Wanna talk? (Donald Peirce/Reader)

Donald Peirce x Reader

You were curled up comfortably in your reading chair with a book in hand by your bedroom window, letting the dim light cast by the dark clouds catch on the pages.
It was a grey day. Grey clouds. Grey air.

You jumped slightly when you heard your front door small open before realizing who it was, your body losing most of the tension caused by the loud noise.

Donald Peirce was home.

And he was angry.

With a tired sigh, you placed your book down and started to count down in your head as you heard his heavy boots slam against the ground as he advanced towards the room where you were located.

Five...
four...
three...
two...
one...
BAM

Your bedroom door burst open right on cue as your boyfriend stormed in, shoving it closed roughly with his shoulder before he started hopping around trying to tug his shoes off, cursing loudly and fluently at the inanimate objects as his attempts failed.

Finally, he pulled one off before swinging his arm back and throwing it into the corner of the room, the next flowing quickly. The shoes each hit the marked wall with a loud thud and fell to the ground. You cringed slightly as look looked at the corner of the wall which was already riddled with dents from all the previous nights that he came home like this and repeated the process.

He turned sharply towards your shared double bed and with a few quick strides he flopped himself face down onto it, the mattress and his body bounced at the impact of his heavily landing while he let out a loud groan of frustration that was muffled by the pillows.

With another sigh you stood up from your spot to walk towards him, settling yourself on the edge of the bed while reaching out to massage his right shoulder gently with your warm hand.

"Wanna talk about it?" you asked, keeping your voice low and soft.

"What do you think?" he growled out, allowing you to feel the vibration travel through your figures.

Of course, he didn't want to talk about it. He never does.

You honestly didn't expect him to, he said the same thing every time you asked this question.

Now Donald never lied to you, ever, but for some unknown reason talking about his work was just a no-go zone. All he ever told you was that he was head of security in some research facility, what exactly they were researching you didn't know. But what you were sure of was that there was a lot more to his job then he would let on. Sometimes He would be gone for weeks at a time but more common than not a couple of days at least and all you would have to know that he was okay would be when Donald called you himself, talking in a hushed voice as he checked up on you to make sure you were doing well without him there. Some nights he would come home with cuts, bruises, burns and other injuries that he never offered any explanation to how he got them.

Not even any of his work friend that would occasionally come over for dinner dared to mention work, whenever they even skirted the border of the topic Donald would shot them a fierce glare, his commanding blue eyes silencing them instantaneously with their smoldering intensity.

He was stubborn as hell. Once he had his mind set on something that was the end of it, he would root himself down and then there was no possible way to persuade or move him. It's just a part of who he is and you loved him, all of him.

And so was his work.

At least he got paid well, allowing you to live in extreme comfort with a nice house and never in need of anything.