He doesn't think it's anything special, but Simon knows you like his voice. There's a certain cadence to it when he addresses you that just... does things to you. Coarse, heavy with emotions, and sounding a lot like home. Those were your words. Heh. Fancy that. Goes double with the pet names, though. And yes, the bastard takes advantage of this at every turn, if only to see you flustered, look away in embarrassment, or get all shy and soft on 'im. Aren't you cute, pretty?
Speaking of pretty, whenever you call out to him?
"Yeah, sweetheart?" First time he said it, Simon swore your knees buckled. Then it turned to "What is it, baby?" or "Luv?" That rough but soft lilt, just like you like it.
Oh, but if you thought that was bad, Simon ups the ante with strong eye contact, too. Sometimes he doesn't say shit, doesn't really have to to get his point across, just watches you. And when you catch him, he doesn't stop. Nah, not his M.O., precious. Your lieutenant keeps staring, keeps watching you, the ghost of a smirk on his lips, loving how you get so timid and shit, avert your gaze some, and then come back to him because yeah, you got that hold on him, too, sweetheart.
But the coup de grâce?
"...Simon?"
"...Yeah, beautiful?"
You shortcircuit something fierce, and Simon chuckles in response. Smug bastard's still got it.
And nah, he ain't stopping anytime soon. Get used to it, gorgeous.
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๋࣭⭑atlas : dean's really bad at showing you his affection. you show him you love him with dozens of photos of things that represent the two of you. you think dean hates it, dean loves it so much he doesn't know how to explain it
๋࣭⭑binary stars : dean x reader (gn)
๋࣭⭑classification : fluffy hurt/comfort
๋࣭⭑stellar density : 2.0k
๋࣭⭑omens : reader's kinda whimsical, reader is shorter than dean, a bit of miscommunication, dean cries, soft soft ending :]
๋࣭⭑message in a bottle : requested !! i do shit like this with my best friend irl all the time !!! loved loved loved this idea so much <3 honestly, writing this made me think a lot of @violained and their odd!reader series so PLEASE go check that one out !!! also im so sorry if this is bad, i felt yucky today thank you mystery illness </3
๋࣭⭑ taglist ༊彡 masterlist
Dean wakes to the buzz of his phone on the motel nightstand, cold metal vibrating against equally cold wood. Scrubbing a rough hand over his eyes does nothing to clear the sleep from them, and clearing hi throat doesn’t help his voice wake up either. He pushes himself up on one elbow, hearing the old mattress and bed frame creak as one under his shifting weight. The headboard thuds against the wall, rattling a picture of a boat in its frame, the blue water a harsh contrast to the pale beige walls stand with something like years of cigarette smoke.
His thumb pries the cover to his phone open, moving clumsy along the keypad until he finally opens your message. The image fills in one line at a time, revealing a photo of coffee cups from down the street next to two muffins pressed together. The chocolate one is bigger and fluffier, while the other one is shorter and rounder.
Look, it’s us :)
is your accompanying message.
It takes all of Dean’s strength not to smile bright at your text and reply to it with something sappy and sweet. He knows he could, knows you’d love it, knows he probably should; but the idea of letting himself show it scares him half to death. When you grow up being told the hand that feeds is feeding you poison, you learn not to trust the hand when it feeds you love. All he can do is hope you’ll wait the years it will take him to unlearn everything bad he’s been taught about love. Instead, he turns his phone back over and sets it back on the table. He’ll tell you he loves you when you come back to the room; because he’ll know it’s you, but also because saying it in person is more meaningful than saying it over text.
Dean must fall back asleep, because when he next opens his eyes, his arm is numb from hanging off the bed, and you’re seated beside him, legs crossed, nibbling on a muffin.
“Hi,” you chirp happily, brushing crumbs from your lip. “I was gonna wake you up soon, so your coffee didn’t get cold.”
He hums a low sound back, fumbling to press a soft kiss to your knuckles. You laugh as he chapped lips tickle your skin.
“Did you see my message?” you ask.
Dean blinks, nodding. “Yeah.”
“What’d you think?”
“’S cute, sweetheart.”
He can see your expression dip and immediately regrets it. Just as quickly as your grin crumbles, it replaces itself when you smile again and point in the general direction of his muffin.
“Eat it so it’s not lonely.”
Dean smiles softly at you; of course you’d worry about the muffins getting lonely.
“Alright,” he mumbles around a yawn, taking a bite.
“Is it good?”
Dean nods, swallowing. “Mhm.”
“Is it really, or are you just saying that?”
Dean grumbles an indignant complaint, pressing a messy kiss to your forehead that you try to duck away from to avoid getting muffin crumbs in your hair.
“It’s good! Promise,” Dean says, gesturing.
“Did you see my other picture?”
Dean frowns, staring at you, the corners of his mouth tipped down in that precious way that would make you cave if you weren’t on a mission to learn something important right now.
“What other picture?”
“The one I sent you last night. From the gift shop.”
His frown deepens as he scrolls through your texts to each other. He goes past the messages from yesterday, then back through every single one, hoping something will jump out at him. He finds the picture right where you said it would be, nestled between a text about dinner and another one about when you were coming back to the motel. There’s a photo of two rocks sat together on the windowsill, lacey white curtains tinted cream with age framing them like curtains of seafoam. The tall black one is heavyset in the top half and thinner in the second half, and the shorter rock matches the colour of your eyes almost too perfectly for Dean to believe it’s true. But the picture is right there in front of him, with an ever-present message accompanying it;
Us !!
Ice-cold guilt floods him when he realizes he saw that message and never said anything about it. Usually, he sends back anything as simple as a thumbs-up, or just a ‘yeah’, or even just mentions it to you in person when you come back from wherever you were. But not this time. This time, he saw the picture and fully intended to mention it, but the moment you were back it slipped his mind. Not because he forgets easily, or because the picture was nothing memorable to him. But because to him, it was so much more than just a picture of two rocks on a windowsill.
To Dean, it was a declaration that even in the smallest, most unsuspecting places, you will find your way back to him. And you will find him in every lifetime, in every variant of your love that exists in the world, and you will show him each time you find it. All those versions of the two of you existing at once, and he gets to love you in each and every one of them; and he loves you strongly enough that you find them in the world and send him those pictures. To Dean, it’s the most important thing in his life, because it means you love him as much as he loves you. To Dean, it’s terrifying to know that he loves you like that, because in his life, love gets rewarded with tragedy.
“Sweetheart, I-.”
Your face crumples, shoulders folding inward like you can put a shield up between them and pretend nothing is wrong.
“Dean, if you want me to stop sending them, just say that.”
“It’s not-.”
“You don’t have to play along with it,” you say, rambling now, your voice breathless and airy with poorly concealed disappointment. “You can just say it’s stupid and I’ll stop. You can just say you don’t want to be with someone who sends childish stuff like that. You can tell me it’s immature, I just need you to say it to my face.”
“I-.”
You take a sharp breath in, letting it out slow and wavy like the tides to the ocean. “Just don’t keep me around because it’s convenient, okay? Don’t…don’t make yourself deal with things you don’t want to deal with.”
Dean’s about to explain himself, but he’s stopped by Sam coming into the motel room, hair drenched by the rain and carrying a stack of books under his jacket. He shakes his head, looking something like an oversized dog when the water falls out of his hair, toeing off his boots and handing you the books with the kind of grim look that says you’re in for a rough one.
“What’s up, Sam?” you say, clearing your throat.
“For once, I have no idea. I got us some stuff that might help but…” He trails off, gesturing uselessly around the room once he’s freed his arms from the jacket. “It could be nothing. Or it could be something we haven’t heard of yet. Whatever it is, we gotta figure it out now.”
That week is the longest week of Dean’s life. Half because the monster you’ve been tailing is scary good at adapting its patterns to conceal its identity. It’s been almost impossible to track it, and the only reason you got to it in the end was because you helped Sam go through traffic camera footage and found a shape in one frame that wasn’t meant to be there. It was caught between two fenceposts with barbed wire strung between them, knotted together in the middle like the posts were holding hands. That right there was the other half of why the week felt so long; normally, you’d see those posts and send Dean a picture with a caption for him. The only picture you sent him this week was a page from a lore book with information you thought he could use working his part of the case.
He doesn’t get a chance to mention it for another week after that, because all that time is spent with Sam uncomfortably close, and a conversation this important doesn’t need prying ears, whether they mean to listen or not. He waits for the perfect time, which happens to be in the Impala while Sam’s back at the motel waiting on you and Dean to bring back dinner, and Dean’s waiting in the car with you for the food to be ready. He’s expecting to start the conversation with something meaningful and important about how he values all the pictures you send to him and how he remembers every single one with shocking clarity.
“I’m scared,” is what he says instead, surprising both you and him.
“You’re- Why?”
Dean’s beet red by now, embarrassed to have the conversation but embarrassed to spill this most precious part of him, the part that he keeps locked tightly away in case anyone dares to question it.
“Dean is this about the pictures?” you press, gentle as ever.
“Yeah.”
You stutter a laugh into the palm of your hand. “What’s so scary about the pictures?”
“It’s not the pictures, sweetheart. The pictures are great, I promise.”
You narrow your eyes, staring at him through your lashes. “Then what is it?”
He takes a deep inhale. “I’m scared that…” A deep exhales, followed by another inhale. “I’m scared of how much I love you.”
He rushes the last part of the sentence so much you barely even catch what he’s trying to say. But you’ve spent years getting close to Dean, you know how to interpret every mumbled word of his uttered into your skin. And this whispered sentence makes your heart drop to your feet and cry tears of something bittersweet.
“Dean, baby…” you murmur, holding one of his hands in yours.
Dean braces himself for rejection, for what inevitably happens when he opens up to anyone that matters to him. It happened to him with his dad, with Sam, with Cassie all those years ago. And now it’s about to happen again.
Except you don’t insult him or throw him out of the car like he’s nothing more than an empty plastic bag. You take his hand in yours and you stretch out his fingers, and you press them to your lips, kissing the callouses that live on their pads.
“Why didn’t you just say that?” you whisper against his skin.
And Dean, darling emotional Dean, feels his cheeks dampen under tears he didn’t know were falling.
“’Cause that made it real. ‘N ‘cause I don’t want ‘em to take you away.”
“From you?” you murmur.
Dean nods, wiping at his cheeks.
“They can’t take me away from you.”
“You don’t know that.”
You smile, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “Yes, I do. D’you know how?”
Dean shakes his head, sniffling.
Another kiss to his temple, and you continue.
“’Cause I see us together all the time. We’re always gonna be together somehow, even if it’s just in stupid little pictures. They can take my body if they want, but they can’t take away what we have.”
Dean’s head falls to the crook of your neck, and you tuck it there, hand cradling his head, murmuring reassurances into his sandy hair that pokes your cheek. You rock him slowly back and forth, one hand playing with his hair and the other one rubbing circles over the cotton of his dark t-shirt. You sit there until Dean has to go in to get the food, and when you’ve brought it all back to the motel and are settling in for the night, you hold Dean against your chest the exact same way as he sleeps.
When Dean wakes up the next morning with sand in his eyes and a headache from crying, he turns on his phone to ask where you are. And the first thing he sees is a picture of two bunnies sitting side by side near the parking lot, a huge dandelion stem sat between them. And a caption, with your signature
.✦ ryland grace should have known you were gonna create a monster, once you showed rocky human music!
Ryland knew. He should have tried harder not to let you show Rocky human music. But he couldn't deny you, when you both give him this innocent wide-eyed look, well you more-so, but he could tell Rocky was doing . . . something. A small whine escaping your lips, clasping your hands together. “Please?” You begged, Rocky happily, tapping his feet on the ground beside you. “Rocky want to hear human music!” Rocky exclaimed, throwing his front legs up, his three fingers pointing out, as if he was doing jazz hands.
Ryland sighed, nodding, “Okay, you two.” You threw your hands up in celebration, Rocky turning towards you, coping the motion of throwing his front legs back up. “Rocky, let's go!” You motioned towards the exit of the workshop, Rocky excitedly rolling out the door. “Human music! Human music!” Rocky chanted, shouted, his little legs carrying him as fast as he could go.
Rocky barreled through the door not even ten minutes later, things clattering behind him. “Human music! Amaze! Must show Grace!”
Now hear Ryland sits, watching as Rocky, loudly sang the lyrics to 'Espresso' by Sabrina Carpenter with his monotone computer voice. You giggled, watching from your seat, as Rocky did a small wiggle. Rocky tapped his feet, “Rocky work late!” You laughed, adding on to Rocky's buffoonery.
“Because he's a singer!”
Rocky made a small chirp, at your comment. Rocky, making a motion with his front leg, Ryland was guessing he was trying to mimic the dance. “That me espresso!” Rocky did a small twirl, “Rocky, amaze, question?” Rocky tilted his head, towards you and Ryland. You clapped your hands, Rocky preening at your praise. Ryland huffed out a laugh, “Yeah, amaze.”
i was listening to short n' sweet and the idea of rocky singing espresso was making me giggle real bad 😭 this probably sucks ass though . . . this is for real a drabble. planning on making more ryland fics because i'm starving for him
this is a part 2 for the bruce wayne x neglected spouse reader, which can be found here! and here is the next part!
bruce kept his face neutral, and for y/n, that might just be worse.
did he really not care? that’s so typical of him. everything but being batman doesn’t deserve his time. y/n knows that now.
“Mx. y/n, please sit down-“
“I’m sorry Alfred.” y/n turned to the older man. “I’ll be back later to pick this up,” they turn to the paper in front of bruce- who still hasn’t said anything. “-I’ll see you all later. i’m sorry.”
they hurriedly fled the scene, making their way to leave the manor. where to? who knows. bruce doesn’t deserve to know them anymore than they do.
“wait-!” jason stood up from his seat to follow after, but not before giving bruce a glare and slamming a fist down the table, the sound of tableware and plates echoes across the room. “you better fix this, old man.” he grumbles before leaving.
alfred left to assist y/n. probably had something to say to them too.
damian and tim sat on their seats. for once, they were unsure of what to do.
dick turned to follow after y/n and jason, only to falter in his steps and skidded to a stop. he faced bruce.
“what the hell was that..?!”
bruce’s eyes squinted a bit, before he let out a sigh. his arm moved, fingers pinching the area between his eyes, looking and acting as if this is is nothing more than an inconvenience to him. as if the paper in front of him was just a report that someone from work gave him, and not divorce papers.
that only angered dick more.
“why didn’t you say anything..? why didn’t you stop them?!” he marched all the way up to bruce’s side. “the person you love just left us- and you’re not even gonna stop them? bruce, what about you guys? what about them? what about us..?!”
bruce snapped and stood up, towering over dick. “i don’t love them! there never was anything between us. our relationship was purely transactional. we have made this clear. our contract was clear. if one of us wants to break it off, then we end it.” bruce glared.
“and what about you? what does this have to do with you, or the others?”
dick took a step back, as if he was slapped by what bruce had just said.
tim looked at bruce with an almost heart broken expression, “bruce, you-“
“damian is right.” bruce said. damian looked up, confused.
“y/n and i hold no feelings for one another. for them to break things off because of selina is a bit of an invalid reason. y/n married bruce wayne. not batman.” bruce said with finality.
“i..i didn’t mean it.” damian said, looking away.
“you ARE bruce wayne!” dick said. “you married y/n, how could you-“
“enough.”
bruce took a pen from his shirt pocket, and swiftly signed the papers. as if he wasn’t making one of the worst decisions of his life.
“this matter is over.” with that, he put the pen back in his short pocket. “stay safe on your way back to bludhaven.” he patted dick’s shoulder as he left.
dick can only stand there in shock. it all happened too fast. why was this happening to them? did bruce really not like y/n? he was sure everything was going well. why was this happening?
as time stood up to comfort dick, damian followed after bruce.
as robin and batman walked along the manor, damian noted that it seemed colder than usual.
“father?” bruce let out a hum of acknowledgment.
“do you like the catwoman?”
bruce didn’t answer. and that was more than enough for damian to confirm it.
this can’t be. he won’t allow it. what does father see in her? is it because y/n wasn’t a vigilante like them? he much prefers y/n over kyle. y/n was able to give them a normal parent. someone who gives you hugs with no hesitation. someone who knows you’re hurt before you can even realize it. someone who loves you unconditionally.
it’s not fair.
“i refuse.”
“that’s not for you to decide, damian.”
and the conversation ended there.
—- eeyormm hope u guys enjoyed 😢 —-
if you want another part, let me know how u want it to end🤭
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Jason doesn’t believe in the kind of intimacy that glows.
He doesn’t spill himself open in the dark or trace his past with gentle words. He doesn’t talk about his job. Not the blood, not the nights, not the way Gotham hums under his skin long after the city’s gone to sleep. That part of him stays sealed, wrapped tight in muscle memory and silence.
Most nights, you find him already in bed, the lamp turned low like he’s afraid of waking something. Reading glasses slipping down his nose. A book balanced in his hands like an anchor. He looks carved from shadow and lamplight, edges softened by paper and ink. Still dangerous. Still distant. But held.
You try, at first, to meet him where couples are supposed to meet.
“How was your day?”
A pause. A shrug.
“Good. I guess.”
It’s never unkind. Just… final.
Sometimes you get fragments. Dick said something stupid. Damian recommended a book with the air of a challenge. Once, he scoffs about a character being written wrong, like that matters more than anything else. You collect these moments like loose change, hoping they’ll add up to something solid.
For a while, it feels like loving him means sitting beside a closed door and pretending you don’t hear what’s locked inside.
Then one night — tired and unguarded — you nod toward the book in his hands.
“Is it good?”
The question barely exists.
It doesn’t reach for his past or pry at old wounds. It doesn’t ask him to explain the nights that leave bruises beneath his skin or the things he keeps buried because they’re sharp. It doesn’t demand access to a world he’s deliberately built walls around.
Not because he doesn’t trust you, but because letting you in would mean letting you see the parts of him that get people hurt.
It just asks about the thing he’s already holding. The one place he’s allowed himself to be loud without consequence, vulnerable without collateral damage. Paper and ink. A story that can’t bleed on you.
He looks up.
“Yeah,” he says. Then, quieter, more honest, “It’s… complicated.”
And then he starts talking.
About the plot first. How it meanders, how it almost loses itself and then claws its way back. About characters who make choices that ruin them. About anger that burns too hot, about guilt that doesn’t let anyone sleep. His voice roughens, sharpens, warms. His hands move when he speaks, forgetting to stay still.
Time dissolves. The book slides forgotten to the mattress.
You curl closer, listening, realising this is the longest you’ve heard him speak without armor.
He doesn’t notice when his critiques turn confessional.
He says things like ‘I get why he did that’ and ‘sometimes there isn’t a clean way out’ and ‘people don’t stop being dangerous just because they’re loved’. He never says me. He never says I. But you hear it anyway, threaded between the lines.
You learn him through stories.
Through the characters he defends and the endings he hates. Through the way he respects survival more than redemption. Through the quiet reverence he has for people who keep going without being forgiven.
So you keep asking.
What he’s reading. What he thinks. Why it matters.
And slowly it becomes a language.
Books become bridges. Metaphors become confessions. He starts relating fiction to his brothers, to the shape of his anger, to the way fear disguises itself as control. Sometimes he stops mid-thought, jaw tightening, like he’s said too much.
You never rush him.
You just stay. Warm. Listening. Letting the silence land gently instead of closing like a trap.
Jason doesn’t talk about his life the way other people do.
He tells it sideways. In margins. In borrowed words.
And every night, in the low lamplight, with a book open between his hands and your heartbeat steady beside him, he lets you read him. One chapter at a time.
𓏲ּ ❤︎ toothless sneaks into you and hiccup's bed, much to hiccup's annoyance!
༯ genderneutral!reader ⸝⸝ u and hiccup share a bed ⸝⸝ toothless is a third wheel ⸝⸝ bad writing ⸝⸝ lowercase intended ⸝⸝ artist is unknown, if you know who made this fanart, please let me know.
your eyes blearily adjusted to the sun rays peeking through the curtains, the feeling of wet pressure up against your hand. your finger twitched, the scaly nose shoving itself to where your hand was grazing. “toothless,” you chuckled, flattening your hand to slide up against his head. the small little head spikes, that shockingly felt like rubber. toothless purred, his bright green eyes shining in the morning light.
toothless moved his body up further, a gummy smile, on the night-fury's face. “hi, sweetie.” you cooed, scratching his chin with the tips of your nails. toothless cooed back; having no care for the other objects on the bed, toothless clambered his way over the plush of the bed and . . . hiccup, legs pushing hiccup down into the bed. hiccup groaned, “toothless!” hiccup's eyes, blinked open, narrowing in as toothless purred under your touch, not caring about hiccup's annoyance.
“toothless, get out!” hiccup cries in annoyance, pushing himself up to shove toothles's side. toothless let out an offended growl, “hiccup,” you chided, flitting your eyes towards him. “he's fine, don't be mean.” toothless purred in content, curling into your hands, turning to stick his tongue out at hiccup. hiccup gaped, his mouth wide open, “he's manipulating you!” hiccup sighed, “he just stuck his tongue out at me,”
you grinned, childishly, placing your hands under toothless jaw to present his face to hiccup. “this angel?” you questioned, kissing the edge of toothless's nose. toothles's tail smacking the side of bed at the praise. “you're both so annoying,” hiccup rolled his eyes, scooting over to lay next to toothless. throwing his arm around the both of you, toothless eyes closing in delight at the attention. you giggled at the night fury's antics, “you love us,” toothless gave a small hum of agreement. hiccup sighed good naturedly, shaking his head, tightening his arm around the both of you.
Summary: You've got Andrew whipped. Hook, line and sinker...there's no getting rid of you.
Genre: Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort
CW: Gn!Reader as far as I'm aware, no pronouns used, second person point of view, no use of y/n, Reader is very sensitive and empathetic, Reader is extremely observant, I think that's basically it.
Word Count: 1.5k
A/N: I just started watching Animal Kingdom, so of course I'm writing a fic. I'm only on season two so, I did my best not to really include any timeline relevant shit. Anyways, I really like this fic. (More Dustin fics will be coming I SWEAR. I've just gotten a little burnt out so gimme a little bit.) Love y'all!!
ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖ ♡
You were close with Andrew, some may even consider you friends. You talked, hung out, he let you vent to him…but he never vented to you. He never said anything about himself and he was sure you wouldn’t notice. Most people are too self-centered to care much when someone else won’t talk about themselves.
But you weren’t most people. You were…you. You were sweet like sugar, kinder than anyone he’s ever known, and not in the fake way. Not in the way that Smurf was, kind in order to receive something in return at some point.
You were just kind because that’s who you were. It wasn’t even that you wanted to be kind, you were cursed to be unnecessarily caring and understanding. You were empathetic to a fault, feeling everyone’s pain as your own…so much so that you would spiral. Andrew remembers the first time he witnessed it…he could never forget.
“Hey.” You hear his voice call out to you, muffled and warbled. You feel like you’re fucking drowning. “I was knocking for like fifteen minutes…you okay?” He finally rounds the bed to crouch down in front of you. Your face is mostly covered by the blanket, only your teary eyes being visible. “Hey…” He reaches out, voice gentle in a way no one but you had ever heard.
“They killed him.” You choke out, holding back another wave of tears.
“Who?” His brows knit together.
“A police officer.” Andrew feels his heart lurching. “He was…he was patrolling or something. He had a wife and kids, he was an incredible officer. I hate cops but he…he was good.” You swallow. “And they killed him…ran him over with their fucking truck.” Andrew couldn’t believe it. Some man you’ve never met or seen in person a day in your life…and you were sobbing in bed because he’d died.
You were inconsolable, rotting in bed for two days until he finally came by your apartment.
“I saw it on the news.” Is all he replies with. He climbs into bed with you and holds you close while you cry. For the first time in his life, he truly feels guilty. He’s felt guilt, but never enough to make him crack…cave and tell the truth. You were different, you made him different. The words almost fell past his lips multiple times…this was dangerous.
So yes…you were kind. You were gentle with him and comforted him so easily. It seemed so effortless when you did it, so natural. You never had to try, never had to force it. You held him in a way he’d only ever dreamed of. The way you made him feel was…scary.
Andrew had liked people before, dated before. He loved Cathrine since they were children, he knew love. Until he met you that is, because what he felt for you surpassed every other feeling he’s experienced.
He loved you.
So he knew he had to let you go.
Only his version of ‘letting you go’ was really just pushing you away. He fell away and ignored you, pretended he was busy. You bought it for a while, until you didn’t. That was another thing he loved about you, you were smart. Not book smart in particular, but people smart. You saw things no one else did, understood things no one else could…which is what made him consider telling you everything.
That was another thing he’d never experienced. The need to be completely honest, to spill his guts to you. He wanted to tell you everything he’s ever done or witnessed, and he wanted to tell you how it made him feel. He didn’t want to give you the dumbed down version either, he wanted to tell you exactly how he had been hurting.
He thought he’d gotten rid of you, everyone in his family did. They pat him on the back and told him it was the right thing to do. They didn’t see how horrible it was for him, how broken he was…but you would have, and you did.
“Andrew!” You scream, making him whip his head back, locking eyes with you. You’ve been crying, a lot. Your eyes are red and swollen, lips plump and extra pink, the tip of your nose rosy like Rudolph’s.
He was ready for you to scream at him, belittle him and call him an asshole. He braced himself for your harsh words, but they never came.
You walk up to him, reaching him in only a few strides. He flinches, ready for the worst.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, voice sweet as ever.
“What?” He asks, voice cracking.
“What’s wrong?” You ask again, reaching out to grab his face in your hands. “You’ve been drifting away, pulling back. I see the way your face shifts, holding back tears.” How could you possibly notice that? “If there’s something I did or said, you can tell me. I can try to fix it or if it isn’t fixable then at least I know why you’re pulling away.”
You’re unbelievable…truly unbelievable.
“You didn’t do anything.” He answers simply.
“Then what is it? Does it have to do with your family?” Andrew’s eyes widen just a fraction.
“Why do you think it’s about them?”
“Anytime I mention them you flinch. Your eyes twitch and your bottom lip trembles a few times before you stop it.” You really did notice everything. “Anytime you talk about them yourself, your voice lowers. You sound rougher, angrier. Your jaw clenches and your teeth grit together, which is really bad for them by the way.” The way you slip the comment in makes him smirk.
“How do you notice things like that?”
“Born that way, you know that.” He nods slowly, he did know that. “Talk to me, Andy…you know you can.”
“I can’t.” His voice breaks, gently pulling your hands away from his face.
“Did they do something?” He simply shakes his head, looking away. “Did they say something?” Another shake of his head. “Is this about the whole crime thing?” You question. His eyes go bulging wide as he stares back at you, mouth hanging open slightly.
“How did you-“ He trails off, watching you like you’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen.
“The dozens of vehicles in your garage. Boats, bikes, cars. The giant fucking house and all the nice furniture. How careful they are when talking about their jobs, and yours. All their voices catch the slightest bit when they lie, including yours. Anytime they talked about your guys jobs, lives, pasts…voices would catch.” Andrew watches you still, head shaking in awe.
“Janine always offers money, always tries to buy her way through. You all have an edge to you too…” You pause. “A certain…vibe I guess. You’re all tough and secretive, sly and cunning. All signs point to criminals…for lack of a better word.” You wince when the word leaves your lips, shaking your head.
“Why are you still here?” He asks quietly. You don’t have to ask what he means, because you always know.
“Because I don’t care.” You scoff, like the answer was so obvious. It was obvious, but he wasn’t hopeful enough to let himself see it. “I love you, Andy.” Your voice wavers, tears gathering in your eyes. “I don’t care what you do, or what your family does. All I care about is being with you, taking care of you when you won’t do it yourself…talking to you when you need it, helping you.”
“You’re too good.” He shakes his head with a smile.
“So are you…you just don’t show it all the time. It isn’t obvious, or out in the open. You’re so kind but you hide it, don’t make a big deal out of it.” You notice so many things he’s always overlooked, things everyone’s always overlooked.
“That’s why I love you, Andy. You’re a better person than you think. You aren’t who you envision yourself to be, who you think everyone else sees. I see you, good and bad, I see it all…” His eyes are watering now. You don’t point it out, you don’t wipe away his tears because you know it would make him toughen up again, lock away his emotions. “And I still love you, with everything I have.”
“I love you too.” And he did, he always did. How could he not love you when you were just so kind? So observant and understanding, so smart and generous, so empathetic and honest? He couldn’t not love you. You dragged him in with your charm, and you kept him with your love and unwavering devotion.
