Delusional!Lottie Matthews x Dead!Reader Headcanons
Lottie Matthews, who never let you die in the first place, who ran out into the snow after you, feet still scarred to prove it. Lottie Mathews, who wrapped you tight in her coat, holding you until the sleep that you couldn’t ever reach in the cabin came. You told her you didn’t want to go back. You told her the morning sun was enough to keep you now. You ran cold anyway.
Lottie Matthews, who brings you things. Blankets, clothes, makeup, playing cards. There wasn’t much out here. Wasn’t much but trees. You needed something to hold onto, so you wouldn’t lose your way. You needed to remember the world before, to remember the cabin, to remember her when she couldn’t visit you.
Lottie Matthews, who kept your clothes warm for you. You had no need for them out here; you had her coat, you had your nightgown, you had the snow. Dresses and shoes did Lottie more good than they ever did you. You didn’t mind, no more than you had before the crash.
Lottie Matthews, who sifts through the cards, leaving you every time the Queen of Clubs. The wilderness liked clubs for you, it whispered as such every time Lottie had to reshuffle, every time the suit came up hearts instead. Only the one card, no matter how many everyone had to hold before the prey was chosen.
Dead!Reader, whose idea all of this was, who knew no animals, no mercy, would come from Natalie’s hunting; Who knew that something needed to be done before the cold came for the cabin. Lottie didn’t take to snow it as well as you did.
Lottie Matthews, who stalked the trees at the border of your alcove, waiting to ward off something that wasn’t coming. Without the cabin, without walls to hide in, it took more to draw the others off your path. You’d looked so scared, of them, of what they were going to do, of what you’d seen them doing, that Lottie couldn’t bear letting them near you.
Dead!Reader, who couldn’t bear to be torn away from Lottie any more than you could bear to leave the wilderness, who saw the scientists coming, pleading with Lottie not to let these newcomers take her away again.
Lottie Matthews, who did everything in her power not to abandon you.
Summary: After a long night of overtime, you invite Connor to the bar with you and Hank. An encounter with Detective Reed leads to you blacking out and needing to be carried home.
Word Count: 3k
Tags: Pre-War! Connor, Gender-neutral reader, No use of Y/N, Pre-relationship fluff, A little angst, Admiration, Yearning.
Warnings: Sexual harassment, Alcohol consumption, Mentions of alcoholism, Mentions of violence, Mention of roofies, Mentions of underage drinking.
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"If we figure out what traits potential deviants show, we may be able to-"
Blue light bathed Connor's face, catching on nothing. Not a dark circle, not a single line between his brows; no indication of fatigue in his features or his voice.
"Lieutenant Anderson?"
Hank, sitting in front of Connor at the computer, gave no response.
Connor grabbed his shoulder, shaking him.
"Ok, OK, I'm awake, Jesus Christ, Connor"
Awake was an exaggeration. Hank looked, to your trained eye, just as likely to pass back out as he was to stay awake for any more than five minutes.
"Anyway, if we figure out what traits potential deviants show, we may be able to contain a future-"
You felt bad interrupting Connor's speech a second time, but something had to be done to stop this cycle from repeating indefinitely.
"Connor,"
"Yes?"
He looked at you expectantly from the other side of the desk.
"I think we're done for the night."
"Oh, thank god."
Hank sighed.
"But there's still-"
"It's nearly midnight, Connor, I need sleep"
You tried your best not to sound too stern, but Connor's face still dropped a little in disappointment. It seemed impossible that a machine could be so minutely expressive.
"Well, I will see you on Monday, and we can continue going over this"
Monday? That was right. The weekdays were blurring into each other; you had hardly given yourself a chance to be excited for the weekend.
You caught the edge of a smile from Connor as you through your arms up melodramatically.
Some cold robot.
"Just as long as we don't get called in for another case first"
Hank grumbled, slowly standing up.
You streched yourself out of your chair, lamenting the odd sitting position that had left your every muscle sore.
"You're a pessimist"
"You're delusional"
"Need a ride home, Hank? Don't want you falling asleep behind the wheel of that box of skrews you insist on driving"
"I'm too damn tired to go home"
You smirked.
"Need a ride to Jimmy's?"
Hank tossed you his keys, sending them so high through the air you almost didn't catch them.
"I'll buy a round."
"Deal."
The mess on your desk was for a brighter-eyed, bushier-tailed you to deal with on Monday. For now, you just wanted to get out of the cold, sharp-edged station and to somewhere a little less harsh.
You pulled your coat on, stopping by the door.
"You coming?"
Connor's eyes narrowed in confusion. It was almost sad how surprise and excitement seemed to wash over his face all at once. It was worse to watch him try to swallow it.
Hank muttered something quietly enough that you could hope Connor hadn't heard.
He hesitated.
"...yes. Yes, I'd like that."
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Jimmy's bar was a time capsule, evocative of a world before Cyberlife, before convenience. With its flickery neon sign and old yaht rock playing through the type of radio no one used anymore, it made sense for the progress-resistant Lieutenant to find comfort frozen here.
You, on the other hand, didn't fit the bill. You were too young, too alive to be fossilized here with inflexible old men and dusty wood.
This was the sort of place that Cyberlife, that the future, would leave behind.
You hoisted yourself onto a barstool with an exaggerated sigh.
"You would not believe the week I've had, Jimmy."
"I'm sure I wouldn't."
The bartender, a man named Michael Long who bore no resemblance to Jimmy Peterson whatsoever, was already pouring Hank's drink.
Connor stood behind you, eyes scanning every ex-convict and divorcee in the dimly lit room. Same Friday night crowd as the last time he was here.
His inspection was interrupted by a tug on his sleeve.
"Work day's over, Connor, it's time to kick back"
You smiled playfully, gesturing to the seat beside you.
You were wrong. It wasn't over until deviency was solved, not for him. He didn't need to rest; he needed to complete his job.
Of course, that couldnt be done without you.
Connor obliged, sliding onto the stool with excessive grace and propriety.
"I'm sure you've had a long week, kid, but I don't think work has exhausted your ability to read."
The bartendeder pointedly looked between Connor, you, and the "NO ANDROIDS" sign confidantly displayed on the bar wall.
You rolled your eyes, offering a conspiratorial look, like Michael and you were sneaking past an old-fashioned rule neither of you believed in.
"You would be suprised, Jimmy."
Somehow it worked. The bartender, whose name you seemed intent on getting wrong, chuckled, turning back to top off the Lieutenant's drink. You had a way with people, a charm that in all his programming and Turing testing, Connor could never understand or replicate.
"You want a drink?"
"No, thank you."
It seemed the easier answer than "I can't", which you already knew.
"Alright, if you're sure. Hey, Jimmy, you think you could do a Mai Tai?"
"I'll give it my best shot."
"You can not be serious."
Hank sighed from beside you.
"Oh, I'm serious, not everyone likes drinking glorified motor oil."
Connor didn't know if he was meant to chime in with some playful jab. Small talk was one thing, banter another. He could let you talk, go update Amanda without you even noticing, but he didn't want to. After what had happened last night, his stool at the sleezy bar seemed a far more pleasant environment than the bright, bracing Zen Garden and the woman who inhabited it.
"Let's go over what we have. PL 600's case shows a clear motivation, fear, self-preservation in the face of..."
"No, no. No work talk at Jimmy's, this is my sanctuary from all that shit"
Hank waved his hand in distaste. It wasn't worth harming the professional relationship to continue pushing.
"Alright. Monday then."
That left Connor with little else to say. You were the opposite, talking limitlessly to Hank, eyes shining despite bloodshot exhaustion. Even with inhuman energy and stamina, Connor could only muster a cheap imitation of whatever it was you had.
Every few sentences, you would glance at him, as if for some kind of confirmation of something Connor was unaware of. He would just smile and nod.
Something in your eyes reminded him of a face he wished he could afford to wipe from his memory. Before that, he had to figure out just what had happened to him last night. Two murderous machines, more importantly, two studiable cases of deviency, running out the back of a dingy sex club unpursued.
It was something he should never have allowed to happen, something he shouldn't have been capable of allowing.
If he could just talk to you about it, verbalize the issue, you could make it make sense. You were smart that way; you saw things he didn't.
Your drink was empty, your elbow resting casually on his shoulder.
Only you would do something like that. He didn't know why you did. Studies on social relationships suggested that someone like you should have no problem finding somebody to hang off of at the bar.
He could serve that purpose in the confines of this bar, under the terms that closeness may promote the case, but you weren't the type to need to artificialize companionship.
"Do you like music, detective?"
Connor endeavored. You hesitated, staring back at him for a split second. Perhaps it was a more difficult question than Connor had meant it to be.
You laughed it off.
"Yeah, love it. You ever hear of a band called Knights of the Black Death?"
"Yes, actually, they made a total of 8 heavy metal albums from 2021- 2031. Lieutenant Anderson also enjoys their music."
"Nine good years."
Hank piped up from over his third drink.
"I was at their last tour, you know. It was my first concert."
Hank chuckled darkly to himself; Connor ignored him.
"Their last show was in Detroit, June 2032, making you 19 at the time?"
"God, has it really been that long? Makes sense, I was so young"
"And stupid."
Before Connor could interpret that comment, the bell on the bar door dinged.
Connor noticed the person entering before you did. The muscles in his jaw tensed as he remembered the sharp impact of Gavin Reed's fist on his stomach at their last encounter.
He felt your arm go stiff on his shoulder before you even looked over.
"Oh, Hello. Can't say I'm surprised to see you here, doll."
Detective Reed almost cooed.
Your refusal to so much as glance over your shoulder must've been deliberate.
"Detective Reed."
Connor's cold greeting went unacknowledged.
"You brought Robo-Cop? Really? I thought you were above that, detective, sure looked it in the Eden Club."
Detective Reed leaned over you, head tilted to try to catch your sternly averted eyes.
Connor followed his motion, cutting between you.
"Do you have professional business here, Reed, or can I buy you a drink for the road?"
"Looks like someone's balls grew back a little bigger, huh? Explains a lot, if you ask me."
You waved the bartender for a second refill like your life depended on it.
"But our lovely little detective doesn't need a bodyguard. You can speak for yourself, can't you, doll? Unless you've gone soft. A shame that would be"
You pushed Reed's hand off just as fast as it could brush against your shoulder.
"Fuck off, Gavin"
Hank slurred, spirited, but too drunk to be much more.
Reed only smirked.
Connor stood up, eerily calm in seizing up the overall larger man.
"Leave. You are interfearing with the detective's ability to focus on the case. Find another bar to crash or I will report you to Captain Allen for sexual harassment and undermining of an investigation."
Gavin scoffed, shoving Connor unsuccessfully.
"HEY! YOU TWO!"
An unexpected voice piped up.
Michael, the bartender held up a sign with bold letters stating simply 'NO FIGHTS".
Detective Reed rolled his eyes.
"One of the two of you needs to get out of my bar before I call cops that actually take their jobs seriously."
Connor held his ground.
"Ugh, fine...let me know when you get bored with your new little project, you know where I live"
The bell on the door chimed his exit.
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You immediately regretted the relieved breath you took, nearly choking on the thick Gavin smell that hadn't left with him.
"Jesus fuck. Jimmy, please tell me you keep a fan behind that lovely bar of yours."
Michael hadn't forgotten about the disturbance Connor had contributed to, but still scowling, he flicked a switch.
An old window-fan werrred on, replacing the sheet of axe body spray and hot breath with early winter air.
"I owe you my life, or maybe just my lungs."
"Are you alright, detective?"
You felt Connor return to his stool beside you.
Part of you knew you should probably thank him, the other part wanted to avoid looking at him indefinitely.
He had meant well. It was probably hardwired into him by the HR philosophy that feared bystander-ship more than making the issue worse. The pool of dread forming at your solar plexus had nothing to do with him, not really.
"Just be glad your sense of smell is a setting you have to turn on."
You patted him on the back.
"Someday somethings gonna happen to that boy...somethings- something he has coming."
Hank was barely coherent. You had to stop letting him do this to himself.
He had no shortage of protests as you reached across him, draining the half ounce of whisky left in his cup and slid it back to the other side of the bar.
"Sprite. only."
You addressed the bartender, not Hank.
"Connor, what the fuck!"
It wasn't the complaint you had been expecting.
Just as you turned to look, Connor took two fingers from your drink and touched them to his mouth, staring pensively at the cup.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Analizing your drink. 1 in 100 adults in the US are victims of drink spiking, most commonly in bars and clubs. I wasnt watching your drink, neither were you."
"First the blood...and now...Connor you're disgusting"
Hank muttered.
"Cautious, Lieutenant."
His expression was rock solid, as serious as if Hank had said something to jeopardize the case.
Luckily, he handed the drink back to you.
"Its clear."
"Thanks..."
You didn't know what else to say, so you chased your words with a sip.
It was quiet in the bar for just a moment.
"Detective Reed seemed intent on talking to you"
"Yeah, fuck that."
Another long sip left you with an empty cup.
"I mean to ask, has this been going on for a long time?"
"Gavin being a piece of shit? I'm afraid that's old news. Thirty-six-year-old news"
There was something different in Connor’s eyes watching you, a pensive sobriety you very much needed to compensate for.
“Let’s do a Dr. Fireball, what you say, Jimmy?”
“Like the shitty party drink?”
Shitty was an overstatement, you could’ve ordered Jungle Juice, but that was a road too far.
“Call me nostalgic”
“One Dr. Fireball then, I guess.”
It was the drink of choice of tasteless college students around the world for a reason. It tasted like shit. Familiar, teenage, shit.
“O, true apothecary, your drugs are quick”
“Thine. Thine drugs are quick.”
Connor corrected.
“Romeo and Juliet, act five, scene three.”
“Huh, yeah, I never really was much of a good student”
An odd look passed over Connor’s face. His eyes were so brown, and half the time so cavernous that when something did surface, it was hard to miss.
“You’re an incredibly accomplished detective. You wouldn’t be on this case otherwise.”
“Oh, Connor, you flatter”
“I don’t. It’s true. you have built an illustrious career in only a few years,”
You put a hand on his shoulder, another habit of human interaction that felt odd to exclude him from. His coat was warm, as if he had his own body heat despite being made up of biocomponents that held up best at room temperature. You didn’t have the presence of mind to sluth that one out right now.
“If-When we solve deviancy, it may cement you a place at the national level.”
Had he stuttered? Even an ounce of hesitation was uncharacteristic, especially when discussing the case. Something about him was undone, ungrounded tonight. Or maybe it was just you, a blue lagoon, a 16-hour work day, a visit from Gavin. You were lucky the world was only going a little blurry at the edges.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
“May I ask you a question, detective?”
“Yeah, sure”
Exhaustion tugged at your neck. You let your head fall to meet your hand at Connor’s sturdy shoulder, too tired to think about it too much.
“Do you think that Gavin Reed’s harassment has something to do with you exceeding him?”
“No, no….and he’s not…”
You were grateful to down the last sip of fizzy soda and spirits you had left yourself.
“…It’s more complicated than that…”
“How so?”
He turned his head, searching your eyes. His gaze was exposing, like he could already see inside your mind, whether you talked or not. Something about the closeness of his face, the tilt of his head, made your vision even foggier.
You needed to get a hold of yourself.
You pulled your head off his shoulder, blinking hard in an attempt to ward off the dizziness of the small motion.
“….It’s just…complicated…”
You had to rest more weight on the bar than your own legs as you stood up. Hank had passed out beside you, snoring.
“…Hank…Hank!”
You had to shout to get him to rouse.
“I'm up, I’m up, what’s wrong?”
“Time to go.”
You hadn’t even noticed the bar clear out. All the seats were empty, Michael scrubbed cups, probably stalling having to kick you out.
“…thanks, Micheal…sorry…”
You put your card down, waiting for what seemed like an eternity for him to give it back.
“…Connor, I’ll…see you on Monday,”
“Don’t remind me”
Hank grumbled behind you. He held himself and his alcohol, better than you.
Card in hand, you made for the door.
That got you about two steps before the ground started tumbling towards you.
This was it. You were going to bite it and live out the rest of your life a woozy mess on the floor. Maybe Hank would throw you peanuts when he visited.
Its trajectory was interrupted by a steadying arm around your ribs.
“You are not fit to walk, detective, let alone drive. I’ll take you home.”
Connor pulled you up, arm looping under your shoulders for balance.
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Connor pulled into the closest legal parking spot to the house. It had started to snow since you’d left the bar, white flecks smattering the sky and the ground, pricking the polymer of his face with cold.
Connor found you, head tilted sideways, passed out in the backseat.
Good. Maybe you could stay that way until you were sober.
The address listed on your file belonged to a very small house, whose size was compensated for by extensive and characteristic decoration.
He had no doubt it was the right place.
He looped an arm under your knees and the other around your back. Lifting you carefully to his chest and walking as steadily as possible to your house.
Your heart beat steadily, the pattern of your breaths indicating real sleep, not stupor.
Based on your hight and weight, you would probably have a gruesome hangover, but not alcohol poisoning. You’d be better by Sunday, back on the case by Monday.
Your key was in your left pocket, Hank had told him as much.
He fished it out, eyes narrowing at the single simple lock on the door. He was uncomfortably reminded of the encounter with Detective Reed. You had said once that you kept your gun in your bedside table. He hoped that was true.
He set you down in your room as softly as he could. You only took up half the bed, only could sit in one of the two chairs in the dining room.
When this case was over you would more than meet the standard to leave the Detroit Police for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The people there wern't like Detective Reed. There would be someone worth sleeping and eating with.
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Author's Note:
Lowkey this is more like a chapter from a longer fic than a one-shot, but if you want more peices from this story or more Connor stuff in general lmk. Also, don't come for me, I know I kind of overcharacterised the reader, I wrote this overcaffinated at like 2:00 am. Always open to constructive critisism and writing tips. Don't do anything depicted in this fic. Duh. If you read this far I offically love you.
affirmations for writers: i know how to write. i have seen sentences before, and i know how to make one. i can identify up to several words and their meanings. i am not afraid of semicolons.
summary: Traveling with the Doctor is fun and scary and dangerous. Sometimes it catches up to you. Weeks out from your most traumatizing adventure yet, you find yourself longing for rest in the abyss.
tags/warnings: depression, suicide attempt via drowning, near-drowning, CPR, hurt/comfort, implied/referenced torture, PTSD-ish, no use of Y/N, gender-neutral
word count: 4230
a/n: sad hours be hitting. if you ever feel depressed or suicidal, please reach out for help -- to friends, family, local crisis line, whatever you need. sending you all love.
The vast expanse of space stretches before you — endless and wide, the deepest darkness and the brightest stars. You think if you scoot right to the edge of the TARDIS doors, where your legs hang out, the blackness might envelop you. The thought doesn't scare you as much as it should.
You lean forward, letting the strange cool air of nothingness kiss your cheeks. Your grip tightens on the lip of the TARDIS. The oxygen-gravity bubble extends just past the doors, but it would still be foolish to fall. As much as the abyss calls to you, using the TARDIS as your method would just be cruel. The old girl didn't deserve that.
"Up for a trip?"
You let out a startled gasp at the voice of the Doctor behind you. When you half-turn to face him, he's already smiling. Always smiling. You manage a partial grin. Not quite there, but just enough to appease him. "Sure. Where are we going this time?"
The Doctor spins on his heel and snaps his fingers as he heads for the console. "Waters of Willian. Completely uninhabited and completely covered in oceans. Apart from the sandbars and beaches, of course." He leans against the interface and pats it gently. "Thought we could do with some relaxation."
You roll your eyes and stand, dusting off your jeans. The doors of the TARDIS swing shut behind you. "You promise nothing will try to kill us? We won't have to run from anything?"
The Doctor frowns, looking offended. "I said relaxation. Running is not relaxation."
Your hand glides along the interface as you circle it. "I'm just making sure. Your idea of relaxation usually ends in explosions or gunshots or…" You trail off, your mind racing.
It's been a little over a month since your encounter with the Thrastrals. A vicious warrior race, intent on assimilating all creatures to their twisted religion. They used various methods to convince outsiders to join, ranging from emotional manipulation to physical torture.
Things had gone wrong, as they usually did where the Doctor was involved. You'd been held captive for nearly eight hours by their chieftain. It had been a less-than-pleasant experience. You had heard the screams from the neighboring cells for the entire time, imagined all the horrible things happening to those poor people. The chieftain had been convinced you would be easy to turn, and had thus started light. Mostly vague threats, gaslighting, and the like. Your basic emotional manipulation. But when five hours had passed without you budging, he set his sights on the macabre tools lining the walls. And the pain had started.
The Doctor saved you, of course; he always did. But it was still eight hours alone, eight hours in agony and torment.
Your physical wounds healed, barely even scarred thanks to the Doctor's advanced medical tech aboard the TARDIS. But you still dream every night of glinting blades, tortured screams, and bloody floors. For the first week, you didn't sleep. Until exhaustion took you and the Doctor noticed (of course he noticed), forcing you to rest. He stayed at your side until you fell asleep. He was still there when you woke an hour later, screaming for the chieftain's mercy.
Another week passed and the Doctor refused to let you sleep alone. He was always perched in the chair beside you, reading or tinkering with his screwdriver. He woke you from the nightmares and held you when you asked. And it was nice. But you knew he couldn't do it forever.
So you lied.
One night, you told him you didn't want him there. The sound of his tinkering was intrusive; you wanted some quiet. It had hurt to see the wounded look on his face, but you knew this was for the best. He'd offered to just sit there — no tinkering, no reading. That would be very quiet. But you'd refused and he'd left, looking all too similar to a kicked puppy. The next morning, he asked how you slept. No nightmares, you promised. Which wasn't really a lie. You hadn't had any nightmares. You hadn't had any sleep, either.
It's been two weeks since he last sat by you. You've asked the TARDIS to place your bedroom far from the console room. It's better if he doesn't hear you scream, on the rare occasion you do manage to sleep. Better if he believes that you're alright.
He says your name now and you startle again. You've been doing that a lot lately — jumping, being caught by surprise.
"Hmm?" You meet his eyes. There's that same old look on his face — I know you're not alright. I'm the Doctor and I know things. You hate that look.
"I was talking," he frowns. "You weren't listening."
"Sorry."
"Are you okay?" He takes a step toward you. The most illogical part of you thinks he can see into your mind with just his eyes. You certainly feel like you're being dissected by his stare.
You nod quickly. "Yep. Fine. So, Waters of William then?"
"Willian," he corrects, side-eyeing you as he flips a lever. The TARDIS shudders as it lands. "Perfectly safe, and with the most stunning views." He bounds over to the doors, concern seemingly forgotten. He opens them with a flourish.
Stunning doesn't even begin to describe it. A sandy stretch of beach lies before you, disappearing into endless ocean waves. The sky above is a haze of colors, the galaxies and nebulas swirling over the alien planet. It is the most brilliant night you have ever seen. The water reflects each vibrant shade. At the horizon, the sky and waters mix — it almost seems as if neither ever ends.
The Doctor guides you out of the doors with his hands on your shoulders. "The upper atmosphere is incredibly thin. Any light from the nearby galaxies — of which there are many — passes easily to the planet. Willian also orbits no sun, which means no natural light apart from the distant stars." He comes to stand beside you on the sandy shores. "Do you like it?"
You stare out at the expanse of water — so similar to that floating blackness of space which enveloped you only moments before. To fall here, to give in, would be a privilege. Tears well in your eyes. "Yes," you whisper, your voice cracking.
The Doctor doesn't seem to notice the emotion choking you, or if he does, he doesn't care. He claps his hands together. "Well! Can't be at the beach in this old getup." He gestures back inside the TARDIS. "Corridor on the right, three doors down."
You follow his directions to find a large wardrobe of only swimming suits. You pick something suited to your tastes and emerge once more onto the shores of Willian. The Doctor has already set up two beach chairs and a small table. Two pale yellow drinks with little umbrellas rest atop it. He's donned a pair of swim trunks — some horrendous blue monstrosity with bowties printed all over. He has his back to you, his bare skin shining in the multicolored light of the cosmos overhead.
You fold your arms over your chest and dip a toe into the water. It's pleasantly warm. The reflected colors of the universe bend with each swell of the gently lapping waves. You wonder what it will look like under the water. Perhaps even more beautiful.
"Ah, going for a swim already?" The Doctor calls from behind you. He rubs his hands together. "Race you to the next sandbar?"
You squint out at the horizon and can faintly make out a little bump of land rising out of the waves. "Sure." Without looking back, you dive into the water.
When you bring your head above the surface, you can hear him calling indignantly that you've cheated, no headstarts, etc. Then a series of raucous splashes as he gets closer. Despite the heaviness that weighs you down, you smile and begin to stroke over to the sandy islet. He manages to catch you and stays beside you for a short distance. Anytime his head pops out of the water, he makes a new silly face in your direction. If you weren't so focused on swimming, you'd roll your eyes.
He manages to make it to the sandbar a few seconds before you do. As you climb up onto the beach, he shakes his hair out like a dog. "Eugh," you groan, shielding your face with your hands. The Doctor just grins.
You sigh and plop down, sand sticking to your damp skin. When you lick your lips, you taste the tang of saltwater. It tastes like living.
The Doctor drops down beside you, hair dripping and flopped over his forehead. You resist the urge to comb it back with your fingers. "See?" he says. "Relaxation."
Your heart is still racing from the impromptu water sprint. But he is right — this is the most tranquil you've felt in weeks. You let out a sigh and close your eyes, letting your head fall back to bask in the light of the stars.
He speaks again, voice suddenly low and serious, "Still no nightmares?" It's been a couple days since he last asked.
"Nope," you reply. It's a bit scary how easy lying to him has become. Even scarier that it makes you feel almost nothing.
He hums. "Good." But he doesn't sound convinced.
With no sun to dry you, your skin remains wet far longer than usual. You stare at the little droplets, each reflecting a tiny portion of brilliant sky. If you shift just so, it almost seems like a million diamonds glinting on your arms. You trace a finger down your forearm, mesmerized by the simplicity of it, the beauty. It's been harder to recognize beauty when you see it lately. It has been harder to feel anything.
You clear your throat and stand. The sudden movement kicks up a bit of sand and the Doctor coughs lightly. "I'm going to swim out. Float a bit," you say, facing the opposite direction you came from.
"Don't go too far," the Doctor calls out. You're already waist-deep in the water. "Not many landmarks to find your way back."
You nod absentmindedly. The water's up to your neck now. If you kept walking, what would you find? Does the planet have a complete surface beneath the waves? Or is it some sort of impossible sphere of liquid?
Before you know it, you've swum so far that you can't see the bottom, if there is one. You don't turn to see your distance from the Doctor, from the TARDIS. You keep your eyes fixed on the horizon, arms and legs moving precisely but slowly. No need to rush. It's so beautiful here. It would be a shame to miss it all before…
Well, it would just be a shame.
You flip to float on your back, staring up at the stars above. The constellations here are all strange. Of course they are. This is not your home, not your Earth, not your Milky Way. It's all unfamiliar, and yet this is the most alive you've felt in weeks.
One more minute, you promise yourself. One more minute to look at the stars.
You've been thinking about it. Not actively, not with a plan really. But sometimes, lately, when you're out with the Doctor, facing down a hostile alien or a dangerous planet, you waver. You let the bullets and laser beams graze a little closer than usual. You hesitate before running with him.
He hasn't noticed; you're sure of it. He's perceptive, but he's more preoccupied by your nightmares than anything. If he sees how you are all too eager to face down danger, he hasn't mentioned it. As far as he's concerned, running toward the danger is just another Tuesday.
But the truth is, ever since the Thrastrals, you can't think about your own future. You can't see past this day, this hour, this second. It is so exhausting to have to live every single second of it all.
And the more you think about it, as you stare up at the cosmos, you realize it was always going to end this way. Away from him, alone in the abyss. You could never let yourself die if he was watching. You'd never let him believe for a moment that it was his fault, or that he could've done something more to save you. You wouldn't put him through that.
You let yourself sink, just a bit. Head still above water, breaths still easy.
Perhaps you will find out if the planet has a surface beneath all these waves.
If you dove deep enough, would you come out the other side?
You watch the stars blinking above for another second. Another one. And another. How many seconds can you steal?
One more.
A wave crashes over your head. You let it take you down.
As you descend, the galaxies above grow even more beautiful. The colors are muted by the dark water, but they have a blurriness to them. Undefined and indistinguishable. The blues bleed into the pinks and purples and merge and swirl until they are one stain of color across the sky.
The water grows colder the deeper you go. Still you sink, lungs beginning to burn. You fight the instinct to swim for the surface.
I'm sorry, Doctor.
The thought comes unbidden, unwarranted. If you weren't underwater, you'd be crying. The salt stings at your eyes as the sky begins to darken — so far away now that even its brilliance is dimmed.
You are sorry, really. Sorry that you couldn't be good enough for him. Strong enough. Sorry that you couldn't save yourself.
Your body convulses, just once. The oxygen in your lungs has run out. It's uncomfortable, you realize. Dying usually is. Against your volition, your mouth opens to draw in air, but finds only water. You choke on it and suddenly every thought flees, replaced only by sheer instinct and fear.
Gods, what are you doing? This was so stupid, so silly.
You thrash in the water, trying to swim back up to the surface, but without oxygen it's nearly impossible. Your vision begins to vignette, darkness encroaching from the sides.
I'm sorry, Doctor.
But this time, you're just sorry that you didn't say goodbye.
…
The Doctor had watched you go under, the wave crashing over your head. He's on his feet in a second, worry coursing through him. But you're a good swimmer, and the waves aren't too bad. Still, when you don't surface immediately, he starts for the water's edge. He hesitates just a moment. Perhaps you were diving. It is quite beautiful to see the sky beneath the water. Heaven forbid you want a moment's peace. Stars know you need it.
But then more time passes, and you still don't emerge. His hearts thrum in his chest rapidly. He jumps in.
You've gone far, almost leaving his line of sight. It will take him a moment to get to you. He swims hard, arms cutting through the water with speed.
You've sunken so deep. Far deeper than he expected. He takes in a gulp of air and dives.
As he gets closer, he sees how limp you are and for a moment he fears the worst. Then your body jerks. Your eyes are closed, but you're still alive — barely. He grabs you under the arms and kicks. It's grueling work, but he drags you to the surface. His own lungs burn with the exertion. But getting above the water is only the first step. You're far from the shore and he still has to bring you all that way.
Of course he will do it. He will do anything to save you.
He keeps one arm secure around your chest and uses the other to move through the water. The islet is close now; his feet find sand below him and he stands, dragging your limp body up to the shore. He's on his knees beside you in a moment, ear pressed to your chest. "Come on," he mutters, but there's nothing.
His lips are on yours before he can even think about it. Human CPR, so primitive. But you're far from the TARDIS. He has no choice. Two breaths, then his hands are clasped over your sternum. He grimaces when he hears a sharp snap. He knows it means he's doing it right, but it's no less gruesome. As he pushes down with each compression, his eyes find your face. Your lips are a morbid shade of blue, face bloodless and skin wet. Your hair splays across the sand. The Doctor looks away. He can't see you like that — lifeless.
He repeats the cycle — 2 breaths, 30 compressions, 2 breaths, 30 compressions. It takes four rounds before your body finally spasms with a self-attempted breath. He's quick to roll you onto your side as you cough up lungfuls of saltwater. He runs a hand over your hair, soothing. "Shh, shh. You're alright." He can hear the residual panic in his own voice. You go limp once more, but this time, you're breathing. He presses a kiss to your temple and closes his eyes, trying to calm his racing hearts.
In one of her rare moments of helpful sentience, the TARDIS whirrs and fades into view nearby. The Doctor hefts you up into his arms, your body cold against his bare chest, and takes you inside. He's down the corridor and into the medbay in moments. Then it's a bit of a mad scramble — setting you down on the bed, gathering blankets and warming packs, preparing monitoring equipment. He should be embarrassed to cut off your swimsuit, but it's necessary. You're absolutely sopping wet and it's only making you colder. Besides, he covers you with a blanket almost immediately. No dignity lost, he assures himself.
A quick scan with his screwdriver shows residual water in your lungs. A problem to be dealt with later. Your temp isn't too low, so the blankets and warming packs should do for now. He's cracked two of your ribs from the resuscitation, but a once-over with an Istrian Osteogenerator takes care of that. Once you're settled, nestled under nearly every blanket aboard the TARDIS, the Doctor finally sinks into the chair at your bedside — back in his normal clothing now. He rubs his face with his hands, taking deep, cleansing breaths.
You're a good swimmer. There'd been that one time, on the planet Kenov, when a less-than-friendly diplomat had shoved you into a lake. The Doctor had panicked, thinking you were a goner. But you were up at the surface moments later, a grin on your face and treading water with ease. And he had raced you today. You'd nearly beaten him. You're a good swimmer.
Of course, an unexpected swell could take anyone by surprise. Perhaps you'd been mid-breath and had inhaled more water than anticipated. Maybe you'd had some sort of medical episode and had been unable to surface.
Every excuse the Doctor comes up with fails to push against the lingering thought — what if it was on purpose? You've been lying to him for weeks now, claiming the nightmares had stopped. But he sees the bags under your eyes, hears how hoarse your voice was each morning from screaming. It doesn't help that the TARDIS is rebelling against him, placing your room out of his reach so that he can't soothe your restless nights.
And beyond that — he's been watching you. There's no light, no spark in your eyes anymore. You jump at adventure, like usual, but it's far too eager. When he says "A Dalek armada is invading a planet" or "This sentient meteor wants to devour your soul, literally," there's no fear. Only a strange desperation. And you're skittish. Even when he announces his presence, it startles you. Every noise and unexpected word sets you on edge.
He knows you think he doesn't know. That he doesn't notice. Of course he notices. The Doctor notices everything about you.
So how could he not notice this? How could he not see just how far you'd fallen? He's failed you. He won't do it again.
…
Your eyes fly open with a gasp, your hands immediately grabbing at your throat in panic. You're still under the water, still drowning, you can't breathe—
But the Doctor is before you, face hazy and swimming in your vision. His hands are on your wrists, prying them down, away from your neck. His lips are moving but your ears are full of water, ringing and ringing and you can't hear, can't see, can't breathe.
His fingers are warm against your skin. It is the only part of you that's not dreadfully cold. You focus on that warmth. Your pulse thrums rapidly under his hold. He keeps his eyes locked with yours, gaze intense but soothing. The ringing fades and you can hear what he's saying: "Hush, hush. You're okay. Just breathe. You're safe."
The words guide you out of the panic. And you realize you're dry and there's warmth seeping through you, burning out the cold. There are bright lights; no more swirling galaxies or rolling waves surround you. Back on the TARDIS, then. Alive.
Relief rolls through you. In that split second before your vision blacked out completely, you regretted it. You had been so sure, so desperate for rest, for peace. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now you can recall the pain of it, the agony of reaching for oxygen and not finding it, the overwhelming desire to surface but being unable. The nightmares are hell, sure. The film reel of terrible memories that plays through your mind is no walk in the park. But tasting the edge of nothingness? Nearly falling off that cliff which seemed to call so fiercely? That was worse than any night terror.
No, killing yourself had not been a good idea.
You begin to sob in earnest now, breaths catching in your sore throat. The Doctor is still before you, concern morphing into something close to dread. He leans in, breath ghosting across your face, and whispers your name.
Before you can really think about it, you throw your arms around him. He remains frozen for only half a second before reciprocating, rubbing soothing circles across your shoulder blades. "I'm sorry," you babble through tears. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
"Shh," he soothes. "It's okay now. I have you."
He holds you until you have no more tears to shed. Your breathing evens and you feel so exhausted. But you can't sleep. Not when he's looking at you like you're something fragile, something infinitely precious. You pull back to meet his gaze, hard as it is to maintain. Your voice is shaky as you confess, "I did it on purpose." You sniffle and look down at your hands. "I… I didn't want to be here anymore."
The Doctor sighs softly. Then he uses two fingers to lift your chin. There's a sad smile on his face. Ancient, discerning, and so, so sad. "I know," he murmurs. He searches your face. "You could've come to me. I would've helped."
Guilt courses through you and you shiver. You pull one of the blankets up to wrap around your shoulders, biting at your lip. "I felt like… like a burden. I didn't want to bother you with it."
He lets his fingers stroke along your jawline, touch soft and reassuring. "You're never a bother. Especially not for this." His hand falls and he exhales. The expression on his face sharpens into something serious. You stiffen instinctually, prepared for a scolding. "You can't just do things like this. It's my job to watch over you. I have a duty of care. If you don't let me help you…" He trails off, fidgeting with his hands.
You reach for them and squeeze tightly. "I know. I know I scared you. I… I scared myself." The TARDIS hums around you, a bit louder than usual. She was scared, too. "I understand if… if you don't want to travel with me anymore." Tears gather in your eyes as you speak the words. He's the only thing you have left to lose. And it would only be fair if he asked you to leave.
The Doctor ducks his head to meet your downcast gaze. "I will never want that." He squeezes your hands back. "But there needs to be rules. Safeguards. For your protection."
It's a bit humiliating. You're not 100% sure what he's suggesting, but you expect some level of babysitting. Perhaps even suicide-proofing the TARDIS. But you know it's for the best. And you brought this on yourself. You nod in agreement.
He pulls you in for another tight hug and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Oh, my dear companion. What are we going to do with you?"
You huff out a sad, tear-filled laugh. His arms are warm around you, cocooning you in. When you close your eyes, it is not the abyss you imagine. The edge seems further, the darkness less pressing. There is no desire to jump. It may return. Of course, you cannot heal in a day. But with him beside you, the mountain you must climb feels just a bit more manageable.
Tags: Connor x reader, fluff, a little angst, oblivious Connor, yearning
Word count: 415
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Pre-Devient! Connor, who is caught off guard by your every act of camaraderie. He understands the concept of handshakes and high fives, but had no cause to use that information until you joined the investigation. He seemed to buffer for a moment when you invited him to get drinks with you and Hank after work. Despite the Lieutenant’s protests, Connor decided that it was more important to avoid disappointing you than avoid annoying the already disgruntled Hank. Even after weeks of your unexpected friendliness, Connor still smiles a little every time you treat him like you do the other officers.
Pre-Devient! Connor, who notices you flinch at the cold touch of his hands when going through case files. From then on, whenever he is around you, he keeps them at 98.7 degrees. Just in case. The unnecessary use of energy is worth the small impact it might have on your comfort. Smooth co-operation and trust is crucial to completing the mission.
Pre-Devient! Connor, who doesn't understand what you see in that sugary milkshake you call a frappaccino, but leaves one on your desk after long overtime nights because seeing you smile is the closest thing he'll ever get to tasting it.
Pre-Devient! Connor, who follows you like a lost puppy. Your desk is clear across the room from his, but he always finds an exuse to be standing next to yours. He lingers beside you when you go out, staying calculatedly between you and any threat. After all, he's disposable, replaceable, and you are not.
Pre-Devient Connor, who is painfully aware of your mortality, who has seen you die a hundred times in preconstructions when things got messy. He had never allowed that outcome, and he never will. The case needs you. He needs you.
Pre-Devient! Connor, who shows up at your place after Hank threatens him at the park. Or, at least, the address he saw in your file. He doesn't know why he came here. After talking to Hank, he isn't sure what he knows, but he stands by the door for a while. Not knocking. Not ringing the bell. Just looking at the warm golden light through the window for nearly half an hour before turning back into the snowy night.
This page is mostly for me to write fanfic and original works, although I may post the occasional moodboard. I plan to do mostly one-shots and headcannons, usually x reader or x original character.
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My main fandoms: The Vampire Diaries, The Originals, The Pitt, Until Dawn, DC (movies and comics), Criminal Minds, Twilight, Yellowjackets, The Umbrella Academy, Supernatural, Detroit Become Human, Hunger Games, The Maze Runner, Arcane, Marauders, Outer Banks, Skins (gen 1), (I have more but there are too many to write)
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I do not and will not write outright smut or kink content, or about any illegal relationship.
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Kara knows how this looks. Clothes strewn from the hallway to the foot of her bed, Krypto snoring from the living room instead of his usual place in her bed, and, most damning of all, the girl beside her, sleeping peacefully on her stomach with an arm draped over Kara’s waist.
Kara gently extracts herself from the bed and trips across the floor, pulling on a random pair of jeans before stumbling into the hallway with Clark, closing the door behind her.
“It’s not what you think,” Kara says.
“And what do I think?” Clark whispers back, eyes wide.
“You tell me!” Kara defends. She can’t come up with something at all reasonable to say without exposing herself and subsequently, the lie she’s been telling Clark. A secret most of the time, dipping into dishonesty on some of the nights he asks to see her and she’s brushed off with a lame excuse.
Giving Krypto a bath. Cleaning the apartment. Wanting to turn in early.
“It looks like you got drunk and hooked up on a planet with a yellow sun! Fully powered, Kara!” Clark admonishes. And yes, okay. From his perspective this is all entirely reasonable and completely appropriate to be worried about. But Kara has just been pulled from her bed at eight in the morning after a very late night, and she can think of nothing else besides climbing back onto the mattress besides you.
“You and Lois—”
“Lois knows!”
“And—that’s—whatever!” Kara flings her arms up and sighs. “Look, Clark, I appreciate the concern. But really, it’s not necessary. Everything is fine.”
“Kara, I know you’re used to doing these things off-planet,” Clark tries. He sets his hands on her biceps, gripping softly. “But here on Earth…things are different. People talk. Superpowered beings are—”
“Kara?” The bedroom door creaks and you step out, wearing only Kara’s Blondie t-shirt. Just seeing you makes her blood pressure drop.
“Hi, baby,” she murmurs, pulling away from Clark and moving towards you. “You sleep okay?”
She cups your cheek in one hand, smiling softly as you lean into the touch.
“Mhm. You run so hot, the bed’s cold without you.”
“I’ll be right back, promise.” She leans down and kisses your forehead, letting her lips press longer than necessary. You hum happily.
“Don’t be too long. You can kick Clark out, right?”
Kara snorts and rests her chin against your head. “For you, yes. If you need incentive to be patient, I can offer a reward.”
“You’d give it to me no matter what,” you tease.
“Go wait,” Kara says, shooing you back into her room. “I’ll kick him out.”
When the door closes, she takes a moment to rest against it. Deep breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. It’s just Clark. She can do this. She’s fought literal monsters. This is nothing.
(But truthfully—monsters are the easy part. A direct, violent target that needs to be taken down. Heartfelt talks are harder, tangled, always a mess. There’s no defeating the enemy hurting you, there is only the hitching breaths in the silence and the burn of unwanted tears.)
Kara turns around, and is surprised to find Clark watching. He looks—odd. Off. Face softened with slow understanding.
“She knows,” he says softly. “Doesn’t she?”
Kara exhales noisily. “Yeah. She knows.”
“How much?”
“I…” Kara looks around uselessly. How does she even begin to describe it all? The gentle tugging of your love on her soul. Giggles and sloppy kisses on the way home from a bar she can barely get tipsy at. Your hands combing through her hair as she whispers about Krypton, lips brushing your chest.
I love you whispered for the first time by you, in Kryptonian, pressed against Kara’s ear.
“She knows everything,” Kara says.
“You love her?”
And he’s—Clark’s looking at her like he knows. Something in Kara’s chest twinges. Months, she’s been hiding this from him. It was ‘just friends’ in the beginning, Kara unstable and volatile and off-center. She didn’t know she could love like this. That she could have someone to come home to every day, to smile at her or hold her and tell her that everything would be okay.
She was so unsure that she’d be able to keep it. That something wouldn’t drive you away. Kara doesn’t have people. She has herself, Clark. And now: you. And you’ve shown that you’re staying. That you want to be here.
“More than anything,” Kara replies. Her eyes sting.
Clark leaves soon after, and Kara comes back into her bedroom, Krypto darting past her to throw himself onto the bed with you.
“Oh, hi,” you coo as Krypto throws himself wildly back and forth across the bed. “C’mere. You missed us, huh?”
Kara collapses onto the mattress beside you. “Hey, what about me?”
You laugh and reach out a hand to stroke Kara’s hair. “Are you feeling neglected?”
“Yes,” Kara moans. She rolls over on top of you, resting her head on your chest. “Give me attention.”
You lean down and kiss the top of her head. “Anything for you.”
notes i'm so in love with kara omg. i need everyone to get more supergirl pilled rn
cw: fluff, two minor suggestive implications, not proofread
wc: 364
Mel King who after a long shift showers the day off of herself quickly with the intention of getting to you as soon as possible. On these days she routinely finds herself comfortably on the couch with you while she shoves her face into your chest trying to drink in as much of your scent as possible.
Mel King who acts as if you’re a charging station, constantly following you around with her hands on your waist and a nose shoved into your neck. Consistently standing wrapped behind you or in contact with you regardless of what you're doing.
Mel King who keeps a photo of you in her wallet. She can’t help but smile anytime she gets an opportunity to show someone it. She especially enjoys spoiling you and seeing your face when buying you a gift.
Mel King who can’t help but get super into it when she takes photos of you. She searches for your approval each and every time she takes your photos. Her favorite thing is seeing you used a photo she took on a post or your profile picture.
Mel King who has you in her lap as she rambles on about her day and all the people and things she saw while her hands wrap around you under your shirt drawing circles into your skin. She leans into your touch as you caress her face and play with her hair.
Mel King who always finds a way to have a date night with you on days her shifts don’t exhaust her, whether home dates or going out. If she’s too tired, you two are on the couch watching a movie. If not you two could be at dinner or if you’re lucky something a bit more energy consuming.
Mel King who loves shopping with you, paying for you, holding your bag, letting you dress her. Mel spoils you into oblivion and loves catering to your every need. Your pleasure is her pleasure too, in more ways than one.
Mel King who finds a way to constantly have your hand in her hair. She has you braid it, run your nails through it, wash it, pull on it.
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