Hello! I was wondering about how the amphoreus men + Boothill would deal with a reader who fidgets a lot? If they aren’t fidgeting then they’re spaced out or just simply not listening. (Lowk js a tad self indulgent bc I’m a third degree fidgeter myself)
Stillness Was Never the Goal
Tags: Mydei x Reader, Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Boothill x Reader, Fidgety/Spacey Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Intimacy, Soft Moments, Gentle Affection, Mutual Understanding, Neurodivergent-Coded Reader, Protective Characters, Banter, Slight Angst (Anaxagoras, Mydei), Domestic Fluff (Phainon), Enemies-to-Lovers Vibe (Boothill, Lightly), Found Family Themes.
Warnings: Brief mentions of war and trauma (Mydei's & Anaxa's parts), Implied past loss and grief (Anaxa & Boothill's parts), Light swearing (?), Reader implied to be neurodivergent (but not named/diagnosed), Emotional vulnerability, Mild dark humor (Anaxa's & Boothill's parts), Mentions of past experimentation (Anaxa's part).
You were twirling a golden pen between your fingers. Then tapping your foot. Then unwrapping and rewrapping a bandage from your wrist. Then… staring at a floating light outside the window.
Phainon, ever radiant and gentle, finally let out a soft chuckle. He leaned on his weapon like a staff and tilted his head.
“Did the light outside just win your heart over mine?” he teased, his tone lilting with amusement.
You snapped out of it. “Huh? No—sorry, I was listening. Kind of.”
He smiled and walked over, sitting beside you. “I know you fidget when you're nervous. Or tired. Or thinking. Or pretending to think. It’s cute.”
You looked down, already tugging on a thread in your sleeve.
He gently took your hands in his gloved ones. “I don’t mind. I just want to make sure you’re not overwhelmed.”
“…You’re not annoyed?”
“Not in the slightest. I’ll just keep talking while you spin a whole embroidery on your sleeve. But,” he added with a wink, “if you start pacing in battle, then we might have to have a tactical discussion.”
You leaned into his shoulder with a soft laugh, your fingers finally still.
You sat across from Mydei near the fire, knees bouncing, arms twitching with restlessness. He was polishing his blade, watching you from the corner of his eye.
“…You haven’t heard a single thing I said, have you?”
You blinked. “Wait—were you talking about battle formations?”
“…About your safety,” he said gently but firmly. “But it’s alright. You do this. You drift.”
You opened your mouth to apologize, but he stopped you with a slight gesture.
“Don’t apologize. I’ve seen you fight. You move like water—unpredictable, yes, but powerful. This fidgeting… this spacing out… it’s how your mind processes.”
You looked down, fingers fiddling with your boot strap.
He reached out, not to stop your hand—but to press his own against it.
“Just promise me one thing. If I lose focus… will you be the one to drag me back, too?”
Your heart caught.
“Deal.”
You were bouncing your leg, clicking the top of a quill repeatedly while Anaxa lectured—half to you, half to himself—about soulflame theory.
“I must say,” he said dryly, not even turning around, “if I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were attempting to summon a minor chaos god with that incessant click.”
You froze.
“…Sorry.”
He turned, walked over, and took the quill from your hands—gently.
“There’s no need to apologize. Honestly, it’s… grounding. It reminds me someone’s actually listening—even if your eyes are following stars I cannot see.”
You blinked. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad? Never. Curious, yes. Your mind wanders through stardust and fidgets through entire symphonies. It’s… annoying. And enchanting.”
He smirked and handed you a gear-shaped fidget ring. “Here. Metal distraction. Scholar-approved.”
You blushed. “You made this?”
“For you? Of course. You fidget. I accommodate. That’s the experiment.”
And from that night on, you always wore it on your left hand.
Your fingers were tapping a rapid rhythm on your leg as Boothill cleaned his revolver. You were clicking your teeth, tapping your boot, and half-singing a tune that didn’t exist.
Boothill raised an eyebrow, his pupils narrowing in amusement.
“Darlin’, you’re louder fidgetin’ than I am stompin’ through enemy bunkers.”
You froze mid-leg-bounce. “Sorry! I can’t help it. I just… my brain doesn’t like silence.”
He leaned back, hat tipped up, that shark-toothed grin glinting in the light.
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with noise. Hell, you are my noise. Makes me feel less like a ghost.”
You blinked. “Wait… seriously?”
“Dead serious. If you stopped movin’, I’d probably think the IPC finally gotcha.”
He dug into his coat and handed you a tiny bullet-shaped clicker.
“Made that from a spent round. Click it when you wanna. Reminds me you’re alive. Reminds me I ain’t alone.”
You smiled, warmth rising in your chest. “Boothill…”
“Yeah, sugar?”
“I’m gonna click this thing all the time.”
“Good. Just don’t do it while I’m shootin’, or we’ll have words.”
You laughed, and Boothill chuckled with you, shoulders easing.
HIHHIHIHIIHIHIHIII i saw reqs were open so i was wondering if i could req kinich x reader that gets overstimulated by the beach (more specifically sand)? personally i cant stand the feeling of sand sticking on me or just getting everywhere because of water making it stick to so i was DYING when i went the beach today bc i got really sandy and i lowk started crying😭😭🙏🙏 so maybe like the reader refused to go to the people of the springs or something because of the beach but they tried to just make themselves go and ended up hating the feeling? THANK YOU SMMMM IF YOU DO THIS‼️‼️
The Sand Never Stops Moving
Summary: While accompanying Kinich on a commission near the coast, you quickly realize the beach is overwhelming—between the sand, noise, and heat, it all becomes too much. Overstimulated and on edge, you try to hide your discomfort, but Kinich notices. In his characteristically pragmatic, no-nonsense way, he steps in—not with grand gestures, but with quiet, effective help. Sometimes, comfort doesn’t come wrapped in warmth—it comes in stillness, strategy, and a steady hand.
Tags: Kinich x Reader, Comfort Fic, Soft Moments, Beach Setting, Overstimulation, Neurodivergent-Coded Reader, Stoic x Sensitive Dynamic, Slow-Burn Tenderness, Acts Of Service Love Language, Emotional Regulation, Mutual Respect, Found Comfort.
The crash of the surf was a constant rumble in your ears, and the sun glittered too brightly off the shifting water, like a thousand knives catching the light. Worst of all, the sand—it stuck to everything. It clung to your boots, slid under your collar, worked its way into the creases of your hands like it had a mind of its own. Every movement made it worse, as if you were being smothered slowly by a thousand tiny grains.
“I hate this,” you muttered under your breath, trying to brush it off your palms for the fifth time. “I hate this.”
“Then why did you agree to come?”
The voice came from behind you—measured, cool, and unmistakably Kinich. He stood in the shade of a weathered stone pillar, half-shadowed, like he always managed to be. His eyes watched you carefully, calculating. Not unkind, but not coddling either.
You sighed and sat down abruptly on a flat rock, careful to keep your bag from touching the sand. “Because you asked.”
Kinich tilted his head slightly. A breeze lifted a strand of his hair. “I didn’t ask. I said I had a job near the coast. You followed.”
“I wanted to help.” You looked down at your sand-dusted legs and frowned. “Didn’t know the beach would feel like... this.”
Kinich stepped closer, slow and deliberate. No sound to his steps, no wasted motion. He crouched beside you, arms resting loosely on his knees. “Sensory overload?” he asked. Not judgmental. Just a question, like reading a weather pattern.
You nodded, feeling a little foolish. “Yeah. The sand, the light, the sound... it’s all too much. I thought I could handle it, but I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, from the cuff on his wrist, K'uhul Ajaw stirred—a flicker of gold against leather and metal—but Kinich ignored it.
He unfastened a cloth from one of his pouches and handed it to you without comment. You stared at it. It was soft, slightly worn, and clean. He met your gaze. “Wipe off. Start with your hands.”
You did. Slowly, methodically, you used the cloth to brush away the sand from your palms, your fingers, under your nails. The repetitive motion helped. The feel of the cloth—soft, controlled—helped even more.
Kinich sat beside you in silence, watching the horizon. His presence, so steady and unmoving, anchored you better than you expected.
After a while, he spoke again.
“I hate cities,” he said.
You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“The sound. The constant chatter. The lies behind every smile. Too many people trying to be louder than they are useful.” He paused, his voice low and quiet, like the tide at dusk. “Overstimulating. I get it.”
It wasn’t much—but from Kinich, that was a confession.
You looked over at him, at the way the ocean light caught his profile, how his expression stayed still, but his eyes flicked toward you. Watching. Evaluating.
“I didn’t expect you to be the one to comfort me,” you admitted with a shaky breath.
“I’m not comforting,” he said, glancing at you again. “I’m solving a problem.”
You snorted, a weak laugh escaping. “You’re impossible.”
Kinich let that hang in the air. Then, as if sensing your fraying nerves, he reached into his belt pouch and pulled out another item—a small container. He popped it open and offered you something wrapped in leaves.
“What’s this?”
“Dried kalma root. Helps calm nerves. Chew slow.” He watched as you took it from him, his expression unreadable. “If the sand is too much, we’ll cut inland. There’s a trail north of the rocks. Won’t interfere with the job.”
You nodded, still chewing. The taste was earthy, bitter—but grounding.
“Thanks, Kinich,” you murmured. “Really.”
He stood, brushing dust from his cloak with sharp, practiced movements. “Stay close,” he said, turning toward the shaded trail he’d mentioned. “The inland route’s more work. Steeper, less visibility. You’ll need to keep up.”
You stood and followed. The sand still clung to your boots, but it didn’t feel like it was swallowing you anymore.
Just as you reached him, you felt his hand briefly brush yours. Not a full grasp. Not even a real touch. But a moment of warmth, fleeting and deliberate.
“You should’ve said something sooner,” he said quietly.
“I didn’t want to slow you down.”
Kinich looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. “Then next time,” he said, “walk beside me. Not behind.”
Your heart jumped—not from surprise, but from the realization that this was Kinich’s version of care. Cold. Honest. Intentional.
