I hope you will be fine! Don't overwork yourself! Write when it is convenient for you!
HowSince you've had a rough week, let some skeleton take care of you! You can write a headcanon about how the Skeleton takes care of you!
Hii! So sorry, this one took some time for me to write because I did a little scenario for some AUS, so I really hope you enjoy!
I also have a Killer one-shot (smut 😝) being made and a few other headcannons, I'm really excited to see what you guys think!!
I'm working on your requests, tysm for the appreciation and patience.
Anyways, here you go 🙂↕️ THIS IS LOOOOOOOOOOOOONG HOLY SHIT
Rough week comfort! Classic bros, Fell Bros, Killer, Dust, Horror and Cross
The moment you stepped inside Sans's room, he looked up from his book. He was half-lounging, the lights dimmed low. His eternal grin is there, but his his eyelights soften instantly, a tiny flicker of concern only someone close to him would notice.
"Wanna talk about it? The option comes with free puns."
He doesn’t ask for details. He never does. Instead, he just opens his arms. You crawl into bed with him, placing your head on his sternum with a sigh. He places one hand on your waist, under your shirt. He likes to feel the warmth of your skin. His bones are cool, but the hoodie is soft and warm. His fingers trail slowly up and down your back in lazy, almost absent-minded strokes.
You can feel the tension leave your shoulders little by little.
He doesn’t smother you with questions. He just lies there with you, hand settling at your waist, the weight grounding and showing you that he's always there. Every now and then he presses a small kiss to your forehead as he continues to read his book. When he feels your breathing start to even out, he shifts a little to lay down completely and make himself comfortable for you. He just pulls the blanket around both of you. He moves his other hand to your hair and caresses it gently. You both fall asleep almost immediately.
After a few hours, when you both wake up, he makes a small talk (it's probably around 10 PM but who cares) and he uses a tiny teleport shortcut — barely a blue flicker — and suddenly the room smells like... uh... Papyrus's spaghetti? You heard a confused "NYEH!?" coming from downstairs. Papyrus is probably confused on why the food he just made to give to the dog disappeared (Sans already told him to not feed spaghetti to the dog, but he can't help himself).
You sit up and start eating, so does Sans, and he tells you a little about his day, occasionally brushing a bit of hair from your face.
"You know… you could’ve told me sooner your week was trying to kill ya. I'd’ve given it a stern talking-to. Maybe even a pun so bad it’d drop dead."
"...I think it would've committed suicide at that point."
You guys laugh a little, and eventually you try to get up to put the plate in the kitche, but he stops you, saying that “Doctor sans prescribes rest, mandatory cuddles included.”
And before sleep pulls you under, the last thing you feel is his arms wrapped protectively around you, and the warm rumble of his voice:
"Love ya, sweetheart. Always got that spine of yours."
Papyrus hears the door before he sees you. He practically runs down the hall, scarf trailing behind him like a superhero (you have no idea how that happens), ready to announce his GREATNESS, only to stop when he sees your tired face. His eye sockets widen, concern replacing all the usual sparkle.
"MY HUMA- LOVE! YOU LOOK… YOU LOOK LIKE YOU HAVE BEEN THROUGH AT LEAST SEVEN BATTLES AND POSSIBLY A SIDE QUEST!"
He rushes to you but slows down at the last second, kneeling down before you.
"...IS IT OKAY IF I HUG YOU?"
You nodded with a smile, opening your arms and he lifts you off the floor in a huge, warm, slightly-too-strong hug. But he’s a little gentler than he uses to.
"THERE, THERE, TINY HUMAN. THE GREAT PAPYRUS HAS YOU! YOU ARE SAFE IN MY SUPERIOR, SUPPORTIVE ARMS!"
He sets you down and immediately takes your hand and leads you to the couch like he’s escorting royalty, adjusting the cushions exactly three times before allowing you to sit.
"YOU ARE NOT TO LIFT A FINGER! TODAY YOU SHALL REST, RELAX, AND BE THOROUGHLY ADORED BY YOUR INCREDIBLE BOYFRIEND, PAPYRUS! NOW LAY DOWN! NO— SIT! UH— RECLINE! YES, MUCH BETTER!"
Then he tucks a blanket around you with so much determination that it feels like he’s wrapping a burrito. A very... non edible, loved burrito. After a moment he kneels beside the couch with big, earnest eye(sockets?).
"WAS IT… A DIFFICULT WEEK, MY DEAREST? YOU MAY TELL ME EVERYTHING. OR NOTHING. OR SPEAK IN VAGUE, DRAMATIC METAPHORS. I ACCEPT ALL OPTIONS."
When you start explaining what happened, he listens with heroic seriousness, nodding along like he’s ready to fight whoever or whatever made you upset.
"THEN I SHALL MAKE THE MOST DELICIOUS MEAL EVER JUST FOR YOU!"
He darts to the kitchen and scolds Sans midways.
"SANS! PICK UP YOUR GODDAMN SOCK! MY HUMAN HAD A TERRIBLE WEEK AND DOES NOT DESERVE TO SEE IT!"
You heard Papyrus sigh and it made you chuckle a little. You hear clattering, the faint whir of a blender, and Papyrus talking to his brother. Sans is in the kitchen as well and said something like "let him cook".
"NO, SANS! THIS IS A DELICATE OPERATION!! AND HOW'S HIM?"
Sans mumbles something and snort, totally unhelpful. Eventually Papyrus returns, dramatically presenting two trays of homemade spaghetti, warm bread, a drink, and, for some reason, a single flower in a cup.
"FOR YOU, MY LOVE! THE GREAT PAPYRUS MADE THIS WITH GREAT LOVE AND HIGH COOKING SKILL!"
You two ate and he told you about his day, trying to cheer you up. He complained about someone, talked about Undyne and Alphys (he's such a good gossip girl), and made you laugh, which is a win.
Once you’ve eaten, he sits beside you — close, but careful not to crowd you. He hesitates, then shyly rests his gloved hand on your knee.
"...CAN I… HOLD YOU? ONLY IF YOU WANT, OF COURSE!"
And when you curl into him, his whole body relaxes. Despite his dramatic nature, his cuddles are surprisingly gentle. He wraps an arm around you, adjusting his scarf so it doesn’t get in your face, and lets you lean against his chest. Cuddles with him usually don't last long unless you're in bed, so he soon kisses the top of your head and cups your cheeks.
"MY LOVE, I SHALL ALWAYS GUARD YOU FROM ALL MISFORTUNE UNTIL YOU SMILE AGAIN. THAT IS MY NOBLE DUTY… AND MY GREATEST JOY."
And he stays with you until the weight of the week finally begins to fade. Then yells at Sans again.
The front door creaks open under your hand, the weight of the entire week pressing on your shoulders like stones. You barely manage to kick your shoes off before the exhaustion catches up. Your chest feels tight, your eyes sting, and the inside of your head is just noise.
You don’t even notice Papyrus standing at the far end of the corridor until his low, sharp voice slices through the silence.
He says it like an accusation, like always— but he’s already walking toward you, steps quick. When he reaches you, he stops, intimidating, red eyelights narrowing.
Normally that would sting. Tonight, it barely matters. You try to give him some half-hearted reply, something to brush him off, but the second your lips part, the words catch in your throat. All the frustration, all the pressure, all the exhaustion you’ve been burying for days is eating you on the inside.
Papyrus freezes. He was expecting some sass back, but you didn’t say anything—yet, he seems to feel it.
His voice drops, sharper edges softening.
“...WHAT HAPPENED?”
You shake your head, staring at the floor.
“It’s just been… a week. A horrible one. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about it...”
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. You expect him to press, or to snap, his face is kinda unreadable and it makes you nervous. But Papyrus does none of that. Instead, he steps closer and places a gloved hand under your chin, tilting your face up gently but firmly. His gaze scans your expression, your tired eyes, the way your shoulders slump.
He huffs through his nose (...?), almost as if annoyed, but he isn't, he could never be. You let out a weak laugh at his intense gaze, and his scowl softens just a little at the sound.
Without warning, Papyrus scoops you up into his arms— effortless for him, startling for you. You gasp, instinctively clinging to his shoulders.
“HUSH.” He goes up the stairs with you as if you weigh nothing. “YOU CLEARLY CAN’T WALK PROPERLY RIGHT NOW. I’M TAKING OVER.”
He carries you to your room, lowering you onto the bed with surprising gentleness. The mattress dips as he hovers you.
His voice is quieter now.
“SO, HUMAN.”
He pauses, almost awkwardly.
“TELL ME WHAT DO YOU NEED.”
You close your eyes, letting his presence steady you.
"I just… want to be held."
The admission is small. Quiet. Barely a whisper. Papyrus stares at you for a moment—his expression unreadable (as always). Then, with a sigh that’s half exasperation, half surrender, he stretches out beside you and pulls you against his chest. His arms are strong, protective, wrapped around you like a barrier between you and the rest of the world. One hand rests on your back; the other cradles the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair.
You exhale a breath you feel like you’ve been holding all week, sinking deeper into his arms. His warmth, his scent, the steady rhythm of his breathing and soul beating— it surrounds you.
After a while, he shifts slightly, his tone softening again.
You nod against his chest.
"GOOD." he murmurs. "SLEEP. I'LL GUARD YOU."
Wrapped in his embrace, safe and held, you finally let your eyes close.
You don’t even bother turning on the lights when you step inside. You let out a long sigh. The door clicks shut behind you, and the week you’ve been carrying slams into you all at once; tired legs, tight chest, a head full of static...
You drop your bag onto the floor. It lands with a dull thud that echoes through the nearly silent house.
A voice comes from the kitchen doorway—rough, gravelly, familiar.
"...The hell took ya so long?"
Red stands leaning against the frame, hood down, eyelights glowing a deep red. Right, your boss asked you to do some extra hours, so it was almost 10 PM. His hands are shoved into his jacket pockets casually, but the way his gaze sharpens says he’s been waiting, not worried (at least he won't admit).
“Yeah?” He pushes off the wall, his footsteps lazy but directed straight toward you. “You look like shit, sweetheart.”
On another day you’d tease him back. Tonight, the words just hit you too honestly. Your breath wavers.
Red stops in front of you, head tilting.
You shake your head, blinking fast.
“I’m fine. I just… I just want to lie down.”
You step toward the hall, but Red shifts his weight and blocks you. You open your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to pretend you're fine. But he moves his gloved hand to your hand and gently closes his fingers around your wrist.
He doesn’t yank; he just guides you to him. And the moment you’re close enough, his other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you against his warm hoodie, hugging you.
You freeze for a half-second— then melt into him rapidly. Your breathing shakes, your eyes started to burn, your throat too. You sniffle, not realizing you were already crying.
“There she is,” he mutters, almost relieved.
“Knew you were holdin’ shit in.”
Your forehead presses against his chest, and suddenly you’re tired in a different way— heavy, achy, like your body finally realizes it’s allowed to stop pretending. His hand moves to the back of your head, fingers slipping into your hair.
He breathes out a low, annoyed huff—but it’s not aimed at you.
“Who do I gotta beat to dust this time?,” he pauses.
“Say the word. I’ll make it real artistic.”
“Sweetheart, we are in Underfell. Everything’s necessary.”
You laugh— a tired, fragile sound. Red’s grip tightens just a bit, like he wants to keep the sound close. He leans back enough to look at you, but not enough to let go.
“Hey. Lemme see those pretty eyes.”
His expression softens— only slightly, but enough that you feel it.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, wiping your tears.
“You’re running on fumes.”
He lifts you before you can react—hands under your thighs, body curling around yours with surprising strength.
He bounces you once into a more comfortable hold. You wrap your legs around his hips and your arms around his neck. He carries you to the couch and plops down with you in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world and then lays down, making sure you're comfortable on top of him. His arms wrap around you, locking you securely against him. His chin rests on the top of your head.
“Now breathe, doll.” he says softly.
You inhale, shakingly. Exhale, heavier. His arms tighten in response, keeping you grounded.
You feel heat rush to your cheeks, and he smirks against your skin, sensing it.
“Still blushin’ even when you’re half-dead tired.”
You lean fully into him, letting your body go slack for the first time in days. His warmth, his presence, his soul beating, running with magic, thrumming through his ribs— all of it settles your mind. After a long moment, Red nuzzles into the side of your neck.
His voice drops low, gentle in a way he’d deny later.
“You’re mine. That means you get to lean on me when life’s bein’ an asshole.”
Your eyes sting, but for once it’s not from stress, and he feels it.
His thumb brushes your arm slowly, comforting circles. You sigh, letting the last of the week fall off your shoulders. Red shifts, tucking you closer against his chest.
You couldn't ask for more. In his arms— warm, safe, wrapped in the gruff affection only he can give. You finally feel better.
You close the door behind you and let your back slide down against it until you’re sitting on the floor. Everything inside you feels wrung out—your muscles, your mood, your patience, even your thoughts. Your head doesn't shut up. It's too much noise. The week has chewed you up and spat you out.
For once, the house is quiet. Too quiet. Where the hell was Killer? Normally he's at the door like a puppy.
You jolt when a pair of gloved hands appear on either side of your head, and Killer Sans leans down from above with a wicked grin.
He tilts his head, smile sharp.
“Wow. Look at you. You look like someone killed your family.”
His grin widens. “Wasn’t me.”
You want to laugh. You really do. But you can’t quite pull it off, and Killer’s grin falters when you don’t bite back with your usual sass. His eyesockets blink.
He crouches down in front of you. “What’s with the long face?”
You shake your head, staring at the floor.
Killer clicks his tongue. “Worst liar ever.”
He reaches out and gently grabs the front of your shirt, pulling you forward so he can look directly into your eyes.
“Humans lie with their eyes,” he murmurs, tapping under your eye with his thumb, “and with their faces… and with this tired little slump you’ve got going on.”
You turn your head away, embarrassed.
“I just had a rough week.”
Killer’s smile doesn’t disappear— but it changes. “Oooh. One of those weeks.”
He hooks his arms under yours suddenly and lifts you to your feet. You yelp, grabbing onto his shoulders for balance.
He smirks. “Can’t mope on my floor. I’ll get attached to the imprint.”
He sweeps your legs out from under you and hoists you bridal-style, spinning once just because he can.
You said a bit more serious than what you intended. He looks down at you.
For a second, all the joking energy drains out of him. His arms tighten around you protectively, like reflex.
“Okay. Yeah. You’re totally not okay.”
He carries you to the couch, dropping onto it with you still in his lap. One arm slides around your waist, the other hand lifts to your cheek, thumb stroking lightly over your skin.
“You wanna tell me what happened?”
You shake your head, eyes burning. He exhales slowly.
He leans his skull against yours, nuzzling his head softly like a cat. He's not the best at comfort, but he won't leave you there dying on your thoughts all alone. You close your eyes and let out a shaky breath. He can feel you trembling slightly.
You let yourself curl into him, your forehead resting against his collarbone, hugging him tight. His hoodie smells faintly of dust and something metallic, but there’s warmth underneath it—his warmth, the kind that pulses like a heartbeat through his cracked soul.
Killer rests his chin on top of your head. “Ya know…”
He taps your back lightly. “I’m supposed to be the unhinged one. You don’t get to fall apart without me.”
His joking tone returns, but his arms only pull you closer. You huff a weak laugh.
“Yeah. There it is.” His eyelights brighten.
He shifts slightly so he can hold you better, one hand rubbing slow circles on your hip, the other playing with your hair in absentminded, comforting motions. He presses a light kiss to your temple, the gesture unexpectedly gentle.
Your breath catches, but the pressure in your chest starts to ease. Killer feels it. He nuzzles into your hair. He sighs, relaxing with you against him.
“Let all that crap go. I’ll hold you together ’til you’re ready to stand again.”
He shifts again, pulling a blanket over both of you, arms still locked tightly around your body.
“Close your eyes, sweetheart.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
You close the door quietly, too exhausted to bother with the lights. It’s been a brutal week. One thing after another clawing at you until you can barely breathe. All you want is silence. You just sat on the floor, sighing. But of course, he is already there. A voice drifts from the far corner of the room, low and rough, like it had been unused for hours.
Dust sits on the floor next to you, back against the wall, knees drawn up slightly. His hoodie hangs off one shoulder, and his scarf pools around him. His eyelight — the flickering blue and red one — glows faint in the dark.
You manage a tired “Yeah.”
He studies you. In absolute stillness. Dust is always quiet, but this is different. This is him watching you. Trying to read you. Trying to see if you’re safe.
Your shoulders slump. You try to give him a small smile, but it falls apart before it reaches your lips. Dust slowly looks at you.
“…Bad day?”
He paused and then corrected himself softly.
“Bad week?”
You nod, eyes stinging. He turns toward you.
“…You... didn’t want me to see you like this?”
“It’s not that,” you whisper. “I just… I’m tired. Really tired.”
Dust’s skull lowers slightly, quiet mumbling.
”Did I do something wrong?”
Your heart twists at his low tune.
“No darling... Of course not.”
His shoulders relax by a fraction— a tiny ease only someone who his close to him would notice. “…Okay.”
He lifts a gloved hand, hesitates, then brushes a strand of hair away from your face.
“You don’t… have to pretend around me, you know...” he murmurs. Your breath catches. You try to hold yourself up a little straighter, try to swallow the burning in your throat, but the second he cups his hand against your cheek, the mask breaks. Your face crumples and you sob, covering your face.
“Hey—hey…” Dust’s voice cracks as he pulls you against him, arms wrapping around your shoulders. “Shhh… it’s okay. c’mere.”
You bury your face in his chest, and the tears come faster than you can stop them. He stiffens for a moment, terrified, unsure of what to do, but then melts, pulling you tighter,
“…All week long?” he whispers into your hair. “And you carried it alone?”
Your fingers clutch at his hoodie, and he holds you with such care, huge tenderness. Dust guides you toward the couch, sitting down with you between his legs, pulling you into his lap with a soft grunt. He wraps his arms around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder.
You feel his breath shudder.
“I know what it’s like… when it doesn’t stop. When noises keep going even in a silent room.”
His voice is barely sound.
“When every day feels like… another hit. another weight. another mistake.”
He presses his forehead to the back of your head.
“I wish I could take it from you. All of it. Every bit that hurt you.”
You lean back into him, breathing shaky. His fingers lace with yours, squeezing gently.
“You’re safe now,” he whispers.
You close your eyes, letting your body rest fully against his. He feels it, the way the tension leaves you piece by piece. Dust exhales, relieved. His thumb strokes slow circles on the back of your hand.
“Just lean back. I’ve got you.”
After a long, quiet moment, he buries his face in your shoulder, voice muddled and raw.
“Don’t hide your pain from me. Please.”
You twist enough to face him, cupping his cheek. You lean in and give him a soft kiss, your lips lingering a bit before pulling away, but pressing your forehead onto his.
“I’m not going anywhere.” he mumbles. Dust pulls you into a tight, protective, desperate embrace.
The door creaks loudly as you push it open — old hinges protesting, wood groaning, but you barely hear it over the buzzing in your head. Your whole body aches with exhaustion. This week has drained you completely. You step inside, letting the door fall shut behind you. The house is dim, lit only by a single lantern on the kitchen table. Shadows stretch across the room like long, tired sighs. And in the corner, hunched over like a guard dog keeping watch, sits Horror.
He looks up instantly the moment you enter. His frame stiffens, red eyelight flickering sharply with alertness.
His voice is low. Very low. He knew something was off. You try to answer with something normal, something light, but nothing comes out. You just stand there, shoulders slumped, face blank from pure exhaustion.
Horror pushes himself to his feet, slowly, carefully walking towards you, his massive silhouette stopping just in front of you.
You lift your eyes, and he doesn't know what to say. He sees the strain. The hurt. The pain, the anger, everything. His large, scarred hand rises and then cups the side of your face.
Your lip trembled, and that’s all it took. The week crashes through you all at once. Horror’s expression softens instantly. He pulls you into his chest carefully, almost like he’s afraid you’ll break if he squeezes too tight. But you grab two fistfuls of his ruined sweater and cling to him desperately. He exhales and wraps both arms around you, enveloping you completely. His body is huge and warm and steady, like a fortress you can collapse against.
“Easy… easy now,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles on your back with his broad hand. “Lemme hold ya. Just breathe.”
You bury your face against him, hot tears soaking the fabric. He continues to caress you gently. You feel small in his arms, but in the safest way possible.
“Too much this week?” he rumbles softly.
You nod against his chest. Horror leans down, pressing his forehead gently to the top of your head.
“Shoulda come to me sooner,” he whispers, voice thick. “Ain’t right for ya to shoulder all that alone when I'm right here.”
You can’t even answer, your throat is too tight. He tightens his hold, protective and fierce.
He scoops you up without effort — one arm under your knees, the other supporting your back — carrying you as if you weigh nothing. You tuck instinctively against him, your arms looping around his neck. He carries you to the couch and settles down with you in his lap, holding you close, cradling you against his chest. The fluff of his hood brushes your cheek, rough but comforting. Your breathing steadies little by little. His hand petting your hair slowly.
“There ya go… that’s it.” His voice is warmer now, calming.
You lean your head on his shoulder, the tension melting out of you piece by piece. After a moment, he speaks again— hesitant, afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“…Ya know I ain’t good with words. But—”
His thumb brushes your cheek, careful.
“I’m here. Always.”
You lift your head slightly, looking at him, and pressing a small kiss on his (teeth?) lip...bone?
“…Did I do somethin’? Did I make things harder for ya?”
“What? No,” you whisper quickly. “Never. You help, Horror. A lot.”
Relief washes visibly through him — shoulders dropping, breath loosening.
“Good… ‘cause I’d never forgive myself for adding to yer hurt.” he murmurs. He presses his forehead to yours — a gentle, grounding touch. Your eyes close. Horror’s arm tightens around your waist.
“Leave it to me tonight.” his voice goes almost tender.
“Lemme be the one who holds ya together.”
You curl closer to him, nodding, and he tucks the blanket around both of you, one hand still cradling your head, the other wrapped securely around your body. You breathe out, slow, steady, and finally feel the weight lift. Horror lets out a quiet sigh of relief. Wrapped in his arms, surrounded by warmth and quiet devotion, the week finally releases its grip.
You close the door quietly, hoping, just for a moment, that Cross isn’t around to see you like this. Maybe you could compose yourself before seeing him. No such luck though. He appears at the end of the hallway as if he had been waiting there the whole time. His cape sways slightly as he steps forward, arms folded but tension visible in his posture. His eyes lock on you immediately.
“…You’re late, way too late.” he says softly, not accusing, just worried.
You swallow hard and try to muster a smile.
“Sorry. Everything just… took longer.”
Cross approaches slowly, stopping just in front of you. He scans your face, your posture, the exhaustion clinging to you. You try to look away, but he doesn’t let you. A gloved hand lifts to your chin, gently turning your head toward him.
“Hey.” his voice drops, steady and low. “What’s wrong?”
Cross’s expression hardens—not angry, but hurt. “Don’t lie to me.”
You exhale shakily, but the words refuse to come.
The pressure in your chest, the stress, the frustration — it all starts pushing up at once. But Cross isn't dumb, he sees it. He sees everything. Without another word, he steps forward and pulls you into his arms, wrapping you in his arms as if shielding you from the entire world. His embrace is firm but gentle, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head.
“...Don’t hold it in. Not with me. That's what you taught me, right?”
Your breath breaks, and you cling to him, fingers gripping the fabric of his tunic. Cross stiffens for a second, as if your pain physically hurted him. Then he holds you tighter.
“Talk to me,” he whispers and he runs his hand up and down your waist.
Your voice cracks.
“I’ve just… had a horrible week. Everything keeps going wrong, and I’m so tired.”
“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“I didn’t want to bother you...”
“You could never bother me,” he mutters fiercely. “I want to know when you’re hurting. I need to know.”
He lifts one hand to stroke your back slowly, the other staying wrapped around your waist. “Come here,” he murmurs, guiding you toward the sofa. He sits down and pulls you onto his lap effortlessly, keeping you close, keeping you grounded.
Your head rests on his shoulder, your fingers gripping the fluff on his hood. Cross rests his skull against your forehead.
“Breathe with me,” he whispers. These were all the things you taught him. And you do. Slowly. Shakily. But you do. His thumb rubs soft circles on your hip, soothing, patient. You relax more fully into him, and he lets out a soft sigh, like he’s relieved you’re trusting him with this. After a quiet moment, he speaks again, his voice low and raw:
“…I hate seeing you like this.”
“Not because you’re weak,” he adds quickly. “You aren’t. You’re stronger than you know.”
He cups your cheek with one hand, thumb brushing under your eye.
“I hate it because you carry so much alone, even when you tell me to not do that.”
You look away, embarrassed. Cross gently turns your face back toward him.
“You don’t have to pretend around me. I don’t want the mask. I want you. Even on days like this.”
Tears sting your eyes, and when they fall, Cross wipes them away with the back of his glove.
“Tears don’t make you fragile,” he murmurs. “They prove you're alive, that you are sane. And I’ll hold them all.”
You lean into him, and Cross presses a soft kiss to your temple.
“You’re mine to protect,” he whispers into your hair.
“I'm your 'personal bodyguard'. Isn't that what you like to call me?” he rolls his eyes with a smile.
You let out a soft, broken laugh. “Guard dog.”
He chuckled and silence falls over you two. He wraps both arms tightly around you again and chuckles. You curl into him, finally letting your body rest. Cross exhales, holding you as if you’re the only thing that matters. And you are. And wrapped in his fierce, steady embrace, the weight of the week finally begins to lift.
