Reed Richards prides himself on control. Control over variables. Over outcomes.
Over himself. Everything. It's the reason the world trusts him with unstable physics and impossible decisions. It's the reason he survives catastrophes that should have broken him. It's the reason he doesnt, cannot allow himself to want things he cannot justify. Which is how he convinces himself that you are simply another variable.
Temporary. Manageable. Professional
That lie lasts exactly three weeks.
Reed Richards doesn’t expect you to be a problem.
You’re qualified. That’s obvious from the file. Smart, disciplined, careful. The kind of person programs like this are built for. Temporary. Clean. In and out.
He expects competence.
What he doesn’t expect is how quietly you fit.
You don’t hover on your first day. You don’t try to fill the silence. You read. You listen. You wait until you’re sure before you speak. Reed notices that right away — not because it’s impressive, but because it’s rare.
Most people want to be seen.
You seem more interested in being right.
The first week passes without incident. Reed keeps things formal. Distant. He gives instructions, you follow them. No friction. No spark. Exactly how it should be.
Then you correct him.
It isn’t dramatic. You don’t interrupt. You don’t challenge his authority. You just… ask a question.
“Why are we assuming stability here?”
The room goes still.
Reed looks at you, really looks at you, like he’s recalibrating something internal. He answers you calmly. You nod, then explain why the answer doesn’t work.
You walk to the board only after he gestures for you to do so. You don’t erase anything. You add. Build. Adjust.
When the model fails the way you said it would, Reed doesn’t smile. He doesn’t bristle either.
He just says, “She’s right.”
That’s it.
After that, things change.
You start staying later. So does he.
At first it’s practical. Deadlines. Momentum. Then it becomes habit. Reed doesn’t comment on it, but he notices when you pack up early. Notices when you don’t.
You don’t assume access to him. You always ask if he has time. You leave when he says he doesn’t. That makes him say yes more often than he should.
Conversations stretch. Drift. Not into personal territory — neither of you lets it — but close enough to brush against it.
You mention future plans like they’re solid. Real. Reed listens like someone overhearing a language he used to speak.
Sometimes you catch him watching you think. He looks away when you notice.
That should bother you.
It doesn’t.
The age difference sits between you like something unspoken.
Reed feels it constantly. In the way you recover faster. In how you talk about what comes next instead of what’s already happened. In how easily you believe effort will pay off.
You feel it differently.
You notice how careful he is with himself. How little space he allows for anything unnecessary. How loneliness doesn’t look like emptiness on him — it looks like routine.
You don’t want to fix that.
You just want him to stop pretending it isn’t there.
The night you fall asleep, it’s late. Later than either of you planned.
You tell him you’re fine. Just tired. You sit down while something runs, rest your head for a second.
Reed notices immediately.
He always does.
He comes closer quietly. Kneels so he’s level with you. You look younger like this, he thinks — and hates himself for thinking it.
He puts his jacket over your shoulders.
His hand lingers for half a second too long.
That’s enough.
He steps back like he’s done something wrong.
When you wake later, the jacket is the first thing you notice. Warm. Heavy. Not yours.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
But after that, he changes.
He gets distant. Subtle about it. Professional in a way that feels intentional.
Praise becomes emails. Conversations get shorter. He stops standing close. Stops letting silence stretch.
You feel it immediately.
You wait a few days. Then a week. Then you stop waiting.
“Did I mess something up?” you ask from his office doorway one night.
He looks up too fast.
“No.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m being edged out?”
He hesitates. That’s new.
“You’re not,” he says.
You don’t believe him.
“I don’t need protection,” you say quietly. “I need honesty.”
Reed leans back in his chair like the weight finally caught up to him.
“You don’t understand what this would cost,” he says.
“You’re assuming I don’t.”
“I’m assuming I do.”
That’s the moment it clicks.
He isn’t worried about you.
He’s worried about himself.
“Wanting you would be irresponsible,” he says, and it sounds like something he’s already told himself a hundred times.
Not wrong.
Not impossible.
Irresponsible.
You nod slowly, even though it hurts.
“Then you should’ve told me sooner,” you say.
He doesn’t answer.
That night, after you leave, Reed sits alone and opens the transfer paperwork.
Steve thinks about that later—how quiet you were walking into the compound, how you didn’t crack a joke, didn’t glance back to check they were behind you. At the time, it felt normal. You were always like that on missions. Focused. Locked in.
That’s why it worked.
The doors slammed down hard enough to shake the floor. Red lights. Sirens. Bucky barely had time to swear before gunfire lit up the hallway.
“Y/N!” Steve shouted, shield already up. “Move!”
You didn’t.
You just stood there.
For a split second, Steve actually thought you were frozen. Shock, maybe. Fear. Then you turned around, calm as anything, and spoke into your comm.
“They’re inside,” you said. “You can come out now.”
The words didn’t land right away. They slid past his brain, didn’t make sense. Like hearing a language you almost recognize.
Bucky pulled Steve down as bullets tore through the air.
“What the hell is she doing?” Bucky yelled, firing back, metal arm smoking.
Steve couldn’t answer. He couldn’t stop looking at you—at the way you stepped back, out of the line of fire, like you’d planned it all along.
Because you had.
They barely made it out. Barely. Steve’s ribs were bruised, Bucky’s shoulder was bleeding through his jacket, and neither of them spoke the entire ride back.
The silence was loud. Heavy.
Bucky was the first to break it.
“She knew,” he said, staring at the floor. “All of it. The layout. The timing.”
Steve nodded, jaw tight. “She wouldn’t—”
He stopped himself.
Because you already had.
timeskip——-
They didn’t sleep that night.
Steve sat at the kitchen table until morning, hands wrapped around a cold mug of coffee, replaying every moment he’d trusted you. Every time he’d turned his back. Every mission briefing where you stood at his shoulder like you belonged there.
Bucky sat on the floor with his back against the wall, knees pulled in, breathing slow like he was trying not to lose control.
“She used to sit with me,” he said quietly. “When the nightmares got bad.”
Steve closed his eyes.
timeskip——-
When they found you, you weren’t running.
That hurt worse than anything.
You were waiting in an old church, standing near the front like you didn’t know what else to do with yourself. You looked exhausted. Smaller somehow. Not the person who had walked them straight into a trap.
Steve didn’t ease into it.
“Why,” he said. Not loud. Just raw.
You swallowed. “They have my sister.”
Bucky stiffened.
“They told me if I stopped helping them, she’d die,” you said. “I believed them.”
Steve ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “You could’ve told us.”
You shook your head immediately. “You would’ve gone after her. Both of you.”
“And you didn’t think we deserved the choice?” Bucky snapped.
You looked at him then, really looked at him, and your face cracked.
“I didn’t think I could survive watching you die,” you said. “Either of you.”
That did it.
Bucky laughed, short and broken. “So you decided we were expendable.”
“No,” you said quickly. “Never.”
“But we were,” he shot back. “The second you pulled that trigger.”
You flinched like he’d hit you.
Steve stopped pacing. His voice was quieter now. Controlled, but barely.
“We’ll get her back,” he said. “But understand this—what you did doesn’t disappear just because we understand it.”
You nodded, tears slipping free. “I know.”
Bucky finally met your eyes. There was no anger left in his face.
Just loss.
“You don’t get to be safe with us anymore,” he said. “Not like before.”
That was worse than being yelled at.
You stood there, alone in a way you hadn’t expected, realizing that saving one person had cost you the two who mattered most.
And no mission—no redemption—could ever fully undo that.
The compound is silent in that way that only happens after something goes wrong—no alarms, no voices, just the hum of electricity and the faint echo of a mission that still clings to the walls. He’s been lying on his back for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying the sound of gunfire and shouting and the moment he thought he was going to lose someone he loved.
Again.
Eventually, the bed feels too big, too empty. The sheets are tangled from where he keeps turning, fists clenching and unclenching like he’s still braced for impact. So he gets up, pulling on a t-shirt and sweatpants, moving quietly out into the hallway like he’s afraid to wake ghosts.
That’s when he sees the kitchen light.
It’s soft, just one lamp on, casting a warm glow against the counters. For a second he just stands there, confused—then he sees you.
You’re barefoot, hair loose, standing at the sink with a glass of water in your hands. You look small in the oversized shirt you’re wearing, shoulders relaxed in a way that makes something in his chest ache. You weren’t waiting for him. You weren’t pacing or worrying. You were just… there.
Safe.
Steve exhales, the sound louder than he means it to be.
You turn, surprised at first, then your expression softens when you see him. “Hey,” you whisper, like it’s instinct. Like you know he needs the world quieter right now.
“Hey,” he replies, voice rough.
Neither of you moves right away. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable—it’s heavy, full of things neither of you want to say out loud. You take another sip of water, then set the glass down, watching him carefully.
“Nightmares?” you ask gently.
He shakes his head. “Not exactly.”
You don’t push. You never do. Instead, you step closer, closing the space between you one slow step at a time. Steve feels it before you even touch him—the shift in the air, the grounding pull of you. When you reach him, your fingers brush his wrist, just barely, like a question.
He doesn’t answer with words. He turns his hand, letting his fingers curl around yours.
It’s such a simple thing, but his shoulders drop like he’s been carrying the world there. Your thumb traces a small circle against his skin, and Steve swallows hard, emotion tightening his throat.
“You okay?” you murmur.
“I am now,” he admits.
Your other hand comes up, resting at his waist, warm and steady. He feels it through the thin fabric of his shirt, feels the way your touch anchors him to the present—to this kitchen, this moment, this life that still exists outside the war. His hand slides to your lower back without thinking, palm flattening there like he needs to make sure you’re real.
The contact lingers. Neither of you pulls away.
Steve looks down at you, really looks—at the sleep in your eyes, the concern you’re trying not to show, the quiet strength that always floors him. “I don’t know how you do this,” he says softly.
“Do what?”
“Stay gentle,” he replies. “After everything.”
You shrug a little, leaning closer, your forehead almost touching his chest. “Someone has to remind you that it’s over.”
His breath catches at that.
Slowly, like he’s afraid the moment will break, he bends down, resting his forehead against yours. The world narrows to the space between you—the warmth of your body, the steady rhythm of your breathing. Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, knuckles brushing his skin, and the touch sends a quiet shiver through him.
This isn’t urgency. It’s need—deep, bone-tired need.
Steve presses a kiss to your hair, then your temple, then finally your lips. It’s unhurried, reverent. He kisses you like he’s relearning how to be human, like this is the first safe thing he’s touched all night. You kiss him back just as softly, hands sliding up his chest, grounding him with every touch.
When he pulls back, just barely, his thumb brushes your cheek. “Come back to bed with me,” he says, low and honest. “Please.”
You don’t answer. You just nod, taking his hand.
He turns off the kitchen light, and the hallway swallows you both in shadow. Steve keeps you close as you walk, his arm firm around your waist, protective without meaning to be. When the bedroom door closes behind you, it feels like shutting out the war itself.
Inside, everything is quiet again—but this time, it’s the kind of quiet that heals.
Steve holds you like he’s finally allowed to stop fighting, and for the first time all night, sleep doesn’t feel so far away.
a/n: i will be posting this on my tiktok as well, @amazeballshcs.
Fighting a demogorgan alongside Jonathan Byers was never on your to-do list—none of this was, actually. Your younger brother, Dustin Henderson, dragged you into this when Will went missing.
You thought the kid was losing his mind; apparently he was friends with a girl named Eleven who also had superpowers..? You never believed it until you saw it for yourself, and that’s exactly how you ended up here.
The Byers house.
The house was filled with booby traps, lights were flashing, and Jonathan was standing in front of you, guarding you from the danger coming your way.
The fight was brutal, your ears were ringing from the demogorgan screeching with its monstrous voice, and your vision was slightly distorted from the flashing lights.
ꨄ
After the fight ended and the adrenaline wore off, you found yourself in the bathroom with Jonathan, properly tending to the wounds on your hands.
You had cut your hands to use the blood as bait, you patched it up earlier while waiting for the demogorgon—tried to patch it up, at least. You wrapped some gauze and bandages around your hand hoping it would hold until you had time to properly clean and tend to your wound.
Jonathan offered to help, his hand was already cleaned and properly bandaged, he looked like he knew what he was doing, you could trust him. He gently pulled your hand closer, subtly looking for any more injuries.
You’ve known Jonathan since Dustin and Will became friends. Jonathan mostly kept to himself, he was bullied a lot, he was known as a ‘freak’ and a ‘weird kid’. You felt bad for him, you didn’t know him very well but you knew enough to know he’s a good guy.
Before this near death experience, you got to learn more about Jonathan. He was more than just the ‘weird kid’ everyone painted him to be; he was brave, caring, and the most selfless person you’ve ever met. Jonathan always ensured everyone’s safety and comfort before his own, he proved it while protecting you from the demogorgon just minutes ago. You always took a liking to Jonathan—maybe he did too.
Your conversations were always filled with laughter and longing glances. The boys saw it—everyone saw it, except you. Dustin would often ask about Jonathan, purposely antagonizing you with questions like: when is he going to ask you out?
You never realized how close you were until he snapped you back into reality, stopping your train of thought with the burning sensation of alcohol being poured onto your hand. The burning feeling caused you to grip onto his bicep, your nails practically digging through the fabric of his jacket. Jonathan immediately stopped not wanting to hurt you anymore, “hey, hey, it’s okay, just a few more seconds and it’s done. I promise.” He said, his chocolate eyes meeting yours. He continued to pour the alcohol, grimacing at the discomfort you were feeling.
When the burning stopped and you were ready to be bandaged, Jonathan was extra careful, like you were made of glass. While wrapping your hand he kept sneaking little glances at your face, almost like he was trying to memorize your face. You caught onto the glances, making eye contact the next time he looked up. In that moment it was like the world around you stopped, his eyes locked onto yours once again, he was so close it allowed you to see features you’ve never noticed before.
Jonathans eyes never left yours, his hand still holding yours, the tension was there, there was no denying it. Your lips were just inches apart, stretching out the tension. One glance at his lips was all it took. Jonathans lips met yours, sending shivers down your spine. You didn’t pull away, instead you pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. The kiss was tender, yet it felt so familiar, like this moment was meant to be.
Your stomach was full with butterflies, your heart felt like it was about to explode, you were thankful you were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, otherwise your knees would’ve buckled from beneath you. You pulled away, a pink tint creeping onto your faces, your breathing slightly heavier. The taste lingered on your lips, it was something you couldn’t quite place, something uniquely Jonathan.
The eye contact was strong before it was broken by another kiss, only this time it was more desperate, hungry, like you’ve both been starved. Your hands found their way into his hair, his hands roamed everywhere, goosebumps swarming everywhere he touched. “That was… that was sudden.” You breathed out after pulling away, “yeah, um.. should we like, talk about it?” He asked. You nodded in response, pulling him in for another kiss.
From that day on, Jonathan Byers was officially your boyfriend.
a/n: kinda short, but i posted this on my tiktok a while ago and it did really well so i figured i would post it here :)
thomas can't remember anything about life before the glade, except you. he can't remember your name or how you guys know each other, but he knows you. it drives him insane everyday, waking up in a cold sweat trying to remember your name and why you're the only thing he remembers.
he starts asking around if anyone else has had dreams like him, everyone just calls him crazy. eventually the dreams start to become more vivid, like he's living in a memory. he remembers every detail of your face, your voice, your touch, but he can't remember your name for the life of him.
after weeks of trying to figure out who you are, nights spent tossing and turning, he just told himself he was crazy and the dreams don't mean anything. you don't mean anything. you're not real.
that was until he found a way out of the maze. the dreams came back, but more and more vivid each night. thomas wanted answers, he wanted to know why you were haunting him, living in his head every night. even though the dreams drove him insane he couldn't shake the feeling of comfort your voice gave him.
when he escaped w.c.k.d, he was determined to find you. everyone still thought he was crazy, until they met brenda and jorge. brenda walked into the room, thomas and the others following behind her. you stood next to jorge paying no attention to the people that just walked in, until you heard thomas.
you looked up from the ground, making eye contact with thomas. "it's you" he said pointing at you, confusion written on his face. you explained that before the maze you worked together, you worked for w.c.k.d., the ones responsible for all this. you were dating when he betrayed w.c.k.d., you guys tried hard to keep it a secret but they eventually found out. w.c.k.d separated you guys, put thomas in the maze, wiped your memories. you told him about your maze, your escape from w.c.k.d., your time with brenda and jorge.
thomas was still skeptical of you but one thing he knew for sure was he couldn't lose you again. he didn't remember your relationship, but your touch, your voice, your laugh, your eyes, everything felt so familiar.
Not dramatically—no slammed doors or shouted goodbyes. Just quiet disappearances. A duffel bag by the door. A burner phone left on the counter. A note that says I’m sorry without explaining for what. He leaves before people can ask him to stay, before he can see disappointment in their eyes, before the weight in his chest gets heavy enough to crush him.
You’ve watched him do it before.
Not to you—yet—but you’ve seen the signs. The way he goes quiet for days. The way he cleans his weapons like he’s preparing for something. The way he stops sleeping in the same room twice in a row. Always half-packed. Always ready to go.
Tonight, the compound is quiet in that late, fragile way—after dinner, after the missions are debriefed, when the halls echo and the world feels too big. You find him in the gym, sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, metal hand resting limp against his thigh. He isn’t training. He’s just… there.
Staring.
You don’t say his name at first. You sit down beside him, close enough that your shoulders almost touch, close enough that he knows you’re not leaving.
“I’m not good at this,” he says finally, voice rough. “Staying.”
You tilt your head toward him. “I know.”
He exhales, a bitter half-laugh. “Everyone leaves eventually. Or I do it first. Saves time.”
“That’s not saving,” you say quietly. “That’s surviving.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t look at you. “Same thing.”
You shake your head. “Not anymore.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. You’ve learned the difference with him. This isn’t the kind of silence that means go away. This is the kind that means please don’t.
“I had the dream again,” he admits. “The one where I wake up and I don’t know where I am. Where I don’t know who I hurt. And for a second—just a second—I think I should disappear before it happens again.”
You turn toward him fully now. “Did it happen?”
He swallows. “No.”
“Then you’re here,” you say. “And you’re safe. And so am I.”
That’s when he finally looks at you. His eyes are tired. Older than they should be. But there’s something else there too—fear, sharp and raw and real.
“What if I stay,” he asks, “and you realize I’m not worth the trouble?”
You don’t hesitate. You reach out, slow, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t.
Your hand finds his metal one first—cool, unyielding—and then his flesh-and-blood hand, warm and trembling.
“Then I’ll still be here,” you say. “Because loving you isn’t a transaction, Buck. It’s a choice. And I keep choosing it.”
His breath stutters. He squeezes your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the floor.
“I don’t know how to stop running,” he whispers.
You lean closer, resting your forehead against his temple. “Then don’t stop all at once. Just… stop here.”
Here, in the quiet gym with the flickering lights.
Here, with your fingers laced through his.
Here, with someone who sees all the broken pieces and stays anyway.
He closes his eyes.
For the first time, he doesn’t pull away when you slide your arm around him. He leans into you instead, slow and careful, like he’s afraid he’ll break the moment if he moves too fast. His head drops to your shoulder, and you feel the weight of him—not the Winter Soldier, not the weapon, just a man who is so tired of carrying everything alone.
“I’m scared,” he admits.
“I know,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be brave with me.”
That’s what does it.
His grip tightens. His breathing turns uneven. He doesn’t cry—not really—but there’s a quiet shudder that runs through him, a release he’s been holding back for years. You hold him through it, steady and patient, like this is exactly where you’re meant to be.
When it passes, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His forehead rests against yours.
“If I stay,” he says, voice low and certain now, “I’m staying for real.”
You smile softly. “Good.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead—gentle, reverent—then another to your cheek. When his lips finally meet yours, it’s not rushed or desperate. It’s slow. Intentional. Like a promise.
Summary: König can handle blood, gunfire, and warzones—but watching his wife get sick because of someone else’s carelessness nearly breaks him. After the confrontation, after the anger, all that’s left is a long night on the couch, whispered reassurances, and the kind of love that never leaves your side.
König didn’t realize how hard he was gripping the edge of the break room counter until his knuckles started to ache.
The door had barely finished swinging shut behind the sergeant—still echoing with the frantic scuff of boots retreating down the hall—when König finally exhaled. It came out sharp, ragged, like he’d been holding it in his chest for days. Which, in a way, he had.
Six days.
Six fucking days of you coughing yourself awake in the middle of the night, of your skin burning one moment and freezing the next, of him hovering uselessly at your side with water glasses and damp cloths and whispered reassurances he wasn’t sure you even heard. Six days of watching the strongest person he knew reduced to shaking hands and a hoarse voice that kept apologizing for being “a burden.”
He drags a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly in his beard. He hates that he lost his temper. Hates that it happened in public, that rank and discipline slipped because his chest had filled with something hot and ugly and protective the moment he’d heard that cough echoing through the room again.
But God—he hates even more that it ever happened to you.
The image of you curled on the couch flashes behind his eyes uninvited. Blanket pulled up to your chin. Hair a mess. Eyes glassy but still bright when you look at him, like you’re trying so hard to be okay just for his sake. You’d joked weakly the first night, voice wrecked, “Guess I’m not invincible after all, huh?” and he’d laughed—but it stuck in his throat.
He straightens slowly, rolling his shoulders like he’s shedding armor. Colonel König again. Controlled. Measured. The beast locked back behind steel doors.
Still, his jaw tightens when he imagines that sergeant’s careless coughing, out in the open air, not a thought spared for anyone else. It wasn’t just the sickness. It was the idea that someone’s thoughtlessness had hurt you. That he hadn’t been there to stop it.
By the time his shift finally ends, the sun is already dipping low, casting long shadows across the base. König doesn’t linger. He doesn’t stop to chat. He doesn’t even remove his gloves until he’s in the car, fingers flexing stiffly as he starts the engine.
The drive home feels longer than usual.
When he finally steps inside your shared apartment, the familiar quiet hits him first. Not silence—never that—but the soft kind. The hum of the heater. The faint clink of a spoon against ceramic from the kitchen.
“Schatzi?” he calls, voice automatically gentler than it ever is on base.
“Living room,” you croak back.
He finds you right where he expected: curled up on the couch, wrapped in far too many blankets, tissues scattered on the coffee table like fallen leaves. There’s a mug balanced carefully in your hands, steam rising lazily from the surface. Tea, probably. He made it before he left this morning, with too much honey because you like it that way when your throat hurts.
His chest loosens at the sight of you. Still sick. Still miserable. Still here.
“There you are,” he murmurs, crossing the room in long strides. He crouches in front of you instead of sitting, big frame folding down until he’s eye-level. His gloved hand comes up, hesitates, then gently presses against your forehead. Not too hot. Good.
You squint at him, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re staring.”
“I missed you,” he says simply.
You snort, which immediately turns into a cough. König is on you instantly, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other steadying the mug as he gently guides it away. “Easy,” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles into your back. His touch is careful, like you might break.
When the coughing finally subsides, you sag against him, forehead dropping to his chest. “You smell like outside,” you mumble.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “High praise.”
He helps you settle back against the cushions before tugging his gloves off and setting them aside. Then he sits, long legs stretched out, and pulls you against him without a word. You fit there easily, like you always do, tucked into his side, your head resting just under his collarbone.
For a while, neither of you speaks.
His hand moves through your hair, slow and rhythmic, grounding himself in the simple fact of you breathing against him. Alive. Warm. Safe.
Finally, you break the silence. “You seem… tense.”
He stiffens for half a second before relaxing again. No point hiding it from you. Never has been. “I may have scared a sergeant today.”
Your head tilts slightly. “Oh?”
“He was coughing,” König says, voice low. “Carelessly.”
You hum weakly. “Ah. So he met his end.”
“He lives,” König replies dryly. “Barely.”
That gets a real laugh out of you, raspy but genuine, and the sound is worth everything. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, lingering there longer than necessary.
“I don’t like seeing you sick,” he admits quietly. “I don’t like not being able to fix it.”
You shift, turning enough to look up at him. Your eyes are tired but soft. “You’re doing fine,” you say. “You’ve been hovering like a very large, very anxious mother hen.”
“Protective husband,” he corrects.
You smile faintly. “That too.”
He tightens his arm around you just a little. Outside, the world can keep coughing into the open air, keep being careless and loud and stupid. In here, though—here is warm. Here is quiet. Here is you.
Summary: Simon Riley isn’t one for softness, and in public, he never lets it show. But when the world quiets down and the safehouse doors shut behind you, the armor drops along with his walls. Late nights stretch long as touches become intentional, glances linger a heartbeat too long, and the tension between you threatens to ignite. Every brush of his hand, every heated look, is measured, deliberate, teasing—the kind of closeness that leaves you both aching for more.
The safehouse was quiet, save for the hum of the old heating unit and the distant drum of rain against the windows. You’d just finished wiping down your gear when the door creaked open, and Simon Riley stepped inside. No mask. No fanfare. Just him, heavy boots thudding against the floor, eyes scanning the room—and then landing on you.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He never does. The air between you tightens, electric, as he leans against the doorframe. Broad shoulders tense, jaw set. The kind of quiet that means he’s been holding too much in for too long.
“You alright?” His voice is low, rough, like gravel rubbed over steel.
You shrug, stepping closer. “You’re the one who looks like hell.”
A corner of his mouth quirks, almost a smile, before it disappears. His gaze drops to your hands, lingering a second too long. Then he’s walking toward you, slow, deliberate, each step measured. When he’s a half-step behind you in the hallway, the brush of his glove against your wrist makes you catch your breath. It’s subtle, almost nothing—but it’s enough to know he’s checking. That he cares.
The door to his room clicks shut behind you. That’s when the tension in him starts to fall away, just a fraction. Shoulders drop, the edge softens. He doesn’t hide it anymore. He’s just Simon. Just…him. And he’s yours.
“Hit back there,” you say, nodding toward the bruise forming on his cheek. “You didn’t have to—”
“Didn’t want you seeing it.” He pauses, voice quieter, rougher. “Not like that.”
That honesty—rare, fleeting—makes your chest tighten. You reach for him, fingers hooking into his shirt. He stiffens, like he’s surprised to be allowed to be touched, then lets himself relax under your hands. His own slide to your waist, possessive, grounding, just enough to make your pulse spike.
“You’re shakin’,” you murmur.
“Adrenaline,” he mutters. Then softer, almost shy. “And you.”
A laugh escapes you, breathless and low. He leans in, forehead resting against yours, the world narrowing to the warmth of him and the faint scent of smoke and leather. His thumb brushes slow circles at your hip, testing, tracing, leaving fire in its wake.
When he kisses you, it’s deliberate. Controlled. Like everything else he does, measured, restrained, but heavy with a need he’s spent years bottling up. You tilt your head, and he doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds yours, and the quiet of the room swallows the world.
His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying, memorizing. He doesn’t cage you—not fully—but the heat of him presses you against the door, holding you close without pinning you. Every brush of lips, every careful tug and press of his hands, makes your chest ache with anticipation.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice low and rough.
You don’t.
So he kisses you again, deeper this time, letting just enough of himself go to prove that he trusts you—and that he wants you. Jaw tight, breath ragged, he pulls back slightly, forehead to yours, thumb brushing your lips as though memorizing the taste.
“World’s loud,” he murmurs. “But it goes quiet with you.”
You press a kiss to the scar along his cheek, tracing the line gently. “You don’t have to be on all the time with me,” you whisper.
His eyes close, and for a man who lives behind armor and ghostly walls, this is the closest thing to softness he allows himself. Arms lock around you like an anchor, holding you steady in the storm of his life. You stay pressed together, no rush, no expectation—just breathing, heartbeat to heartbeat, trust passed silently between you.
“Stay,” he finally says, softer, almost afraid to ask.
You do.
And in that quiet, in that unspoken surrender, the world feels distant. All that exists is the heat of him, the tension you both refuse to fully release, and the promise that when the doors are closed and the masks are off, this—this—is yours alone.
Summary: After a mission almost costs him his life, Simon Riley comes home to the one person who sees past the mask. Late nights, quiet touches, and restrained kisses blur the line between comfort and desire. In his room, away from the world, he finally lets himself breathe—and maybe let himself be vulnerable.
Simon isn’t good at softness in public. He walks a half step behind you through the safehouse hallway, broad shoulders tense, skull mask tucked under his arm instead of on his face. Anyone watching would think you’re just teammates. Anyone paying attention would notice the way his gloved hand brushes yours every few steps, like he’s checking you’re still there.
The door to his room shuts behind you with a quiet click.
That’s when he exhales.
It’s subtle, but you feel it—his shoulders dropping, the edge in him easing the moment it’s just you. He turns, eyes already on you, that unreadable stare softened by something warmer. Hungrier.
“You alright?” he asks, voice low, rough from disuse and too many cigarettes.
You nod, stepping closer. “You took a hit back there.”
“Yeah.” A pause. Then, quieter. “Didn’t like you seeing it.”
That honesty is rare with Simon. It always pulls you in.
You reach for him first, fingers hooking into the fabric of his shirt, grounding him. He stiffens for half a second—like he always does when he remembers he’s allowed to be touched—then his hands are on your waist, firm, possessive, like he’s making sure you’re real.
“You’re shakin’,” you murmur.
“Adrenaline,” he mutters. “And you.”
That earns a breathy laugh before he leans in, forehead resting against yours. The air between you feels tight, electric. His thumb brushes slow circles at your hip, deliberate, testing. When you tilt your head up, he doesn’t hesitate—his mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s unhurried but heavy with intent.
Simon kisses like he does everything else: controlled, intense, like he’s holding himself back. It’s not desperate. It’s restrained. That somehow makes it worse.
Better.
His hand slides up your back, fingers splaying like he needs the contact. You feel the heat of him, the way he cages you gently against the door without ever pinning you there. He pulls back just enough to breathe, resting his forehead against yours again.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.
You don’t.
So he kisses you again, deeper this time. His grip tightens, just a little, like he’s reminding himself you’re his and he’s yours—something solid in a life that’s anything but. When your hands slip under his shirt, he sucks in a sharp breath, jaw tightening as he fights the instinct to retreat.
“Christ,” he mutters, voice breaking just enough to make your chest ache.
You feel the moment he lets go—not completely, never completely—but enough. His mouth trails to your jaw, your neck, lingering there like he’s memorizing you. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice barely above a whisper.
“World’s loud,” he says. “But it goes quiet with you.”
You turn your head, pressing a kiss to the scar along his cheek. “You don’t have to be on all the time with me.”
His eyes close.
For a man who lives wrapped in armor—physical and otherwise—this is as close as he gets to vulnerable. He pulls you in, forehead to yours, arms locked around you like an anchor.
You stay like that for a while. No rush. No need to prove anything. Just the steady beat of his heart under your palm and the unspoken promise that, for tonight at least, he’s safe. And so are you.
When he finally speaks again, it’s softer. Almost shy.
