warm.

“Hope,” Logan repeated under his breath, as if testing the word for himself.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like he might actually believe it.

XXX

[aventurineswife]

aventurine and whatever characters you wanna add with a wife reader and child

aventurine (and other characters) pretend to be santa and deliver presents for their kid on christmas eve :3

their kid will catch them in the act and ask if its really santa (they totally are, dont crush a kid's dreams on santa (i learned the hard way he wasnt real 😔))

-:3 anon

Special Gift from Santa!

Tags: Aventurine x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Fluff, Family Moments, Fatherhood, Winter Special, Heartwarming, Romance.

A/N: I can't believe people still think Santa is real 💀... Like damn, i already knew santa wasn't real as a child and was rather a made up character/mascot but still its funny. Thank God, I didn't go through that just to get my heart broken lol 😪 sorry for your loss tho🫂

Christmas Eve aboard your cozy little ship felt magical. The soft hum of the engines blended with the quiet crackle of a small holographic fireplace. Strings of colorful lights flickered, casting warmth across the room. Your child had insisted on hanging their handmade decorations all over the cabin. Their innocent excitement over Santa Claus’s impending arrival filled your heart with joy—and Boothill’s too, though he’d never admit it outright.

“I still think this whole ‘Santa’ thing is ridiculous,” Boothill grumbled under his breath, adjusting the red hat atop his white hair. He was dressed in a mismatched Santa suit you’d cobbled together from spare fabric: a red jacket (barely hiding his mechanical torso), a black belt, and fuzzy white cuffs. “They’re too smart for this kinda stuff.”

You smirked, watching as he held a small sack of presents. “Oh, come on, Boot. They believe in Santa. Just this once, let them have the magic.”

He huffed, shark-like teeth flashing in a reluctant grin. “Fine. But if I get caught, it’s on you.”

You leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’ll do great.”

The ship was quiet except for the sound of Boothill’s spurs softly jingling as he tiptoed into their room. The sack slung over his shoulder shifted slightly as he crouched down by the small Christmas tree you’d set up at the foot of their bed. The dim glow of the tree lights reflected in his black, aim-marked eyes.

He carefully began pulling out the gifts you’d wrapped together: a handmade doll, a small toolkit, and a bundle of colorful space-themed storybooks. Boothill placed them beneath the tree, his mechanical hand moving with a surprising gentleness.

But as he straightened, a small voice broke the silence.

“Santa?”

Boothill froze. Turning slowly, he saw them sitting up in bed, their wide, sleepy eyes sparkling with wonder. They clutched their blanket tightly, staring at him in awe.

For a moment, Boothill panicked internally. Do I tell them? No, I can’t crush their dreams. Play it cool, cowboy.

He straightened his hat, giving them a toothy grin. “Ho ho ho, kiddo,” he said, his gruff voice deepening into a surprisingly convincing Santa impression. “You caught me.”

Their eyes lit up. “It is you! I knew you’d come!” They scrambled out of bed and ran to him, throwing their arms around his legs.

Boothill blinked, momentarily stunned by the hug, then gently patted their head. “Y-Yeah, uh, Santa always keeps his promises.”

They looked up at him, their expression serious. “Are you really Santa? You look kinda… like my dad.”

Boothill crouched down, meeting their gaze. “I get that a lot,” he said, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Your dad’s a real good guy, huh? Maybe that’s why I wanted to visit you special tonight. You’ve been real good this year.”

They beamed, their earlier suspicion forgotten. “Did you see my wish list?”

“Sure did,” Boothill said, reaching into the sack and pulling out one of the gifts. “This one’s from the top of the list, right?”

They gasped, their tiny hands trembling as they accepted the gift. “You’re the best, Santa!”

Once they had fallen asleep again, Boothill returned to the main cabin, his hat slightly askew and a soft smile lingering on his face.

“How’d it go?” you asked, leaning against the doorway.

“Kid bought it,” Boothill said, his tone half-joking but tinged with pride. “Didn’t even flinch when I said I looked like their dad.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “I told you you’d make a great Santa.”

Boothill shook his head, glancing toward their room. “That little one of ours… they deserve the whole galaxy.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest. “They’ve already got it, Boot. They’ve got you.”

And for the first time in years, on that quiet Christmas Eve, Boothill felt a warmth in his heart that even revenge couldn’t match.

Snowflakes drifted gently outside the window, their crystalline patterns catching the soft glow of the streetlights. Inside the cozy warmth of their home, the scent of pine and cinnamon filled the air. Aventurine, adorned in an elaborate Santa costume—complete with a fluffy red coat, a crooked white beard, a golden bell tied to his wrist, and a festive Santa mask that concealed his unmistakable features—was crouched beside the glittering Christmas tree. His eyes, barely visible through the mask’s cutouts, gleamed mischievously as he carefully arranged the gifts.

His wife, you, leaned against the doorway, stifling a laugh at the sight. "You look ridiculous," you whispered, your arms crossed playfully.

Aventurine looked up, feigning mock insult. "Ridiculous? My dear, I am a vision of holiday cheer and generosity. This costume cost more than the tree itself. It’s haute couture Santa."

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at your lips. "I think it’s wonderful that you’re doing this for our little one. But try not to wake them, alright? They’ll figure it out one day, and I’d rather it not be tonight."

Aventurine gave a dramatic bow. "Fear not, my darling. I am as silent as a card sliding into the slot of a roulette table. Luck favors me, after all."

You sighed fondly and retreated to the bedroom, leaving him to his antics.

As Aventurine carefully placed the final gift under the tree, a soft rustling sound made him freeze. Turning his head slowly, he saw a pair of wide, curious eyes peeking out from the staircase.

"Santa?" the small voice whispered.

Aventurine's heart nearly skipped a beat. His child—a miniature whirlwind of joy and mischief—was clutching their favorite stuffed animal, their little face glowing with wonder in the dim light.

Straightening his hat and beard, Aventurine gave the most convincing "Ho ho ho!" he could muster. "Indeed, it is I, Santa Claus! And who might you be, little one?"

The child’s face lit up as they descended the stairs cautiously. "I’m [Child’s Name]! You… you’re really real?"

Aventurine knelt down, adjusting the mask to keep his disguise intact. "Oh, of course I am! How else would these presents get here? Magic reindeer and all that, you know." He tapped the side of his mask conspiratorially.

They tilted their head, scrutinizing him. "But… you have Papa’s smile."

Aventurine inwardly cursed his expressive features but quickly recovered. "Ah, clever observation! You see, your papa is on my ‘Nice’ list every year. We share a bit of Christmas spirit—it’s why my smile looks so familiar."

The child beamed, satisfied with the explanation. "Did the reindeer really fly you here?"

"Absolutely," Aventurine replied, his tone solemn as he leaned in closer. "And let me tell you a secret—they love carrots and sugar cubes. So, if you leave them out next year, they’ll be extra fast."

The child’s awe was palpable. "I will! But… why are you still here? Don’t you have more presents to deliver?"

Aventurine smiled beneath the mask, feeling a warmth he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. "I do, but I had to make sure the most special house on my list got the perfect gifts." He gently booped their nose.

The child giggled and hugged him tightly. "Thank you, Santa."

Aventurine's chest tightened at the pure innocence of the moment. He hugged them back, careful not to break the illusion.

When the child finally went back to bed, clutching their stuffed animal and wearing a smile bright enough to rival the stars, Aventurine stood and adjusted his costume. You returned quietly, your eyes soft as you took in the scene.

"That was... beautiful," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him.

Aventurine chuckled softly, pulling you close. "Sometimes, the greatest gamble isn’t in the game but in the act of keeping the magic alive."

You kissed his cheek through the mask, feeling the silly fabric against your lips. "Merry Christmas, my gambler."

"And to you, my darling. Now, let’s get some rest. Tomorrow, we’ll have to deal with the chaos of unwrapping."

As the two of you retreated, Aventurine couldn’t help but glance back at the tree, feeling a rare sense of peace. For all his risks, for all his calculations, this moment—this joy—was worth more than any gamble he’d ever won.

I don't know if you guys ever saw that meme but it was something like “I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus” but it's actually the dad dressed up as santa and I kept thinking about it while writing this, maybe I'll write something with that prompt? 🤷‍♀️

[betweenstorms]

Part Six of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

Exactly five days had passed since Simon Riley’s last visit, and true to his word, there he was again, standing at your doorstep in the quiet lull of an overcast afternoon.

The clouds hung low that day, full with the promise of rain, but the city outside remained still, suspended in waiting, where time seemed to stretch, holding out it's hand for the storm to break. You had felt it coming somehow, the inevitability of his return, as if the universe had carved out this moment for the two of you.

Simon was dressed in simple, plain clothes as before, plus that damn mask that shrouded half his face in mystery. His hazel eyes, though, were unmistakable, cutting through the soft grey light that filled your small apartment. There was something different this time. The first visit had been sudden, unplanned—an unspoken reckoning between the two of you. But now, there was a gentle certainty to his presence, like he had come here with purpose.

And you were ready for him.

The past week had been a strange blur of careful planning and tempting hope. Each day, you’d found yourself cooking more than necessary, always for two, even though you were the only one in the apartment. Each time you did, you felt a little foolish, like you were preparing for a guest who may never arrive, but you kept at it. It had become a sort of evening ritual, a way to keep your hands busy, your mind distracted. You’d convinced yourself that you were just being practical, that having extra food ready was a good habit to get into, but in the back of your mind, you knew the truth. You were waiting for him, hoping that he would come back.

As you opened the door for him, you could feel the flutter of nerves in your stomach, but it wasn’t the same overwhelming rush of emotion that had floored you the last time. The tension between you wasn’t as suffocating, though it still hummed in the air. You met his gaze with a shy smile, and even though he didn’t return it, there was a flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or maybe just relief that he hadn’t startled you again.

As you moved about the kitchen, setting the table, you could feel Simon’s sharp eyes on you, watching silently as you went through the timid motions of domesticity.

There was something almost surreal about it, how easily he had slipped into your life, into the rhythm of your days, despite the years of distance and the weight of everything unspoken between you.

“Hope you’re starvin’, cause I cooked,” you joked, your voice soft but carrying a note of pride.

He paused, his gaze shifting to you, and for the briefest moment, you saw it. Surprise, so subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed it. But you did. Because you always did. For a man like Simon, who had probably seen and endured things beyond your understanding, it was hard to catch him off guard. But somehow, this had done it. You weren’t sure if it was the food or the fact that you had prepared for his visit, but either way, something had surprised him.

Simon sat down without a word, and you followed suit, sitting across from him at the small, worn table. The plates were mismatched, and the silverware was old, but it felt right, like the two of you had found a quiet corner of the world where the past could be left behind.

You ate in silence for a while, the sound of cutlery scraping against ceramic the only noise in the room. You tried not to observe him too closely, but you couldn’t help sneaking glances in his direction, noting the way he ate in a methodical way, as if food were just another task to be completed. Like it was sustenance.

But still, he ate everything you had made.

Feeling a bit braver, you tried to engage him in conversation, asking questions about where he had been, what he had been up to.

But, as expected, Simon deflected your questions. His answers were all vague, if he gave any at all, and more often than not, he responded with a noncommittal grunt or a quiet huff that left you with little to work with. It was like trying to pry open a door that had been stuck for years, but you knew better than to push him too hard. It frustrated you, yes, but you had come to accept it, in a way.

You knew that Simon’s life was full of things you would never be able to understand, things he carried alone. He didn’t talk about himself, didn’t share his burdens. It wasn’t in his nature.

But he did ask about you.

It was subtle at first, his questions slipping into the conversation like afterthoughts. He asked how work was going, what you had been doing lately, how your parents were. Safe topics. Ordinary things. You answered to all of them dutifully, at first feeling incredibly awkward, unsure if your life could possibly hold any interest for someone like him. However, there was something in the way he looked at you that made you feel like he genuinely wanted to know, like he was trying, however clumsily, to bridge the gap between you.

At first, you had been nervous, scared that your life was far too dull to hold his interest. What did you have to offer to someone like Simon, really? Your job was nothing special, your days were uneventful, and your life felt small in comparison to the things you imagined he had seen and done. But when you noticed that he was actually paying attention, that he wasn’t just asking out of politeness, something shifted inside you. His gaze never wavered from you, and though he didn’t say much, you could feel his undivided attention, his magnetic presence, in the way he sat there, letting you fill the space between you, only with your words.

So you told him about the small things.

The way the shop down the street had started selling your favourite lemon biscuits again, how your neighbour had adopted an absurdly large dog that barked at everything that moved, how you’d been thinking about taking up creative writing again, though you hadn’t found the time. Then, you told him about the music you’d been listening to, the films and series you were hoping to watch, even the latest book you’d picked up.

You watched his stoic face as you rambled on about your day, the corner shop, your plans for the weekend. Simon wasn’t the kind of man who offered much in return, his responses were still clipped, mostly just a nod or a grunt, but there was a subtle warmth in his attention. You saw the slight twitch of his lips, the occasional raise of an eyebrow, signs that he was more engaged than he let on. It was as if, for the first time since you were a child, someone was truly listening to you, hearing you, without judgement or expectation.

And that made all the difference.

As an adult, you tend to fade into the background, even in the eyes of your own parents, who no longer find your life as fascinating as it once was. It becomes rare to meet someone who is truly interested in you. As a child, everything was easier. Friendship came effortlessly, falling in love felt light and unburdened, and emotions flowed like crystal water. Adults would smile down at you, ask about your weekend plans, your schoolwork, even your little crushes, as if your life held some fond magic. But next to Simon, for a fleeting minute, you felt like a kid again, as though you were still filled with that magic. And you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude—for Simon and for the way he made you feel like you mattered again, even for just a second, like you were something worth adoring.

After dinner, he helped you with the dirty dishes.

You almost laughed out loud at the sight of him, this hulking figure built like a bloody fortress, standing at the sink, washing plates and cups like it was the most normal thing in the world. The kitchen felt even smaller compared to him, his broad shoulders brushing against you as he reached for the plates, and that made your heart press against your ribs, threatening to burst. There was something so tender, so wonderfully domestic about the scene, something you never imagined you’d have with him.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, handing him a dripping plate.

He took it without a word, his large hands handling it with such care that seemed out of place for a man of his size. But that was Simon, wasn’t it? Always full of contradictions.

After the dishes were done, you made a suggestion—an invitation to show him the little shop down the street you’d mentioned earlier, the one with the delicious lemon biscuits.

You didn’t expect him to agree, but to your surprise, Simon gave a small nod. It was strange, seeing him agree to something so ordinary, something as simple as a walk to the nearby shop, but you didn’t question it. You didn’t want to ruin the moment.

So, you slipped on your jacket, and together, you ventured out into the cool evening air.

Simon wore his mask, even for such a short walk, and though it puzzled you, you didn’t press him about it. He had his reasons, and oddly, that was enough for you.

As you walked down the streets, you noticed how the grey world seemed to shrink around the two of you. The city faded into the background, the sound of distant traffic becoming a hum that didn’t quite touch the space you two occupied. You told him how the owner had a strange habit of stacking the shelves in a particular way and how the colourful sign of the shop had faded to nearly nothing since you moved here. Simon listened, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze drifting over the neighbourhood but always coming back to you.

When you reached the tiny shop, you bought three packets of biscuits, a small indulgence you couldn’t resist.

As you walked back, you shared them with him, handing over a piece without thinking twice. His surgical mask made it a bit of a challenge for him to eat them, but the way he handled it, with such simple grace, surprised you. As if eating with a mask was something he’d mastered a long time ago. Nevertheless, you only smiled at him.

The months that followed were some of the happiest of your life.

Simon’s visits became more frequent, though never scheduled. Sometimes he would appear at your door unannounced, and sometimes he’d let you know he was coming, with a punctuated, short message that always felt like it carried more weight than it should. However, each time he showed up, your heart would lift, if only for a little while. There was a quiet understanding between you, a habitual rhythm that developed naturally, as if fifteen years apart had simply folded into the space between you without effort.

You began to treasure the time you spent with him, the quiet moments that made up the fabric of your strange relationship.

Late-night talks on the balcony of his apartment, where the two of you would smoke cigarettes and watch the city lights flicker in the distance, your voices hushed in the golden glow of streetlights. Cooking meals together in your tiny kitchen, where he would stand at the stove, helping you chop vegetables with the same precision you imagined he used in the field. Watching films and series you wanted to share with him, the two of you sitting side by side on your worn-out sofa, the space between you shrinking as the months passed.

It was the simple things, the mundane moments that you found yourself clinging to.

You were always struck by how he fit into your boring life, seamlessly slipping into your routine as if he had always been there, right next to you. Grocery shopping together, wandering through the aisles of the supermarket or the farmer’s market, picking out fresh produce while Simon trailed behind you, always quiet, always present.

Walking through your neighbourhood, pointing out places that held some meaning for you, while he listened with the same attentive intensity, nodding occasionally as you spoke. There were moments when the conversation was light, filled with teasing and sarcasm, and other times when silence stretched between you two, comfortable and unpressured. It was in those moments of stillness that you felt the most connected to him, as if words weren’t necessary to understand the weight of what lingered unsaid.

But the thing you appreciated most was the talking.

Even though Simon was a man of few words, over time, you began to unravel him, bit by bit. It was a painfully slow process, peeling back the layers, but you cherished every fragment of him he allowed you to see. You learned that beneath his gruff exterior and his hardened past, Simon had a dry, morbid sense of humour that made you laugh in a way you hadn’t in years. His wit was sharp, his sarcasm biting, and yet it was never mean-spirited. You found yourself looking forward to his jokes, when he would throw a quip your way, the corner of his mouth quirking in the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him. And you loved it.

Oh, how you loved it.

You loved the way he made you laugh, the way he looked at you when you were together, the way he seemed to feel at ease in your presence. You loved every moment you spent with him, no matter how small or insignificant. You loved him in the quiet, in the way he listened to you rambling, in the way he paid attention to the smallest details of your life. You loved him in the way he let you into his rugged world, without ever making it feel forced or unnatural. And, slowly but surely, you began to realise that you were falling in love with him.

It wasn’t a grand, sweeping realisation.

Falling in love with Simon Riley was like the gentle embrace of the rising sun, a warmth that crept into your icy soul without fanfare or grand gestures. There was no single moment when everything fell into place—no sudden clarity or lightning strike of realisation.

Rather, it unfolded gradually, like the soft glow of dawn spreading across the horizon, casting its light quietly, almost imperceptibly, until the cold ground was warmed beneath your feet. It wasn’t until you stood there, basking in the radiant comfort of his presence, that you realised just how deeply he had become part of you, the warmth of him seeping into your very bones, making everything feel softer, brighter, without you ever noticing the shift.

At first, you tried to fight it, wrestled with the feelings that threatened to overtake you every time he crossed your mind.

You forced yourself not to think about him when he was away on deployment, not to let your heart leap at the thought of his return. You made every effort not to seem too eager when you were with him, not to act like a schoolgirl caught up in her first crush.

Bloody hell, but it was impossible.

When he made you blush, you looked away, pretending the burning heat on your cheeks was from something else. When his eyes met yours, catching you in the act of staring, you quickly turned, as if you hadn’t been completely mesmerised by him. And when your hands brushed, just the briefest of touches, you shifted, heart racing, trying to ignore the intoxicating pull that came with the smallest contact.

No matter how many years had slipped by since the days of your childhood, no matter how long you’d been an adult, standing next to him made time blur in a way that was both haunting and comforting. It was as if the weight of the years dissolved whenever you were near him, pulling you back to that distant time, so far away it almost felt like it had belonged to another. In his presence, you were that child again, caught in the same quiet awe, the same unspoken connection, even after all the miles you had walked apart.

And yet, you fought it with everything you had.

And he must have noticed.

Simon saw the signs, read the signals you didn’t mean to give away, and in his silent way, he respected them. He didn’t try to get closer. He was there, returning to you, keeping his promises, but there was a careful distance, an invisible line neither of you dared to cross.

Since the day he told you he had read your letter, he kept his space. He stood just far enough to be present, but never touched, never pressed, as if he understood your hesitance in the way you withdrew as well as his own.

You didn’t know why you looked away, why you pulled back from him, why his touch made you retreat when all you wanted was to feel him closer. It terrified you, this primal instinct to shield your heart from the very thing it craved the most. Because deep down, you knew—

—you loved him.

But love, for you, had always been tangled in something darker, something messy and painful. Everything you ever loved had faded, slipping through your fingers like sand, no matter how tightly you tried to hold on. The long, golden days of summer spent with your grandparents, the laughter-filled, drunken nights with high school friends, the passionate, young love with your ex-fianc��, your mother’s blooming rose bush, once so full of life—everything you cherished had withered, just like you had. 

So how could you tell him?

How could you ever admit that you fell in love with him, when you were so certain that love was tied to loss?

To let him know, to say the words aloud, felt like signing your heart away to another disappearance. You couldn’t bear to watch him slip away too, to see him fade into the same oblivion where all the things you once held dear now lived. The fear of loving and losing had rooted itself deep inside you, so you kept Simon at arm’s length, not because you didn’t love him—but because you did, you desperetely did, and that scared you to death.

You tried to convince yourself that this was enough.

That loving him in secret was enough to keep him close, enough to soothe the longing that bloomed in the quiet corners of your heart. It had to be enough. You couldn’t bear the thought of risking more, of laying your heart bare, watching it bleed to death. You didn’t want to hold his memory longer than you had held him. The idea of losing him, of watching him slip from your life like everything else you had ever dared to love, was far more unbearable than never speaking the truth aloud.

So you settled for silence.

It was the beginning of November when you two met again, a month heavier with the bite of cold winds, the days darkening earlier, and the air growing sharp with the crisp scent of fallen leaves. You could feel the promise of winter in the cold air, the way it clung to your skin and seeped into your bones, even after you’d bundled yourself in layers before stepping outside. The city had taken on a grey, muted tone, the kind that made everything feel distant and quiet, like the world was holding its breath.

It had been weeks since you and Simon had shared any significant time together. His work had consumed him more than usual, drawing him further into whatever grim business he was tied up in.

You understood, of course.

Simon’s professional life was a complicated web of responsibilities, ones you couldn’t begin to unravel, but you couldn’t stop feeling his absence like a weight in your chest, a quiet ache that gnawed at the edges of your thoughts. That’s why, when you finally managed to pin him down for an evening, you decided to do something different. Instead of the usual quiet nights at yours, you had dragged him to the cinema for a change. Maybe a night out would shake up the routine. He had agreed, somewhat reluctantly of course, but you knew by now that Simon rarely said no, well, not to you and not outright, even when he wasn’t particularly enthused about something. Your idea seemed pretty sound at the time—a bit of mindless fun, a chance to forget about life for a couple of hours.

But halfway through, you began to regret it.

Despite his compliance, it had hardly seemed to hold his interest.

The film, Thanksgiving, had been a bloody mess of cheap jump scares and gruesome deaths, the kind of silly horror that mainly thrived on shock value. It wasn’t your typical choice, but you thought it might be fun. You could laugh at the absurdity of it all, maybe even hide your face in Simon’s shoulder during the worst bits. However, you caught him with his eyes closed at one point, and though you couldn’t be sure with Simon, it looked like he was trying to sleep through the entire thing. You felt a twinge of guilt for dragging him out of his comfort zone, but it was hard not to smile at the ridiculous way he handled it.

Now, as you sat in his car, the evening pressing against the windows, you rubbed your hands together, trying to chase away the embrace of autumn. The scent of leather and something distinctly him filled the small space, grounding you in the moment. It was strange how his presence, as imposing as it could be, brought a sense of calm.

Simon shortly joined you, his usual surgical mask firmly in place, obscuring half of his face, but leaving those sharp, assessing eyes visible. You could see the faint lines of a frown etched into his brow. God, he truly wasn’t impressed. But you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

He shot you a look so lifeless it was almost comical, as if your inquiry was the most ludicrous thing he'd ever heard. It wasn't meant to be, but it was really funny. The way Simon could reduce any situation to its barest, bleakest elements always amused you, especially when you knew he had probably seen far worse in real life.

“Watchin’ people get butchered over a roast dinner’s not my idea of fun, love,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, as he buckled his seatbelt.

You snorted, your breath misting up the window a little.

“Not a fan of festive slasher films, then?” You hummed. “Could’ve fooled me. Wouldn’t have thought you of all people would be such a film snob.”

“Just not a fan of shit films,” he deadpanned, turning the key in the ignition. 

You giggled, the sound bright and unexpected, cutting through the solemnity of the moment, and for a second, you forgot about the cold seeping into your bones, forgot about the distance that had grown between you both these last few weeks. It was so Simon, his dry attitude never seemed not to amuse you.

“Alright alright, I’ll pick somethin’ better next time, promise” you offered, leaning back into your seat, watching the rain start to dot the windscreen in light, lazy taps.

He didn’t respond, not verbally at least, but the slight dip of his chin told you he’d accepted the truce. His eyes were focused on the road ahead as he eased the car into gear and pulled away from the parking lot, the city lights blurring into a mosaic of greys and muted yellows.

You were just about to continue your lighthearted roasting of the film when something caught your attention.

Nestled in the door pocket, half-hidden by your handbag, was a small, familiar box. Pushing aside your bag, you reached for it and recognised the brand instantly. It was the same one as your favourite snack, those lemon biscuits you loved so much, but this one was peach-flavoured. Your heart leapt a little at the discovery. A bright smile spread across your face as you held the box up to Simon, an incredulous laugh escaping your lips.

“Where the hell did you get these? Only ever had strawberry ones, but they taste like that god-awful medicine my mum used to force on me as a kid. But peach? My goodness, this is a fuckin’ revelation.”

Simon only shrugged, his eyes still on the road, as if it were nothing, as if his attention to this small detail in your life hadn’t just made your entire night.

“Saw them in Berlin,” he said simply, his voice almost casual.

You held the box of sweets like it was something precious, turning it in your hands as if doing so would reveal more about his thought process. It felt heavy, not because of the contents, but because of the meaning behind them. A small gesture, perhaps to him, something you would do for a friend, but to you, it was monumental.

He had thought of you.

While away, while on deployment, in the middle of whatever chaos he entailed, his thoughts had drifted to you. Enough for him to notice something as simple as biscuits, to pick them up and bring them back, just for you. Your heart swelled painfully in your chest, beating faster than it had any right to. You turned away from him, pressing your sweaty palm to your cheek as if that would somehow hide the flush rising to your cheeks. Your hair, thankfully, provided some cover.

The weight of your affection for him felt almost too much in that moment, as if your heart might burst under the pressure of it all. You loved him already, but every time you thought you couldn’t fall any further, Simon would do something incredibly thoughtful, and it would send you tumbling all over again.

You murmured a soft “thanks,” under your breath, your voice almost swallowed by the steady hum of the vehicle. Your fingers played nervously over the edges, then, clearing your throat, you asked, “Mind if I open it?”

Simon huffed, glancing at you for a brief second before refocusing on the road. “Brought ’em for you, didn’t I?” The tone in his voice was that signature Simon blend of exasperation, as though the mere notion that you’d need his permission was absurd.

You grinned, eager and unashamed now, looking down at the box one last time before diving in, tearing open the packaging with the same enthusiasm you’d had as a child on Christmas morning. The fruity smell hit your nose immediately, sweet and delicate. You took a biscuit, biting into it with a hum of appreciation.

“Shit, they’re delicious,” you offered him one without even thinking.

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead. “Not for me.”

You weren't surprised.

Simon didn’t seem the type to indulge in overly sweet things, not unless you counted tea and the occasional glass of whisky. His refusal didn’t dampen your spirits, of course.

The warmth of the treat spread through you, a sharp contrast to the damp evening that loomed just outside the car windows. The rain had started in earnest now, the soft pattern turning into a steady beat against the windscreen. You watched as the droplets raced down the glass, your mind drifting as the city lights blurred into streaks of amber, ruby and gold.

Finally, the quiet between you both wasn’t awkward.

It didn’t demand anything from you anymore. It had taken months of tentative conversations, stolen glances, and hesitant touches, but now, the silence had transformed. It felt like a shared language, a kind of intimacy beyond words. You could sit there for hours, side by side, saying nothing at all, and it would feel as though you’d spoken a thousand truths.

“Berlin, huh?”

Your smile was shy, hesitant even. You were testing the waters, trying your luck to pry into a part of Simon's life that still felt really distant and elusive. There was so much about Simon you didn’t know—so many parts of him shrouded in shadows you couldn’t reach.

You knew that he was a high-ranking military officer, that his life was filled with danger and violence, but beyond that, his world was a locked door you didn’t have the key to.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his tone nonchalant, a familiar wall sliding back into place.

“And what did you do in Germany, sir?”

You tried to ease him into conversation, something you knew was like drawing blood from a stone. You slipped a teasing lilt into your words, but the moment “sir” left your lips, you saw the shift in him.

His broad shoulders tensed visibly, his entire body going rigid, and the air in the car thickened with discomfort.

“Don’t call me that,” Simon muttered sharply.

The change in his demeanour took you aback, your frown forming before you could stop it. His reaction had been almost immediate, something instinctive, a reflex more than anything else, but it cut through the humour you were trying to build. You had thought he’d shrug off the title with a bit of banter, as he always did when you tried to joke with him, but clearly, this time you’d touched a nerve.

“Oh. Why not?”

The question hung in the air between you both.

You watched as his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, his body shifting uncomfortably in the seat. For a moment, it seemed like he wasn’t going to answer at all. You waited, the rain still tapping steadily against the glass, each second stretching into an eternity. His silence made you regret asking, but you couldn’t take it back now. So you waited, giving him space to either explain or ignore the question altogether.

Finally, after what felt like endless hours but was likely just a few heartbeats, Simon exhaled, his breath heavy and laden with a weight you couldn’t see but could almost feel. His voice, when he spoke, was low and gruff, laced with a bitterness that made your chest tighten.

“It ain’t who I am with you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his statement.

His words were as heavy as the rain pattering against the rooftop.

It was an admission, simple and raw, and it sliced through you. You weren’t sure how to respond, how to grasp what he was offering with that small sentence. You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of that realisation settle deep in your chest. For Simon, the titles, the rank, the soldier he was in the field—those weren’t meant for you.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I wasn’t tryin’ to—I was just teasin’,” you mumbled, your words faltering as you searched for the right thing to say. “But it was a shitty joke. I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” he grunted.

“I just wanted to, dunno, tease you into talkin’ more, I guess,” you added, eyes darting briefly to him. “Find out more about you. About what you do when you’re not with me.”

Simon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly, the tendons in his hand pulling taut like the silence between you.

Your heartbeat thrummed steadily in your ears, matching the rhythm of the rain, but you waited. He didn’t answer immediately, however, the fact that he didn’t brush you off instantly, didn’t give you his usual noncommittal grunt, was answer enough.

He was thinking, considering. You could almost see the cogs turning behind those familiar hazel eyes, weighing whether or not he wanted to open that specific door.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Simon spoke. “S’not that I don’t want you to know,” he said quietly, voice rough as gravel. “Some of it, you wouldn’t want to, trust me.”

You nodded, his words sinking deep into your chest. 

“Well, yeah but... if it’s important to you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the rain, “then it’s important to me. You don’t have to tell me everythin’, y’know, but I’d like to know more about you. What you do, where you’ve been—if you’re okay with that, of course.”

His jaw clenched under the mask, ever so slightly, and you could see the battle waging inside him. It was as if the weight of what he did, what he was, hung like a boulder around his neck, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to share even a piece of it with you.

You waited, breath held, afraid that if you pressed him too hard, he’d close himself off again.

“I’m in the SAS,” the admission rolled out like a stone dropping into still water. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, observing your reaction before he continued. “Been with ‘em for a while now. Means I’m involved in the kinds of things most bastards never even hear about. We’re the ones who get sent in when the situation’s gone south, when the regular lot can’t handle it. Clandestine tradecraft. Sabotage. Ambushes. Infiltration.”

For a second, you let his words settle, absorbing this sliver of his reality. You hadn’t expected him to open up, even to this degree, but you could see the cost of that openness, the weight of it etched in the hard lines of his face. 

“Uhm, I don’t really know much about that kind of stuff,” you admitted, your voice quiet but honest. “Sabotage, infiltration... sounds like somethin’ out of a bloody movie.”

He gave a low grunt, almost a laugh but not quite. “Clandestine tradecraft’s just a fancy way of sayin’ we go undercover. Sabotage means we disrupt the enemy. Ambushes, we lie in wait. Infiltration’s when we sneak in, undetected. We go into hostile environments, behind enemy lines, and we do what needs doin’.”

You absorbed his words, a silent acknowledgment of the reality that formed the backbone of Simon’s existence.

You nodded slowly, taking in each word.

You found your gaze lingering on his hands, strong and steady as they gripped the wheel, fingers worn and calloused from years of conflicts that were far removed from the world you inhabited. You wanted to reach over, to touch him, but you held back.

“And you’re… good at it,” you said, not a question, but a statement. It wasn’t hard to believe that Simon excelled in a world of calculated danger and precision.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I’m good at it.”

There was no arrogance in his tone, no pride.

It was just a fact, as undeniable as the rain that continued to beat against the windows. Simon wasn’t bragging about his skills, nor was he seeking validation. No, not even from you. He was simply stating the truth, a truth that had probably saved his life countless times. And the way he said it made it sound like it was something mundane, like he’d just clocked in and out of an ordinary office job, but you knew better. Work, for Simon, wasn’t something you could ever fully understand. It was the kind of job that left scars—

—on the body, sure, but more importantly, on the soul.

You wondered, as the weight of his words hung heavy in the car, how much of Simon’s soul had been lost in the shadows he so skillfully navigated. His hands bore no visible scars tonight, yet you knew they held memories of things you would never see, things he would likely never tell you. He had painted himself in muted greys and blacks, fading into the backdrop of a life that was dangerous, clandestine, and impossible to reconcile with the gentle, steady warmth you’d felt whenever he was with you. You realised he was both, this man of quiet domesticity and of ruthless precision—

—and the contradiction left your heart aching.

“So, when you’re here… with me… you don’t want to be that person?”

Simon’s hazel eyes flickered towards you, briefly, before he looked away. It was the faintest movement, but you caught it, that quick glance loaded with something unreadable. He released a low sigh, his shoulders sagging almost imperceptibly.

“No,” he said at last, the word as soft as the rain outside. “Not here. Not with you.”

And then, as if he had reached into the depths of your mind, Simon’s hand found its way to your thigh, his palm resting there. The warmth of his hand cut through the chill of November, spreading like wildfire across your skin. Your breath immediately hitched, a reflexive flinch, and you looked at him, wide-eyed. He didn’t return your gaze, not this time. His beautiful eyes were focused on the road, his expression a mask of calm, as though this touch was as natural as breathing to him, as though he hadn’t felt the tremor it sent through you.

But for you, it was something else entirely.

It wasn’t a touch you’d grown used to, despite the countless times you’d dreamed of it, wondered what it would feel like to have that quiet strength grounded against you. Your heart raced, an urgent beat that felt almost painfully loud in the silence. You wondered if he felt it, the way your pulse quickened beneath the weight of his hand, the heat pooling where his fingers pressed ever so lightly against you.

You let your gaze linger on his hand, his fingers resting so close to the inside of your thigh that it felt as though he was holding your truest and barest soul right in his palm.

For a moment, you hesitated, feeling your own hand tremble slightly as you lifted it, reaching to touch him back. You laid your hand gently atop his, your fingers just barely grazing his knuckles, feeling the strength hidden beneath his stillness.

You felt your resistance dissolve like frost in the morning sun.

The car moved through the city streets, the streetlights casting harsh shadows across his face, softening the lines, making him feel almost otherworldly, yet solid—solid in a way you couldn’t ignore, in a way that made you feel safe. His hand never faltered, never pulled away, and you kept your hold on him, afraid that if you let go, you might never find the courage again. All the worries, the endless questions, they faded into nothing, replaced by a calm you hadn’t felt in ages.

You melted into him, allowing your hand to rest over his, tracing gentle circles over the rough skin of his knuckles. His hand remained still, firm yet yielding under your touch, as though he were afraid to disrupt the fragile peace between you.

For the rest of the drive, neither of you spoke.

It’s painfully funny how I only planned to write a one-shot for this story, yet here I am, unable to stop writing about these two...

[rorylovesangst]

A Burning Hill

construction worker/underground fighter simon riley x

waitress

mood board

song of the chapter is Velvet Ring by Big Thief

tws: physical/emotional abuse, sexual harassment, self harm/suicidal thoughts, trauma/ PTSD

previous chapter → chapter 5 -> next chapter

word count: 2.7k

The next two days are spent watching random TV shows and eating the random soups Simon cooks up and taking sluggish walks up and down your street, bundled up in a hat, gloves, and jacket Simon made you put on before you go. He insisted that getting outside would help, even though it's hardly 35 degrees. “You need to get outside,” he insisted, standing in your doorway with his arms crossed and a wool beanie tugged low over his ears. “Fresh air’ll do you good.”

“It’s barely above freezing,” you’d protested, sinking deeper into the cocoon of your blanket on the futon.

“Good for the immune system,” Simon said, deadpan, as he tossed your gloves onto the armrest beside you. “Hat. Gloves. Jacket. Let’s go. You’re not stayin’ cooped up like this.” Next thing you know, he was herding you out the door like a sheep, your protests muffled by the scarf he wrapped snugly around your neck.

 So, as he whips up some more soup and toast, you pace up and down the street twiddling your thumbs until you hear him beckoning you back inside. “Soup’s ready. Come in before you turn into an icicle.”

Back inside, the aroma of simmering soup and freshly toasted bread filled the air. You sat at your small, slightly wobbly table, a steaming bowl in front of you. Simon pulled out the chair across from you but never took a seat; instead, he leaned against the counter, arms folded, sipping tea from one of your mismatched mugs.

“Not hungry?” you asked, gesturing to the untouched pot on the stove.

“I’ll eat later,” he replied.

Simon doesn’t eat much while he’s here—you’ve noticed that. He focuses on making sure you’re eating instead, dishing out ladles of creamy broth or chunky stew, nudging the toast plate closer when it looks like you’re slowing down.

Conversation didn’t come easily. You didn’t feel up to it, and Simon never seemed to mind the quiet. He filled the space with odd little remarks—a fact about some bird he saw once, a sarcastic jab about your cluttered counter.

“Nice tapestry,” he said once, nodding at the woven fabric hanging crookedly on your wall. “Very… thrift store chic.”

“It was $2.50,” you replied dryly, between spoonfuls.

“Bargain.”

When he wasn’t orchestrating your meals or sending you out into the cold for what he called “revitalizing,” Simon kept busy. He cleaned your bandages with careful precision, his hands steady and warm as they worked. The first time, he winced as he crouched down beside you, and you caught the slightest hiss of pain under his breath.

“Are you okay?” you asked, craning your neck to look at him.

“Fine,” he replied quickly, but you noticed the way his knuckles looked bruised and raw, like he’d been punching something—or someone.

You gestured at his hand. “What happened there?”

“Work,” he said simply, pulling the gauze tight over your wound.

“What kind of work leaves you with knuckles like that?”

“The kind that pays.” He glanced up, catching your narrowed eyes. “Don’t worry ‘bout it.”

But you did. And it wasn’t just his knuckles. You caught the way he’d press his hand to his ribs when he thought you weren’t looking or the tightness in his jaw whenever he had to bend over. You didn’t push, though. It wasn’t your place, and besides, Simon was an immovable object when it came to talking about himself.

“You could’ve been a nurse,” you’d said, watching him out of the corner of your eye.

“Yeah, right. Imagine me in scrubs.”

You huffed a laugh, but the motion tugged at the burn, and Simon shook his head, muttering something about you being a nightmare patient.

This filled the gaps in what you can remember of that 4-day haze. The four S’s: Soup. Strolls. Sanitize. Simon.  

“Nice of you to show up,” Ronny sneered from behind the counter, a smile on his lips that makes your stomach curl into itself. You’d just walked in, jacket still slung over your shoulders that were already pinched tight.

“I was sick,” you go to explain yourself, but you’re cut off buy his scoff.

“Don’t give a fuck if you were dyin’, you answer my damn calls. Got it, peach?” He raises his eyebrows expectantly, not waiting for you to answer, before turning back to his office and slamming his door, a gust of wind blowing back in your face.  

The day crawls by, thick and sluggish, like wading through molasses. Alamort weights down your limbs, dragging you closer to the dead with every passing hour. When a silverware pair slips from your hands and clatters against the floor, Ronny is on you in an instant. His hand tangles in your hair, yanking you upright, making you squeak. His voice adust as he hissed against the shell of your ear. You keep your eyes anywhere but on him—on the grimy tiles, the peeling paint, the water stains seeping through the drop-ceiling. This only makes him angrier.

His thumb and forefinger clamp down on your cheeks, pressing deep enough to leave dimples against your lithe skin, shaking your head like a rag doll’s. The motion rattles more than just your skull; it sends tremors down your spine, sparking shame and fury in equal measure. You wonder, not for the first time, how no one notices.

But maybe they do. Maybe they’ve just decided it’s easier to pretend they don’t.

Tony must have some idea. The kitchen isn’t far from the office Ronny so often drags you into, and his voice has a way of carrying even when he tries to keep it contained. But Tony doesn’t say anything. None of them do. Not Olive, not the other girls whose names you can’t remember. Those girls, so fleeting they’re like whispers caught on the wind, here one moment and gone the next. Scooped up and whisked away to better things—or maybe just different ones.

You wish you had it that easy.

Your leash is tighter than theirs, short and choking, pulling taut every time Ronny drags you back toward him. You feel it constantly, the invisible leather, rubbing raw against your throat.

Even while you're crouched on a flipped-over milk crate in the stockroom, Olive rambling about some rude costumer, you can still feel Ronny's fingers dimpling your cheeks.

Worthless ditz.

Worthless, due to being spat in your face at least weekly during any minor mistake, has lost its meaning. It’s punch. So overused and washed out it’s almost laughable when Ronny attempts to reprimand you with it.

“You look like shit,” Olive says, interrupting your thoughts. Her mouth is full of bread and cheese, sliding the plate over to you while she speaks.

“Thanks,” you muttered, picking at the crust of the sandwich instead of eating it. Your stomach churned too much for food to feel like anything but a burden.

“I mean it,” she pressed, chewing on her half. “You’ve been off for, what? Four days? You’re not better yet?”

“I’m fine,” you reply, forcing a shrug.

Olive gives you a skeptical look, tearing off another bite from the grilled cheese you’re both sharing. “I told you Simon’s a good guy, didn’t I? Even if he doesn’t seem like it. So, how did it go anyway?”

You glance at the crust in your hand, pulling it apart bit by bit. “He didn’t need to come,” you say, the words quiet but resolute. “I would’ve handled it.”

“Sure you would’ve,” Olive says, smirking as she leans back slightly. “Simon said you were snappy as hell. Didn’t even want him there.”

“I wasn’t—” You stop yourself with a sharp sigh, shaking your head. “I just… I wanted to rest on my own. That’s it.”

“Right. And rest yourself into oblivion,” Olive says with a dramatic eye roll, taking another bite. “And let me guess, you didn’t say thank you, did you?”

You hesitate, shuffling through false memories. “I thanked him.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” she teases, grinning around her bite. “Well, you’re welcome for the cream, just so we’re clear.”

A reluctant smile pulls at your lips. “Thank you.”

“Good. And you’re welcome for this too.” She gestures with the half-eaten sandwich before tearing off another piece and passing it to you. “Next time, just tell me, alright? I had to send Simon since I couldn’t call off, but I could’ve been there, y’know?”

You chew on her words more than the sandwich, your stomach tying itself in a knot. “I know. I just didn’t…didn’t want to worry you.”  

Olive gives you a look that’s both soft and stern, her green eyes narrowing slightly. “Blue, you being you means I’m always gonna worry. That’s how this works.”

Her words settle warmly in your chest, even as you avoid her gaze and focus on the sandwich. You tear another piece but hesitate to eat it. Olive notices immediately, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “You’re still not eating,” she says pointedly, nudging your arm with her elbow.

“I’ll eat,” you grumble, forcing a bite. The sandwich is dry as it crumbles against your tongue, but you manage.

Olive watches you with a raised brow, making sure you finish before leaning back with a satisfied nod. “Good. I wasn’t about to let you waste half of my lunch.” She didn’t press you further, instead leaning her head back against a shelf. Her brown curls caught the light, forming a kind of messy halo. “Hey, by the way. You doing anything Saturday night?”

You blinked at her, confused. “Why?”

“It’s Friendsgiving at my place. Just a small thing—me, Price, a couple of his work buddies. You should come. I already told Simon to swing by for a bit, so you won’t be totally out of place.”

You winced inwardly at the mention of a social gathering, though you couldn’t explain why.

“I don’t know…” you started.

“Don’t be like that,” she interrupted. “You’re coming. No excuses. Besides,” she added with a sly grin, “I don’t have any other friends, so you have to come. For me, at least. I’ve got Gaz and Soap showing up, too. Thought I’d finally introduce you properly.”

You groaned, rubbing your face with your hands. “Jesus, Olive. I’m bad enough at talking to you. You really think I can handle three more of you?”

She laughed, honeyed and dulcet, like the warmth of sun on your back. “Trust me, you’ll be fine. I’ll even make you a plate to take home if you survive.”

You smiled faintly despite yourself. The thought of her elysian little flat—lush dining room chairs, bergamot candles, hanging plants—felt like a foreign concept. But a small part of you was curious—curious enough to consider it.

“Guys,” Tony’s voice cut through the quiet of the storage room, his head appearing in the doorway like a jack-in-the-box. “You might wanna clear outta here. Ronny’s on one—don’t need him catching you two splitting a grilled cheese, y’know?”

Before either of you could reply, he was gone, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.

You sighed, grabbing the plate from the floor. “Did you invite him to Friendsgiving?”

“Yeah,” Olive replied, brushing crumbs from her lap. “But he said he’s got his kids this year. First time in a while. Wants to spend it with them.”

“Oh,” you said, surprised. “I didn’t know he had kids.”

“Yeah, four and seven. Two girls,” Olive said, her voice softening at the mention of them.

“He’s so old,” you teased, a smirk tugging at your lips.

Olive stopped mid-step as you both exited the room, giving you a look that was half incredulous, half amused. “Blue, he’s five years older than me.”

You shrugged innocently, barely holding back a grin. “I’m just kidding!”

The day drags, but you survive—barely. The bell over the door jingles one last time as the final customer leaves, and you begin wiping down tables while Olive sweeps the floor. The clink of glasses and the hum of the lights were your only companions as you scrubbed counters. Olive hummed some forgotten tune while sweeping the floor, the rhythm of her movements steady and grounding.

Ronny’s voice shattered the quiet. “Hey. You.”

Your spine stiffened, the rag freezing in your hand. His eyes locked onto yours like a predator— saccharine visions of tearing through the meat of your skin with pointy teeth and a bloody maw.

“Come here. Now.”

You cast a glance at Olive, who arched a brow but said nothing. Setting the rag down, you followed him into the cramped cage of his office, walking right into his territory.

The door shut behind you, and the air turned heavy, suffocating. You’re waiting for him to pounce. To strike.

“Take off for a week, and then sit around slackin’? Messin’ shit up?” He was backing you against his desk, only stopping once you were pressed against the chipping wood.

“I—I wasn’t sla—” you started, but he cut you off.

“The fuck you were, lazy skank.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Shut up.” His breath was hot against your head, towering over you with something resembling repugnance in his Tartarean eyes.

His hands were on your throat before you could process it, his grip tightening as he slammed you against his desk. His right hand braced against your nape as his left squeezed the column of your throat making you wheeze. Hot tears were already streaming down your cheek before you could recognize the feeling in your chest as panic. It quickly spread like wildfire. You were grabbing at his wrists frantically, crescent shaped holes littering his arms as you tried to pry him off.

“You think you can disrespect me?” he hissed, his face inches from yours. You let out a meek sound—a cry, maybe?—with all the air you had. It was no use. Black started to creep into the corners of your vision, and you were almost glad: Glad that maybe he’d put an end to your misery, glad that you’d get to stop seeing his wicked sneer as you clamped down harder. Which one you’d father prefer was a mystery to you.

Then, as suddenly as it began, he released you.

You stumbled onto your knees, choking on shallow breaths, your fingers clawing at your throat, desperate for anything thinner than air to rush in and soothe the ache. Weeping into the carpet, tears staining it a darker shade of tan.

“Get the fuck up,” he barked, his voice a cruel whip. You tried—you really did—but the oxygen hadn’t yet traveled back to your brain, and you floundered right into his desk with another choked sob. “Out! Get out!” He grabbed you by the shoulder and shoved you at the door. With your legs trembling beneath you, you escaped as quickly as you could with what strength you had.

Olive looked up when you reentered the dining area. Your efforts to swallow the sobs and catch your breath did nothing to hide the mess you were. She paused, broom in hand, her expression morphing into something soft and concerned.

The sight of that worry on her face made the pit in your stomach grow, swallowing up your bones and tissue.

“Blue—honey—oh no…oh no.” She quickly dropped the broom and pulled you into her arms. “What happened?”

The words jammed in your throat, thick and lumpy. You swallowed hard, trying to force them down without choking. “N-nothing. He was j-just...really me-mean.”

Her lips pressed lips against the top of your head, pulling you closer to her chest. “That man’s a nightmare,” she muttered. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded quickly, your voice cracking when you spoke. “I’m f-fine. Let’s just finish up.” You wiped your face with a trembling hand, and even as you did, the dampness was already seeping through your fingers.

Olive didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t press further. She resumed sweeping, her movements slow and careful, as if testing the water before continuing. You turned back to the counter, your hands shaking as you scrubbed at spots that weren't even there, trying to make sense of the silence that stretched between you and the world.

Later, at home, the mirror told the truth. Through the cracks and the dust, the bruises on your neck flourished like flowers in May, purple and blue spreading against pale skin. You traced them with trembling fingers before you could notice the tears running down your cheeks and dripping onto your hands.

Your phone buzzed on the counter, breaking the silence. A text from Olive.

friendsgiving. don’t forget. saturday. pls be there

You hesitated, the words blurring before your eyes. Finally, you typed back:

i will.

The reply felt fragile, a candle’s flickering flame, but it was something.

In the quiet that followed, you leaned against the counter, staring at the message. Somewhere, beneath the weight of bruises and silence, a small hope burned. The violent desire for something new. But even a worm will turn.

[reiderwriter]

Hi!!! I really love your writing 🥺 Idk how this works so Idk if my request is alright so If it's ok for you to write it, I got this idea about Spencer turning into a player/manwhore after maeve died so he's not into y/n in the beginning but the others always joke about how she's totally in love with him and he doesn't believe until he starts to notice little things she does for him(like getting him coffee every morning, remembering everything he says) so he start to fall for her. Genre: smut with soft!Dom Spencer, dirty talk, degradation(please no daddy kink) (Sorry if it's to long, I read it's best for you if we give as much detail as possible so that's that) I'm going to identify myself with this emoji 🥺 when I read the fic or in my next requests, hope I gave you something to write with.

A/N: Thank you for the request and omg this plot has given me brain rot since you sent it in 💀 I accidentally made this a little angst-heavy for the first half but there's a very "happy ending" if you catch my drift. I hope you love it! ❤️

Summary: Spencer Reid's heart is broken. But in healing himself in the arms of countless woman, he doesn't realise he's breaking yours.

Word count: 4.6k

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, angst, oral (F receiving), fingering, P in V penetration, dirty talk, degradation of you squint a little, soft!Dom Spencer is incredibly soft.

My masterlist with all my other works is here, and my requests are open!

It had taken four whole months before someone on the team had confronted Spencer about his grief, his lack of sleep, his overall dreariness, and they were almost shocked that it wasn’t you that did it. When Rossi had walked up to him, offering a story about his Uncle Sal in an attempt to get him to open up, or at least seek help, the others were on the other side of the glass, shooting looks over at you, quietly enquiring with their eyes about why it hadn’’t been you to offer him that out.

But you had, you’d been trying. You’d been following him around, taking him food every couple days to make sure he was eating, sticking around to make sure that he wasn’t lonely. You’d even cleaned up after him on the particularly hard days, where he didn’t want to move from his bed and couldn’t bring himself to go outside if there was no work, no one else to save. But you couldn’t offer him more, because he already had all of you.

You’d first realised that you were in love with Spencer Reid a few months after you’d joined the team. You’d been bought on as a fresh set of eyes on a case that had a lot more to do with you then the rest of the team had been led to believe.

Your high school boyfriend had been the victim of a notorious highway murderer, and you yourself had been kidnapped by the unsub, put in hell for the following three days and escaped with your life only because of an earlier BAU team, including agents Hotchner and Rossi. When bodies had started turning up on the same stretch of highway, you needed to be involved or you’d never prove to yourself that you could do what they did to save you. That you’d be able to put your feelings aside and catch monsters.

You’d found the man responsible of course, and in restraining yourself from putting a bullet in his brain, you’d found yourself a place on the team, and some peace for a time. And then Spencer happened.

You really should have known. You were always fond of the nerdy type, of men who had such deep interests that they forgot to pay attention to social queues, who had too many cute habits (like purposefully mismatching socks) that you couldn’t help but find endearing. You’d grown close quickly, with the man grateful that there was finally someone to listen to him ramble and not judge him, and you grateful that he also held himself back enough, listened closely and well to remember so many details about your conversations. You knew an eidetic memory helped, but it was the care in the small actions, like buying you the beanie baby you lost as a child but still mourned, that you’d mentioned in conversation a grand total of one time, that really solidly made you realise. You were in love with him and had dug yourself a hole that you weren’t going to be able to climb out of anytime soon.

You’d almost told him once. Convinced that if you just explained your feelings, he’d suddenly feel the same or realise that he felt the same way, too. You’d opened your mouth to let the words run freely, but he beat you to it.

“I’ve met someone, and she’s totally brilliant and I think I might love her, and that must be an insane thing to say considering I’ve never even seen her face.” You’d willed the broken pieces of your heart together as you forced a smile on your face, ready to listen to the man who owned your heart smile for another, live for another, breath for another.

When Maeve had ultimately passed away, you knew that you’d never be able to say those words to him. You weren’t going to be the replacement for a dead woman, and you weren’t going to push those feelings on him when he was grieving. But you loved him and he needed you, so you stayed.

On the nights where he was so angry with the world that his words were biting, on the days where he said almost nothing so trapped inside his brain, in the hours between dusk and dawn where there was no rest for him, wiping away the tears that fell silently and just being as near to him as he needed.

You had some experience in broken hearts, anyways. You might as well put it to good use.

–X–

It had taken five whole months since Maeve’s death for the team to realise that Spencer was changing. He was still the same person intrinsically, ready to spring into a conversation about absolutely anything and everything that interested him at the drop of a hat, still debating with Penelope about which of them was smarter, still being teased in that playful way by Morgan. But there was a confidence to him now that was almost dangerous in the fact that it was uncharted territory for him.

You’d noticed it first on one of your regular coffee runs. The two of your were so serious about your coffee tasting like anything but actual coffee that you’d bonded over the need for a sweet treat, and had been going for coffee before all of your office shifts almost since you’d started. You were glad to have him finally back by your side, making stupid jokes about how many philosophers it would take to change a lightbulb, and actually smiling and laughing with you that you almost didn’t notice anything amiss.

But when the barista who took his order carefully slipped him her number - something she’d been doing for the whole six months you’d been frequenting that cafe - for once, he hadn’t thrown it away. He’d taken a lingering look at the digits inked neatly into the napkin and quietly slipped it into his pocket. You were confused to say the least, but since that night of your almost confession, there had been a boundary between you two in that sense.

It was almost as if, if you didn’t ask questions about Spencer’s love life, it was like he wasn’t out there, being in love. With Maeve it had worked fine because he’d never met her, and honestly, until you’d started trying to save her he hadn’t brought her up a lot. But now, you were too afraid to break your own heart again to check up on him, deciding to let it go for your own well-being.

The others had noticed soon enough. Comments about a pep in his step, his flirtacious manner with some of the female witnesses. He’d gained a few claps on the back from Morgan after closed off conversations that you had decided you were thankful not to have heard.

Because if you never saw or heard what Reid was doing, and apparently doing with multiple women, multiple times a week, then it couldn’t hurt you anymore than you were already hurting now.

–X–

It took seven months from Maeve’s death to realise that you were only fooling yourself this entire time.

Despite his new-found release, the therapy he’d found in the beds of women whose names he never learnt, there was one thing that you could still rely on with Reid, and that was your Friday night Star Trek watch-along.

You’d mentioned once a few weeks into your job that you’d never seen it before, and he’d had this absolutely starry-eyed look on his face in bewilderment, that when he’d half-heartedly suggested you watch it together, you’d leapt at the chance. Since there was so much of it, here you were over a year later, still keeping to that Friday night ritual. You’d watched it together in motels in the middle of nowhere, you’d watched it together over the Christmas holidays, you’d watched it together in the days directly after Maeve’s death, and tonight was supposed to be no different.

You pulled up to his apartment and knocked on the door, and when you couldn’t immediately hear him shout to “come in” from his kitchen as he was preparing the popcorn, you knew that something was wrong. His door was always unlocked, and he laughed at your habit of knocking on the door, insisting that you could just walk in anytime you needed.

Now that you needed to, your hand seemed heavier than ever. You gripped the cold metal of the handle, knowing exactly what you would find on the other side of the door, but still wanting to live in the clear denial of it. You prayed it was something else keeping him distracted.

You let yourself in and were welcomed with the sight that shattered your heart for the final time. There were clothes scattered across the floor, male and female. Shoes discarded in the heat of the moment. You didn’t want your eyes to follow, but your feet weren’t listening as they walked you to the bedroom door, thrust wide open, and you saw him there finally.

“Shit, Y/N, what are you doing here?” he scrambled to pull his clothes back on, to cover whatever woman it was underneath him that day, to make sure you didn’t see anymore of the image that would be burned into the back of your brain for the rest of your life.

You couldn’t say anything. You knew that he had been doing this, doing it to cope, doing it to move on, doing it to feel a sense of intimacy after he didn’t get that with Maeve. But here was the irrefutable proof that he’d never even looked at you with an ounce of the feeling you had for him. You held up the bag of snacks you usually bought to your Trek marathons as a response, the tears filling up your eyes rendering you mute as you finally tore yourself out of the room.

“Oh god, it’s Friday. I didn’t realise…. I’m sorry, can we do a raincheck, Y/N?” He guided you further out of the room, placing a hand to the small of your back to help move you along. Something in you snapped then and you recoiled from his touch, whipping your head up to him and just staring at him with all the defiance you could muster. He had broken your heart, you weren’t going to let him dismiss you that quickly.

“Y/N, why are you crying? What’s wrong, what happened? Tell me and I’ll do everything I can to fix it.” He finished his words, and made to wipe the tears from your face, but you slapped his hands away from you before he could make contact.

“Don’t… just don’t touch me, Spencer.” Those were the only words you could offer in explanation before you turned on your heel and ran straight out of his apartment for the last time.

–X–

It took one month from you storming out of his apartment for Spencer to realise that he hadn’t dreamt of Maeve in the same amount of time. Where his dreams had been full of her asking him to dance, they were now full of you recoiling from his touch, refusing to speak to him outside of your professional work, withdrawing into yourself and crying. The worst ones were the ones where you were crying because he tried desperately to hold you, to wipe the kisses away, but everytime he tried you moved further and further from his reach.

It had been a month of you ignoring him, and he still didn’t know what went wrong. Yes, you’d caught him in bed with a girl, but you knew he was doing that. You’d known from the start, and he’d known that you’d known, so surely it wasn't just that.

Morgan wasn’t helping him on that front either. He’d explained the awkward run-in in his apartment, desperate for some answers and received some pretty curt replies.

“Pretty boy, if you don’t realise what you did wrong, then there’s nothing I’m going to do to help you. You’re on your own until then.” He’d refused to talk about it anymore.

He’d thought a few times about talking to the girls on the team, but you’d been partnered with JJ for the last month on cases to avoid him, and there was a bond there between the two of you that he didn’t want to overstep.

It was in this confusion that Rossi found him again, taking pity on the boy wandering around like a lost puppy in the absence of your friendship.

“Kid, what is up with you again recently?”

“Y/N has been avoiding me, and I don’t know why. Derek said it was my fault because she… well she walked in on something that I’d rather she hadn’t, you know, and I don’t know why she still won’t talk to me because it’s been a month.” He rambled out, thankful that someone was finally hearing him out.

“If I’m understanding your insinuation here, I think I know what the problem is.” Rossi sat back, choosing his words carefully, so as not to startle the younger man. But he was so worked up all over you, missing your voice, your touch, your company, and just wanting you back in whatever way he could get you that he jumped at the very suggestion of answers.

“Then please, tell me, I’m begging you. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to figure out what it is and I just miss her so much that it hurts.”

“Spencer, you know I usually don’t get involved in the personal lives of my coworkers, but just listen to me now, nice and calmly - and dont try to interrupt me or say a word. I know what I’m talking about, okay?” He gave a quick nod of his head, waiting with baited breath for Rossi to continue.

“The girl is in love with you. Head over heels, in fact, and has been for quite some time. And she was holding it together real nice until you decided to become this casanova and now she is heartbroken,” Spencer looked like he was about to interrupt, to spew out that that couldn’t possibly be the case, but Rossi silenced him with a look. “If you don’t believe me, you use that memory of yours and you do what you do best. Think about it.”

–X–

For the next three months, that was all Spencer did. He thought about every interaction you’d ever had. The blush on your cheeks when he’d introduced himself for the first time (and refused to shake your hand). The countless nights spent curled up on opposite sides of his couch, laughing and crying together at silly sci-fi shows. The way you’d thrown yourself into his arms after a particularly gruelling case, buried your head in his chest instead of anyone else's. The day you’d finally confessed your past to him, how he’d felt your heart beating as he held a finger to your pulse, hand gently holding yours waiting for you to finish describing the time you’d stared death in the face.

You’d noticed the change, but you wouldn’t let yourself acknowledge it fully. Noticed how he’d shoot you lingering glances from across the room, how he’d look like he had something to say when you announced you were leaving for the night. How he’d ask everyone together what their friday night plans were just to hear you admit that you were going home alone in the company of the rest of the team.

You’d noticed, and god had it given you a spark of hope that you wished would die quickly. You’d noticed, and so you weren’t as surprised when he turned up on your doorstep four months after you’d last talked to him, on another friday evening.

“What are you doing here?” you greeted him, the words coming out colder than you wanted them to seem, inwardly cursing yourself for letting your emotions get the better of you.

“Don’t make me leave, please, I just have something to ask and I’ll leave you alone.”

“Spencer, it’s been a long day, and I just want to go to bed so-”

“Do you still love me?” His words cut you off and your heart all but stopped. Your tongue grew heavy, and the inside of your mouth tasted acidic, knowing that you weren’t going to be able to fully stomach whatever conversation was coming.

“Excuse me?” you spluttered out eventually.

“Three months ago, Rossi said that you were in love with me, and I need to know that if that was the case, are you still in love with me now?” You expected some cold curious look to be gracing his face, but you looked up to see his eyes perfectly trained on your own, his mouth set in a line, a look of stony determination set on his face.

“If I say yes, what difference does that make?” you tried not to spit out the words, but you had no control over the venom in your heart.

“If you say yes, then I am going to kiss you, and then I am going to spend every last day I have on the planet making up for being an idiot for the last two years.” Your breath caught in your throat, and, not for the first time in front of Spencer Reid, you were stunned into silence.

“So, what is your answer?” He looked down at you again, and you started to see the cracks in his stony facade, started to see through to the man who desperately wanted you to say yes, to scream it at him.

The word hadn’t even fully formed on your tongue before he was crashing down into you, his mouth pleading for forgiveness and wrapping you up in him. He grabbed you and pulled you back into your apartment, whispering into each of your kisses.

“I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry.” The two of you stumbled into the space, but he never moved his hands from the sides of your face, cupping your cheeks gently as his lips brushed against yours again and again.

Your legs gave way beneath you by the time you’d reached the open space of your living room, but instead of catching you, he fell to his knees with you, content for the two of you to just sit there together in each other's embrace.

“You’ve loved me this entire time, and I was too stupid to realise that you’re everything I need.” He kissed your mouth, your jaw, your neck, moving his hands from your face to your waist, pulling you in deep again as you desperately pulled away in search of breath. That only toppled you further to the ground, and he came down on top of you again as well, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head so you didn’t hurt yourself.

And you kissed him back just as fervently when your breath returned, listening to every apology and forgiving him with every touch. His kisses said “I’m sorry,” and yours said “I know,” and that was all the communication you needed for now.

He pulled your shirt over your head eventually, and your skin met the cold tile of the floor, a shiver running up your spine causing you to buck your hips up into his. He hissed at the contact and pushed his bodyweight down further into yours, his legs slotting perfectly between your splayed ones now.

“It took me too long to realise, and it has taken me too long to act on the knowledge, but I am not going to let you go again, do you understand?” he pushed his lips into yours again before you could respond, and you clawed into his shoulders as he started grinding down into your body. His hand trailed up your waist to your breasts, pulling them free from the constraints of your bra, as he let his tongue slide down from your neck to your chest.

“I need to hear you say it baby, need you to say you understand, can you do that for me?” Your body burned under his attention, back arching desperately for more contact as his tongue swirled your nipple into his mouth, gasping breaths loud enough to fill the empty air of your apartment. His stiff cock was firmly pressing against your core now, barely clothed in the pajamas you’d pulled on before his arrival.

“Spencer, yes, I need you, I need you right now, please,” grabbed at either side of his face and pulled him back up so he was face to face with you. You initiated the kiss this time, and you could feel your heart soar at the tender kiss he met you with, thankful for the reciprocation.

“Not yet, baby, not yet, okay?” he whispered in your ear, trailing his hands down to your centre and slipping his hand under your clothes. “So fucking wet for me, baby. Just for me, right, baby?” His fingers found your clit, and he started rolling it between his fingers. He worked slowly enough to drive you insane, but giving you just enough relief that you couldn’t complain.

“Yes, Spencer, yes, yes it’s all for you. Only for you,” you managed to gasp out. He shifted his hand after a few minutes, still pressing love bites down your chest, claiming you as his in the most animalistic way possible. He spread the wetness that pooled at your core around, making sure that his fingers were coated in you before pushing a single digit into your aching hole, thumb continuing to draw circles around your bundle of nerves.

“That’s my little slut, so desperate for me, so needy for me.” His words shot through you, and you started thrusting your hips up desperate for more friction with his hand. He roughly pushed you back down, pinning you under him with his free hand.

“No, baby, I’m in charge here. You sit back and relax and let me make you feel good,okay?” His words soothed you, the growing heat in the pit of your stomach fizzing in anticipation. His kisses dropped lower and lower, until he was finally pulling off your remaining clothing and replacing his thumb with his lips.

“Fuck Spencer, if you keep doing that, I’m going to-” another sharp intake as he pumped a second finger in and out of you.

“Going to what, baby? Use your words?”

“I’m going to cum, Spencer please, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum.,,” you rode out your high with his face stuffed between your legs still, swallowing your loud moans for fear of the entire neighbourhood knowing just how obsessed you were with this man.

“You did so good for me, baby, so good. I love you so much, okay? I’m going to take care of you from now on, okay?” He began pressing kisses to your mouth again, and you could taste yourself against him now.

“I need you so badly, baby, are you going to let me have you?” He started pulling off his own clothing now, removing his shirt and tie, but never once leaving your embrace for too long.

“I love you so much, baby. I’m sorry for not realising before, but I realise now. I was so terrible to you after Maeve, and god, even before she died I was using you as a therapist to talk through my thoughts and fears, but I was too dense to even realise that I was only in love with Maeve because she was safe. I couldn’t meet her, couldn’t touch her, didn’t have the chance to ruin anything I had with her. I couldn't realise that she wasn’t you, that she wasn’t going to feel like you do in my arms. And maybe some part of me loved her, but we were using each other, and I was using her to avoid confronting how I felt about you.”

“And how I feel for you is different. I am obsessed with you, Y/N. I am so madly in love with you that the last four months have felt like hell. I could have emptied myself of all the blood in my body and still my heart would be beating for you. Do you understand?”

You answered in a chaste kiss on his lips, sweet and quick, but as much as you could muster without driving yourself to the brink of insanity getting yourself high on his touch.

“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want now, okay?” He’d unbuttoned his pants shortly after that and you stared transfixed at the head of his cock poking up and out of them, desperate to see it, touch it, taste it.

“I need you inside of me, Spence, please,” you cried out, tears welling in your eyes at the tender contact, the confession. All the emotions you’d been burying for the last four months bubbling to the surface, dancing around your head as he made you dizzy with desire.

“You’re so perfect, Y/N. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” with the last of his clothing removed he was finally free, taking his heavy,aching cock in his hand and lining himself up with you. With a single thrust, and another confession of love, he gave you what you wanted so much.

“You wanted me like this, baby? So desperate to have my cock inside you?” he plagued you with questions as you adjusted to his size, watching your face for any discomfort as you mumbled out yes after yes.

“Me too, baby. I wanted you just like this, wanted you so desperate and dripping for me that I could slide right in, wanted you like this for me and only me.” He began thrusting then, slowly pumping his cock into you, heavy with each return, the sound of skin slapping against skin joining the ensemble of your moans.

“I love you,” he said again, and with each thrust of his hips, and you responded in kind, matching his thrusts with your own and pressing a kiss into the skin of his shoulders. You were so desperate and needy, so starved of touch and starved of one another that neither of you lasted long. Your bodies were so in sync that as soon as he’d pushed you over the edge for a second time, you could feel him spill himself inside you, filling you completely.

He rolled off you, but didn’t leave you there, picking you up and carrying you to the bedroom. He cleaned you up as much as possible, then folded you back into his arms, holding you again so tenderly that you let the tears flow down your cheeks for a final time.

It was Friday night, and he was here, and he loved you. You weren’t going to let him go again.

[andromeda-pleiades]

Just Trust Me

WORD COUNT: 1,028

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

I've written the second part, but I want to break this into 3 parts. So the second will come out at night or tomorrow.

Part 1 | Part - 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Maybe you shouldn’t have dated Simon.

Lord knows he isn’t the most stable man. Between the night terrors and the need for constant reassurance that you love him, he was the poster child for red flags. But red flags are easier to ignore when they’re wrapped in soft smiles and strong arms, aren’t they?

So, it comes as no surprise when you notice an app you don’t recognize on your phone.

It sits there innocently enough, nestled between your email and social media apps, but you’ve never seen it before. The icon—a blank, generic symbol—seems deliberately nondescript, almost as if it’s trying too hard not to stand out.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

The moment you tap it, a prompt appears: Enter Password.

Your stomach twists.

Jesus Christ, Simon. What do you think I’m doing?

You don’t need to be a tech expert to figure it out: the app is meant to spy on you. What it’s monitoring—your location, your texts, your app history—is the only mystery.

Deleting it would be the logical move, but that’s not an option. Simon would notice. He notices everything. And you know he could win an Olympic gold medal in jumping to conclusions.

So, what to do?

You close the app and lock your phone, your heart pounding. Maybe you’re being paranoid. Maybe it’s just a weird app you forgot you downloaded. Or maybe Simon has taken his possessiveness to a new level.

You decide to get out of the house.

The local sandwich shop isn’t much—a fluorescent-lit counter, a couple of mismatched tables—but it’s familiar, and more importantly, it’s public. Simon hates crowded places; the noise and chaos set him on edge. This is one of the few spots you feel like you can breathe.

You’re halfway through your order when someone taps your shoulder.

“Hey, long time no see.”

You turn to find Kyle. His easy smile and warm eyes are a stark contrast to Simon’s calculated demeanor. Kyle was a friend from years ago—before Simon, before everything. You’d lost touch, but here he is, as if no time has passed.

“Kyle? Wow, it’s been ages,” you say, surprised at how natural it feels to smile back.

“You look great,” he says, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets. “How’ve you been?”

You chat for a few minutes, the kind of light, easy conversation you’ve forgotten you’re capable of having. It’s a rare moment of normalcy—until Kyle glances at his watch.

“I’d love to catch up more, but I’ve got to run. Let’s not make this the last time we bump into each other, okay?”

“Sure,” you say, though the odds of reconnecting feel slim.

Kyle gives you a quick hug, his hand lingering lightly on your back, then heads for the door.

You smile to yourself, picking up your tray, when it hits you—your phone and wallet are gone.

Your heart drops. Frantically, you pat your pockets, rummage through your bag, even check under the table. Nothing.

Panic tightens your chest. Did I drop them? Did someone take them?

A man wirh the most ridiculous haircut brushes past you on his way out. You lock onto him, suspicion flaring, but he’s already gone.

Kyle’s gone. The phone’s gone.

The app. You didn’t delete it. You couldn't. That stupid app, the one Simon uses to track you—how much did he see? Was he checking on you now? Was it only a matter of time before you realized it was gone too?

And now, with your phone gone, you have no way of knowing what Simon might already know. No way of tracking where your phone is. No way of knowing if Simon has access to everything you’ve done. You clench your fists.

You need to get it back.

You stand frozen for a moment in the middle of the sandwich shop, still processing the absence of your phone and wallet. You glance at the door, trying to make sense of what just happened. Kyle is long gone, slipping out into the busy street, leaving you standing there, uncertain of what to do next.

A feeling of panic gnaws at you, but you push it down, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. It’s just a phone. You’ll find it, or you’ll figure something else out.

But when you check your wallet again, your heart sinks. It’s the second thing gone.

Your fingers tremble as you gather your things, scanning the floor one more time, but it’s no use. Your things are gone, and there's no point in standing here any longer. The unease creeps back in. What now?

You step out of the sandwich shop, pulling your coat tighter around you. The cold air does little to calm your nerves.

You don’t bother checking your watch or asking around. The last thing you need is attention right now. Instead, you slip your hand into your bag, fingers brushing the empty spot where your phone should be. Panic rises again.

Just as you’re about to walk down the street, hoping to retrace your steps, the sound of a car engine pulls you from your thoughts.

Simon’s car rolls up beside you, the headlights cutting through the dusk. The car slows as he rolls down the window.

"You alright?" he asks, his voice steady, though there’s something about it that feels too calm, too neutral.

You glance at the car, his face hard to read in the dim light. How did he know to come get me?

"Yeah," you manage to say, forcing a smile. "Just... was gonna walk."

He doesn’t press, just gives a small nod, the car idling in front of you.

“Get in,” he says. His tone is casual, but you catch that sharpness in his voice, the one that makes you hesitate for a split second before getting in.

You slide into the passenger seat, the warmth of the car a stark contrast to the cold air outside. Simon doesn’t say anything else, and neither do you. The silence feels heavy as you pull away, but your mind keeps circling back to one question: How did he know?

[vamp1reb1tez]

“Bar Tabs & Bandages.” Silco x Male reader

A/N: This is my first fanfic I hope you guys enjoy :3

Working under Silco and the Eye of Zaun, you never imagined the two of you would get along—polar opposites in every way. Silco, with his calm, calculating demeanor, could keep even the most unruly of his men in check without raising his voice, while you were the kind of person who couldn’t resist poking the bear. You found his cold professionalism amusing to test, and it drove him mad. The only reason you were here was to pay off your debt.

You still weren’t sure why he saved you during the enforcer raid all those months ago, dragging your bleeding body back to The Last Drop instead of leaving you to die in the gutter like everyone else. Maybe he just wanted another soldier for his growing army. Or maybe he saw potential in you. Either way, here you were, stuck under his roof and his rules. Not that you were complaining. It was better than the alternative—at least here, you had regular meals and a bed, which was more than most in Zaun could say. Still, being beholden to Silco grated on your nerves, even if you found a certain satisfaction in testing his patience whenever you could.

Lately, though, you’d noticed a change. Silco seemed less irritated by your constant sarcasm, meeting your remarks with an exasperated eye roll or even, on rare occasions, a wry quip of his own. You weren’t sure what to make of it. Maybe he was getting used to you, or maybe your banter was finally wearing him down.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

One evening, Silco was hunched over his desk, a lit cigar between his lips as he traced a blueprint of Zaun’s streets. The Chem Barons were at each other’s throats again, and you could tell from the tension in his shoulders that the situation was weighing on him. He didn’t look up when Sevika burst into the room, dragging you in by the arm like a misbehaving child.

“This is the third time this week, Boss,” she snapped, shoving you forward. “He keeps picking fights in the bar. I’m sick of it.”

Silco lifted his head slowly, exhaling a cloud of smoke. His mismatched eyes flicked to you, then back to Sevika. “Leave him here. I’ll deal with him.”

Sevika hesitated, clearly annoyed that she wouldn’t get to rough you up, but eventually stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Silco leaned back in his chair, studying you with a mix of irritation and amusement. “You have a knack for getting yourself all messed up, don’t you?” His voice was smooth, with just a hint of mockery.

You shrugged, wiping the blood from your nose with the sleeve of your coat. “This one had it coming. Should’ve kept his mouth shut.”

Silco sighed, running a hand through his hair as he stood. “Maybe you should learn to control that temper of yours. I don’t need you bleeding all over my floor.” He moved to a drawer, pulling out a cloth.

You couldn’t resist. “It gives the place some character.”

That earned a scoff from him as he stepped in front of you. Silco knelt slightly, pressing the cloth to your nose. His touch was firm but surprisingly gentle, and you couldn’t help but notice how close he was—close enough to catch the scent of his cologne mingling with the sharp tang of cigar smoke.

“You can’t keep picking fights,” he said, his voice low. “Sevika’s already on edge with the way you speak to our patrons.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe Sevika should mind her own business.”

That earned you a sharp look. Silco’s hand moved to your jaw, his fingers firm but not harsh as he tilted your face up to meet his gaze. “That is her business. You’d do well to respect that and rein in that attitude of yours.”

You gritted your teeth but stayed silent, his mismatched eyes locking onto yours. He continued cleaning your face, his movements methodical despite the tension crackling in the air. When the cloth pressed against a particularly sore spot, you hissed and tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

“Quit squirming,” he growled.

“I’m capable of patching myself up, y’know,” you muttered, glaring at him.

Silco smirked, dropping the cloth onto his desk. He leaned forward, his hands braced on either side of your chair, boxing you in. The intensity in his gaze made your breath hitch.

“Oh, you’re capable, are you?” His voice was silken, dripping with sarcasm. “Then why did you let me help?”

Your chest tightened at the question, and your usual sharp tongue failed you. Silco’s smirk deepened, and he tilted his head, studying your face. “You wanted my help, didn’t you, doll?”

“That’s ridiculous,” you mumbled, looking away.

Silco’s hand caught your chin, gently but firmly turning your face back to him. “Oh, it’s entirely ridiculous,” he said, his tone mocking but without malice. His thumb brushed against your cheek, sending a shiver down your spine.

For once, you were at a loss for words. This side of Silco—soft, almost tender—was something you’d never expected to see. And yet, you couldn’t deny the way your body leaned into his touch, craving more.

“Maybe I enjoyed being taken care of,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

Silco hummed, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your cheek. “Maybe I enjoy taking care of you,” he murmured.

The air between you grew heavy, the tension almost suffocating. Silco leaned in, his lips dangerously close to yours. “Now,” he said, his voice a low drawl, “are you going to stop fighting in my bar?”

You swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “No more fights. Promise.”

Silco chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Good boy.”

The words sent a jolt through you, making your legs feel like jelly. Before you could overthink it, you grabbed his lapels and pulled him down into a kiss. Silco responded immediately, his fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss with a low groan.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily. Silco straightened his coat, his expression calm despite the flush on his cheeks. “Don’t let me catch you out of line again,” he warned, his voice steady but tinged with amusement. “If you persist, I’ll handle you differently.”

You couldn’t help but smirk at that. Maybe one more bar fight wouldn’t hurt, just to see what he meant.

[imreidswifey]

happy new year!

Happy new years to you as well!! ♡😻

A New Year’s Kiss to Remember -S.R Fluff-

Summary: It’s New Year’s Eve, and the BAU holiday party is in full swing, filled with laughter, trivia, and celebration. As midnight approaches, surrounded by twinkling lights and the playful teasing of your coworkers, you find yourself standing next to the brilliant and endearing profiler.

Warnings:

Fluff and romance galore

Mentions of social anxiety/nerves

Teasing and lighthearted banter among friends

A brief kiss scene

———————————————————————————-

The BAU’s holiday party was in full swing by the time you arrived. A burst of warm air greeted you as you stepped into the festively decorated office, your breath catching at the sight of twinkling fairy lights strung across the ceiling and wreaths adorning every cubicle. The team had gone all out this year—Garcia’s handiwork, no doubt. You slipped out of your coat and joined the laughter and chatter of your coworkers, heart fluttering when your eyes caught sight of Dr. Spencer Reid.

He stood near the snack table, a cup of punch in one hand, his other gesturing animatedly as he explained something to Rossi. You didn’t even need to get closer to know he was spouting off some fascinating fact about the history of New Year’s Eve or the statistical probability of resolutions being kept. Spencer Reid had a way of making even the most mundane topics come alive, his honeyed voice weaving facts into something magical.

And tonight? Tonight, he looked particularly handsome. His slightly unruly curls were swept back, his usual sweater vest replaced by a dark blue button-down and a gray tie with faint silver accents. It was a simple look, but on Spencer, it was perfect.

You debated whether to approach him, nerves twisting in your stomach. Your crush on Spencer had been growing for months now—ever since you joined the BAU, to be exact. His kindness, his brilliant mind, the way his face lit up when he talked about something he loved… he was everything you never knew you were looking for. But despite the camaraderie you’d built with him, you hadn’t been brave enough to tell him how you felt.

“Y/N!” Garcia’s voice broke through your thoughts, her sequined dress glittering as she bounded over. “Get over here! You’re just in time for the trivia showdown!”

You laughed, letting her drag you to the center of the room, where the team had gathered. Spencer’s eyes met yours briefly, and he smiled—a small, shy smile that made your heart race.

The night passed in a blur of laughter and games. Spencer dominated trivia, as expected, but he’d humbly stepped back to let others shine. You found yourself gravitating toward him, the two of you sharing quiet conversations amidst the chaos. He told you about the origins of New Year’s resolutions, and you teased him about his mismatched socks, earning a soft chuckle that sent butterflies fluttering in your chest.

As midnight approached, the party shifted into a more relaxed rhythm. Morgan turned the lights down low, setting the stage for the countdown. Someone passed out party hats and noisemakers, and you found yourself standing next to Spencer as the team gathered around the large clock on the wall.

“Nervous about midnight?” you asked him, trying to mask your own nerves.

Spencer glanced at you, his eyes soft behind his glasses. “Not nervous, exactly,” he said. “Just… wondering about the traditions. Did you know the custom of kissing at midnight dates back to ancient Rome? It was believed to bring good luck for the coming year.

You smiled. “Good luck, huh? Maybe I should make sure I’m standing next to the right person, then.”

His cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink, and he opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, the countdown began.

“Ten! Nine! Eight!”

Your heart raced as the numbers ticked down.

“Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!”

The room erupted in cheers, but all you could focus on was Spencer. He hesitated for just a moment before leaning toward you, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that was as soft and sweet as the man himself. It wasn’t hurried or showy—it was perfect.

When you pulled back, his eyes searched yours, nervous but hopeful. “Was that… okay?” he asked softly.

“More than okay,” you whispered, smiling as the room around you erupted into cheers and applause.

“Finally!” Morgan called out, grinning like he’d just won the lottery. “Took you two long enough!”

JJ laughed, clapping her hands. “I think that’s the best New Year’s moment we’ve ever had at one of these parties.”

Even Rossi chimed in, raising his glass. “To young love.”

Spencer turned an even deeper shade of red, but he didn’t let go of your hand. “They’re never going to let us live this down, are they?”

“Nope,” you said with a laugh. “But I think it’s worth it.”

As the team teased and celebrated, you leaned closer to Spencer, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. If this was how the new year was starting, you couldn’t wait to see what else it had in store.

[mysteriesmuse]

oh my gawd Shoto is definitely one that’s super into superstitions!!!

Like he insists on these small intimate —maybe silly, rituals that he believes contributes to your combined success and wellbeing. It’s one of your first encounters with him that you tell him this: “Well you know red hair is considered lucky.” And Shoto, with his small tight lipped princely smile shakes his head and shrugs, “Maybe so . . .” All the while you’re on your tiptoes gently picking bits of concrete and rubble out of his hair on the left side. Your nimble short manicure fingers gently teasing around the edge of a giant welting knot from where he’d pulled you out of harms way. The other hand placed on his shoulder as you pulled yourself up to inspect the injury. Elegant hands floating around every curve and inch as he tried to pull your attention away from his own check up. ProHero Shoto’s dual-colored eyes practically going cross eyes as he tried to do his due diligence and you looked him over for any injures. Now Shoto thinks his little bit of supposed “luck” had little say in this chance meeting with you, but his luck has certainly changed since then.

And you think that the old superstition on red hair must be true after having what would be your future boyfriend save your life. And at Shoto’s insistence — more than your own he makes sure you get every single ounce of love, support, and any luck he can possibly give you.

Always ducking his head down with michevious gleaming eyes as his gaze meets yours gazing up at you with mismatched eyes. All for you - the love of his life - to cup his cheek and ruffle your hand through the dark auburn hair of his left side affectionately. For every single big event in your life; an interview, a test, a presentation, a dentist appointment, a girl’s night, a rivalry game, anything your heart could possibly desire. And, sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but Shoto insists that you his good luck charm, should borrow whatever luck the genetic gods have placed on him. Which, in the Japanese public’s opinion is a lot.

Shoto thinks he’s just the luckiest man on the planet when he’s with you. Never hesitates to follow you around the house like a cat and ask you for a good luck kiss before he leaves for hero work; a big mission or a regular shift. Not that you’d ever deny him one anyway, but the way he asks is so mind-numbing, so toe-curling, and so so Shoto.

In the stairwell, as you’re just making your way downstairs to both start your days. Shoto always going down in front just to turn around, spread his arms, and prompt you for that good luck kiss with his smooth silky tenor voice. And who are you to deny? Stopping on the step or two above him as you lean down from the waist to kiss him. Your hands coming up to cup either side of his face and plant a kiss on that gorgeous face of his. And as you pull away you’re never sure if the way he places both hands on the wall is to cage you in for another one, or to catch himself as the tall man visibly melts an inch or two; his arms bracing himself. Because, from Shoto’s point of view, it’s like he’s being kissed by an angel. Which naturally happens when you place somehow framed in the pendant light above you. He does so intentionally, he thinks it’s only the natural way to see you in your full natural beauty.

Other times it’s standing at the doorframe, big sleek eyelashes blinking slowly at you, a shiny pouty bottom lip, and his hands pressed in prayer under his chin. The whole while he’s dressed in his hero costume waiting to cross the threshold of the door with his lean broad shoulders nearly squeezed by the frame until you finally stop pretending to think about it and nodded leaning in. With his gorgeous elegant fingers sneaking behind the curtain of hair at the base of your neck once you consent; rolling your eyes and giggling.

And sometimes it’s as he’s running about at work when he realized he forgot one and he races back to your place, school, work, etc. Having rushed over, skidding on a path of ice, and not stopping until he’s right in front of you. His breath casting a little puffy cloud from the icy cold he used to get there. His hair all mused as he takes in your hands and bewildered expression before giving you the most passionate chaste kiss he can manage in your workplace. Absolutely drinking in your breath as you part — before he dashes away like Jack Frost.

And he’s never one to question magical powers, or your own secret quirk. (a conspiracy he’ll animatedly reveal when you’re ready for it. IT being his incredibly detailed series of notes dedicated to his findings) And the record shows he’s always made it back home safe to you when you’ve kissed him with luck — and Shoto intends to fight with the goal to return into your embrace each and every time he has to leave it.

[misshoneyimhome]

500 FOLLOWERS FESTIVAL

“You can rest your head on me, I don’t mind.” I Joseph Woll ✿

Requested: yes/no [I hope this is close to what you imagined bb]

Summary: From the moment Joseph Woll steps into the small café, everything shifts. Despite the shadows of your past, no one seems a better match than the goaltender in his shining hockey gear.

Tropes & warnings: no warnings, it's just pure fluff 😊✿ strangers to lovers, hesitant reader, adorable boyfriend!Joe x reader

Other notes: At our next stop for the Followers Festival, I'm thrilled to introduce Joseph Woll once more 🤗 He’s as charming as ever, and with his extension with the Leafs, he remains close to our hearts ❤️

Word count: 3.6K

➼｡ﾟ

When you started your shift as nothing but a regular barista on this seemingly ordinary July morning, you had no idea what the day had in store for you. The air was already warm and slightly humid, typical for Toronto in midsummer, and the sun peeked through the buildings, casting a soft golden glow on the cobblestone streets. You took a deep breath, savouring the stillness of the early morning before the city fully awoke. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

You unlocked the doors of the small, cosy café, tucked away in one of the hidden corners of the city, its charm known only to locals and a few lucky tourists. The scent of freshly baked pastries from the bakery next door mingled with the aroma of coffee beans, creating a comforting atmosphere that always lifted your spirits. You spent the first hour preparing to open, moving through the familiar routine with practised ease. The rich, earthy scent of coffee filled the air as you ground the beans, the soft hiss of the espresso machine breaking the silence.

The café itself was a quaint little place, with mismatched furniture that somehow fit together perfectly. Vintage posters adorned the walls, and small potted plants added a touch of greenery. You arranged the pastries in the display case, making sure the croissants, muffins, and cookies looked enticing. You wiped down the tables, fluffed the cushions on the worn leather sofas, and set up the chalkboard sign outside, detailing the day's specials in your best attempt at fancy handwriting.

Despite the tranquillity of the café, your mind was a whirlwind. It was going to be a slow Sunday, just what you needed after the stressful week you had endured. The memories of several heated arguments with your now ex-boyfriend played on a loop in your head, as the fights had been intense, filled with hurtful words and accusations. Yet, the breakup, though painful, had brought a strange sense of relief. You were free from the constant tension, but the wounds were still fresh, and the loneliness was starting to creep in.

_

It had been everything you dreaded. The two of you had been together for three years, slowly growing older together. But you were both still very young, only 20 years old, just stepping into adulthood and trying to navigate the complexities that came with it.

You worked your part-time job at the café alongside your studies in English literature, as you had always been captivated by romance novels, losing yourself in stories of passionate love and soulmates. You dreamed of experiencing the kind of love that made your heart race and your breath catch. But your boyfriend—well, ex-boyfriend as of two days ago—was far from any of the book boyfriends you’d read about. He was sweet and kind, sure, and he treated you well enough and never harmed you. Yet, you never felt like you were truly in love, like how they described it in those books. You never had the flutter in your stomach or the difficulty in breathing just thinking of him. Your palms didn’t get sweaty, and your knees didn’t go weak. You could think perfectly logically, and you never longed for him when you were apart.

With your ex, you simply felt secure. It was as though you were fulfilling the norms and expectations of society by finding a partner to settle down with. Everything was planned. When you’d both finished your studies, you’d then move in together after finding secure jobs and a stable income. And then you’d prioritise building a family after your wedding. It was all mapped out.

But you couldn’t help but feel like it was all wrong. Over the years, he grew less sweet and kind, becoming more rude and cruel in the way he spoke to you. His once gentle words turned harsh, and his patience wore thin over the smallest things. You had never been an explorer in regards to sexual activity, yet he’d encouraged you to try things out with him. Though a part of you felt pressured, you went along with it, but you never truly experienced the wonderful high many women spoke of. It was more just him doing his thing while you followed along until he reached his release. It felt wrong. It was nothing like you imagined a romantic relationship should feel like. Nothing like the tales you read about.

As time went on, you grew more convinced that those stories were just that—stories. The passionate love, the soulmates, the fairy tale endings—they all seemed like fantasies, unattainable and unrealistic. Your relationship had become a checklist of societal expectations rather than a journey of love and discovery. Moreover, your boyfriend wasn’t as good a person as you’d thought all those years. And though the realisation was painful, it also brought a sense of clarity. You knew you couldn’t continue living a life that felt so hollow, so far removed from the dreams you once cherished.

And so, you made the difficult decision to end things. For the first time in a long while, you felt a glimmer of hope, a belief that perhaps, somewhere out there, the kind of love you had read about in your beloved romance novels could exist for you.

_

You took a moment for yourself, leaning against the counter and closing your eyes. The café was your sanctuary, a place where you could escape from the chaos of your personal life. Here, you could lose yourself in the rhythm of making coffee, the friendly chatter of regular customers, and the peaceful ambience. You embraced the day with a smile, determined to find solace in the simple joys of your job.

So, as you flipped the sign to "Open," you took another deep breath, ready to face whatever the day might bring. The familiar routine was comforting, and you hoped the slow yet steady stream of customers would help keep your mind off your troubles. Little did you know, this ordinary July morning was about to turn into something far from ordinary.

And his name was Joseph Woll.

You were wiping down the counter when the bell above the door chimed, announcing the arrival of a new customer. You looked up and were greeted by a tall figure stepping inside, shaking off the light drizzle that had just begun outside. At first, you didn’t recognise him. His scruffy beard was a departure from the clean-shaven look he sported in all the pictures and interviews you had seen. Yet, it added a rugged charm to his already handsome face. But then, his eyes—those dreamy, captivating eyes—met yours, and it hit you. Joseph Woll, the Toronto Maple Leafs goaltender, was standing right in front of you.

Joseph approached the counter with a relaxed smile, his presence bringing warmth to the otherwise dull day. "Good morning," he said, his voice soft yet confident. "Can I get a medium latte, please?"

You could hardly believe it. Here was a professional athlete, a local celebrity, standing in your little café. Yet, you managed to respond, though a bit shakily, "Of course, coming right up."

And as you began preparing his order, you couldn't help but steal glances at him. He was casually dressed in a hoodie and jeans, yet he carried himself with a relaxed elegance. You noticed how his eyes scanned the café, taking in the cosy decor, the mismatched furniture, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. And when his gaze then returned to you, there was a softness in his expression that made your heart skip a beat.

Joseph was an absolute sweetheart.

You felt his eyes linger on you a little longer than perhaps they should have, just like yours lingered on him. It was as if there was an inexplicable connection, a silent understanding that passed between you. Your cheeks warmed under his gaze, and you hoped he didn't notice the blush creeping up your neck.

You were almost unable to speak, yet you managed to say the simple words any barista would instinctively say to a customer. "Here you go, one medium latte." Your hands felt slightly shaky as you handed him the cup, but you managed to keep your composure.

Joseph took the coffee with a grateful nod. "Thanks," he said, his eyes twinkling.

As he turned to leave, you couldn't help but mentally facepalm yourself. What’s wrong with me? you muttered under your breath. It was the first time someone, let alone a stranger, had made you feel so weak in the knees, caused your heartbeat to quicken, and your lips to tingle.

You watched him walk out into the drizzle, the bell above the door chiming softly as he left. It was just a brief encounter, a one-off experience, and you knew you’d probably never see him again. Yet, you felt a thrill you hadn’t experienced in a long time—a flutter of excitement that lingered long after he was gone.

For the rest of your shift, you couldn’t wipe the smile off your face. Every time the door opened, you found yourself hoping it was him coming back - the memory of his kind eyes and warm smile stayed with you, a small beacon of light in an otherwise grey day. Even though you knew it was probably unlikely, you couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope. It was a sensation you’d thought was reserved for fairy tales, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, those romance stories you adored could hold a kernel of truth.

However, to your great surprise, the following Sunday, Joseph came back. It was the same early morning time, just as the sun was starting to break through the clouds and cast a soft light into the café. The shop was quiet, with only a few regulars occupying the cosy corners. When the door opened and the bell chimed, you looked up to see him standing there, a familiar, charming smile spreading across his face.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice warm and friendly. "One medium latte, please,” he placed his order, and you noticed how his eyes seemed to light up when they met yours.

"Coming right up," you nodded, trying to keep your composure, but inside, your heart was racing. 

And as you prepared his drink, you couldn’t help but steal glances at him again, feeling that familiar flutter in your stomach. When you then handed him the latte, he thanked you with that same sweet smile before turning to leave. The bell chimed again as he exited, and you found yourself staring after him once more, a small, hopeful smile on your lips.

The next time you saw Joseph was on Wednesday evening, when you were working an extra shift to earn a bit more money during the summer. The café was busier this time, with a steady stream of customers keeping you on your toes. Yet, as you were in the middle of making a cappuccino, you saw him walk in again, causing your heart to skip a beat, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

He waited patiently while you finished the order you were working on, and when it was his turn, you shared a silent moment of recognition. "Medium latte?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, please," he replied with a chuckle, his eyes twinkling. 

And as you yet again prepared his drink, you felt his gaze on you, and you couldn’t help but look up. Your eyes met, and for a moment, it felt as though the rest of the world faded away. You then handed him his drink, and he offered a quiet thank you before turning to leave. Yet, just as he reached the door, he glanced back, catching you looking in his direction - causing you to quickly look away, feeling your cheeks flush.

"Shit…" you muttered to yourself, slightly embarrassed.

Over a week passed before you saw Joseph again, this time on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Most people were out enjoying the lovely weather, so the café was relatively quiet. And with only one other coworker busy chatting with a friend, you decided to pick up one of your favourite romance novels to pass the time.

You had no idea how long you had been absorbed in your book when a familiar, endearing voice suddenly broke into your dream world. "What are you reading?"

Startled, you looked up to see Joseph standing there, his handsome face alight with curiosity. "Oh, um… it’s just a silly romance… nothing special," you stammered, feeling a bit self-conscious.

"It must be pretty engaging if you were so absorbed," he chuckled. "I think I’ve been standing here for about ten minutes and you didn’t even notice me."

"Oh my god, I’m so sorry about that," you quickly apologised, feeling rather unprofessional.

But Joseph simply laughed, waving off your apology. "It’s fine. It was actually quite entertaining watching you read."

You felt your cheeks flush a little. "So… the usual?" you asked, trying to steer the conversation back to familiar ground.

"Yes, please. And maybe you could help me with something else…" he trailed off, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

"Sure, anything," you replied, curious.

"So, how many times do I have to come here and hope that you’re working before it doesn’t seem weird for me to ask for your name and number?" he asked, his tone playful yet sincere.

You found yourself gasping, completely caught off guard. "Well… um… maybe… this could be the final one?" you managed to say, a shy smile forming on your lips. “I’m y/n.” 

Joseph’s smile widened, and he handed you his phone. "Great. Here you go. I’m Joe by the way.” 

With trembling fingers, you then typed in your name and number, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. And as you handed his phone back, you couldn’t help but feel that this might be the beginning of something special, something that could finally make you believe in the kind of love you had always dreamed of.

_

Dating Joseph Woll turned out to be remarkably close to what you’d imagined from your romance novels, and it felt as though the universe had conspired to make your dreams come true. And with it being the hockey off-season, Joseph had plenty of time to spend with you, and he made every moment count.

Your early dates were a delightful blend of excitement and comfort. Joseph would pick you up with a thoughtful compliment and occasionally a bouquet of your favourite flowers. You visited cosy cafes, museums, explored Toronto’s hidden gems, and enjoyed long walks by the lake, where he’d hold your hand and listen intently to your stories and dreams.

One evening, he then surprised you with a picnic at a quiet spot in High Park. And as you sat together on a chequered blanket, sharing laughter and homemade sandwiches, you felt a deep sense of contentment. Joseph’s gentle, caring nature made you feel cherished in a way you’d never experienced before. His eyes often lingered on you with a tenderness that made your heart flutter, and every touch, every gentle kiss, felt like a promise of something beautiful and romantic.

Then during another one of your dates, you found yourself at a quaint bookstore. And as you browsed through the shelves, Joseph noticed you eyeing a romance novel. Quietly, while you were distracted, he decided to purchase it and later that evening, he presented it to you with a shy smile. "I thought you might enjoy this," he said, his eyes twinkling with delight. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world to you.

Except for one week when he had to go home to St. Louis, Joseph was always around. During that week, you missed him terribly, but he made sure the distance didn’t feel so great. You chatted or called every day, sharing the little details of your lives, your hopes, and your dreams. His voice over the phone was a comforting balm, and his laughter a melody that brightened your days. And as the days passed, you both exchanged pictures and videos, keeping the connection strong despite the miles between you.

And the week apart only strengthened your bond. When Joseph finally returned, he wrapped you in a tight embrace, lifting you off your feet as he whispered how much he had missed you. The separation had only made your hearts grow fonder, and you realised that this was the kind of love you had always dreamed of—a love that was patient, kind, and unwavering.

Joseph had a way of turning even the simplest moments into something magical. Whether you were cooking together, watching a movie, or simply enjoying a comfortable silence, he made you feel like the most important person in the world. His steadfast support and understanding helped you heal from the wounds of your past relationship, and for the first time in a long while, you felt genuinely happy. And as the summer days gave way to crisp autumn evenings, your relationship with Joseph only continued to flourish. 

_

However, as you and Joseph grew closer, he began to notice the subtle signs of your hesitation. Despite the kisses and intimate moments you shared, he observed how you occasionally tensed up or hesitated before fully relaxing into his embrace. There were times when, while wrapped in each other's arms, he could sense a flicker of uncertainty in your eyes or a momentary withdrawal in your touch. It was as if you were constantly bracing yourself, hesitant to fully surrender to the emotions you were feeling.

So, Joseph chose to approach you with a gentle patience that he didn’t mind at all. His priority was to make you feel completely at ease with him. He focused on ensuring that every touch was tender, every word was kind, and he never pressured you into anything more than you were ready to give. He believed in creating a space where you felt safe and cherished. Every date, every conversation, and every shared moment was filled with understanding and care. He became attuned to your needs, ensuring that his actions and words always conveyed his respect for your boundaries.

But one evening, as autumn shadows began to lengthen and the first hints of a chilly breeze crept through the open windows, something felt off. It might have been the stress of the new hockey season starting or perhaps the quiet, introspective mood you’d been in all night. Joseph couldn’t quite pinpoint the source of your discomfort, but he could sense that something was troubling you. 

So, as you both sat on the couch, the soft glow of the TV casting a gentle light over the room, he turned to you. His expression was serious yet full of concern.

“You can rest your head on me, love, I don’t mind,” he said softly, his voice laced with genuine care. “Or if you need to cry or just need a moment to relax. I don't care. I just want you to feel comfortable and happy with me.”

His words cut through the fog of your thoughts, and you felt a pang in your chest. It was clear that Joseph was offering you an emotional sanctuary, and you knew it was time to open up. You took a deep breath, feeling the warmth and reassurance of his embrace, and finally allowed yourself to lean into him.

“I’ve been cautious about fully committing because of a bad relationship I had before,” you admitted, your voice trembling slightly. “Not that I think you’re anything like that. On the contrary, you’re so perfect that I’m scared of making a mistake.”

Joseph listened attentively, his hand gently stroking your back as you spoke. When you finished, he pulled back slightly to look into your eyes, his expression a blend of warmth and understanding.

“You don’t have to worry about making mistakes, Y/N,” he said softly. “I want you just the way you are—past relationships and all.”

You exhaled slowly, feeling a mix of relief and vulnerability. “But why? Why are you so patient with me?”

The tenderness in his gaze was unmistakable, and his smile was both gentle and reassuring. “I get it now,” he said quietly, “you’ve never been in love before.”

“What do you mean?” you asked, confusion knitting your brows together.

“Y/N, you could never do anything wrong with me. I am so in love with you that it doesn’t matter what you say or do, as long as it’s not that you don’t want to be with me. All I want is to be with you, to see you happy. And when you’re ready, I’d love to ask you to be my girlfriend.”

You couldn’t help but feel your heart sink as you took in the moment. Here was the sweetest man you’d ever known, and he was with you. The realisation of his unwavering support and love brought tears to your eyes.

“I think… I think I’m in love with you too, Joe,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “You make me feel all those wonderful, amazing, mind-blowing, and indescribable things that no one else ever has.”

Joseph’s smile widened, his eyes shimmering with joy. He pulled you closer, his lips gently brushing your forehead. “That’s all I ever wanted to hear,” he murmured. “I promise to always be here for you, to make you feel loved and cherished every single day.”

And as you nestled into his embrace, a profound sense of peace washed over you. For the first time, you let yourself fully believe in the love you had always dreamed of, knowing that with Joseph, it was not just a dream, but a beautiful reality.

[nevadancitizen]

-> CH. 9: IF YOU CHOP FROM THE SHOULDER, THE AX WILL FIND YOUR HIP

synopsis: you, hank, and connor find yourselves in stratford tower. connor gets traumatized – twice. and you come to his rescue – again, twice.

word count: 2.9k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: finally a whole chapter that's just one scene. be proud of me

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya (if you'd like to be added to the taglist, just ask!)

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The elevator would be dead silent if it wasn’t for Connor flicking a quarter between his fingers. You watch out of the corner of your eye as it practically dances across his fingertips, the metal glinting in the harsh, fluorescent light. He flicks it to his other hand, catching it in between the first knuckles of his first two fingers and –

Hank snatches it from him. “You’re startin’ to piss me off with that coin, Connor.”

Connor looks at Hank’s hand, then at the silver elevator doors. “Sorry, Lieutenant.”

You��d laugh and give Connor another quarter to fidget with, but considering the conversation that occurred this morning? You’re not willing to extend that olive branch. You didn’t survive as a Soviet in America by being a goddamn doormat.

The elevator dings and an automated voice rings out. “79th floor.”

As soon as you step out, you clock the amount of CSI agents loitering around. You’re sort of used to them by now, but their coveralls and masks still unnerve you a bit. 

“Hey, Hank,” Chris says. “Officer.”

“Shit, what’s goin’ on here?” Hank looks around. “There was a party and nobody told me about it?”

“Yeah. It’s all over the news, so everybody’s butting their nose in.” Chris sighs and nods towards the door at the end of the hall. “Even the FBI wants a piece of the action.”

“Ah, Christ, now we got the Feds on our back,” Hank groans. “I knew this was gonna be a shitty day.”

“If I wanted to be looked at and talked to like I don’t know English, I would’ve gone back to some Citizenship and Immigration Services building,” you mumble. Hank lets out a laugh mixed with grumbles of agreement.

He turns to Chris. “So what do we got?”

“A group of four androids.” Chris starts walking, and you and Hank follow beside him. You can hear Connor’s footsteps behind you, but you don’t turn to look. “They knew the building, and they were well organized. I’m still trying to figure out how they got this far without being noticed.”

“You check the roof?” Hank asks. 

“Not yet,” Chris says. “They attacked two guards in the hallway. They probably thought the androids were coming to do maintenance. They got taken down before they could react.”

You stop by the desk and look over it. There isn’t anything out of place. Your eyebrows furrow and you continue following Chris into the broadcast room. 

“One of the station employees managed to get away.” Chris glances back at you and Hank. “He’s in shock. Not sure when we’ll be able to talk to him.”

You look over at the wall, which has a paused video of an android. His skin is peeled back, and there’s no defining features besides his mismatched eyes.

“Oh, Officer, Lieutenant,” Chris says. “This is Special Agent Perkins from the FBI. Perkins, Lieutenant Anderson is in charge of investigating for Detroit Police. He’s been paired with a cybersecurity officer to provide a unique perspective on android-related cases.” He gestures at you.

Perkins doesn’t even look at you. Instead, he looks over at Connor. “What’s that?” (He says it like Connor is some breed of ugly dog he’s never seen before instead of something resembling a man.)

“My name is Connor,” Connor says. “I’m the android sent by CyberLife.”

“Androids investigating androids, huh?” Perkins’ eyes find Hank. “You sure you want an android hanging around? After everything that happened?”

“If you don’t mind,” you cut in, “we’ll be having a look around.”

“And a Bolshevik?” Perkins looks you up and down. “Watch your step, comrade. You or your friends fuck up my crime scene, and I’m gunning for your ass.”

Perkins walks away, his hands folded behind his back in faux-politeness.

Once he’s out of earshot, Hank nudges your arm. “What a fuckin’ prick!”

You smile and nudge him back. “I told you those bastards would give me trouble.”

“Have you experienced things like this before, Officer?” Connor asks.

Your lips draw into a discontented sort of-frown. Of course Connor knows your answer. Why the hell would he be asking? You’ve even told him about things like this before, not to mention Gavin’s stellar behavior and comments Connor’s seen pointed towards you. 

“Yeah.” You turn away and opt to look around the crime scene (not that you would be of any use, anyway). A set of footsteps follow – you can tell that it’s Hank by the heaviness.

You come to a stop by the entrance to the roof and lean against the bullet hole-ridden wall, facing the room. Hank crosses his arms and jabs a thumb over his shoulder at Connor.

“What the fuck was that?” He asks. 

“With… him?” You say. You don’t want to call Connor’s attention by saying his name. “He… he was just being an asshole this morning. I tried to talk to him about something serious, but he just deflected it.”

“About what?”

“I…” You swallow, then whisper: “I think he’s deviating.”

“Well…” Hank laughs. “You have a tendency to project emotions onto inanimate objects.”

“Yeah. I know.” You look down and scratch your cheek. “Just… you know how I am. And…”

You look across the room and see Connor talking to an officer. You hold up a hand to keep Hank quiet, then tap just below your ear and nod towards Connor. Hank gets the hint and eavesdrops with you.

“I was on that terrace,” the officer says. “That android that took the little girl hostage? I was shot. You saved me.”

You exchange a glance with Hank, then look back to Connor. He tilts his head to the side, like he’s searching his memory banks.

“I remember you,” Connor eventually says. 

“I could’ve died on that terrace. But you saved my life.” The officer looks away, then back to Connor. “I never thought I’d say this to an android, but… thank you.”

He looks a bit awkward, then nods and walks away. Connor turns and catches your eye, like he knew you were watching. Your eyes fall to the floor.

“Блять,” you mumble. “He saw me. Help me look busy.”

Hank nods to the side. “Let’s go watch the recording. Not like I haven’t seen it a million times already.”

You follow him to the large screen that takes up an entire wall. You extend your left hand towards the console and the wires from your glove slither out and connect with a port. The screen flickers, then plays the end of the video. 

“We ask that you recognize our dignity, our hopes, and our rights. Together, we can live in peace and build a better future, for humans and androids. This message is the hope of a people. You gave us life. And now the time has come for you to give us freedom.”

“Think that’s rA9?” Hank asks from your left.

“Deviants say that rA9 will set them free,” Connor says from your right. You look at him, but he doesn’t look at you. He’s firmly trained on the screen. “This android seems to have that objective.”

You disconnect from the console and return your eyes to the screen. The android has a slight lisp and mismatched eyes. You can’t see any other identifying features. 

Hank looks over at Connor. “D’you see something?”

“I identified its model and serial number,” Connor says. 

But there’s something else there – you know it. It’s telling in the way Connor’s jaw is set, the way he can’t seem to look away from the screen. “Anything else?” 

Connor continues looking forward, then faces you. He does a double-take, like he’s surprised you asked him. 

“No!” He glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing.”

You look over at Hank with an expression that reads something along the lines of I fucking told you so! You take a step back, and Hank does the same. Connor keeps looking up at the screen.

Then, he quickly turns and walks away into the kitchen. 

“Hank,” you say quietly. 

“I know,” he says. 

You turn to face him and continue speaking softly. “He’s showing signs of deviancy. He has been, for a while now.”

“You think he’s gonna turn?” Hank asks. “Or has he already?”

You glance at the door to the kitchen. You can hear Connor talking to someone inside, but can’t make out anything he’s saying. “I think he’s on the decline. Not quite there yet. Just needs a push.”

“You planning on giving him that push?” Hank asks.

“No.” You turn back to him. “He needs to take that leap on his own.”

You hear a set of footsteps behind you. You look over your shoulder and see one of the station androids walking out of the kitchen. Nothing out of the ordinary. 

But… you swear you can hear someone saying your name. Their voice sounds choked, like they’re struggling just to talk. And when you hear them calling out for Hank, you immediately know something’s wrong. 

You make your way over to the kitchen, moving with a sense of urgency, but not enough to cause alarm. What you see makes your soul land in your heels. 

Connor’s on the floor, struggling and crawling forward. His hands are shaking as he drags himself along. 

You immediately fall to your knees beside him, grabbing his shoulders and pulling at him frantically. “Connor? Connor, what’s happening?”

He chokes out a string of unintelligible words and points to the side. You follow his finger and see a biocomponent. You scramble to pick it up and bring it back to Connor. 

You push Connor onto his back and pull his shirt open, exposing his chest. A faint flicker in your mind tells you, Ou, look at you! Getting all up in that – but you cut it off because now is seriously not the time. 

With a fluid motion, you push and twist the biocomponent back into the gaping hole in the middle of his chest. You really hope you did it right.

Connor’s eyes are still unfocused, staring blankly up at the ceiling. His face twitches, and he comes back to the real world. 

You help him up, Thirium staining your hand and your front as he falls into you. He stumbles away, then catches his footing and darts out of the room.

You follow and watch him bolt down another corridor and shout, “It’s a deviant! Stop it!”

There’s three quick shots, then the sound of a body falling to the ground. 

You turn the corner just in time to see Connor handing a gun back to an FBI agent, holding the barrel so that the agent can grab it by the grip. The agent takes it back, a look of bewilderment on his face. 

When you see Hank trying to get to his feet, you move over and help him. You keep your hands on his shoulders and look him over. “Are you okay? Have you been shot?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He grabs your wrists and pulls your hands away, looking over your shoulder. “Nice shot, Connor.”

You step away from Hank and turn to face Connor. His lips are drawn into a thin line, and he almost looks frustrated. “I wanted it alive.”

“You saved… human lives,” Hank says. He heaves a breath. “You saved my life.”

Connor looks over at him, then walks back into the broadcasting room, buttoning up his shirt as he goes. 

You look down at your hands. They’re stained with Thirium – more often than you’d like these days. You wipe them down your front, which is already stained with it anyway.

You turn and start to follow Connor. “I think he’s going to check the rooftop. I’d like to be with him when he does.”

Hank makes a sound of agreement and trails after you. You’re like two ducklings following after an android mother duck. Once you reach the door to the rooftop, Connor holds it open for you as he passes through, then you hold it open for Hank in turn. 

Hank walks in front of you both, surveying the scene. “They made their way up through the whole building, past all the guards, and jumped off the roof with parachutes. Pretty fuckin’ impressive, I’d say.”

Connor makes his way over to a splatter of blue blood and swipes two fingers through it. You can’t even bring yourself to make a sound of disgust as he samples it.

You have conflicting feelings about Connor. Saving him was an action made in a moment of weakness and panic. You know he’d just come back if he died – or, as he’d put it, shut down. But it doesn’t change that he told you that he’s not alive. That he’s not afraid of anything. That he stepped up to the muzzle of Hank’s gun and practically begged him to prove him wrong and shoot him.

You tear your eyes away from Connor and move over to Hank. He’s looking down at an open duffel bag. 

“How’d they manage to smuggle in a big bag like that?” Hank asks. 

You draw your jacket tighter around yourself. “I’d wager someone brought it in for them.”

“You’re most likely correct,” Connor says. You jump a little at the unexpectedness of his voice, but manage to keep yourself from saying anything aloud. 

“Huh, that’s strange.” Hank gestures down at the duffel. “They planned a perfect operation but got the number of parachutes wrong.”

Connor kneels and pulls the duffel open further. “Unless one of the deviants was left behind.”

He stands and walks off. You watch him, then return your eyes to the snow-covered rooftop. You huff, and your breath mists in the cold. 

“I’m going to have a look around,” you say. Hank nods, and you walk away.

You half-assedly wander around the rooftop, making sure not to get too close to the edge. You look at the air conditioners and the frost that’s built up on them. They’re pumping out cold air in an effort to keep the inside of the building warm. 

Suddenly, a shot rings out. Someone shouts “Take cover!” You dive behind an air conditioner and look to your right. Hank and Connor are hiding behind another one a few feet away.

“You have to stop them!” Connor pleads. “If they destroy it, we won��t learn anything!”

“We can’t save it, it’s too late,” Hank says. “We’ll just get ourselves killed!”

Connor looks over at you, then peeks around the corner of the air conditioner. Before you can command him to stop, he rushes out from behind cover. He vaults over a container and charges the deviant head-on. 

As soon as Connor has him pinned to the wall, the deviant presses the pistol’s muzzle to the soft underside of his chin and fires. Connor stumbles back, just watching as the deviant slumps to the ground. 

Hank comes out of cover first and runs over to Connor. You’re hot on his heels, fighting the proud side of you that shouts at you to stay away from him.

“Connor! Connor, are you alright?” He stands in front of Connor, trying to stay in his line of sight. “Connor?”

“Okay,” Connor mumbles, his voice shaky and quiet.

You move next to Hank, grabbing onto one of Connor’s shoulders. His LED is stuck on red, circling in on itself. His eyes are completely unfocused and he’s stuck in his mind. 

“Connor?” You shake him. “Connor, come back to us. Are you hurt? Did he shoot you?”

“I’m okay,” Connor mutters, his tone the same – scared, soft. 

“Jesus, you scared the shit outta me.” Hank draws away, and it seems all his emotions come crashing down at once. “For fuck’s sake, I told you not to move! Why don’t you ever do what I say?”

“I was connected to its memory.” Connor comes back to the real world, if only a little bit. “When it fired… I felt it die. Like I was dying.”

His eyes turn to yours. “I was scared.”

“Нет, нет.” You draw Connor into a hug on instinct. Your hand finds the back of his neck, guiding him to rest his forehead on your shoulder. “Всё в порядке. Ты здесь. Ты жив.”

His hands wrap around your midsection, unsure and scared. His hands come to rest on the small of your back. They’re shaking.

Fuck, he doesn’t deserve to go through this. Connor’s traumatized now, for god’s sake. He could keep a therapist in business until they retire. 

After a few seconds, you pull back, keeping your hands on Connor’s shoulders. “Are you okay now?”

He draws back and grabs your wrists. He nods, if a little jerkily. “Yes. Thank you.”

As soon as Connor lets go, the noble and proud creature in your belly howls in displeasure, cursing you for being so weak. But it’s not like you couldn’t comfort him! That would be cruel and just reinforce the stereotypes placed upon you – the ones that say you’re grim and stoic and an unfeeling person in general. 

“I saw something in its memory,” Connor says. “A word, painted on a piece of rusty metal… ‘Jericho’.”

You nod. “We should get back to the station. I’d like to have a copy of that for my records.”

When you start to walk, Connor follows.

[frankenkyle19]

can you write about frankenkyle and fem reader giving him shower and comforting him because he was scared of water 🥹

Absolutely! This was a quick little one because I leave to get on my plane in less than 48 hours and should be packing but am instead writing… oh well

——————————————————————————

Rubber Ducky 🧼

Kyle didn’t put up a fight much if at all really. He let you do as you pleased to him. Dressing him, helping him eat and even tucking him in at night. But there was one thing Kyle absolutely hated and let it be very very known.

Baths. Showers. Water. He hated it. Maybe it was a result from his trauma, or maybe it just didn’t feel comfortable on his scarred, sewn together skin. Maybe a mix of both. But one thing was for sure- Every time he needed to get washed up, he put up a fight.

You tried to console him. Telling him it would be over soon, but he still cried and groaned, shaking his head as his doe brown eyes begged for you not to do it. You hated seeing him upset, but he really did need a wash. It had been far too long and he didn’t exactly smell pleasant.

You had tricked him into coming into the bathroom under false pretenses, saying that there was something cool you wanted to show him. You felt bad about this too, but it did work. You quickly shut the door behind him and stood in front of it, blocking his path if he tried to escape.

Now realistically, if he wanted to leave, he could. He was a lot stronger than you and could easily overpower you. Luckily, Kyle was a gentle giant and tried his best to be as careful as possible, not wanting to hurt a hair on your head.

His eyes widened in fear as he saw the bathtub half filled with water, soapy bubbles and a rubber ducky catching his eye. The bright yellow of the duck intrigued him a bit and he glanced back at you before nodding.

He clumsily took his shirt off before he looked at you for help with his pants. He trusted you completely, and though at times he was a bit jumpy, he knew you’d never do anything to hurt him. He trusted you. Loved you even, if his mind could understand and comprehend exactly what that meant.

You smiled softly and helped him slide off the rest of his clothing, leaving him stark naked in front of you. His body was a mismatch of parts, slightly varying in skin tone, scars lining each different piece of him. He still looked perfect to you though.

He tensed as he stepped into the tub, sitting in the water and looking back up at you for reassurance. You smiled softly and grabbed the rubber ducky in hand, showing it to Kyle who quickly took it, smiling a bit as he watched it float on the soapy water.

Once he was distracted, you carefully reached over and turned the shower head on, the spray startling Kyle who’s eyes went wide as he tried to back himself up into the corner of the tub away from it.

You turned it off as quickly as it had been turned on. Okay. He didn’t like that but seemed to accept sitting in the bath, so that’s what you’d do.

He calmed once again and played with the rubber duck, covering it in the soapy bubbles before splashing around it to make it appear again. His small laughs and mumbles made your heart ache (in a good way) seeing how much more comfortable he was becoming with everyday activities such as bathing.

Soon enough you had taken a washcloth and washed him off, handing it over to Kyle as he wanted to use it. But instead of using it on himself, the sweet boy began to wash off the rubber duck, wanting it to be just as clean as him. You then worked on his hair, which was the easiest part of this whole experience by far. He loved the feeling of your hands in his hair, nails massaging his scalp. It was heaven.

After the bath, you wrapped him in a towel and dried his damp curls with a blow dryer. He ran back to the tub, which confused you until you saw what he was doing. He carefully grabbed the rubber duck out of the water and used the edge of his towel to dry it off, smiling proudly at himself and holding up the duck triumphantly.

Each action from the zombie boy made your heart melt a little bit more.