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Summary: The aftermath of Faith kidnapping Wesley.
Pairing: fem!reader x Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
My Writing | Join my taglist
Faith turning evil and working with the mayor was one of the hardest things you had to witness. It was also one of the scariest times in your life. No one could ever predict what she was going to do or who she would hurt next. When Buffy knocked her into a coma, you were relieved. Shamefully relieved. It felt like you could breathe again, even if admitting it made your stomach twist. At least the constant terror that gripped your heart every day finally loosened.
Moving to LA with Angel helped more than you expected. Helping him set up the agency, acting as a direct line to Giles and Buffy, finding purpose in a city big enough to swallow old memories. You needed all of it. For the first time in your life, you felt like you could build something that resembled a future. The feeling only grew when Wesley joined the team… and when the two of you finally crossed that line into something more…
But people wake up from comas. And none of you had prepared for that.
It shouldn’t have surprised you that Wolfram and Hart hired Faith to kill Angel. One of their most foul plays. But instead of going after him, she went after Wesley. She took him.Â
You, Angel, and Cordelia worked frantically to track her. Luckily for you, unluckily for several people in LA, Faith left a trail behind her. A man, beaten at the bus station. Missing keys. Clues that made your chest tighten as you pieced together where she’d taken him.
“You should’ve stayed at the agency,” Angel mutters as you approach the apartment door.
“No way in hell,” you fire back. “She’s got Wesley. And once you’re in there, she’ll be too focused on you. I can get him out.”
You stay just outside, waiting for Angel’s entrance. The moment he crashes through the door and Faith lunges for him, you sprint inside, heart hammering in your throat as your eyes search the chaos. And then you see him.
Wesley is on the floor, tied to a chair, slumped and barely upright. Bruised. Blood on his shirt. Cuts scattered across his skin. He lifts his head when he hears you, and despite everything, his eyes soften at the sight of you. Your heart breaks into a thousand pieces.
You drop to your knees and grab the discarded knife, slicing through the ropes. Every time Wesley flinches your breath catches, but you keep going, hands working as gently as they can with the fight raging behind you.
“Why’d you come with Angel,” Wesley whispers, “She’s utterly mad.”
You let out a huff. “Because it’s you, Wesley,” you whisper back, voice shaking more than you want it to.Â
The last knot falls away. Wesley sags forward and you catch him before he can hit the ground. Angel meets your eyes over Faith’s shoulder and gives you a sharp nod—go.
You don’t look back. You haul Wesley up with as much strength as you can manage and get him out of that apartment, praying Angel will hold his own but knowing Wesley needs you more in this moment.
_____
When you get home, you immediately take Wesley to the bathroom. He’s unsteady on his feet, but he follows you without complaint, just slightly leaning on you. You guide him to the toilet lid and help him sit down before you even think about letting go.
He tries to give you one of his brave, crooked smiles, the kind he uses when he wants to pretend everything is normal.
“Really, there’s no need to fuss—,” the sentence breaks off into a hiss when he moves the wrong way. His eyes squeeze shut until the moment passes. Your heart twists.
You grab the first aid kit from under the sink and set it on the counter. When you turn back to him, he’s watching you with that same stubborn dignity, hands folded tightly in his lap, as if he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer force of will. You kneel in front of him.
“Wesley,” you say gently, “let me help.”
For a second, you see the familiar stubbornness, but then it crumbles. His shoulders sag, and he looks suddenly, achingly tired. He gives a small nod.
“All right,” he murmurs. “Just… go slowly.”
His voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.
You reach out, but you do it carefully, giving him time to see your hands, to brace if he needs to, to know he’s safe. His first reaction is to flinch, only to look apologetic right after. But who can blame him for that reaction after everything Faith did to him.
“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “You’re home now. She can’t touch you here.”
Something in his expression softens. The tension in his jaw eases and he exhales a shaky breath. Slowly, he nods, letting you take the first careful tug at the hem of his shirt. His arms move with yours, stiff and trembling. Every motion makes him wince, but he stays still, letting you guide him.
Once the shirt is off, you set it aside, your hands hovering for a moment, unsure of how to touch. “I’m just going to check your injuries,” you murmur, your voice soft but steady.
Wesley exhales, small and shaky. “I… I appreciate it.”
You press a gentle hand to his shoulder, steadying him, then brush lightly along the bruises and cuts, cleaning the blood and dirt as best you can with the supplies you have. Every time he flinches, you pause, letting him adjust, whispering, “I’ve got you. I’m right here. You’re safe.”
He leans just a little closer, a small gesture that feels monumental. His trust is tangible, fragile, and you cradle it carefully, knowing this moment is as much about healing his fear as his body.
After you’re done taking care of his injuries, you softly say: “Look at me.”
His eyes meet yours.Â
“You’re safe,” you remind him. “Whatever she did… it’s over.”
He swallows. “I know,” he murmurs, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. “It just… lingers.”
You nod. You understand more than you want to. Trauma doesn’t disappear just because the danger is gone. You reach for his hand, letting it hang in the air, waiting for him to grasp it. He hesitates, then lets his fingers curl into yours, the tension in his grip telling you far more than any words could.
“You don’t have to be strong right now,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
His breath shakes on the exhale. “I’m trying,” he admits quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “But I… I keep hearing her. Feeling—” He stops, shakes his head. “It’s ridiculous. I’m alive. I should be grateful.”
“You are allowed to feel something,” you say. “You’re allowed to be scared. And you’re allowed to lean on someone for once.”
His jaw tightens, not in resistance, but in the fragile way someone holds back emotion. He slowly leans his shoulder against yours, not fully, but enough. Enough to show he trusts you.
“Thank you,” he whispers. It’s barely audible, as if the words cost him something to say. “For coming for me. For… not leaving.”
You turn toward him, brushing a hand gently through his hair, careful of every movement.
“I’m not going anywhere,” you promise.Â
His eyes lift to yours, glassy, vulnerable.
You shift closer, tucking an arm around him, letting him rest against you. The bathroom is quiet, the world outside distant, and for the first time since the nightmare began, Wesley’s breathing starts to steady. You hold him as long as he needs, until the trembling eases and the weight in his shoulders begins to release. He leans into you more fully, trusting you to keep him upright.
“We should get you to bed,” you murmur eventually. “Somewhere more comfortable.”
He nods, slow and weary. “Only if you come with me,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.
“I will,” you answer without hesitation.
You help him up carefully, guiding him out of the bathroom and down the hall, his arm looped around your waist, yours around his. He doesn’t hide his pain from you anymore. He doesn’t pretend. And with every step, he lets you carry a little more of the weight he’s been shouldering alone.
When you reach the bedroom, Wesley pauses in the doorway, as if simply standing here costs him a breath of courage. His eyes skim the familiar space: the bed, the dim lamp, the quiet safety you’re offering. He looks relieved, and a little overwhelmed. You squeeze his hand gently.
“Come on,” you softly say, “Let’s get you comfortable.”
You help him sit on the edge of the bed. He lowers himself slowly, letting out a quiet breath. His shoulders slump, not in pain this time, but in bone-deep fatigue.
You pull the blankets back, creating a space that feels warm and safe. Wesley watches you with soft, tired eyes. There’s gratitude there, unspoken but unmistakable.
“You’re certain this isn’t… too much trouble?” he asks, voice cautious, almost shy.
You sit beside him, brushing your fingers along his jaw in a way that makes his eyes flutter closed for a moment.
“Wesley, I love you. You just went through something horrible of course I’m spending the night,” you strongly say.Â
When he opens his eyes again, they shine with emotion he can’t quite hide.
You help him ease back against the pillows, pulling the blankets over him. Once he’s lying down, he shifts slightly to make room for you. You slip into bed beside him carefully, staying close without crowding him. He turns toward you and rests his forehead against your shoulder. His breath ghosts warm across your collarbone.Â
For a long moment, neither of you speak. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the lamp and Wesley’s steadying breaths. Until Wesley murmurs: “I didn’t think I’d see you again.” His voice cracks on the last word, showing his fear.
You wrap an arm around him, holding him close but not tight—just enough to remind him he’s here, he’s safe, he’s loved.
“Over my dead body that I would let her harm you even more,” you whisper into the room.
He exhales shakily, a breath that sounds like relief and release all at once. His fingers curl lightly against your side, seeking contact, anchoring himself. His body relaxes, inch by inch. He shifts closer, settling into the warmth of you, trusting you to hold him through whatever nightmares might still linger behind his eyes. You run your hand slowly up and down his arm, soothing, steady.
“You’re safe,” you whisper once more, the truth settling over both of you. “I’ve got you.”
This time, Wesley believes you. His breathing evens out, his body softens against yours, and eventually he drifts into sleep with your arms around him, the weight of the night fading as the first fragile peace begins to settle.
The loft smelled like cedar and coffee. Rain tapped softly on the tall windows, turning the Beacon Hills skyline into streaks of gold and grey. It was late September, just a few months after graduation and not long since the last hunt for the Anuk-ite had left its scars behind. Even now, with most of the pack scattered after everything that happened last spring, the loft felt like a quiet centre of gravity. The old record player in the corner crackled with music, but neither of you paid much attention to it. Derek sat next to you on the couch, his arm resting over the back cushions and his socked feet on the coffee table, even though he always complained when Stiles did the same thing.
You glanced sideways at him over the rim of your mug. He was smiling. It wasn’t the small, reluctant twitch he usually gave when you teased him. It wasn’t just an amused exhale that hardly counted. This smile was different; warm, open, and easy. It transformed him.
“You know,” you said carefully, “I think this might be the first time I’ve ever seen you relax.”
Derek huffed a laugh. “I relax.”
“You growl at people in grocery stores.”
“They block the aisles.”
“You threatened a teenager over curly fries last week.”
“He deserved it.”
You laughed into your coffee, and Derek’s smile grew instead of fading. That alone made your chest ache a little.
Outside, thunder rolled low across the hills. Inside, everything felt soft. Derek’s Henley sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, showing the faded lines of old scars. Most of the time, he stayed tense even during quiet moments, as if he expected the world to fall apart again. But tonight, he leaned back into the couch cushions, close enough that your knees touched. Close enough that he didn’t pull away. You watched him for another moment before speaking.
“I’ve never seen you this happy before.”
Quietly, the words slipped out. Derek stilled. For a moment, you worried you’d said the wrong thing. His expression changed, not closed off but thoughtful. He looked vulnerable in that careful way he hated showing anyone. Your heart pounded, and for just a second, you wished you were as composed as you always imagined yourself.
Then his eyes flicked toward you.
“That obvious?”
“A little.”
For a long moment, his gaze lingered on you before drifting toward the rain-soaked windows again. “I didn’t think I could be,” he admitted. His honesty caught you off guard. It was sharp and unguarded. You set your mug down slowly. “Derek-”
"I mean it." He shrugged one shoulder. It lacked his usual indifference. "After everything… I got used to surviving. Looking for the next problem. The next thing to lose." His mouth twitched faintly. "Didn’t really leave room for much else."
A pang of fierce tenderness squeezed your heart. Derek rarely talked about the fire, the hunters, or the grief that was stitched into him so tightly it felt like part of his bones. Most days, he found it easier to hide behind sarcasm and silence. Tonight, the walls were lower.
Maybe it was the rain outside and the warmth inside. Maybe it was because nobody needed him right now. Or maybe it was because your hand had been resting against his leg for the last twenty minutes, and neither of you had mentioned it. Sometimes you still marvel at how quietly things had shifted between you, how every careful touch felt both new and inevitable.
Not so long ago, you remembered a time when even sitting this close felt impossible, a time when your conversations were sharp with worry and your touches were clumsy apologies for injuries neither of you wanted to show. That first uncertain late-night phone call, months ago, had changed things: the way Derek's voice had softened, the way he'd let you see how tired he was. Since then, things grew steadily, each small moment building into something real. There was still a hesitance, a sense of tiptoeing around the edges of something precious, but nights like this made it feel like you were finally settling into the comfort of being together. Or maybe Derek was finally starting to believe he didn’t have to carry everything alone.
His fingers brushed yours hesitantly. “But then you showed up,” he said softly. You blinked. “Me?” He looked at you, gaze so full of quiet love it stole your breath all at once. “You make things feel…” He paused, searching. “Safe.” Derek Hale saying that about someone felt monumental.
Your throat tightened. “You know you make me feel safe, too, right?” He looked genuinely startled by that. “You do,” you insisted gently. “Not because you’re scary or because you could throw someone through a wall.” You nudged his shoulder lightly. “Though very impressive, obviously.” A soft snort escaped him. But because you care," you continued. "You protect people. You try so hard, even when nobody notices."
Derek ducked his head, a pink flush climbing his cheeks. It was adorable. Dangerously adorable. Reaching over, you threaded your fingers through his properly this time. His hand closed around yours immediately, warm and rough and steady.
The record player crackled. Rain poured harder against the windows. And Derek, stoic, guarded, perpetually exhausted Derek, looked at you like you were something precious. “I think,” he said slowly, “you’re probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stared at him. Then burst out laughing.
His eyebrows shot up. “That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”
“No, no-” you wheezed, squeezing his hand tighter, “it’s just- wow. You really went for emotional devastation, huh?”
“I can take it back.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
A reluctant grin tugged at his mouth again, brighter this time. Freer. You wished you could keep him this unguarded and free. Without thinking, you shifted closer and curled against his side under the worn blanket on the couch. Derek wrapped his arm around you right away, pulling you to his chest. His natural gentleness always surprised you. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your ear.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The storm filled the silence for you. Eventually, Derek pressed his lips softly against the top of your head. “You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “Scott’s going to be unbearable when he realises I’m happy.”
You could already imagine it: Stiles would make a whole production out of it, probably declaring a new holiday and demanding photographic proof. Malia would just smirk and roll her eyes, pretending not to care while she secretly texted you congratulations with too many wolf emojis. Lydia, busy with her internship at MIT, would still find time to send a card that was both elegant and a little teasing. Liam was coaching at the local lacrosse camp and would probably hear about it from Mason before anyone else, both of them determined to keep the pack chat alive with memes and exaggerated updates. Somehow, picturing it all, the lives rolling forward, connections still holding, made the moment feel even more real.
You groaned dramatically. “Oh no. He’s going to start giving inspirational speeches.”
“He already does that.”
“Yeah, but now he’ll feel validated.”
Derek actually laughed then. It wasn’t quiet or restrained; this was real laughter. You tilted your head up just enough to see the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. His expression was bright. For the first time in years, he looked at ease. And you thought you’d do just about anything to keep seeing that look on his face.
The fire crackled quietly in the center of the clearing, sending sparks up into the dark trees overhead. Crickets chirped somewhere deeper in the woods, and the cool night air carried the scent of pine, smoke, and sugar.
You sat on a fallen log with your knees pulled to your chest, turning your marshmallow carefully over the flames. Across from you, Derek sat very still, holding his roasting stick in both hands. He watched the marshmallow with the kind of focus he usually saved for serious situations.
You tried not to laugh. “Most people don’t look that serious making s’mores.”
“I’m making sure it doesn’t burn.”
“It’s a marshmallow, Derek. Not a hostage negotiation.”
His mouth twitched. That was almost a smile.
The rest of the pack had gone back to the cabin nearly an hour ago after someone brought up ghost stories. Usually, you would have followed them, laughing and nudging elbows on the way, but something made you linger by the fire tonight. It was strange for Derek to stay behind with you, especially since he rarely hung back after everyone else left. He never really explained himself anyway. Maybe he was remembering last summer, too, when you both got caught in the storm on a night hike, soaked to the bone, huddled together under one jacket, trying not to laugh as the others searched for you with flashlights. The silence wasn’t awkward. It never was anymore.
You handed him a graham cracker. “You’re on chocolate duty.” He took it with a grunt, firelight flickering across his broad shoulders as he leaned forward. His Henley sleeves were pushed up, showing strong forearms dusted with soot from stacking firewood, and his fingers were smudged as he broke the chocolate bar.
You tried not to stare. You failed a little. Derek noticed, of course. His werewolf senses were just unfair. “You’re burning it,” he said.
“Oh-shit.” You yanked the marshmallow away from the flame, but by the time you pulled it off the stick, the side facing the fire had burned completely black.
“You distracted me.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“You’re literally sitting there looking like that.”
One dark eyebrow lifted. “Like what?”
You opened your mouth, then shut it again immediately. Derek’s smirk deepened, subtle but devastating.
“Oh, now you’re speechless.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The warmth in his voice felt stronger than the fire. You looked down, pulling your eyes away from him as you peeled the burnt layer off your marshmallow, picking at the sticky shell. Your heart pounded so hard you could hear it.
Being with Derek meant every moment felt important. Every glance, every touch, and every rare smile he gave was just for you. Sometimes, when the rest of the pack was loud and bustling, you remembered the night last spring when Derek found you sitting alone on the porch after a long, heavy day. He had simply handed you a cup of tea, silent and warm beside you beneath the heavy stars, his knee pressed against yours. It was such a small kindness, but in that moment, you felt seen in a way that lingered for weeks. Even now, sitting across the fire from him, the memory curled in your chest, making you ache with a kind of hope you could barely admit aloud.
The truth was, Derek, terrified you a little, not because of who or what he was, but because of the way he made you feel. Sometimes the intensity of being really seen left you unsteady, almost exposed, like he knew things about you you could never say out loud. But it was also excitement, bright and sharp under your skin, the sense that what you felt for him was too big to fit neatly inside you. You wanted to reach out, to close the space between you, and sometimes you were afraid you would. What scared you most wasn’t rejection or what anyone else would think; what scared you was how easy it would be to fall for him completely, and how impossible it would be to ever stop.
He wasn’t good with words, but he was good with you. Sometimes that made things worse. When Derek showed affection, it always felt important, like he meant more than he said. That’s why your mind almost stopped working when, calm and steady, he reached across the fire pit, gently cupped your chin, and leaned in to press his lips softly to yours.
For a moment, all you could feel was the heat of his palm against your skin, the roughness of his thumb tracing along your jaw, and the sudden, breathtaking closeness. Your heart pounded so loud it nearly drowned out the crackle of the fire, your breath catching as his lips found yours; warm, gentle, and somehow grounding and electrifying at the same time. The night air seemed to vanish, leaving only the warmth blooming everywhere he touched you.
The kiss wasn’t rushed at all. Nor could it be described as hesitant. Just warm and steady and unmistakably Derek. The world narrowed to the roughness of his hand warming your jaw, the smoky scent lingering on his shirt, and the soft exhale he let out against your lips, as if he’d been holding back all night. Then he pulled away. He stayed calm as he set the stick back over the coals and started turning another marshmallow with steady hands. He acted as if nothing had happened. You stared at him. Derek calmly rotated his marshmallow over the flames.
Your mouth fell open. “You can’t just kiss me and then go back to roasting marshmallows as if nothing happened.” His eyes flicked up to yours, maddeningly composed. “I can.”
“You kissed me like we were in a romance movie, and now you’re acting like we’re discussing the weather.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “The marshmallow still needs work.” You laughed, dragging your hands down your face. “Unbelievable.”
“I think I’m handling this pretty well.”
“You’re insane.”
A beat passed. Then Derek’s expression softened completely. The teasing left his eyes, replaced by something softer that always made your chest ache. “You want me to do it again?” he asked softly. Your brain stopped functioning for a full three seconds. “…Maybe.” One corner of his mouth lifted. This time, when he leaned over the fire toward you, there was no pretending afterwards. The marshmallow caught fire. Neither of you cared.
Later, as the last embers faded and you both walked back toward the cabin, you couldn’t help but wonder how anything would ever feel the same again. You knew the others would notice a shift, or maybe sense it in the way you and Derek looked at each other. Something in the air had changed. You had crossed a line, and though neither of you spoke it aloud, nothing about the pack, or about the two of you, would go back to the way it was.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
âś“ Live Streamingâś“ Interactive Chatâś“ Private Showsâś“ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: Rewrite for Thunderstorm because it was terrible.
Pairing: fem!reader x Angus MacGyver
My Writing | Join my taglist
You’ve been living with Mac for two years now, and you’ve faced your fair share of thunderstorms together. The key to making it through them was Mac, the fact that you weren’t alone.Â
Oh, how you missed your boyfriend.Â
You grab your phone looking for Mac’s number. You know he’s on a case, but a quick check-in won’t hurt. He’s always telling you to call him when you need him. But calling because of a thunderstorm…seems a bit silly. Before you can make up your mind, Mac's face lights up your screen.Â
You immediately pick up. “Mac,” you say in a small voice.
“Hi, baby. I’m just calling to let you know I’m almost home,” he answers.Â
You flinch and whimper when the next boom sounds. Mac silently curses and you use it to distract yourself.Â
“That curse wasn’t as silent as you might’ve hoped,” you chuckle, but it falls flat.Â
“I was hoping to be home before the storm hit, so you wouldn’t have to face it by yourself,” Mac tells you honestly.Â
“Mac, there will be times when I have to deal with this irrational fear all by myself,” you reply.Â
“I’m here,” is all he says.Â
You run toward the front door, opening it to reveal Mac running towards you, drenched within mere seconds.Â
He plants a chaste kiss on your lips before hastily moving towards the bathroom.Â
“Join me in the bathroom while I take a quick shower,” he calls to you.Â
You catch up and entwine your fingers, holding on until he steps into the shower. You sit on the toilet seat and talk the whole time.Â
Once Mac’s finished, he entwines your fingers once more and leads you towards the couch. A blanket settles over your shoulders before Mac pulls you close.Â
“Another 20 minutes and it should be over,” he whispers into the night.Â
“I wish I could get rid of this fear. It’s not like it’s going to strike me while I’m safe and sound inside,” you say, irritation clear in your voice.Â
“Everyone has irrational fears. At least yours gives me an excuse to hold you close,” Mac replies while giving you a tight squeeze.Â
You wait out the rest of the storm in Mac’s arms, talking about everything and nothing. Even though it means being terrified, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. Mac being your safe space is the best thing that could’ve happened to you.
Synopsis: You’re an FBI agent alongside Peter. You decide to change up your style one day. Peter notices immediately, but you refuse to tell him why.
Warnings: Running barefoot, girls being mean, talks of gender
"You look... different," Peter said, his eyes lingering on your freshly polished heels as you sailed into the office.
You glanced down at the black stilettos and shrugged nonchalantly, hoping the blush didn't betray you. "Just felt like switching it up," you replied, your voice a tad too breezy.
The room was the same as always, the fluorescent lights humming their endless tune, the scent of stale coffee wafting from the break room, and the ever-present murmur of agents discussing the latest intel. Yet today, it felt like the walls were closing in on you, as if the very air was charged with an unspoken tension that even the most seasoned agent couldn't ignore.
"New mission?" Peter asked, his gaze lingering on your outfit—the stark contrast to your usual tennis shoes and fitted khaki pants.
"No, just... I don't know," you said, shifting in your chair. The leather creaked under your weight, a sound that seemed amplified in the quiet tension.
"You okay?" Peter's voice was gentle, genuine concern etched into every syllable.
"Yeah," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just tired."
He leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, studying you with those sharp eyes that had seen more than their fair share of the world's darkest secrets. "You know you can tell me anything, right?"
Your heart skipped a beat. You knew that, of all people, Peter Sutherland—your best friend, your partner, your confidant—deserved honesty. But you couldn't bring yourself to admit the real reason behind the heels.
"It's nothing," you assured him, the lie sticking to the roof of your mouth like a piece of gum you hadn't had the courage to spit out.
The room felt suddenly too hot, too small. You fidgeted with the hem of your skirt, the fabric whispering against your skin. The silence stretched out between you, a tightrope threatening to snap under the weight of all the things left unsaid.
"Let's grab lunch," Peter suggested, breaking the tension. "Maybe some fresh air will do you good."
You nodded gratefully, eager for a change of scene. As you stepped out of the office, the cool breeze kissed your skin, a welcome relief from the stifling atmosphere. The sun was shining, the world outside seemingly oblivious to the turmoil within the four walls you'd just left. You followed Peter's lead, the clack of your heels echoing off the pavement as you made your way down the busy street.
And then it happened. A code blue alert blared through your earpiece. A high-value target had been spotted nearby. Peter's eyes met yours, and without a word, you both sprang into action. You chased the suspect, the sound of his footsteps pounding like a drum in your ears. But the heels—oh, the heels. They were a liability, a hindrance to your usual grace and speed.
With a growl of frustration, you kicked them off, the pavement biting at your feet as you sprinted barefoot after the criminal. The world around you blurred into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, your only focus the man in the navy windbreaker weaving through the lunchtime crowd.
You and Peter caught the guy in a deserted alley, the smell of garbage and despair thick in the air. You tackled him to the ground, your bare feet skidding on the gritty concrete. The adrenaline rushing through you dulled the pain of the impact. Peter was right behind you, breathing heavily, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
As the cuffs clicked shut around the criminal's wrists, you couldn't help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting you. You looked up at Peter, your cheeks flushed and your hair a wild mess. "This is why I wear sneakers," you gasped.
Peter chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Well, you looked pretty badass barefoot," he said, a teasing lilt in his voice.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn't help the grin that spread across your face. The tension of the morning melted away like snow in the sun. For a moment, it was just the two of you, partners in the chaos of the job you both loved.
"Come on," Peter said, helping you to your feet. "Let's get back to the office and get you some shoes before the next crisis hits."
You nodded, the weight of the unspoken conversation from earlier lifting just a bit. Maybe today was going to be okay after all.
"So, the heels?" Peter prompted as you walked back to the office, the echo of your barefoot sprint fading behind you.
You sighed, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving you feeling vulnerable. "Some of the women at the office," you began, feeling the heat rising to your cheeks. "They said I should dress more like a... well, more like a girl."
His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What? Why?"
"They said I look like one of the guys," you mumbled, looking down at the discarded heels in your hand. "I just wanted to prove them wrong."
"You don't have to prove anything to anyone," Peter said firmly. "You're an amazing agent, and you look great in whatever you wear."
You glanced at him, a hint of a smile playing on your lips despite the sting of the earlier encounter. "Thanks, Peter."
When you arrived back at the office, the other agents looked up from their screens, surprise and a touch of envy in their eyes. You could see the whispers start, the glances thrown your way. But with Peter by your side, you felt invincible.
You made your way to your desk, the cold air conditioning kissing the sweat on your brow. You dropped the heels into your drawer with a clunk, vowing never to wear them on a mission again. Peter leaned over, his hand on your shoulder, his eyes full of understanding.
"You know I've always liked you just the way you are, right?" he said softly. "You don't have to change for anyone."
You swallowed hard, nodding. "I know."
With a wink and a smirk that made your stomach flip, Peter announced loudly to the room, "I think your tennis shoes look hotter anyway." The office fell silent, all eyes on you. A few agents chuckled, and you felt a blush creeping up your neck.
But instead of the embarrassment you expected, a strange warmth spread through your chest. It was Peter's way of saying he liked you for you, that he didn't care about the heels or the dress code or what anyone else thought. It was Peter being Peter—supportive, protective, and utterly charming.
Author’s note: please let me know if I should keep writing these!! I’m always looking for feedback :)
Summary: The aftermath of Wesley getting his throat slashed.
Pairing: fem!reader x Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
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Watching Wesley recover from having his throat slashed was brutal. The fact that he’d come this close to death…it was painful to think about. He’s your rock in your life and you’re not sure you could survive without him. What makes it even worse is that people he’d considered his family completely dropped him. Not one of them knows what happened that night. Not one of them bothered to ask.Â
Otherwise they would know he almost died trying to protect Angel and his son. They would know he wasn’t working with Holtz. They would know he tried to debunk the prophecy for months. But when he couldn’t and the first signs of the prophecy showed themselves, he made the split decision to run away with Connor. Because if he wasn’t near Angel, then Angel couldn’t kill him.Â
_____
“Finally home,” you whisper as you walk through your apartment door with Wesley.Â
“Finally,” he whispers lightly, still getting used to using his voice again.Â
He kisses the side of your head before moving towards the couch. You sit down next to him and intertwine your fingers.Â
“Don’t you dare get that close to death ever again. Only when we’re old and wrinkled. And even then…I want to go first, because I don’t think I can go through life without you,” your voice breaks near the end.Â
Wesley lets go of your hand and takes you into his arms. And he squeezes…hard.Â
“It was just as scary for me, love. Not once had I imagined our story ending so soon,” he replies.Â
You snuggle closer, resting your head on his shoulder.Â
“I love you, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce,” you whisper.Â
“And I love you.”
Your lips find his in a chaste but meaningful kiss.Â
You remove yourself from the embrace and get the kit the hospital sent you home with to take care of his neck.Â
When you take a seat on the small table in front of him you say: “Please remember how much I love you while I dab the antiseptic on your wound.”
He chuckles and smiles softly.Â
With the greatest care, you dab the wound and wait for it to dry. Water fills your eyes. God, he was so lucky. You’re lucky to still have him. He squeezes your knee in comfort. Even now, he’s putting someone else’s needs before his own. He’s practically lost his family, nearly died, and here he is, comforting you.Â
“I’m sorry they won’t get their heads out of their asses,” you whisper, cautious about broaching the subject.Â
Wesley sighs. “I thought they knew who I was.”
You squeeze his shoulder before cleaning up the medical supplies.Â
Wesley clears his throat, a sign he wants to say something that makes him uncomfortable.Â
“Actually can we not broach that subject yet? I want to ignore what happened for a bit longer.”
“Of course, Wesley. And I’ve got the most perfect welcome-home evening planned to take your mind off things,” you reply while reclaiming your seat.
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Summary: You worry about Wesley whenever he goes with Angel to fight a demon. This time it leads to a confession of your feelings.
Pairing: fem!reader x Wesley Wyndam-Pryce
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You’d met Wesley when he started working at Angel Investigations. You had already worked with Angel a couple of times, working on the more human side of his investigations, staying clear of the demonside. It seems stupid now, to not educate yourself on the demons. But the dark side of Angel Investigations frightened you, until Wesley came along.Â
There was a shift in the operation. You’d still do the more human part of the business, but Wesley often asked you to help him with research. Late nights turned into early mornings. And all of that time spent together led to something more. You both knew it, but didn’t dare confess their feelings. Until one night when Angel and Wesley come back from tracking a demon, hurt and bruised.Â
Angel immediately retires to his room, so you help Wesley take care of his wounds.Â
“Why do you insist on going with him, Wesley? He has Gunn to help him out,” you say desperately.
“There was no time to wait for Gunn and you know it. Besides, you know this is part of the job,” Wesley replies.
“It’s not. I’ve been working with Angel for years and not once did I go hunt a demon with him.”
Wesley furrows his brows before he asks: “Why are you giving me such a hard time?”
“Because you’re hurt! Again! You’re human, Wesley. Your life can end in an instant and maybe I like you too much to watch you die,” you practically shout.
“You like me,” Wesley asks, puzzled.
“Yes, I do and I’m not brave, Wesley. You fight god knows what with the possibility of death. It scares me to death. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to give you my heart because I would be beside myself if I ever lost you,” you confess with a heavy heart.Â
Wesley’s eyes soften as he steps closer. He takes your hands and squeezes them.Â
“Love, most of my days are spent researching and telling Angel how to kill the demons. You know it is rare for me to venture out and to hunt down the demon. It will happen, sometimes, that is inevitable. But now I have someone to come home to and that, my love, is my greatest weapon in every battle,” Wesley comforts you.Â
“Why is that your greatest weapon,” you mumble.Â
“Because I will do everything in my power to come home to you,” he assures you.Â
“I lied when I said I couldn’t give you my heart. You already have it,” you confess.Â
Wesley takes you in his arms and hugs you tight.Â
“Good thing you own mine as well,” he whispers.
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