The first time he calls you bird, it isn’t planned.
It slips out low and rough over comms, threaded between gunfire and static.
“Got eyes on the east stairwell—two hostiles,” you murmur, voice steady despite the chaos crackling through your headset. Your fingers move fast across the keyboard, pulling feeds from three separate cameras, stitching angles together in your mind like a map only you can see. “Third one lagging behind, limping. Might be wounded.”
A beat.
Then, in your ear—gravel and smoke and something almost amused.
“Christ… you see everything, don’t you, bird?”
The line goes quiet again, but the name sticks.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
Your world is small, contained.
A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.
Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.
Ghost.
Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.
To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.
You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.
You know him in pieces.
“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.
You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.
“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”
A pause.
Then, quieter.
“You always watchin’ me that close?”
Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.
“It’s my job.”
A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.
“Right.”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
It becomes routine.
Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.
Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.
Not much. Never too much.
But enough.
“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.
You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.
“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”
“Think?”
“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”
A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.
“Sounds like a cage.”
You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.
“Not really.”
A beat.
Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.
“Still.”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You imagine him, sometimes.
Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.
You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.
You build him from fragments.
From silence.
From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.
From the way he says bird—like it means something.
The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.
“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”
No response.
“Ghost.”
Static.
Your chest tightens.
“Simon.”
The name slips out before you can stop it.
And suddenly—
“I’m here.”
Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.
“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”
“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”
Your throat goes dry.
You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.
Step by step.
Breath by breath.
Until he’s out.
Safe.
They tell you later it was close.
Too close.
You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.
The silence is louder than gunfire.
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧
You don’t expect to meet him.
Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.
So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.
“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”
You stop.
Because the room feels… different.
Heavier.
You look up slowly.
And there he is.
Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.
For a moment, neither of you speaks.
Then—
“…Bird.”
It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.
Your heart stutters.
“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.
“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”
He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.
“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”
You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.
“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”
His gaze shifts back to you.
You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.
Heavy. Intent.
“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”
Something tightens in your chest.
“You didn’t have to—”
“Wanted to.”
The words land heavier than they should.
Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.
This is… full.
“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.
A faint tilt of his head.
“Am I?”
“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”
A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.
“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”
Your lips twitch.
“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”
“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.
You don’t.
Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.
But there’s something else, too.
Something familiar.
“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.
Heat rushes to your face.
“I—thought I lost you.”
A pause.
Then, softer..
“Didn’t.”
Your breath catches.
For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.
Except there’s no distance now.
Just him.
Just you.
Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.
cw - sfw, deviant connor, dadcoded hank, gn reader, reader is a detective at dpd, literally just fluffy pre-relationship to relationship content, intentional lowercase
~ 2.5k wc
connor had a great memory; he had the capacity to remember absolutely anything he wanted with zero limitations.
key word, anything he wanted.
or, no, not wanted. he wasn't supposed to want. he couldn't. what he needed to remember to complete his mission. his obligation. it was all a matter of what was important and what wasn't.
somewhere along the line, you became one of the important things to him.
you had no relation to the mission; you weren't even assigned to the deviancy case. connor only caught glimpses of you throughout the precinct, maybe at jimmy's after a particularly grueling work week when hank needed a drink. you weren't supposed to be one of the important things.
yet, every one of those glimpses became an important memory—something he stored in a special folder to sort through whenever the casework was light. a smile in his direction, a laugh he heard you share with a coworker. maybe he should have been looking through evidence in his free time, and maybe he pretended he was when hank asked him about the 'space cadet look' on his face.
it took a while for you to realize how good his memory was.
sure, you knew he was a prototype android, better than any android to hit the public market—you didn't doubt his memory was good. he functioned like an extremely handsome, walking and talking supercomputer, for christ's sake.
perhaps, it just took a while for you to realize where his priorities were placed when it came to his memory.
when connor deviated, that amazing memory of his finally came in handy for something other than his cases.
it started with coffee.
one morning, you stopped to get coffee before you got to the precinct. something too expensive and too sweet, just a treat.
connor only interacted with you once that day, when you said good morning to him and hank like you always did, holding that overpriced coffee in your hand as you made your way past his desk to your own.
that same coffee order was on your desk the next day. and the next, and the day after that.
you wouldn't have known who it was if you hadn't looked up to find the culprit and seen him fiddling with his coin, subtly watching you while hank prattled on about some new evidence. if you hadn't caught the way he smiled when you raised the coffee in a cheers motion towards him, before he snapped his attention back to an annoyed hank.
then, it was flowers.
one day, when he had seen chris ordering flowers online for his wife—certainly not something he was supposed to do during working hours—connor found himself wondering if you liked flowers.
he had learned that flowers were often gifted as a show of affection or gratitude. the two of you were not particularly close; just work friends. he feared the implications of a gift like this might compromise the stability of the relationship friendship he was trying to build with you. he spent multiple days running through the possible outcomes in his head before he concluded that the chance to see you smile because of him overrode the nerves.
that was when the desk snooping started.
when hank found him standing at your desk before you arrived, he raised an eyebrow and flopped down in his chair.
"lookin' for something?"
"i was observing the detective's desk in hopes of finding information that could help me to get in good graces with them," he paused, contemplating the implications of the question on the forefront of his mind, "do you know if the detective likes flowers?"
hanks eyebrows shot up at the question, surprise painting his features so vividly connor reran the question through his social relations program to figure out if he had said something wrong.
"flowers? are you trying to get in their good graces or asking them to go steady?"
connor's eyebrows furrowed at this, LED cycling yellow as he processed what his older counterpart was saying to him.
"lieutenant, what you are suggesting is highly unprofessional. i am simply trying to proactively build strong morale with our colleagues."
the cobalt hued flush on the tips of his ears called bullshit.
hank had noticed the sudden interest in you that connor had picked up, and as much as he wanted to tease the android, it was too damn early to try and question him about it. so, he acquiesced.
"hell, i don't know, kid." he paused, scratching his beard as he thought about it, "pretty sure i saw them bring some in one day, smelled like a damn flower shop at their desk for a week. can't remember what type, but when chen asked 'bout 'em they said somethin' about 'liking the way they brightened up a room.'" hank air quoted you, hoping it was enough to get connor away from your desk before you arrived.
connor made a quiet hm noise, nodding and making his way to the desk across from hank's.
"thank you, lieutenant."
there was a vase full of white chrysanthemums on your desk the next morning.
he filed away the expression of shock and joy on your face like he would a bullet casing or a witness statement; something he would later analyze with the precision of a surgeon with his hand on the scalpel.
two weeks later? a vase of pink carnations.
he caught himself smiling when he heard officer chen giggling at your desk, asking if you had a secret admirer, and your cheeks flushed as you looked at the flowers.
"something like that," he didn't have to look at you to know you were looking at him.
this continued for months. coffee, flowers, some little trinket that you had offhandedly mentioned or looked at online during breaks. he couldn't help the warmth that spread through him when he saw the surprise on your face, the smile that always followed.
the two of you never spoke about it, but you did get closer.
lunch breaks spent with connor and hank, rolling your chair over to his desk to see what he was working on when your own work was slow, showing him memes that he couldn't quite understand but loved to see you laugh at.
he even began to frequent the break room he had been avoiding since his first day, just to have a chance to talk to you about the weather, or a new episode of some show you had told him about.
it didn't take you long to admit to yourself that you liked him, a lot.
connor was still learning what his feelings meant, but he knew he cared about you in an entirely different way than he cared about hank, who loved to tease him about his behavior around you.
he said connor had a crush.
connor thought about that for days. he felt like the nerves were frying his processors.
it felt like any other day when he showed up at the department. he looked forward to getting there most days, getting to see you, and do what he did best: work.
so, coffee in his hand and some pep in his step, he practically frolicked through the front doors, waltzing through the lobby and back towards the office.
something was immediately different when he walked in. first, hank was already there. he knew he would be, but the fact that he was smiling when connor walked in? odd. hank was never happy in the morning.
then, when he started towards your desk, he saw you. you seldom arrived before him, so seeing you here this early had him feeling conflicted. of course, he was happy to see you; he always was, but a part of him was concerned at your early arrival. maybe you had a case that required a little extra work?
when you noticed him walking towards your desk, you offered him the same smile you always did, chirping a happy good morning! to him as he set your coffee down.
"good morning, detective. you're here quite early, is everything alright?" he tilted his head as he watched you bring the cup up to your lips, taking a sip. at his mention of your early arrival, he could sense that your heart sped up a little bit. noted.
you shook your head, smiling up at him, "everything is fine, connor. just... extra work to tackle." you lifted the coffee towards him, nodding, "thank you for the coffee. definitely needed it this morning."
he could tell you were lying, but not out of malice. it made him even more suspicious, but he didn't want to push.
"i've had a significant effect on your caffeine intake, i really shouldn't indulge you." anyone who didn't know him wouldn't realize he was teasing, but the awkward little smile on his face told you everything you needed to know.
you simply smiled at him before turning back to your monitor. you seemed... off, this morning. it was putting him on edge, not knowing what was on your mind.
he took it as a sign to make his way to his desk, where hank was hiding behind a newspaper, not-so-inconspicuously watching the whole interaction.
"good morning, lieutenant." all he got was a nod in response. seriously, what the hell was going on?
when he finally went to take his seat, that's when he saw it:
a little saint bernard stuffed animal sitting directly in front of his monitor on his desk. it looked just like sumo.
if he was looking at himself, the scene probably would have given him deja vu; the way he looked around to find the person who had left it there, only to see you hiding behind your coffee as you smiled.
it was a sight, for sure. seeing connor look at the plush, then at you, then at the plush. his lips were parted as he stared at it, and his reaction was starting to make you nervous.
before he even realized it, you were standing next to his desk, shifting your weight from foot to foot.
"i really wanted to get you something, as a thank you for everything you've gotten me the past couple months." you were looking down at your feet as you spoke, hands behind your back, "i even consulted hank, i hope you like it."
connor had never been at a loss for words before; he had never felt dumb. until now.
"i.. like dogs."
he could practically feel hank cringing from across the desks. he was cringing at himself.
you finally looked up, smiling a little as you watched him pick it up, "i tried to pick one that looked just like sumo. i know you really love him, and i figured maybe you'd like to have a reminder of him at work with you."
maybe connor would have heard your heart racing if he wasn't so focused on the way his thirium pump was beating at the speed of light, systems struggling to keep up with the overwhelm of emotions he was feeling.
you had gotten him a gift.
he hadn't realized how loud his silence was until you started rambling, fidgeting with your fingers in front of him.
"it's kinda dumb, and small. i just- i wanted to show you that i really appreciate everything you've done, and i didn't really know if there was anything else you'd like, and you talk about sumo so much- i totally understand if you don't like it-"
"i love it."
when you looked back up at him, he was smiling. it was the biggest smile you had ever seen on him. a beautiful sight.
"really?"
he nodded, smoothing the little ears on the plushie back, the same way he did with sumo, "it's perfect. and not dumb. i love it." he affirmed, bringing his attention up to your face, which was flushed at this point.
it felt like you had been holding your breath through the entire interaction, and could finally breathe. you smiled at him, shoulders dropping a little in relief.
"good, that's- that's really good. i'm glad you like it." you beamed as you watched him turn it towards hank, who, in classic dad fashion, smiled all goofy like and gave him a big thumbs up.
then, hank tilted his head towards you and raised an eyebrow, eyes still trained on connor like they were having a silent conversation. you furrowed your eyebrows, about to turn back to connor when you felt arms encasing your shoulders, slightly cold hands pressed against your back.
connor was hugging you.
with wide eyes, you wound your arms around his torso, cheek pressed against his chest. it was a little awkward, as though you were both learning to hug, but it was perfect. you nearly melted when he rested his chin against your head and quietly murmured, "thank you."
you only nodded a little, hands curled into his jacket. you didn't trust words right now.
when the two of you pulled back, you saw the blue tint rushing to his ears as he cleared his throat, not out of necessity but nerves.
"i apologize if this is forward, but i would like to- or, would you like to accompany me to- i'd like to take you out. on a romantic outing. or, a date? if you'd like to. because i would. like to take you out. on a date, i mean."
hank felt like he was watching a train wreck happen in slow motion. so much for all of the coaching he had been giving the android.
but you? you were smiling like he had just offered you a million dollars.
"i would love to go on a date with you, connor." you had never seen your cool, calm, and collected connor so nervous over something. a familiar warmth bloomed in your chest, knowing it was you he was nervous about.
when he shot hank a look that said 'i did it!' you could only giggle, turning away to get to your desk before more of your colleagues started to filter in for the day.
connor took you on a date not too long after that. and then another one, and another, and it was like nothing changed, even if everything had.
the sumo plushie never left his desk, alongside other small things you learned he was interested in. small figurines from shows he found himself enraptured by, a pair of too-big sunglasses he had stolen from your apartment one day after you put them on him and said he looked too cute not to keep them, any little memento that reminded him of how full of love his life was.
and you?
there was coffee waiting for you every morning, usually with a silly little note scribbled on the side. your desk always had fresh flowers before the last ones wilted. and directly next to your monitor? a picture of connor and sumo; a candid of connor laughing as sumo licked his face.
connor had a great memory, but he didn't need it to know he loved this little life of his. it was memorialized in the little things that surrounded him, the details painted vividly on the canvas that was his life.
you knew he had a great memory, but it didn't stop you from reminding him of how loved he was. and he didn't need it to remember to remind you of the exact same thing, every single day.
a/n i had the worst weekend writer's block blehh
thank you so much for all of the love on my other works !! this has no real plot, i just sat down and started writing with no end in sight and crossed my fingers that it would become something. still unsure about it.
everybody feel so free to send requests im in such a rut rn
not proofread but i shall get to it tmro, thank you for reading !!!
Summary: After the meeting with Kamski, Connor feels conflicted and lost, luckily you're there to hold his hand through it.
A/N: DBH is one of my main comfort games, and it was about time I wrote a little something for my favorite boy from it. If anyone would like to see more of Connor here, let me know. <3
Masterlist
"Why didn't you shoot?" Hank inquires, narrowing his eyes inquisitively.
"I just saw that girl's eyes… And I couldn't…" Connor answers back, his voice edging on desperate. "That's all."
A howling wind prickles your skin like tiny needles. It was such a cold day, no wonder you hadn't been keen on coming out here today. Leaning back on the hood of Hank's car and pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you watch from afar as Connor tries to justify his choice, even if it had been the right one to make.
He intrigues you. Because for someone who keeps saying he's just a machine trying to accomplish a task, he acts way more human than a lot of people you know. Even on the day you'd met him, he was already all curious and talkative, you couldn't recall meeting any android like him before.
Connor has changed ever since you started working together, you realize it now more than ever. He's becoming softer, personality starting to shine through the cracks as his decisions become increasingly emotionally driven.
"Cyberlife's last chance to save humanity, is itself a deviant."
Kamski's words echoed inside your mind, as did Connor's panicked and distressed expression when he promptly denied it. Ironic, you think to yourself; he shouldn't feel as troubled as he does if what Kamski said is not true.
And that same feeling now lingers. Once they were done talking, Hank took a few steps away to make a call, most likely to the precinct judging by the scowl on his face; and Connor can't stand still, he's pacing around, fidgeting with the cuffs of his blazer as the snow shifts under his feet. There's a permanent frown on his eyebrows, he looks almost… lost, his LED with an insistent yellow color and gaze unfocused on the distance.
You worry your lower lip between your teeth, torn between reaching out to him or keeping to yourself. The snow falls heavier now, and you can feel the tips of your fingers slowly going numb. You've always liked the cold, yet it seems the cold doesn't like you.
Between the snow, the frozen lake, and the white horizon of the frigid weather, Connor stands out. He's holding onto his own arms, hugging himself, and you find it endearingly human, as if he's subconsciously trying to find a way to comfort himself.
You lay your palms flat on the hood of the car and push yourself away, walking up to him before you can think things through. The snow crunching under your feet doesn't seem to call his attention. "Connor?" You say gently, reaching out to him with your hand but stopping short of actually touching him. You hesitate. When did he start making you nervous?
"You okay?"
Those warm and tender brown eyes of his regard you with curiosity, lips half parted as he struggles on what to say. The LED on his temple switched from blue to yellow and blue again. "I- yes. I think I'm fine." Snowflakes are clinging to his hair and falling softly onto the skin of his cheeks; they compliment his features, always so gentle.
You offer him a small, comforting smile. He's still figuring himself out. It was okay, you were patient.
"I'm… sorry," Connor begins again, avoiding looking you directly in the eyes. He purses his lips and closes his eyes for a moment longer, and you doubt you've ever seen any android be this expressive.
"I compromised our investigation," he pauses, "I should have been more efficient." And reprimands himself.
You're shaking your head before he's even done talking. "No, don't say that," you take a step closer to him as your heart holds your reasoning hostage, one hand wrapping around Connor's wrist to keep him with you. "Don't say that when you've made the right choice, Connor."
There was a beat, Connor's face does something complicated that you cannot read, and when he looks up at you again, his gaze is almost too much. The amount of emotion he looked at you with nearly made you choke on air.
"But… we didn't learn anything." His voice is quiet, barely there, as if he doesn't care for his own argument and is only looking for an excuse to hear more of your voice.
"I don't care," the words fall from your lips before you can debate if you should even be saying them out loud at all.
Connor seems surprised, caught off guard as his eyebrows raise just slightly at how fast and true you spoke. His eyes keep searching your face for… something. You couldn't be sure of what exactly he was looking for. Maybe even he doesn't know yet.
Your heart stumbles on your chest when you see Connor gulping and his eyes avoiding yours again. Only then do you realize that the hand you held his wrist with had drifted lower, your fingers now gently grazing his palm. His skin feels comfortingly warm and soft, a pleasant touch sending goosebumps down your spine.
It was all foreign territory to him, you knew it, felt it in the way he tried timidly closing his fingers around your own. His movements are slow, uncertain, and tentative, bordering on afraid.
How naive of you, to be having such feelings for an android. Yet when he's the most caring, honest, endearing, and gentle person you know, how could you not?
Hank told you once; "I think you're breaking our android huh." He'd said it right after Connor had gone through the trouble of finding an umbrella just so you didn't have to stand under the heavy rain, even if you tried telling him you didn't mind. And you'd taken it as a joke back then, not really understanding the hidden meaning behind your older partner's teasing look.
Yet as you hold onto Connor's hand now, feeling the way his thumb shyly brushes your skin, you wonder if he feels it too, if he's willing to feel the same as you do. If you could dare to hope.
"All I care about," you speak slow and careful, syllables heavy on your tongue. You clear your throat so your voice doesn't sound as tender as you feel. "is that… that you didn't let him manipulate you, that you followed your heart." You bring your free hand up to his chest, right on top of where you can faintly feel his thirium pump working overtime.
Connor looked to be about to speak, perhaps to try and correct you about your choice of words, yet all he does is open and close his mouth, eyes trained on yours and LED swirling with a permanent yellow color. For a moment you wonder if he's analyzing you, and worry about what he may find. His hold on your hand tightens ever so slightly; you don't think he realizes he's doing it.
"I'm glad you didn't pull the trigger, Connor. I'm proud of you."
It's barely a second, his LED flashing red before going back to yellow and eventually, slowly, blue; but you see it. He blinked a couple of times as if processing your words or how to feel about them.
"I-" Connor's eyes seem hazy, their tender brown only a thin ring around his blown pupils. His fingers now tangle with yours. "I feel-"
"Alright kids, let's go." Hank's voice sounds all too loudly as he unintentionally breaks the bubble that cocooned you and Connor. "Fowler wants us back in the precinct." The lieutenant speaks with an annoyed undertone as he stuffs his phone back in his pocket.
You're still caught up in the feeling of Connor's skin on yours, in how you're now so hyper-aware of just how close he's standing to you. Connor, it seems, isn't much different.
When there's no answer, Hank finally looks your way and gestures you over; "come on, get a move on, I don't wanna hear another lecture about arriving late," he insists, before plopping himself into the driver's seat, murmuring something about damn love-birds.
Despite the cold, you can feel a warmth coming up to your cheeks. Without mustering the courage to meet Connor's gaze, you focus on the way his hand fits so perfectly with yours. His fingers are awkwardly intertwined with yours, holding strong and gentle at the same time.
Connor seems reluctant to let go. It hits you that perhaps he won't. You could dwell on a thousand reasons of why, or not think at all and simply bask in the feeling. But right now time isn't on your side.
You take a deep breath, and risk a glance up at him.
Any words you were about to say suddenly feel clogged up in your throat. Oh, Connor tilts his head in that endearing way you're so fond of, yet the look in his eyes is one you've never caught before; you can't name it, it feels dangerous to try, but he looks as if he just realized something.
"Come on," you tug on his hand, just about managing the timid words, "we have to go."
Connor follows quietly, his hand steady on yours until you reach the car and are forced to part.
As Hank drives, you watch Connor through the rearview mirror; there's a newfound lightness to him, a warmth to his eyes that makes you feel fuzzy inside. And when he catches your gaze, and smiles, you know he feels it too.
⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ
Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3
You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.
warnings: explicit sexual content, strong language / profanity, smoking / alcohol consumption.
a/n: i just love aki sm, he’s my baby 🥹
synopsis: when you first met aki, all you wanted to do is get in his pants, which you succeeded but caught feelings which was not part of the plan
you weren’t proud of it.
well—no. you were a little proud of it.
because aki hayakawa was hot, and that wasn’t a secret. everyone knew. even if they didn’t say it out loud, they knew. the tall, sharp-jawed devil hunter with a top knot , a katana strapped to his back, and a voice that made coffee sound sweeter? yeah. no one was immune. you certainly weren’t.
so when you got transferred to his division, it wasn’t love at first sight. it was lust at first sight.
"you know he doesn’t date people in the bureau," someone warned you.
"cool," you shrugged, already watching him light a cigarette with one hand like it was art. “i’m not trying to date him.”
your plan was simple: sleep with him, brag to your friends about it, and move on with your life. you weren’t emotionally attached. hell, you didn’t even like quiet guys. you liked the loud ones, the ones who joked too much and texted you at 2 a.m. drunk out of their minds. aki didn’t even own emojis.
but god, he looked good in that suit.
•
it took time. aki didn’t give people the time of day. he was polite, cold, and constantly annoyed by denji and power. he barely looked at you when you first introduced yourself. he just nodded once and said, “if you’re not serious about this job, you won’t last long.”
hot and intense. check and check.
but you weren’t stupid—you weren’t going to throw yourself at him like some rookie intern. you were patient. casual. friendly in a way that didn’t scream “i want you.”
you’d start by bringing coffee. not every day. just some days. then you made jokes around him, just to see if he’d smile. and eventually—eventually—he did.
one night after a mission, blood on both your shirts, your voice hoarse from screaming, aki had walked you home. didn’t say why. didn’t ask to come up. just lit a cigarette and said, “you did good today.”
you raised a brow. “you want to come in and say that again?”
he looked at you, quiet. “you trying to hit on me?”
you stepped closer, leaned into his space. “depends. is it working?”
•
you slept with him that night.
you thought that would be the end of it. that he’d leave early, maybe mumble a “thanks” and disappear, like most men do when they’re done.
but aki stayed.
not just that night. the night after. and the one after that. he wasn’t clingy. he wasn’t needy. but he’d text, “you free tonight?” and he’d show up with soba in a bag and a pack of your favorite beer.
sometimes you’d just sit on the floor and eat. other times, he’d pull your shirt off mid-sentence and press you against the kitchen counter like he couldn’t wait another second.
he wasn’t gentle. not at first. but he was attentive. he always made sure you were okay. always asked, “too much?” or “you want me to stop?” even when you were begging for more.
you didn’t realize it was happening.
the shift.
•
it hit you one morning. you woke up before him, hair a mess, shirt riding up your waist. aki was next to you, arm slung around your stomach, breathing slow.
he looked… soft.
not in a weak way. in a real way. like he wasn’t pretending. like he wasn’t haunted.
and your first thought was i hope he gets home safe today.
not i hope we do this again, or i hope the sex is good. just—
i hope he lives.
you stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
“shit,” you whispered to yourself. “i caught feelings.”
•
the next time he came over, you didn’t jump him right away.
you sat on the couch and let him talk.
he didn’t say much—he rarely did—but he told you about the last devil. how it screamed like a human. how he didn’t blink when he killed it.
you watched him closely. watched his fingers twitch around the lighter.
“you okay?” you asked.
he didn’t answer for a while. then—
“i don’t know.”
you slid closer. rested your hand on his.
“i do. you’re not.”
he didn’t pull away.
and later that night, when you kissed him, it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t hot, it wasn’t filthy. it was slow. deep. quiet. he cupped your jaw like you were made of glass. you climbed into his lap and he sighed into your mouth.
and when it was over—when your chest was against his, and your legs tangled together, and his hand was on the small of your back—he didn’t say anything. but he looked at you like he knew.
like he felt it too.
•
weeks later, in the middle of folding your laundry, you muttered, “this wasn’t part of the plan.”
aki looked up from the couch, tie loosened, hair undone.
“what plan?”
“i was just supposed to sleep with you,” you said, cheeks warm. “brag to some people. move on.”
he blinked, deadpan. “...you bragged about sleeping with me?”
you threw a sock at him.
“aki.”
he smirked slightly, catching it.
“yeah. well.” he stood and walked toward you, slowly. “you’re shit at sticking to plans.”
you looked up at him, your stupid, hot, emotionally repressed, accidentally-boyfriend.
synopsis : you find comfort in naegi's warmth, but byakuya's gaze never lets you go.
a/n : FINALLY WROTE THIS OMG.
wc : 2.6k
check out part 1 !!
you don't go near the library for three days.
you don't walk past it. you don't look at it. you pretend it doesn't exist — as if the walls inside aren't soaked with the memory of your body crushed between wood and heat and something shameful.
you barely speak to anyone.
and most importantly, you avoid him.
it takes effort. he's always around — whether looming in the hallway, flipping pages at the dining table, or stalking into the morning meetings like the air isn't heavy with everything unspoken between you. he doesn't look at you. not directly. not for long.
but you feel it.
like a pulse under the surface. like a bruise you keep pressing on, just to check it still hurts.
it does.
today, you sit stiffly in the corner of the classroom as everyone gathers for a group discussion. tensions have been rising since the last motive, and kyoko called this meeting to "maintain unity," which is laughable in a place where your life can be stolen overnight.
you don't speak. you listen. you nod when appropriate.
and you don't look at him.
until he speaks.
"frankly," byakuya says, tone ice-smooth, "some of us are dragging this entire group down."
you stiffen.
across the room, aoi frowns. "that's kind of harsh, byakuya."
"harsh doesn't make it untrue," he replies easily. "we have dead weight. people who are too emotionally volatile to be useful."
you feel the words before you understand them.
dead weight.
emotionally volatile.
he's not looking at you, but he doesn't have to. the tone — the weight in his voice — makes it clear.
he means you.
makoto glances between the two of you, brows furrowed. "you're not talking about—?"
"i'm not naming names," byakuya cuts in, too smooth, "because i don't have to."
your stomach turns.
something ugly rises in your throat — not anger, not quite. something hotter. something heavier. the humiliation of knowing you gave him something real and now he's using it to dig you into the floor. publicly. effortlessly.
you clench your fists in your lap. you want to say something. you want to scream at him. you want to throw a chair at him.
but you don't.
you swallow it down.
the rest of the group shifts awkwardly. toko watches you with narrowed eyes. hiro rubs the back of his neck like he's stuck between speaking up and pretending he didn't hear it. no one moves.
not even him.
he doesn't so much as blink in your direction.
but he knows exactly what he did.
you excuse yourself early. kyoko doesn't stop you. no one does.
as you leave the room, you feel his gaze follow you.
you don't look back.
you won't give him that.
not again.
you don't cry until you're back in your room.
not at first.
you slam the door. you pace. you tug at your sleeves like you're peeling his words off your skin. you try to convince yourself it didn't matter.
but it did.
he knew what he was doing — had to. the tone, the phrasing, the timing. it wasn't an observation. it wasn't even strategy. it was punishment.
for the kiss.
for the silence that followed it.
for the way you've been avoiding him like he's something contagious.
the tears sting before you can stop them. you wipe them away fast, furious. you don't even know what you're more upset about — the fact that he said it, or the fact that it hurt.
you're not supposed to care what he thinks.
he's cruel. he's cold. he doesn't feel things the way normal people do.
and yet...
your hand touches your mouth without thinking.
that kiss.
the heat of it, the hunger in it — it didn't feel calculated. it felt like something broke loose inside him. something wild and real and raw.
you press your back against the door.
you need air.
you need distance.
but you don't make it far.
because he's already waiting in the hallway.
he doesn't look surprised to see you.
he always looks like he's been waiting for you to catch up.
"running off again?" he says, not moving from where he leans against the wall.
you freeze. "what do you want?"
"answers."
you laugh — bitter, low. "you already gave yours in the meeting."
he straightens, slow and sharp, like a blade slipping from its sheath. "don't be dramatic."
"calling me dead weight in front of everyone isn't dramatic?"
"if the shoe fits—"
you walk past him.
or try to.
he catches your arm.
not hard. just enough to stop you.
you flinch anyway.
he notices.
something dark flickers in his expression. "i wasn't talking about you," he says, quiet.
you glare at him. "yes, you were."
"it wasn't—" His jaw tightens. "only you."
that shouldn't sting more.
but it does.
you yank your arm free and take a step back, breathing hard. "why do you even care?"
"i don't."
"then why are you here?"
"because you won't stop looking at me like that."
"like what?"
"like you expect something i'm not going to give you."
there it is again — that voice. detached. controlled. cold.
and still your heart races.
"i don't want anything from you," you whisper.
"liar."
"i hate you."
he moves toward you, deliberate. not fast. not threatening. just... close.
too close.
"you kissed me back."
"i wasn't thinking."
he hums — soft, like amusement, but there's no humor in his eyes. "you were."
the air between you shifts. tightens.
you want to slap him.
you want to kiss him again.
you do neither.
"i'm not a game," you say, voice thin. "you don't get to humiliate me just because i didn't want to fall into bed with you after one kiss."
his gaze doesn't waver. "i didn't think you would."
"then what was that?"
a pause. too long.
"i don't know," he admits.
the honesty unsettles you more than the cruelty did.
you look at him — really look at him — and for a second, you see it: a crack in the armor. a flicker of something like regret.
then it's gone.
he turns his face away. "you're not the only one who doesn't know what to do with this."
and he walks past you.
for once, he's the one who leaves first.
you're left standing in the hallway, trembling with things you can't name.
you don't mean to run into makoto.
you're walking fast. anywhere, nowhere. just away. away from the hallway, away from him, away from the sharpness in his voice and the way it still somehow lingers in your skin.
you turn a corner too fast and crash into someone warm, solid.
"oh—!" makoto stumbles a step back. "sorry! i didn't see— are you okay?"
you blink at him.
and just like that, the tears start again.
makoto's face softens. "hey, wait—hey, it's okay. come on, let's sit."
you don't argue. you follow him into the small rec room. it's quiet here. dim. shelves of unused board games and an abandoned deck of cards on the table. it doesn't smell like him.
that's a relief.
makoto waits until you sit down before he does too. not across from you — beside you. enough space to not make you feel cornered.
you press your hands between your knees and try to breathe. you don't say anything.
not yet.
he waits.
and that's the thing about makoto. he doesn't push. he just... makes it feel safe to fall apart.
"i kissed him," you say.
it just slips out.
makoto blinks. "uh... what?"
you exhale, sharp. "byakuya. i kissed him. no— he kissed me. i don't know. it was mutual. it was a mistake."
he says nothing.
you keep going. the silence makes you nervous.
"i avoided him. i didn't say anything, i didn't want anything, but now he's acting like i'm the villain in some twisted little power play. he humiliated me in front of everyone. and then he denied it, and then he—" your voice cracks. "i don't know what he's trying to prove."
makoto frowns slightly, hands folded in his lap. "that sounds... rough."
"rough," you echo. "yeah. that's one word for it."
he doesn't ask why it happened. he doesn't pry. and somehow, that makes you talk more.
"i feel—" you break off, struggling to find words. "he makes me feel like i'm losing my mind. like i'm the one twisting things around, even when he's the one who—who starts it. i want to hate him, makoto. i should hate him. but..."
makoto watches you gently.
"but it wasn't fake," you whisper. "that kiss. it felt... real. and i don't know what to do with that."
he's quiet for a long moment.
and then, softly: "you don't have to know what it meant yet. especially not with someone like him."
you look up, startled.
makoto offers a small smile. "byakuya doesn't let anyone close. not really. but... you got under his skin, didn't you?"
you open your mouth to argue, but stop.
you did.
that's the problem.
makoto continues, a little more serious now. "i think he's scared of you."
you laugh once, bitter. "that's ridiculous."
"no," he says calmly, "it's not. you make him feel something. that's not easy for people like him."
you're quiet again.
something uncomfortable and warm coils in your chest. not comfort — not quite. just... a little less alone.
"you didn't deserve what he said," makoto adds. "and if he wants to be in your life at all, he has to face that."
you nod, slowly.
and for the first time all day, you feel like you can breathe again.
you don't mean to start spending so much time with makoto.
it just happens.
it starts with meals. you find him at the cafeteria table more often than not — already smiling, already waving you over. you sit across from him. you talk. he listens. and when you don't want to talk, he fills the silence without demanding anything in return.
then come the shared walks. the library. the rec room. a chess game neither of you really know how to play, but pretend you do. you laugh more than you mean to. you're not sure you've smiled this much since arriving here.
and you don't have to say it to know — he's keeping you distracted.
from him.
from the memories you can't sort out. from the kiss you don't talk about.
it's nice. it's simple. it feels like peace.
but peace never lasts long here.
you notice it a few days later.
the way byakuya watches.
it's subtle at first. a glance when you pass in the hallway. an extra beat when you speak in the group discussions. you catch it out of the corner of your eye: his head tilting just slightly, his expression unreadable but intent.
and then, it sharpens.
the stare lingers longer when makoto walks beside you.
his brows draw in the tiniest bit when makoto makes you laugh.
he stops looking away when you catch him watching.
it's not just jealousy.
it's something colder.
calculating.
possessive.
like he's trying to dissect what you're doing — why you're doing it — and what it means for him.
you don't acknowledge it.
you won't give him the satisfaction.
but it gets harder to ignore.
especially when he starts showing up more.
he's not subtle about it.
you're reading with makoto in the library when he walks in, takes the table directly behind you, and opens a book he clearly doesn't care about. he doesn't turn the page for twenty minutes.
another day, you're helping makoto sort supplies in the storage room when the door opens sharply — and byakuya just looks. says nothing. watches. leaves.
like a ghost that refuses to fade.
it starts to wear on you.
makoto notices. of course he does.
you're sitting with him on the stairs near the dorms — talking about something dumb, something light — when you glance over and catch byakuya standing at the far end of the hall.
just standing.
watching.
you stiffen.
makoto follows your gaze. "again?" he asks gently.
you don't answer. you just pull your knees to your chest.
"he's not subtle," makoto says.
"he doesn't need to be," you mutter.
there's a beat of quiet before makoto says, carefully, "is this... bothering you? that he's watching you?"
yes.
no.
you don't know.
"it's not like i want him to care," you say. "but i hate that he does."
makoto nods. "that makes sense."
another beat.
"he's probably used to people chasing after him," he adds. "not the other way around."
you snort. "that sounds like a him problem."
"maybe," makoto says. "but maybe he's never had to learn how to... reach back. so now he's just watching you go."
that thought sits heavy in your chest.
you look down at your hands.
"does it bother you?" you ask, suddenly.
makoto blinks. "what?"
"that he... kissed me. that we—that i'm spending time with you now, instead."
makoto looks surprised for a moment. then softens.
"no," he says. "i'm your friend. i want you to feel safe. that's all."
you swallow.
you wish it were that simple.
because even now, even with makoto beside you, you can still feel those eyes. that stare. that weight.
you're not ready to look back at him.
not yet.
maybe not ever.
but part of you wonders how long he'll wait.
and what he'll do if you never stop walking.
────୨ৎ────
you laugh.
too loudly. too easily. too often lately.
byakuya hears it again before he even sees you.
it cuts across the hall — small and thoughtless and warm in a way it never is when you're speaking to him.
because you're speaking to naegi.
again.
he turns the corner and sees it: you, leaning in toward the smaller boy like gravity's decided makoto naegi deserves your full attention. you're both sitting by the window, some half-played card game between you, your head tilted, your lips curled around a grin that doesn't belong here. not in this killing game. not with that boy.
and certainly not without him.
he stops walking. watches.
you don't notice. or maybe you do — and ignore him.
the cards don't matter. the game doesn't matter.
only the way you let naegi see you.
open. unguarded.
the same way you used to look at him.
that's what unsettles him most.
you stopped pretending around him long ago. started arguing. started pushing. but even in the heat of it — even when words snapped and eyes narrowed — there was something real. something raw and personal. he understood that. he trusted it. he thought you did too.
but now?
now you've shut him out completely.
ever since the kiss.
ever since you ran.
ever since he ran his mouth.
he turns sharply, walking away before you can catch him staring.
again.
he's been doing that too much lately.
he shouldn't care.
you were never anything more than a problem to solve. an unpredictable element in a contained system. he played the game. you reacted. you snapped. you wanted him — he knows you did — and he let you think he didn't.
control. that's what mattered.
but now, the control is gone.
you took it with you when you ran from the library.
you've given your attention to someone else. someone easier. Ssomeone who stutters when he's flustered and smiles like a damn puppy and wouldn't know how to hurt someone even if he had to.
byakuya grits his teeth and closes the door to his room with a little more force than necessary.
he paces.
the rational part of him tries to win.
it's good that you're distracted. a focused player is a dangerous one. if you're too busy spending your time on naegi, you'll slip. your judgment will dull. you'll be easier to read.
you're not a threat.
you're not.
but it doesn't sit right.
it hasn't, ever since he saw the way naegi touched your shoulder the other day. a small gesture. friendly. meaningless.
but you didn't pull away.
you smiled.
the way you smiled at him once.
byakuya stares at the wall.
it doesn't make sense. you should've stayed angry. you should've screamed at him. slapped him, even. but you didn't. you ran.
and now you're gone.
and he's still thinking about it.
that kiss.
the tremble in your fingers before they curled in his shirt. the heat of your breath. the part of him that wanted more. the part that still does.
he slams his hand against the desk, the echo ringing in the silence.
he doesn't know what it means.
he doesn't like not knowing.
you've taken up too much space in his mind. again.
this has to stop.
he has to stop it.
he's not some jealous fool, circling the girl he wants like some desperate dog. that's beneath him. he doesn't chase.
and yet...
when he sees you again later that evening — sitting with naegi in the library, your heads bowed together over some stupid book — he walks in.
just to look.
just to remind you he's still there.
you don't meet his eyes.
but naegi does.
and for the first time, byakuya sees it — the way naegi shifts slightly closer to you. protective.
he hates that more than anything.
because it means he's noticed, too.
@ lveisagi, please do not copy, translate, or repost my work. all rights reserved.
synopsis : an unexpected kiss changes everything between you and byakuya.
a/n : tried to make this about the song "this hurts" by msi but i got sidetracked and completely changed everything :( i hope you enjoy regardless!!
wc : 2.5k
the air outside the courtroom felt thinner. or maybe it was just quieter, like the whole school was holding its breath.
byakuya walked ahead of the others, not bothering to glance back. he didn't need to see their faces — he knew what would be there. guilt. grief. the same cracked expressions he saw after every trial. the raw ache of truth, still sinking in.
he didn't feel any of that. he hadn't since the first trial. maybe not even then.
his shoes clicked evenly against the tile. rach step was measured, like punctuation in a sentence only he could read. there was no hesitation, no pause for breath. the others could drown in their emotions — he had no intention of joining them.
he turned the corner and slipped into the empty bathroom. closed the door. locked it.
silence.
the mirror greeted him like an old rival.
he stepped up to the sink, stared at his reflection, and studied it with the sharpness of someone looking for flaws he already knew weren't there.
oh God, i'm beautiful.
of course he was. every angle of his face looked sculpted — sharp jaw, elegant nose, glinting glasses balanced just so on the bridge. his hair was perfectly combed, even now, even after blood and betrayal and the weight of another death. his clothes were crisp, dark tie centered. immaculate.
oh God, i'm wonderful.
no one else had spoken up during the trial — not like he had. no one else had pieced it together, step by step, like a machine built for logic. he had done it. he had destroyed the lie, exposed the killer. he had won. again.
i'm wonderless intelligence.
he was what the world wanted. what it demanded. flawless, brutal, untouchable. and he'd learned long ago: people didn't have to like him — they just had to be unable to ignore him.
still, he stared.
and still, the hollow space in his chest refused to shrink.
so why doesn't that make me feel better?
his fingers curled against the cold porcelain. he didn't even realize how tight his grip was until his knuckles turned white.
the question made something coil inside him. quietly. dangerously.
he was perfect. he had always been perfect. he had never needed anything more.
so why did it feel like he was missing something?
a beat passed. then another.
he straightened his spine and adjusted his glasses, expression neutral. he didn't have time for self-pity. he had no use for reflection. the others could choke on their grief — he would keep moving.
he exited the bathroom and turned into the hallway.
and then—
you passed him.
head held high, pace steady. you didn't cry like the others. didn't stumble, didn't glance away when your eyes met his. in fact, you looked straight at him. like you saw through him.
and then you said it:
"you're good at tearing people apart."
no hesitation. just the words. not kind, not cruel — just honest. uncomfortably honest.
you kept walking. didn't wait for a reaction. didn't even slow down.
but he did.
he stopped dead in the hallway, your voice echoing behind his ribs.
tearing people apart.
the words were too accurate. and that's what made them unbearable.
his eyes narrowed, lips pressed into a thin line as he turned his head slightly, watching your silhouette retreat. sharp posture. no fear. no apology.
you'd said it like a fact. not a compliment. not an insult. just truth.
and the worst part?
it lingered.
byakuya faced forward again, jaw tight, expression unreadable. he resumed walking, but his pace had shifted — less like a prince and more like someone trying not to think.
but your words clung to him, clawing at the corners of his mind.
he was good at tearing people apart.
so why did you have to be the one to say it?
and why the hell did he care?
you find him again. or maybe he finds you.
it doesn't matter.
what matters is that you're both in the library, and neither of you is willing to leave first.
the room smells like polished wood and pages older than you'll ever be. the lamps cast long shadows across the floor. he's in the far corner, not reading — not really — just standing there with a book in his hands like it's a shield.
you stop halfway down the aisle. your voice cuts through the quiet like a paper slice.
"you're avoiding me."
he doesn't even glance up. "don't flatter yourself."
you take another step forward. his spine straightens, just slightly.
"funny," you murmur. "you look like someone trying to un-hear the truth."
that makes him snap the book shut — not violently, but firm enough that the sound echoes.
he finally looks at you.
"you think what you said was truth?" he asks, voice like a blade. "it was nothing but self-important drivel from someone desperate to be noticed."
you don't flinch. "and yet here we are."
the words hang between you.
he steps forward, slow and deliberate.
"are you really so starved for attention you need to pick a fight with me to feel important?"
"i didn't pick anything. you hate that i can see you clearly."
"you see what i allow you to see."
"bullshit," you spit. "you think you're untouchable. but under all that superiority and performance—"
his eyes narrow. "careful."
"—you're hollow."
the word lands like a slap.
he moves.
one step, then another, and then—
crash.
your back slams into the shelves. not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to startle. his hand is flat against the wood beside your head, the other gripping your upper arm. firm. controlled. shaking, just slightly.
you go still.
he leans in, face inches from yours. his breath is sharp. so is yours.
his voice drops, quiet and venomous. "you don't know me."
you can feel the heat of him now — tension like wire, strung too tight.
"i don't need to," you whisper. "i can see it in your eyes. you hate being seen, don't you?"
he doesn't move. doesn't speak.
he just stares at you. and his expression is wrong — not just anger, but confusion. frustration. something far more dangerous.
he's too close. you should shove him back.
but you don't.
and he doesn't let go.
the silence stretches. the tension thickens.
his gaze drops — just for a second — to your lips.
not a threat.
not a kiss.
just... a question neither of you will ask.
your pulse pounds. you feel it in your throat, in your ribs, in the fingertips he's holding.
then — just like that — he lets go.
his hand falls to his side. He steps back.
not far, but far enough that the air between you goes cold.
he doesn't say a word.
neither do you.
and that says everything.
he straightens his coat, adjusts his glasses like the last sixty seconds never happened. like your back wasn't just against the shelves. like he hadn't just looked at you like that.
you stand frozen as he turns and walks away, footsteps echoing down the aisle.
no apology. no anger. just that awful, unreadable silence he wears like armor.
when he disappears through the library door, you exhale — shaky, sharp.
it's over.
but it isn't.
not really.
because something passed between you in that moment — something loud and messy and wrong — and you both felt it.
neither of you will speak of it.
but you'll both remember.
you didn't sleep well after that.
not that sleep has been easy in this school for a long time — with its cameras, its silence, its bloodstained floors — but this was different.
this time, it wasn't fear that kept you awake.
it was the sound of your own heart, remembering the way it pounded when he shoved you against the library shelves.
it wasn't violent.
it wasn't soft.
it was something else entirely.
something you can't name.
now you're sitting in the dining hall, half-listening to aoi talk about her dream from last night. something about floating bread and rainbow sharks. she's laughing. hina always laughs when things feel too heavy. you're grateful for that.
still, you can't focus.
across the room, he's there — seated at the edge of the table like always, arms crossed, brows slightly furrowed as he reads over something in his lap. probably another file. another report he's pretending isn't fraying at the edges.
byakuya togami has always been unnerving. sharp. cold. distant.
but now he feels... different.
not softer.
just closer.
like you've seen something you weren't meant to.
and worse — like he's seen something in you.
you try not to look at him.
you really do.
but every now and then your eyes flick in his direction — not on purpose, just a twitch, a flicker, a mistake.
once, you think he catches you.
once, you think you catch him.
the air feels too tight after that. you excuse yourself early, something mumbled about needing to check on the rec room.
it's a lie. but no one questions it.
you end up in the hallway outside the library.
you stop just short of the door.
your hands don't reach for the handle.
your breath hitches.
that spot — the place where your back hit the shelf — it's still there. the wood. the dust. the books that nearly fell.
you wonder if he's been avoiding it too.
you wouldn't blame him.
because the worst part of what happened wasn't the shove.
it was everything after.
that awful second of breathless stillness — when his lips were too close and neither of you moved and you couldn't stop wondering what would've happened if he had.
and now... what are you even supposed to do?
pretend nothing happened?
pretend you don't feel it when he walks into a room?
pretend your stomach doesn't drop, and your skin doesn't buzz, and your thoughts don't twist the moment he looks at you — or worse, when he doesn't?
you didn't ask for this.
you didn't want anything from him.
but now there's a thread between you — something pulled too tight, ready to snap, ready to pull you in.
and neither of you are cutting it.
you thought the library would be empty.
stupid, really.
because the library is his space — the one place in this locked-down school where silence is a choice, not a sentence. you should've known better. should've listened to that instinct twisting in your stomach as you reached for the doorknob.
but you went in anyway.
you needed a book. something — anything — to fill your mind with something other than what happened three days ago. you didn't see him inside. just shadows, dust, the rustle of old pages.
you stayed fifteen minutes.
you didn't read a word.
now you're leaving, hugging a borrowed book to your chest like it might shield you.
and then —
"interesting."
his voice stops you in your tracks, just outside the library doors.
you curse internally, fingers tightening around the spine of the book. you don't need to turn around to know it's him.
but you do anyway.
he's standing just behind you — not close enough to crowd, but close enough to corner. his arms are folded, eyes narrowed in that precise, calculating way you've come to dread.
byakuya togami looks immaculate, as always. pressed coat. clean glasses. every strand of hair in place. as if nothing ever shakes him. as if he didn't once have you pinned against the shelves in a moment thick with heat and hate and something unspeakable.
you hate that you remember it so clearly.
"why are you avoiding me," he says flatly.
your lips part, then press together. carefully.
"i'm not."
he cocks an eyebrow. "really."
you meet his gaze. "why would i?"
"i don't know," he says, tilting his head slightly. "maybe because you were embarrassingly flustered the last time we spoke."
you clench your jaw. "i wasn't."
his smirk is faint, but it's there. "you were."
you hate this. not just the conversation — him. the way he twists every word into something cold and reflective. like a knife. like a mirror.
"i've been busy," you lie.
"doing what?" he asks, too quickly. too interested.
"it's none of your business," you snap.
"oh, but I think it is," he says. "if your little silence game is going to interfere with group unity."
you laugh once — sharp, humorless. "right. that's what you care about."
he takes a step forward. your shoulders tense.
you don't move. neither does he.
there's a beat of silence. and then:
"what are you so afraid of?" he asks quietly.
you blink.
"i'm not—"
"yes, you are," he says. "you haven't looked me in the eye in days."
"i'm looking at you now."
"barely."
that word stings more than it should. you look away. just for a second.
he sees it. of course he does.
he breathes in like he's about to say something else — something important, maybe dangerous.
but then he just shakes his head. "cowardice doesn't suit you."
You bristle. "neither does projection."
that hits. you see the flicker in his eyes before he smooths it over.
he doesn't reply.
neither do you.
after a long moment, you step around him, your shoulder brushing his coat on the way past.
he doesn't move.
you don't look back.
but your heart pounds all the same.
you tell yourself you're not looking for him.
that you came to the library because the walls of your dorm were too close, too loud, too full of memories.
but when you enter and see him standing alone between the shelves — sleeves rolled to the elbow, glasses glinting in the low light, gaze heavy on a page he's not really reading — you don't turn around.
you should.
you don't.
you walk past him instead, slow and casual, like your skin isn't crawling with nerves. like your breath isn't shallow. like your heartbeat isn't knocking against your ribs in that traitorous way it always does when he's too close.
you feel his eyes on you before he even speaks.
"you're still pretending," he says without looking up.
you don't respond. you just reach for a book that isn't what you want.
"still running away," he adds, voice low.
you grip the spine tighter. "you think everything is about you, don't you?"
his footsteps are soft behind you, measured. "everything involving you lately is."
you laugh bitterly. "that's delusional."
"no. that's observation."
you whirl around, book still in hand. "is this fun for you?"
he stops only inches away — closer than you realized. "what?"
"cornering me. pushing buttons. acting like—" you cut yourself off before the rest can fall out.
"like what?"
"like that didn't mean anything."
his jaw twitches. "it didn't."
you glare. "liar."
the silence after is so taut it might snap. you can hear your own breath. his, too.
and then he moves.
too fast to flinch.
he steps forward — and your back hits the shelf with a dull thud.
it's not gentle, but it's not cruel.
it's deliberate.
his hands are planted beside your head, caging you in, eyes burning into yours like he's furious with you. or maybe with himself.
"this is what you wanted?" he bites. "some kind of messy confrontation? an apology?"
"i didn't want this—"
"no?" he cuts in. "then why are you always looking at me like you do?"
your heart lurches.
"i look at you because i don't trust you."
"you look at me like you want to understand me."
"i don't," you lie.
his breath hitches. yours does too.
the silence returns — but now it's full of heat.
he's too close. you're too still. your mouth parts — to speak, maybe, or to breathe, or to do something else entirely.
and then—
his lips crash into yours.
not soft. not slow.
it's sharp, hungry, angry — like he wants to erase the space between you just to prove he can. like he hates the way you feel against him and wants more anyway.
and you kiss him back.
it's awful.
it's addictive.
one of his hands slides up — into your hair, your jaw, your cheek. you don't know. everything blurs.
you taste anger and arrogance and desperation on his lips.
you don't even realize your book has fallen to the floor.
when you finally pull back — panting, stunned — you see it in his face.
that flicker of uncertainty.
that crack in the mask.
you don't wait for him to speak.
you push past him and run.
out of the aisle. out of the library. out of whatever that just was.
he doesn't follow.
you don't look back.
what the fuck was that.
@ lveisagi, please do not copy, translate, or repost my work. all rights reserved.
Big bad not scared of anything Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley who spends months, upon months wanting, waiting to propose to you, yet each and every time his fingers skim that tiny box in his pocket, he freezes
For the first time in a long time, he’s scared shitless
Not because he thinks you’ll say no, in fact he’s more certain that you’ll say yes than he is about anything else in this world, it’s as simple of a fact as the sky is blue and water is wet
As evident as the fact that he loves you and you love him
He knows this
But he still can’t bring himself to do it
He carries the ring with him everywhere, hoping that one day he’ll just say fuck and it and do it, drop down on one knee and ask the fucking question he already knows the answer to
He fiddles with the box in his jacket pocket as you two stroll around a park after a dinner date, his fingers hesitating the entire night as his other hand holds yours
He tucks the box between the couch cushions one night as you watch a movie together, thinking he could slip the box into your hands and ask you then, but the TV might as well have been turned off seeing as he doesn’t register a single word, the nervous pounding of his heart the only sound he can focus on until he notices you’ve fallen asleep on him
He thinks of hiding the ring on your plate one morning at breakfast, sliding it across the table to you to discover the shiny anomaly hidden amongst your eggs and toast, but he can’t bring himself to do it
In the end, Simon knows he isn’t going to be able to ask you, something about it puts the Lieutenant in flight, fight or freeze mode in a way he’s never experienced in combat, the idea of your extremely unlikely rejection an idea far too painful for him to fathom
And so, that’s how you find yourself waking up in bed one morning, legs tangled with Simon’s under the sheets as you bring a hand up to run the slumber out of your eyes, only hesitating when you feel something out of place
Simon’s eyes are wide open, having been awake for a while, and now they follow your expression as you glance towards the band that got slipped onto your ring finger as you slept last night
“Simon.” You say simply, the hoarse sounds of sleep still caught in your throat
“Love.” He replies just as calmly, focused entirely on your face as you bring your hand closer to your eyes
“What’s this?”
“It’s yours.” He shrugs a single shoulder, feigning the nonchalance he wishes he truly had in this moment
“Mine?”
“Mhmm. For my wife.”
Each second you allow to pass in silence feels to Simon like a year of his life he’s losing, the expression on your face not giving anything away
“S’that alrigh’?” He asks, clearing his throat and shifting to hold the very same hand you’re staring at, running his fingers over yours until they bump into the ring, bring it up to his lips to plant a gentle kiss. The smile that spreads across your own lips tells Simon everything he needs to know, but it still warms his heart to hear you confirm what he’s known all along
“That’s more than alright with me. If I get to call you my husband too, that is.”
Since you accidentally discovered spider-man's identity, the universe made sure to keep putting you two together. Except you're not Parker's biggest fan.
⭑ disclaimer: this is my first fanfiction EVER. i was sooo tired of never finding what i wanted so i decided to give it a shot... constructive criticism very much welcome! enjoy <3
✩ warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, gn!reader, not proofread, i havent written anything long in english for a long time, CAN be for holland's peter but i had garfield's in mind, this is just a pilot to test out the waters <3 fic below
You've known Peter Parker since the start of senior year, a few classes together and nothing more. Peter is smart, aces all his tests without trying because as far as you know, he is late every single day and that pisses you off. It's not realistic how he doesn't get punished by his tardiness simply because he's an unspoken genius! While you try so hard, his worst is not even close to being your best.
During winter break, you unfortunately had to catch up to some work to earn that extra credit so graduating in june was possible, and it sucked. It was late, you were tired and your family wasn't even home. Your brother was getting ready for college and your parents are always out on some business trip, so most of the time the apartment was all yours. You didn't throw parties or anything like that but you could sit on top of the kitchen counter without your mom asking you not to.
Studying in the dark was superior, even though it probably hurt your eyes a lot more, turning the lights on completely was just way too bright. During one of your well deserved breaks, you hear a loud thud coming from the fire exit stairs just outside your window. "What the fuck...?" you jump from your chair, is someone trying to break in? You panic trying to find whatever possible to defend yourself with and slowly make your way to the window. Clearly whoever it was didn't notice you were awake in the darkness of your room, so much so they were mumbling under their breath.
"Jesus christ, it is so goddamn cold..!" you squint trying to make sense of the figure, their movements were so familiar somehow... The person continues to mumble to themselves and you move closer trying to understand what's being said, the closer you get more you make sense of it. Something in between the lines of 'every single time' and 'i need to fix this thing'. You hold onto your window, strategizing to open it at the right moment, you don't need a stranger at your bedroom window at 3:45 in the morning.
The figure mumbles non stop but it also seems to be having some trouble breathing, their chest struggling to get air. They reach to their head, pulling out something that was covering their face. Your eyes widen. Is that-
"Peter Parker!?" you say out loud opening your window fully. He's startled by your voice, standing defensively as he looks at you up and down. "What the hell you doing in my window!?"
"Woah, woah.. Stop yelling there... This isn't what it looks like." He tries to ease the situation with his hands up like he's been caught actually trying to break in, except he wasn't. Peter Parker has been spider-man since the end of his junior year, bitten by a genetically altered spider when he least needed to. Today was a hard day for the boy. Patrolling in the cold and if that wasn't good enough, his web-shooters keep failing on him and he just doesn't have the time to fix them. You take a good look at him, the moonlight helping you figure out this situation. He's holding something in his hand and the tiny blinking red light on his wrists shines on it, it's a mask. Spider-man's mask.
You stand there perplexed, looking at him like you just saw a ghost. He puts his mask back on and leans closer to you. "You cannot utter a single word to anybody about this, okay? Please." He was serious and with the mask on, almost terrifying. You open your mouth countless times to say something but nothing came out, you were completely shocked and just nodded. "Good." Was all you heard before he swung away leaving you speechless and dumbfounded. What just happened?
inexperienced!reader, but not in a sexual way but a romantic way. inexperienced!reader who has only ever been someone people hook up with, but never someone dated. inexperienced!reader who has all but sworn off love because it just never seems to find her. inexperienced!reader who starts to get real freaked out when Lieutenant Riley starts dropping by the admin office and stares at her through the windows. inexperienced!reader who starts to bring bear mace to work and keeps it in her purse in fear that she is being stalked by the large man. Lieutenant Riley who has, for the first time in his life, become absolutely smitten with a bird. Lieutenant Riley who never once stepped foot in the admin building before her started working there. Lieutenant Riley who always sent Sergeant McTavish to take the finished paperwork over, so his presence is immediately noticed among the admin staff. inexperienced!reader who really starts fearing for her safety after a note was left on her windshield with a time and place. inexperienced!reader who sprays Lieutenant Riley with the bear mace when he moved from around the car next to her when she is examining the weird note. Sergeant McTavish who watched it all unfold from the inside of the weapons building. Sergeant McTavish who breaks out in a full sprint to see if Lieutenant Riley was okay and if you had lost your marbles. inexperienced!reader who gets in her car and locks the doors before calling her boss who is still inside. Laswell and Captain Price who comes out to Sergeant McTavish bent over laughing, Lieutenant Riley on the ground in pain, and inexperienced!reader sitting shellshocked in her car. Laswell who gets the whole story and mandates workplace safety and harassment training for all the 141. Captain Price who formally apologizes to her the next day on behalf of his ‘muppets’. Lieutenant Riley who sends Sergeant Garrick, who you find quite sweet and charming, to explain that Lieutenant Riley thinks you’re absolutely stunning and wants a do-over, but is worried to approach you for not only his safety but out of embarrassment. inexperienced!reader who gives Sergeant Garrick a second phone number she has, as she is still extremely weary of Lieutenant Riley. Lieutenant Riley who definitely doesn’t sulk after you don’t answer his ‘Hello.’ after 3 days. inexperienced!reader who is freaking out, now not because she’s being stalked but because someone is showing interest in her and she’s confused on how to handle it. Lieutenant Riley who makes a lot of noise before he walks up to her while she is leaving a day later. Lieutenant Riley who finally apologizes in person and admits he’s very embarrassed about scaring a pretty bird like you. Sergeant McTavish and Sergeant Garrick who watch on from a distance ready to intervene incase we have another bear mace situation. inexperienced!reader who gives him her real phone number and scurry’s off to her car. Lieutenant Riley whose smirk is wide under his mask, knowing that he is going to court the shit out of you to prove he is exactly the man you need.
a/n: wrote this instead of working. enjoy. maybe i’ll expand on this, maybe not 💋 xoxo
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