#ever increasing levels of screaming;

[goldentigerfestival]

if there is one thing i will never recover from with crestoria's crossover being gone for good, it's that we'll never ever know the story behind transgressor yuri.

if there are two things i will never recover from with crestoria's crossover being gone for good, it's that leon and aegis' loyal friendship will never ever return.

[ohtobeleah]

Purgatory // Jack Abbot

Part 1of2

Summary: A patient brought in with the Pittfest mass casualty event experiences a psychosis of some sort. Jack Abbot doesn’t know it but while he’s elbow deep in saving some guys bowel…you’re attacked while just trying to help.

Warnings: Jack Abbot x Nurse!reader. Violence against women. Angst/whump.mediocre medical knowledge. Hurt!reader. Established relationship. Age gap marriage. Older male x younger reader.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author Note: This guy…this fucking guy.. Truly, I could write about him for hours, if not days on end. I love him your honour.

Next Chapter

In the practice of medicine, change is inevitable. New surgical techniques are created, and procedures are updated. Levels of expertise increase. Innovation is everything. Nothing remains the same for long, and we either decide to adapt to the change…

Or we get left behind. 

“Sir,” You sighed as you tried your best to have the man in the hospital bed cooperate. “I’m just trying to–” Before you had a chance to finish your sentence, to let the man who’d been brought in during the worst mass casualty event you’d ever worked, that you were just cleaning him up a little in a low period, he was on you like a bad rash. 

“Hel–!” You tried to scream, but two large, bloodied hands wrapped themselves around your throat as the unidentified male, mid-fifties possibly, tackled you to the ground. “H–!” 

*Crack* The sound was jarring. *Crack* The back of your head was repeatedly being slammed into the laminate floor. *Crack* You couldn’t breathe. Your lungs felt like they had been set alight, burning with a deep desire to take in oxygen. 

“Get away from me!” The man yelled as he released one of the hands he had tightly gripped around your neck, only to draw it behind his head and lay a full fist of force against your nose. 

“SECURITY!” You heard Dana shout as she caught sight of the assault happening across the way. She couldn’t tell who it was under the man who’d gone rogue. But it felt too late now…

Everything was a blur. You couldn’t breathe as blood trickled down your throat. The swelling had already begun to take effect. You coughed and rolled onto your side as the man was removed from you in a flurry of blurs. You couldn’t hear the commotion going on around on, but you could see the shadows behind swollen eyes and broken skin. 

“Y/n!?” Robby was the first voice that managed to break through the perpetual ringing. He was just a shadow, mixing with the fluorescent light beaming down on you. “You’re not okay, but you’re gonna be.” You could barely make out what he was saying. If you could, you would’ve panicked at the sheer heaviness in his tone of voice. The worry, the panic that his best friend’s wife had just been attacked. 

“Someone get me Dr. Abbott!” Robbys voice echoed across the entire expanse of the Emergency Room department. Everyone heard the urgent desperation in his voice. Everyone besides Jack…who was someone across the department, elbow deep in saving some guys bowel from needing to be removed. “Tell him it’s his wife!”

Whittaker was the one who dropped what he was doing, albeit not as important as finding Dr. Abbott, but nevertheless, he knew whatever it was that it was bad. Jack hadn’t anticipated one of the new kids to come charging in like it was life or death the way he did. 

“Dr. Abbot! Something happened, you need to come and–” 

“Someone better be dying for you to be taking any of my time away from this man, Whittaker, what is it!?” Jack didn’t shout, nor was it laced with anger. It was a response of pure and total control over the situation. Jack was as calm as they come under crisis. It was just who he was. He saw the solutions in chaos like a puzzle he could put back together. 

“Your wife–” Dennis choked on his own words like he was afraid to deliver bad news. Ironic that delivering bad news to loved ones of patients was a part of the job. “She uh–” 

“She what, Whitaker? My wife, what?” Jack never faltered. He never looked up from where he was working magic. Blood-stained gloves halted to a standstill, however, when the words that left Whittaker’s mouth next knocked the wind right out of Jack’s lungs. 

“She was just attacked, Robby has her in trauma two now, it’s bad, like real bad, sir.”

The air grew thin, the walls began to cave in. Jack Abbot was, on a regular day, as calm as they come under pressure. 

He saved his breakdowns for the roof in the early hours of the morning. He’d spend a few minutes watching as the sun kissed the horizon with a warmth that could only be rivalled by your own. 

He’d hedge his bets, cut his losses and accept what reality had dealt and delivered. All the while continuing all the reasons why he couldn’t take that leap. Always circling back to the most important of all. 

You. 

But when that guiding light is challenged, Jack's body language alters. His normally rigid, ex-military stance softened for a brief moment. 

Jack's heart was breaking. He could feel it being ripped apart inside his chest cavity. The thud of his heart was nearly loud enough to echo off the walls.

“What?” No one had seen Jack Abbot so flustered before. His eyes softened in a moment of what must have looked like weakness. But to Jack, it was love. Pure, that’s my best friend, love. The kind of love that’s deep in your bones, love. The kind of love that haunts you, love. “My, my wife?” 

It was a softness only reserved for you, a side to Jack Abbot that was hidden away behind the safety and security of his own perfectly designed Volt system. His expert ability to compartmentalise only ever falters around you. 

He can’t control it. Jack Abbot had a weakness, an affinity of affection. An addiction to the release of Oxytocin he received whenever you paid him any mind. It had always been like that, a little catch and release. Cat and mouse. Jack loved to watch you walk away because he knew you were always coming back. 

But now…you were hurt. You were hurt, and he was stuck in his own head thinking about the first time he saw you. How you lit up the entire night sky and hung every star just for him to feel comfort in the darkness. 

Your laugh, how it’s the only therapy he’d ever need. The deep cackle that’s not cute, but infectious. You’re like a shot of espresso, keeping Jack on his toes and never allowing him to fall completely off the deep end into permanent geriatric grumpiness. No matter how far he teetered over the edge.

Jack Abbot was just lucky enough to be living in general, but to be living in your world was just the luck of the Anglo-Irish. He wasn’t sure if he could live in a world without you in it. 

The thought consumed his entire being. A world without you. A life without you. What if he never got to hear your voice again? Or tell you how much he fucking loved you. The contrast between the heat of Jack's skin and the coolness of his wedding band resting upon his heart couldn’t have been more stark. 

“Is she—“ Before Jack could ask if you were okay, he was cut off. 

“Go,” Dr. Ellis damn near ordered. “I got this, go.” She reaffirmed as Jack felt her shove him over, there was no extra time that could be wasted. It was all Jack needed to find his centre of gravity again and get a hold of himself. 

His composure.

“Who attacked her?” But as the surge of panic softened, a wave of uncontrollable rage began to boil deep within Jack. His eyes scanned the utter chaos that was the emergency department, searching for whoever it was that had hurt you. “Where are they now?” 

No one gets to hurt Jack Abbots wife and gets to continue breathing. 

“Uhhh—“ Whitaker stammered, unsure of whether he should disclose that information or not. “He’s with security now, behavioural health two.”

It was a deep-rooted, all-consuming need to hook it left and make a B line directly for behavioural health two. Who did this guy think he was? Huh? Attacking people, no…attacking his wife like this? It wouldn’t be without consequence. 

“Dr. Abbot.” 

“This the guy?” Jack asked one of the security guards with a look of rage behind his exhausted eyes. “I need to speak with him?” 

“The cops and McKay are in there with him now.” 

“It wasn’t a request.” Jack snarled as he tried to make his way into the room that held the man who attacked you.

“JACK!” It was Robby who had yelled. “NOW!” You were in a rough way, Jack would tell by the tone in his friend’s voice. 

“Y/n,” Jack whispered to himself as he looked over at trauma two. “Oh, oh no no no no no.” It was a mumble only to himself, but everyone could feel the heaviness that followed Jack Abbot across and through the emergency department chaos. 

Change. We don’t like it, we fear it. But we can’t stop it from coming. We either adapt to change…

Or we get left behind. 

“She needs to be intubated, get her up for a head CT, we’re looking at some major blunt force trauma here, needs–needs burr holls to relieve the intracranial pressure.” 

“Y/n!” Jack barreled in like a hurricane-force wind. “What the actual fuck happened here, man?” 

“She was with a patient, Y/n? Can you hear me? It’s Robinovich here, don’t you make this difficult for me,” Robby spoke through panicked words as he worked on you as fast as he could. “Guy freaked, psychotic episode, probably a bleed on the brain–”

“Ja–” You barely mumbled as blood spilled from your mouth. Jack heard you, though. He heard you loud and clear as he made his way to your side. His hand was immediately in yours as he made sure to be aware of his spatial awareness as his colleagues worked on you. 

“I’m right here,” Jack cooed as he took in the sight of your face. Beaten, bloodied and bruised. “You’re okay, I’m right here, just hang on for me, sweetheart, I’ve got you.” 

“I, love–” You were in and out of consciousness, fighting against the pull of whatever it was threatening to pull you away from the surface. 

“Pulse is thready, she’s crashing,” someone announced as all the bells and whistles sounded off at once. You were indeed crashing, right in front of Jack. 

“Sweetheat? You stay with us, you hear me?” Jack was feeling the panic creep up his spine again. “Are you shitting me? What the hell do you think you’re doing being alone with a patient like that?” Jack knew if you were listening, you would have jabbed him back. Of all people to be giving you a lecture on hospital protocol, it shouldn’t have been him. 

You called him a Cowboy for a reason.

“If you die on me, i’m gonna be so fucking screwed here Y/n, get your shit together,” It was Jacks love language. “Robby, get her back!” 

He kept searching for some sort of eye contact, that deep-rooted ability of his that you at times often regarded as his superpower. That intense gaze, the one able to break through anything and reach your very soul. 

But Jack couldn’t see you through you, he couldn’t see anything but the blood that covered your beautiful face. The face he dreamed of at night, when all was said and done, and there was nothing left to do. 

“Working on it, someone get me neuro, NOW!” 

“O.R. is prepped and ready upstairs.” 

“Okay, let’s get her stable and on the move.” 

“I’m coming.” 

“Like fuck you are, brother,” Robby sighed, never missing a beat as he continued to stabilise his best friends wife. The love of his life.”You can watch from observation, but you can’t be in the O.R., hospital policy we—“

“Don’t work on family, I’m not, I’m telling you I’m—“

“If we can’t get her back, you’ll be in there, let me get her back, I’ve got her.” It was a promise Robby shouldn’t have made. But he knew you and he knew you well enough to know that this was not your exit music moment. 

Jack simply held his lips into a tight line of silent panic. He never let go of your hand, opting to walk you all the way to surgery. 

“Wait,” He begged right before the double doors automatically opened on your arrival. Everyone stopped moving as Jack leaned in to whisper something in your ear. “If you die on me so help me god, I’m walking right up to that roof for the last time and you damn well know it, don’t do this to us,” Jack begged. “I love you with all that I am and have.” He said one final time before letting go of your hand. Grazing across your wedding band as he let you go. 

“Let’s move people!” Someone beside your side yelled as all Jack could do was stand still, as you were wheeled away from him. 

“Oh god,” It was immediate, the sudden feeling of sickness. The wave of nausea hit him like a freight train. The nearest fake plant was the best course of action. With one hand on the wall in front of him, Jack emptied the contents of his stomach. It wasn’t much, mainly stomach bile, but the sentiment remained the same. “Fuckk-.” 

The thought of losing you made Jack Abbot's stomach churn. 

It hurts to adapt to change; anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. It’s utter bullshit. But change is inevitable, good or bad. It haunts us like ghosts of our former past. It can taunt us like a small child who thinks you’re having the time of your life. 

But when change is brought about, it’s better to adapt than deny that it's happening in the first place. 

—----------------------

There’s a reason surgeons learn to wield scalpels. They liked to pretend that their hard, cold scientists. They like to pretend that they’re fearless. But the truth is, people become surgeons because somewhere, deep down, they think they can cut away that of which haunts them. 

Weakness, frailty…death. 

Jack woke with a stark jolt. He was sweating, running a fever. The darkness was all-consuming as he tried to gain his bearings. He was in bed. The bed he shared with you.

“Christ,” Jack sighed to himself as he laid on his back in the middle of the night. A hand ran down his face as he collected his thoughts. That had been one of the most intense nightmares, one of the most realistic ones, he’d ever had. 

“Something tells me he had you on do not disturb.” Jack heard you mumble from beside him, wrapped up in a mess of covers and sheets. “Probably, don’t think that guys ever paid much mind to me, has he, sweetheart?”

When you didn’t respond, Jack frowned. You were just talking. Were you talking in your sleep? But you were talking directly to him.

“Y/n, you awake?” It was a question laced with hope. Jack hoped you were. He couldn’t stop thinking about your bloodied face in his nightmare. The way you lay there, lifeless, not breathing. “Hey, c’mere for a minute.” Jack nearly begged as he slowly but surely moved closer to where you were in the bed you shared together. 

With a gentle kiss to your exposed shoulder, Jack maneuvered you from where you were lying on your side to your back. It was then he realised he was still in a living hell. 

“Remember?” Was all you said as blood spilled out of your mouth and down your chin. A bloodied smile was permanently seared into Jack's memory as pure horror washed over him. “You couldn’t protect me, you couldn’t save me. What’s the point of being married to a doctor if you can’t save my life?” 

“No, no this isn’t real,” Jack tried to reason with his mind as he hovered over your now lifeless body in the bed you shared. “Stay with me, sweetheart, stay with me!!” 

But you didn’t move, you were lifeless and cold. So fucking cold. 

“Jack?” He heard through a whisper, a mumbled distance away, “Jack?” There it was again. This time, though, a hand on his shoulder accompanied the male voice, coaxing him back to reality. “Jack, wake up, bother.” 

With a jolt, Jack was waking from where he’d fallen asleep. Right beside you with his head on the spot beside your hand. His in yours. His back ached like no tomorrow, but his hips hurt the worst. 

“I must’ve fallen asleep.” Jack sighed as he tried to regain his composure. The thought of you dead beside him in bed had rocked him to his very core. But it was always the same dream ever since you were attacked. 

I could hear you screaming from the second I stepped out of the elevator,” Robby sighed as he checked your vitals. All the signs pointed to good news. “Have you spoken to your therapist about all this yet?” he asked with a frown of concern from above his glasses. 

“Nope,” Jack explained as he let out a sigh and stretched out in the chair he was sitting on. “Can’t bear to bring it up, might jinx her.” 

“Well, the swelling is mostly stable, she’s regaining strength, and her pulse ox is great, the only thing keeping her under right now is, well, her,” Robby shrugged as he crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s gonna wake up, man.”

Jack didn’t respond right away. He let the silence linger in the air. He watched your steady heartbeat on the monitor. He eyed off your vitals, the way your chest rose and fell with every breath you took unassisted. He was still on edge, but was able to talk himself through it. 

He’d watched you recover over the last week since the attack. Jack hadnt left the hospital once. He’d become what he hated most. A border. But he couldn't bring himself to leave even just for a few minutes. Not when you were here. 

It took a village. Dana had organised someone to collect all the essentials Jack and yourself might need during your stay. The house was probably a mess and the content of the fridge was well past used by, but that wasn't important right now. 

He’d stay here beside you watching you heal. Watching you get stronger. Watching you slowly come back to him like Robby had promised. But no one had any idea how you would react when you finally woke up. There was worry of mental deficits from the head trauma. But Jack knew you well enough to know you were a real fighter. 

He finally knew what it was like for you when he’d lost his leg. A part of him he’d never get back. Jack wondered if you'd feel the same way after, if a part of you died that day. He was anticipating it really. The onset of depression post traumatic events. The PTSD that would haunt you like a ghost. The sleepless nights. The recklessness. The suicidal tendencies. All of it, he knew about it and was prepared for it. 

Only difference is you weren’t. But boy were you a fast learner. And oh boy did Jack understand the other side of it now. How it felt to watch the person you love suffer so much. 

“Here,” Again Robby's voice broke Jack out of his trance-like thinking state. “Drink this, eat this, don’t argue,” A juice box lands in Jack's lap, so did a half eaten sandwich. He looks up at his friend, perplexed…but already knows the answer. “I ate the other half in the elevator.” Robby still explains. 

“Thanks.” Is all Jack has left in him to say. He’s exhausted, but won't say that out loud. Won't admit it to anyone but himself. Robby can see it written in the lines on Jack's face. He can see it in the growth of his facial hair, the bags under his eyes. 

“Have a shower before she starts to stir,” It's one of the last thing Robby says before he leaves. “You look and smell like shit, she’s probably not waking up just to be polite you know.” He doesn't wait for an answer, but as he leaves and heads down the corridor back to the elevator, he knows Jack is smiling behind him. Shaking his head. 

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” Jack sighed, popping the straw into the small juice box. The sugar is a much needed relief for the man running on empty. 

It isn't just surgeons, the truth is, Jack didn't know anyone who wasn't haunted by something…or someone. And whether we try to slice the pain away with a scalpel or shove it in the back of a closet…

Our efforts usually fail. 

—-------------------------------------

Jack Abbot went into medicine because he wanted to save lives. He went into medicine because he wanted to do good. He went into medicine for the rush…for the high…for the ride. 

But what he tends to remember at the end of most days are the losses. What he lies awake at night, replaying is the pain he caused or failed to cure. The lives he ruined or failed to save. So the experience of practising medicine, for Jack Abbot, that is, rarely resembles the goal. 

The experience is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down. 

“One slight gust and you’d be done for, you know?” Jack knew it was you the second he heard the approaching footsteps. 

“What are you doing up here?” Jack replied, all the while he still had his hands tucked away in his pockets. 

“Oh, I dunno,” You sighed as you ducked under the railing. Coming to stand close to but not close enough to where your husband stood. “Heard some lunatic was up on the roof, didn’t take much for me to realise that the lunatic in question was probably my repeat offender.” You rubbed your hands over your face like you’d had enough of today. Coaxing your husband off the ledge of the roof was not something you had on your bingo card for today. “What are you doing up here, Abbot?” 

It was a loaded question, but a question that deserved a genuine response nevertheless. Jack shrugged, unable to look his wife in the eye for once. Something he was really fucking good at doing. 

“Guy lost his leg in a car accident.” You didn’t need much more than that, but Jack continued. You didn’t interrupt. “My call to amputate, we weren’t gonna be able to save it.” You could feel the heaviness weighing on your husband’s heart as he explained what led him to the roof. “Pains been unbearable ever since.” 

You didn’t speak, you didn’t respond, but you sure knew what you had to do. There was a deeper meaning behind the reason Jack made you carry a pocket knife with you. One that wasn’t permitted by the hospital. You casually reached into your back pocket to reveal the small pocket knife. 

“You know, a wise man once told me that you find comfort in darkness,” You said as you knelt down carefully and knew back your arm with just enough force that the blade of your knife would pierce the titanium foot of your husband’s prosthetic leg. “There, should start to feel some slight relief soon.” 

Jack sighed. It never worked when he did it himself. Nor did it work if he knew it was coming. It had to be spontaneous, quick and off guard. You did just that.

“I needed that more than you know.” It was another way of saying ‘I love you’ But you already knew that. 

“Oh trust me, I knew, otherwise we wouldn't be up here standing on the edge of a building.” Jack knew you were right. You knew him better than he knew himself most days. 

That’s why you were his wife. His life partner. His better half. 

Jack let a moment of silence pass the two of you by as you moved to stand beside him once again, both watching the sun gently kiss the horizon. He raised an arm up and over your shoulders. Drawing you close to his side as he left a gentle, but meaningful, kiss to your temple. 

He adored you, far more than you would ever know. Jack was thankful for the way you left the knife in his foot. The more he looked down at it sticking out of his prosthetic, the more the pain alleviated. The more the tendencies subsided.

“You’re pretty good at this comfort thing, you know.” He prayed the roles were never reversed, was there a version of Jack that could offer the same kind of comfort, strength and grace that you could? 

“Comes with the territory,” Was all you said as you let your head against Jack's shoulder. “But seriously, we should totally get down before you spiral again.”  You bumped Jack's hip with your own. He smirked.

“There’s always tomorrow,” Jack teased as he kissed your temple once more. Choosing to leave with you via the stairs rather than over the edge. 

As the warmth of the water cascaded down Jack's exposed body, he stood leaning against the wall. Prosthetic leaning against the doorframe. He needed a moment. 

The scent of your body wash adorned him, using the toiletries you hadn’t had a chance to use yourself yet. Sure, Jack had kept you as clean as you could be during your stay, but wet wipes weren’t the same as your black plum and vanilla scented everything. 

Your wedding ring hung around his dog tags, right next to his. Robby had taken it off before surgery. It had become Jack's comfort blanket. To thumb at the circular silver ring. 

But as the steam threatened to allow Jack's muscles to relax, he heard it…the warning alerts. 

“No,” He gasped. Panic rose inside his chest as he fumbled to switch the water off and wrap the towel around his midsection. Fuck a shirt, this was a hospital and everyone knew basic anatomy. “No, this cannot be happening—not now.“ 

The sight that Jack saw when he stepped out of the bathroom was nothing short of horrific. There you were, surrounded by doctors and nurses alike. Some Jack knew, some he didn't. But they all shared a common goal… 

Avoiding the experience that is, too often, ass-backwards and upside down.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Part Two: Coming Soon. Please leave me something to encourage that to come sooner :)

[godmadeaterribleerror]

In Sweetness

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, tooth-rotting fluff, pregnancy, pre-established relationship.

Summary/Warnings: Preparation for hunts and battles where the fate of the world hinges on his shoulders are easy. Preparation for a baby might be the most complex thing Dean's ever done.

Author's Note: Request from an anon!! Apparently this is a series now, and I am more than okay with that. Same universe as Still You Want Me and Every Day That You Want, but can be read in isolation. Enjoy!

Title from Robin by Taylor Swift

Word Count: 3.4k

“Why are there so many damn colors.”

“Color is a result of visual reception of the electromagnetic spectrum.” Cas shrugged, continuing to sort through the paint samplers as he spoke. “As a human, you, Dean, can only perceive a fraction of the actual colors available to the universe, and what you are seeing now is overall not that many. Though I am quite glad you are able to see purple, as it is one of the better ones-“

“Dude.” Dean grunted, raising his brows as Cas looked at him with a frown.

“Your question was…” Cas tilted his head, his words cautious and slow. “Rhetorical.”

“Yeah. It was.” Dean frowned at the piles of allegedly organized paints samplers. “Why’d you put so many yellows in the green pile.”

Cas shook his head. “That is not the green pile. It is, well, there is no name for it in any human language, but it is a color that is associated with fertility in the community of mantis shrimp-“

“You wanna paint my kids room a shrimp fertility color-“

“No, I am leaving that up to the boss.” Cas shrugged, and placed a light red in with the blues. “I personally find it to be a very relaxing color, but it is not my call to make.”

Dean almost pointed out that it was his call—his kid, no shrimp colors—but Cas had called Her the boss for a reason.

She grew the baby. She had better opinions than Dean did. Her wrath scared Cas more than the wrath of literal God.

It would be Her call.

“Can you, I dunno, man, can we try to sort them in human colors?” Dean sighed, running a hand over his face. “I don’t think she’s gonna know the difference between these two yellow piles-“

Cas frowned. “They are not yellows, Dean. One of them contained ultraviolet, the other does not.”

“Awesome.” Dean muttered Her name, glancing around the half-cleaned room. “She’s- shit, she’s not gonna be happy-“

“I think she will be.” Cas shrugged. “Her endorphin levels always increase by a rate of 400% in your presence, 500% if you are taking care of yourself.”

“Taking care-“

“Your hair is washed, you are not drinking, and you look well. That will be pleasing to her.”

Dean felt himself stand a little taller, even as he shook his head. “Well, my hair or not, we needed to have this cleaned by the time they got back.  I was supposed to have done it last week, but the hunt-“

“She was not happy about the hunt.” Cas nodded, still sorting the pain samplers. “It amazes me you made it out of that alive.”

“I was only a stab wound, Cas, I’ve had-“

Cas said Her name, giving Dean a pointed look. “I was referring to her.”

Dean swallowed, and Cas was right. The only reason he had made it out alive was because that had been his last hunt before the baby was due.

But he hadn’t cleaned the room.

He still hadn’t cleaned the goddamn room.

“Son of a bitch.” Dean rubbed at his face, staring around bunker-room that should have been neatly scrubbed and wiped hours ago. “She’s gonna kill me. Stab me. Mutilate me so my daughter screams when she sees my face-“

Cas gave him an odd look. “You believe it will be a daughter?”

“I- uh,” Dean paused, and he didn’t know why he’d said that. They’d agreed not to check, no matter how many times Cas offered.

As long as it’s healthy. She’d repeat, over and over, and Dean knew why. She was still having nightmares where demons or angels came and stole the kid. Where a new monster would pop out of the earth, and everything would catch up to them, and they’d lose their shot at this before it even really happened. 

He’d hold Her when she’d wake up screaming, and do whatever he had to for Her to breathe evenly and fall back asleep. Sam said She needed to sleep more for the baby, and every time she’d gasp his name like She wasn’t sure he was there, Dean’s heart would shatter a little, so he’d do anything. He’d give massages—he was getting better at them, too—and make tea and watch whatever show she wanted to in order to bring her back to earth. In order to get Her to stop scratching at his arms, as if She was trying to carve grooves into Dean that she’d be able to latch onto. To keep him alive and next to Her at all times.

Dean would always be alive and next to Her. He had no plans of going anywhere, of being anything but there for Her and the baby. And She knew that—he told Her every single night, and morning, and most afternoons—but it still took effort to get Her out of the bunker. Into the real world, without wards and anti-monster security. Sam had needed to arm himself like he was headed to war instead of the grocery store, just so She’d agree to go with him. 

And Dean and Cas were supposed to have finished cleaning by the time She got back. If they didn’t, She’d try to do it herself, and it would take all three of them to stop Her. She could barely bend over, let alone paint the walls and pick up the trash and-

“I can paint everything now,” Cas said, nodding to the walls as Dean blinked at him. “If we would like to save the time.”

“Let’s wait ’till we got a color,” Dean muttered, glancing out the door to empty hall, trying to listen for the sound of Baby’s engine in the garage. They should be back soon. They should’ve been back by now, and She was fine because She had to be, but Dean knew his gut wouldn’t stop twisting until he saw Her. Beautiful and right in front of him and safe. “Cas, you think you can take care of-“

The was a soft whooshing sound, and when Dean looked back to the room, it was perfectly clean.

“That is was you were requesting, correct?” Cas said, gesturing to the room around them. “If not, I can return it to the previous state-“

“No, don’t-“ Dean cut himself off as a low, muffled rumble echoed through the hall, and there it was. The sign that everything was fine. “Keep it. Thanks, man.”

Cas nodded, glancing to the perfectly sorted paint pile. “I took your suggestion and sorted them by human color receptors. Although there are more of the cards than I originally anticipated-“

“She used to collect them or something.” Dean grunted, and grabbed a pastel blue that he was ready to throw his weight behind. It was soft. Nice. Like the sky. “Once we got a color, if you could aim that angel mojo on the walls-“

Cas nodded, opened his mouth, and was cut off by a shout of Her voice as a door slammed.

“Dean!” She was half screaming, and Dean wasn’t worried about their safety. Sammy would’ve called them if something was wrong.

He was worried about Her running. Last time She done that, Sam had gotten body slammed into a wall. 

Almost on cue, Sammy’s voice shouted Her name. “Slow down-“

“Suck my dick, Sam- Dean-“

“In the nursery!” He raised his voice to carry over Her’s, half-jogging out of the room to meet Her, only to catch Her barreling right into him like a freight train, knocking half the air out of his lungs as She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Shit-“

“Are you okay?” She leaned back and took Dean’s face between Her hands, turning it at a million angles to check for harm. “I’m sorry we’re late, Sam took a fucking hour in the produce section-“

“I was getting food for you.” Sam muttered, almost materializing behind Her. “You’re the one who said you wanted to eat healthier-“

“Not now.” She snapped, not looking away from Her examination. “After the little demon inside of me comes out, the one made of your stupid brother, who only wants ice cream and bacon-“

Dean grinned, unable to find himself bothered by the stupid brother comment when She was still half-hanging off his body, and let his hand glide to rest on her stomach as She continued to yell at Sam.

“I wanted to get home, we need to clean the nursery and there’s so much trash in this bunker, and painting is going to take days and I need to start working on the decorations, I can’t waste time buying lettuce-“

“Sweetheart.” Dean caught Her hands, lowering them with a kiss of Her knuckles as her eyes softened slightly. “Deep breaths.”

She took a slightly shaky inhale, still narrowing Her eyes at him. “Don’t tell me what to do-“

“I know.” He grinned at Her, and her own glower wavered slightly. “Got a surprise for you.”

“Uh oh.” Sam’s voice was not nearly low enough for Dean to miss it, and he rolled his eyes.

“Shut it, Sammy, she’s gonna like it.”

Sam shrugged. “Just saying, didn’t your last surprise end in someone getting punched-“

“Yeah, Sasquatch, you-“

“Dean.” She whispered, squeezing his hands and drawing his attention back to Her open, nervous expression. “Is everything oka-“

“Everything is perfect, baby.” He let his grin return in full force, tugging Her a little closer and guiding Her into the work-in-progress nursery. “Cas did something for ‘ya, and we got plans to-

She cut Dean off with a loud, breathy gasp as they moved back through the door, Her eyes scanning over the perfectly empty and polished room.

“I have not painted the walls yet.” Cas said, watching Her carefully from the center of the room. “We believed that it would be best to allow you to choose the color-“

“Color?” She blinked back to Dean, and he nodded to the paint samples.

“Sorted all of them,” he muttered, pulling out the blue shade from his jeans. “But I liked this one-“

She nodded, not even looking to the pile. “Then we’ll do that one. Cas, can you please-“

Another whoosh, the walls were perfectly blue, and Dean stumbled back as She shoved away from him, half flying across the room to pull Cas into a hug. He returned it, shooting Dean a slightly worried look over Her head, and Dean only shrugged. He’d long learned not to question Her reactions. And he’d learned it the harder way than a hug.

Cas said Her name cautiously. “Are you experience any sadness or trepidation at my interference-“

She shook Her head, and Dean knew that if Cas had to worry about things like breathing, he’d be suffocating in Her grip. 

“Then I assume these are tears of joy-“

“Yeah,” She mumbled, taking a step back, and the smile on Her face could move Dean to wage a war against the goddamn moon. “Thank you, Cas. I- this has been a lot, and I love Dean but he can be so slow-“

Dean frowned. “Hey-“

“Sorry.” She gave him a sweet, soft smile over Her shoulder, and any annoyance he’d had vanished into the air. She was smiling at him like that—with the smile no one else got to see—and there was light shining in Her eyes that he was pretty sure only ever existed for him, so he couldn’t be mad if he tried.

“’S fine.” He muttered, holding out his hand and sitting in the glow that settled in his body when She moved without thought to take it. “We got some shopping to do, Sweetheart, but I can scout ahead while you rest-“

She blinked at him. “Why would I rest?”

Dean glanced down to Her swollen stomach, then Her pouting face, and swallowed. “Uh- Any answer I got is gonna get my ass kicked, isn’t it-“

“Probably,” Her voice was bored and flat, and Sam snorted from somewhere behind them. “Just don’t say it, De. That’s an option.”

“Yeah- uh-“ He glanced to Cas, who was obviously making himself pointlessly busy with the paint samples. “You comin’ with me then?”

She hummed, tucking Herself into Dean’s side with another star-shaking smile. “Always.”

He couldn’t argue with that. There was no world where a little bit of Dean’s will didn’t melt into Her, become only Her’s to use as she pleased. If what made Her smile and relax was as simple as going with Dean to the city for baby shopping,  he’d rip out his own throat before he denied Her. He would change the goddamn tides and move mountains to make Her happy. Driving in his car with Her at his side, his hand on Her thigh and their child—made of both of them, proof for Her to have that Dean loved Her, and wouldn’t leave, and would fight heaven and hell a million times over to give Her peace, right there in Her body—in Her stomach, was nothing.

“Do you think it’s too on the nose to ask Cas to be the godfather?” She asked, frowning at the road ahead of them, and Dean snorted.

“I think if you do that, you’re going to have to deal with him bringing us fruit from Asia every weekend and a real-life zoo in the bunker when the kid start to learn about animals.”

She hummed, turning Dean’s hand over and tracing the lines of his palm with a small smile. “So he’s perfect.”

“Damn right.” Dean folded his fingers through Her’s, tugging them up to press a kiss to the back of Her hand. “If you think that’s what we want, sweetheart, that’s what we’re doing.”

She giggled, even as She rolled her eyes. “Did he try to get you in on the shrimp fertility colors while I was out?”

“Yeah, how’d you-“

“He got me a baby blanket with it. Apparently, it will bring hi- The baby good health.”

Dean shot Her an amused look. “Him, huh? What happened to no reveal-“

“Shut up.” She mumbled, shifting in Her seat. “It’s just a theory, the little fuck kicks me too much to be a girl-“

Dean snorted. “You kick people more than anyone I know-“

“And I have my shrimp fertility blanket.” She said, ignoring Dean entirely. “He’ll be healthy. His godfather is an angel.”

“So we’re asking Cas then?”

“We don’t have any other friends, Dean.”

He grinned at Her. “I dunno, Rowena would train her real well-“

She slapped him on the arm. “I am not letting my child visit hell-“

“She could come to us-“

“This isn’t as funny a bit as you think it is, Winchester-“ She cut Herself off, and Dean could feel Her scanning over his face. “Did you say her? You think we’re having a girl?”

Dean shrugged, keeping his attention fixed on the road. “Don’t know what your-“

“Dean.”

He glanced at Her—gentle expression, brows raised and sweet smile—and let out a long breath. “Yeah. I got- Uh, it’s just a feelin’. Could be nice to have a girl. You know, Sammy could braid her hair.”

She snorted, scooting closer to his side on the bench. “If we have a girl, you’re braiding her hair. But we’re having a boy.”

Dean grinned down at Her, wrapping his arm around Her shoulders as they turned into the parking lot. “You wanna place a bet on it-“

“No. Do you have the list?”

“Course I got the list. It’s really-“ Dean shook his head, stopping the Impala near the front of the building. No need to make Her walk further than a few yards. “Sweetheart, there’s no way we need all the shit you put on that thing-“

She sighed, shaking Her head. “It’s a whole, brand new person, Dean. We’ll probably need more.”

He thought about protesting, but that couldn’t be his biggest concern right now. His priority was Her. Getting Her whatever she needed, even if it was dumb. Even if half this stuff could be found in a garage sale, or the depths of the bunker, or given to them by Cas with only a request, She wanted to do the whole shopping thing, so they’d do the shopping thing.

He’d grab a big cart and follow Her around the department store, giving half-opinions when asked and watching Her walk with a wide grin, She’d gotten the pregnancy waddle, and he’d never seen anything more adorable in his life. She was freakin’ glowing. Lit up from within and happy. And he’d done that. Dean was the cause of Her joy and comfort, and he’d do a million more pregnancy tasks if it kept that smile on Her face, that comfort settled deep in Her body where he could practically see it. 

“Dinosaurs or bears?” She asked, sorting through the onesies with an expression like she was choosing a gun for a hunt. “I- Maybe we should go lions-“

Dean muttered Her name, kissing the side of Her head and wrapping an arm around Her body. “She’s not gonna know the difference, it’s whatever you want-“

“No, babies are smarter than you think, as he develops pattern recognition it’ll influence his like and dislikes-“

“You gotta stop watching those documentaries, sweetheart-“

“And he’ll be more interested in dinosaurs or bear- lions. It should be lions-“

Dean turned Her to fully face him, holding Her wide eyes, almost franticly gorgeous face between his hands and cutting Her off with a kiss. 

“You’re callin’ it a boy again,” he murmured against Her lips, and She out a happy little sigh as he traced his thumb over Her cheekbone. “I still think we should do that bet.”

She shook Her head. “I- I’m sorry-“

“Nothin’ to be sorry about. But you’re still real damn wrong. It’s a girl.”

“Shut up.” She mumbled, but still dropped Her head to Dean’s shoulder when he drew back, and he grinned into the air as any weight that had ever existed over his chest was lifted. Dissipated into nothing as Her fingers curled into his shirt. “We don’t have anything to bet, De, we share everything-“

“We could be naming rights?” He rubbed his hand over Her shoulder, swaying her back and forth slightly in his arms. “I get to choose the name if it’s a girl, all on you if it’s a boy?”

There was a brief moment of silence, Her words still muffled in Dean’s body when she spoke. “You can’t name them something stupid.”

He chuckled, pressing another kiss on the top of Her head. “I’d never even think about it, sweetheart. No jokes here.”

“Uh huh.” She leaned back to meet him in a full, long, slightly sloppy kiss that sparked warmth through his body, before pulling back with a gentle grin, “I’ll make the deal if you actually help with this. Dinosaurs or lions, Winchester, pick one-“

“That’s easy, baby.” He shot Her a wink, leaning over her body to grab a onesie and toss it into the cart. “We’re going cars.”

She pulled away, picking up the onesies and turning it over, and gave a small nod. The smile was back. 

Dean had never felt more fucking alive.

“Alright.” She said, holding out Her hand with a wide, easy smile. “But when he’s a boy, I’m naming him Fred and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Do you think they sell baby ascots?” She scanned around the store with mock interest. “I think Fred will look cute in one-“

Dean scoffed, and before he could shut Her up with another kiss that would turn Her into a breathless, happy mess, and She looked back to him with a smile.

“Just like his dad.” She hummed, hooking their arms together, and kissing the underside of Dean’s jaw with a smile he could feel, fluttering in his heart and making the world spin a little slower.

“You can be a real ass, sweetheart.” He muttered, and She giggled again. He could get high off the sound.

“Only for you, Winchester. Do you think we can find a little Scooby stuffie for him?”

“Baby,” Dean grinned at Her, starting to move them further down the aisle once more. “If I can’t, you’re gonna need to shoot me.”

She rolled Her eyes, running Her hand over her stomach as she tucked herself under his arm. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Only for my girls.” He echoed, shooting Her a wink. “You’re placing a losing bet, sweetheart.”

“We’ll see,” She shrugged, smiling into nothing. Just because She was happy. Because Dean was making Her happy, and everything really was going to be fine. “As long as he’s healthy.”

“She’ll be healthy,” he hummed. “She’s got her shrimp blanket.”

End Note: Cas and his shrimp blanket bring me good health. Amen.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature @sthefferrete @lyarr24

@deansbbyx @bakugotypecrashout @foolinthera1n @globetrotter28 @lordofthunderthr

@youdontknowe @nyrtopia @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @panicking-outside-the-disco @elle14-blog1

@impala67rollingthroughtown @dumb--blonde @itsdearapril @apobangpo-0613 @alwaystiredandconfused

@arcticwisteria @generalmoonpolice @foxyjwls007 @jackles010378 @godhelpthisbtch

@ilovedeanwinchester4 @sleepykittycx @immastealurkneecaps @star-yawnznn @maddie0101

@chi-raz @lori19 @wynnthewynnderful @redwinexsupernova @tiana-kh

@woaheasytig3r @canibeyourghoulfriend @lovelywebber @salemslostwitch @winchester-whiskey

@and-i-wish @jsudsgf @fullbelieverheart @wowzabowza69 @bonbonnie88

@pillowjj @barnes70stark @kamisobsessed @happyfxckinghorrors @deans-yn

@jofinka

[redeemingvillains]

the knight's favor - knight!mattheo riddle (pt. 1)

summary: “I’m not sure why everyone is up in arms about this, it’s perfectly acceptable for a lady to offer her favor for her chosen competitor.”

word count: 2k

a/n: yes knight!mattheo is now a series. yes, i am completely obsessed with it. i hope you come to love these two as much as i do!

 »-♡→ prologue

You squirmed in the stifling heat of the spectator’s box.

The prince was suffocatingly close to you, pawing at you in the cloying heat in a way that made your skin crawl just as much from his touch, his proximity, as from the way the fabric of your dress stuck to your skin.

He grasped your hand tightly, uncomfortably, as he smiled and waved to patrons, members of the court and the knights that rode by for the joust, a practiced smile plastered to his face despite the crude comments and criticisms he muttered under his breath.

You had been watching the festivities for hours at this point, but despite your own manufactured smile, your eyes never left the group of knights as you scanned and searched them with increasing persistence for Mattheo.

Each round that had passed had left you feeling more and more anxious; whether it was the heat of the day or the rowdiness of the crowd, the competition had become bloody and brutal, with one of the last knights being dragged unconscious from the ring, his arm twisting grotesquely in a way that had you averting your eyes as the prince stood and cheered. He had called for the joust, demanding that all enlisted knights participate or suffer punishment, ‘a celebration of our pending marriage’ he’d said, though you had no idea how any of this honored you.

Finally your eye caught the glint of black armor, obsidian against the late afternoon sun and you sat a little straighter in your seat, craning ever so slightly to see him better as his horse rode around the arena to deafening cheers, clearly already a crowd favorite.

You rarely saw Mattheo in his full gear anymore and your pulse quickened in appreciation for the way the leather and metal hugged his large frame, the way he rode effortlessly with his helmet tucked under one arm, a cocky smirk on his face as he drank in the attention and affection from the crowd.

He slowed as he approached the grandstand that held members of the court and your stomach roiled as nearly every maiden launched themselves out of their seats and waved their favors eagerly at him, shouting his name. His smile was beguiling as he nodded and waved to each of them and ran a hand through his dark brown curls, which garnered another wave of high-pitched screams.

Your knuckles were white as they squeezed the arms of the ornate chair beneath you and your leg jostled anxiously beneath the folds of your dress. And like he could sense your discomfort, always so attuned to your every emotion his eyes drifted over the crowd to your box and found yours. He smiled softly and never broke your gaze as he turned and rode slowly in your direction to the great dissatisfaction of the many women who shouted after him.

He stopped in front of the box, and looked quickly to the prince, inclining his head.

“Your majesties” he said respectfully.

You stood, dropping the prince’s hand carelessly as you walked towards him and began to untie an emerald ribbon, the same color as his shield, from the lace of your dress, near your collarbone.

Not a person in the arena noticed but you that Mattheo’s eyes widened as they followed the path of your fingers, that the flush on his cheeks had nothing to do with the heat of the day.

“Your highness—” he tried to say, to stop you, as if he had any right to tell you what to do or what not to do, but then you were leaning forward precariously over the balustrade and he had no choice but to lean into you too, to remain perfectly still even as he was clouded with your perfume, as your hair tumbled over your shoulders brushing his armor, the ends tickling his cheek, as your chest fell perfectly level with his eyes in a way that had him averting his gaze, though not nearly quick enough. And then your fingers brushed his neck, his collar as you affixed your ribbon there, taking your time as you looped and threaded it into his armor.

His eye caught yours and you held his gaze for two heartbeats longer than you should of before you spoke, softly, closely, to be heard over the crowd.

“I place my trust in your valor and skill. Take this token of my favor, may this small gift bring you luck and guide your hand.”

The words were spoken and yet you didn't move, stilling in front of the court, the gods, the prince and everyone close enough to kiss him...

...And fuck if he wasn’t thinking about it, the way your eyes held his like they could say more to him than you ever could: I’m worried about you, be careful, and something else that ran deeper, in the way your own cheeks were flushed, in the way your chest was rising and falling, in the way he swore your eyes flitted to his lips before you smiled, your real smile, not the one he watched you wear every day in court, but the one he told himself was reserved just for him. And then you leaned back, letting him go.

The crowd cheered as Mattheo took off at speed, pulling his helmet on. You were faintly aware of an undercurrent of whispers and as you turned to face the prince you saw a sneer on his face that betrayed exactly what he was thinking for the first time that day.

You sat next to him and he grabbed your hand, intentionally crushing your fingers with his grasp and holding tighter when you tried to pull away.

His plastered smile was back but he growled at you under his breath.

“Was. That. Really. Necessary?” squeezing your hand tighter with each word.

Your blood chilled with concern. The prince was demanding, he was a dick, he was petulant and he pushed things too far but you'd never seen him properly angry, at least, not at you.

What had come over you? What were you thinking?

You swallowed.

“It’s common practice for the lady of the house to offer a favor to the strongest competitor. And he’s our strongest, no?”

A pause. But you could see the curl of his lip. He wouldn’t admit it, even if you both knew it was true.

“If you were a knight, if you were competing, my favor would go only to you" you lied.

He didn’t even look at you.

That didn’t help.

Much to your satisfaction Mattheo crushed his competitor, and for the first time that day you were the one out of your seat cheering alongside everyone else as he tore his helmet off and roared in celebration, pumped full of adrenaline as he tossed it and took a victory lap around the arena.

Your heart soared to see him competing, fighting, doing what he was born to be so good at, and you felt guilty for only a moment that he had been resigned to tedious days following you around the castle.

The crowd continued to clap and cheer and a smaller section had broken into song but as you looked back at the prince you realized he was the only person in the entire arena who was still seated. Silent. Staring at Mattheo.

It wasn’t until much later, after the banquet and several rounds of celebratory drinks that Mattheo was able to find a way to be alone with you, a skill he was as practiced at as he was with his sword, as he swiftly convinced your guard that he would walk you back to your chambers, even though he was technically off duty.

Though off duty at this point was only a matter of pay, as he doubted he could ever share a space with you and not be keenly aware of your every movement.

Even though he’d thoroughly enjoyed the night and the simmering adrenaline from being back in the arena, he was aware that the prince was in a mood, which wasn't altogether unusual, but it seemed to be directed at you in a way he didn't like.

And he didn't like the way you averted your eyes from all conversation, the way you pushed your food around your plate, and didn't eat anything, not even your favorite dessert.

And when he noted that the more the prince drank, the handsier he got with you to the point you were nearly squirming out of your seat he thanked the gods that you excused yourself, which saved him the effort of shearing the prince's head from his body.

You were walking quickly, marching really but when Mattheo fell into step beside you your feet slowed and he was sure he saw your body relax, the tension lowering your shoulders as a slow smile spread across your face despite the fact that you didn’t turn to look at him.

You continued in amiable silence, appreciating the stolen moment alone, and he waited until you were nearly at your room and out of earshot before saying anything.

“You shouldn’t have done that" he murmured.

“Whatever are you talking about?” you replied, smirking.

“Today, your favor.”

You huffed and rolled your eyes even as your posture tightened.

“I’m not sure why everyone is up in arms about it, it’s perfectly acceptable for a lady to offer her favor for her chosen competitor.”

He shook his head, as he carded his hand through his hair.

You weren’t wrong, but he’d heard the whispers, had seen the way people looked at him tonight, had seen the way the prince looked at him tonight. It had become abundantly clear that he’d gotten too comfortable, complacent with what it meant to be close to you.

Then again… maybe he was reading too far into it all? To think that what you had done was anything more than acknowledge that he was a strong competitor? In fact... had he been too forward just now in telling you what he thought? His head spun and it ached and he realized he was more drunk than he'd thought, and he was grateful to be at your door as he leaned against the doorframe for reprieve as you moved to open it.

But your hand paused on the iron handle, and you glanced up at him, and for the second time that day every inch of his body was at attention in your proximity as you looked at him with that same damn look in your eye and his heart melted as his lips smirked at you.

“For what it’s worth, Sir Riddle—” you said, addressing him teasingly as you let go of the handle and reached to gather the silhouette of your dress. You pulled it up and his eyes darted there and he swiftly forgot how to breath as you revealed your ankle, your calf, your knee and then your thigh and he swayed a little bit and was about to tell you that you should stop before he caught sight of an emerald ribbon knotted in a bow around your thigh, the same color as the one you’d tied to his armor that now sat in his pocket, the same color as the crest he wore on his shield, only this one sat against your skin, your perfect soft skin, your leg, your thigh, your inner thigh...

“—I always carry you with me" you whispered, and he pulled his eyes from beneath your dress to meet yours, "so it seemed only fair that you carry a bit of me with you.”

He could feel his body shaking with temptation, with fear, with the realization that what had transpired between you had gone far beyond playful banter, stolen glances, and a wish he’d held in his heart but never thought could come true.

And despite years of careful restraint, his hands betrayed him as he reached for you, moving to cup your face, to pull you towards him, his rough callouses brushing against your cheeks as your own hands came to cover his and you leaned into him, easily, without hesitation.

Your eyes fixed on his lips, and you were right there, a breath away, your eyes begging, pleading for him to kiss you...

"Dolcezza" he whispered, sliding into his native language as he grappled with a way to properly express himself.

...And then laughter reverberated down the hall that broke both of you out of the moment as you jumped and stepped back, slipping out of his grasp looking at him reluctantly as your hand covered your mouth, tracing your lips, before you shook your head.

“G-goodnight, Mattheo” you said quickly, darting into your room and gently closing the door behind you.

He sighed, rubbing a hand down his face as slumped to the floor and let his head fall against your door where he sat the rest of the night.

 »-♡→ part two

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey @mattiesgf @sleepiibunniiii @darlingshecried @girllblogging777 @foivetimesacharm @clar2aa @broadwaybaby123 @slytherinscreamqueen @loverliner @smut-anarchy @locknco @wybieivy @itznotsophia @cipheress-to-k-pop @aur0ral1ghts @voidofsunlight @diorandcigaddict

[internetdaddy98]

Uncharted Territory

Previous | Next [Series Masterlist]

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!SeniorResident!Reader Summary: Robby and Y/N attend a Thanksgiving dinner at her family’s home. As they arrive, Robby notices Y/N’s slight nervousness, the first time he’s seen her unsure since their relationship became personal. 

Word Count: 2.2 K Content Warning: Mentions of death

Robby had never been to a Thanksgiving dinner like this.

The driveway was long and winding, the trees on either side stretching their bare branches toward the sky like hands reaching for the clouds. He had parked at the end, under a single light, watching as you walked ahead, your posture confident but the slightest hint of nerves in your step. It was the first time he’d seen you so unsure since you’d crossed the line between professional and personal. Usually, it was the other way around, he was the one second-guessing himself. But today, it was you.

Your hand brushed his for a second, a silent reassurance. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around yours, giving it a quick squeeze, the gesture a promise.

“You don’t have to do this,” Robby said, his voice low as they walked toward the front door.

“I want you to be here,” you replied, not looking at him, but your smile was soft. “I need you to be here.”

He could tell there was more behind those words than just simple affection. You were giving him more than he thought he deserved. Robby swallowed, feeling that familiar tightness in his chest, the same tightness he had when he thought about the people he loved most in his life, and how easy it was to break them, to lose them.

But today, he wasn’t going to lose you. Not now, not ever.

They reached the front door, and you took a deep breath before knocking. The door swung open before you even had the chance to touch the handle. A woman in her late sixties—tall, with a warm smile and brown eyes that mirrored yours—stood in the frame, a welcoming expression lighting up her face.

“Y/N” she exclaimed, pulling Sheridan into a tight hug, one that Robby could only watch. “You made it! And you brought Robby. It’s so nice to finally meet you!”

Robby was caught off guard. He had expected to be introduced with some level of distance. Not as a boyfriend. Not yet.

“Mom, Robby is my—,” you said, your voice steady, though Robby noticed the way your chest rose and fell slightly faster. “My… my partner.”

Robby held out his hand instinctively, shaking the woman’s with a firm grip. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mrs. Sheridan.”

Mrs. Sheridan’s eyes softened as she held on to his hand for just a second longer than usual. “Y/N’s told me so much about you. Please, come in. Dinner’s just about ready.”

Robby stepped inside, feeling like he was crossing into foreign territory. The house was beautiful in a way that was distinctly you—comfortable, clean, yet filled with little hints of personality. There were photographs on the walls of her as a child, laughing with a brother Robby hadn’t met, and a few older shots of her with her parents, always with that same earnest, kind smile.

The decor screamed wealth—polished hardwood floors, an impressive chandelier overhead, and even the scent of the house—rich and almost intoxicating—spoke of affluence. Robby couldn’t deny the sense of unease creeping up his spine. He had always lived a life of simplicity. This was something different entirely.

“Baby, why don’t you take Robby to the kitchen? I’ll finish setting the table.”

Robby glanced at you as your mother bustled off toward the kitchen, and you caught his eye. There was something about the way you were looking at him, an almost shy smile on your lips, that made the tension in his chest increase.

“Let’s go,” you said, leading him through the house to the kitchen.

The space was stunning, a large, open room with marble countertops and soft, ambient lighting. Your father was at the counter, chopping something with precise movements, his back to them.

“Daddy,” You called out, her voice soft yet strong, a tone Robby couldn’t help but notice. “This is Robby.”

Her father turned around with a kind smile that mirrored his wife’s, but Robby could tell there was something more in his gaze. Like he was sizing Robby up. A quiet challenge that he didn’t know how to address. “Nice to meet you,” he said, shaking Robby’s hand without hesitation. “Y/N’s told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Sheridan,” Robby replied, his voice steady, even if his heart was racing. “It’s good to be here.”

They chatted for a few minutes as Mrs. Sheridan finished up in the kitchen, and Robby found himself settling into the easy rhythm of the conversation. It wasn’t awkward—not like he had feared. In fact, he felt comfortable, at ease in a way he hadn’t thought was possible when he first thought about spending a holiday with your family.

But every now and then, he would catch you looking at him—those moments when your eyes met across the room, and everything else seemed to stop. He couldn’t explain it, but something shifted in those moments. The way you saw him now wasn’t the same as before.

You weren’t hiding anymore. You had introduced him as your partner—not your mentor. And for the first time in months, Robby allowed himself to believe it. He wasn’t holding back. And neither were you.

Dinner was served with an easy familiarity, the table brimming with food, laughter, and the sounds of family. But through all of it, Robby couldn’t help but notice the subtle but undeniable ways your relationship had shifted. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. Every little gesture you made, the soft laugh you let slip when your father told a terrible joke, the way you corrected him when he tried to grab your plate without asking.

She was home, and he was a part of it now. A part of her world that had been so carefully tucked away.

After dinner, as the dishes were cleared and dessert was brought out, you and your mother left the room, giving Robby a moment to speak with your father. The conversation felt easy, relaxed, but Robby noticed the lingering tension in the older man’s eyes when he looked at him.

“You’re good to her, Robby,” Mr. Sheridan said quietly, his voice almost conspiratorial. “I can see that. She’s been through enough. Don’t let her down.”

Robby swallowed, nodding. “I won’t.”

And then, as if the moment wasn’t heavy enough, Mr. Sheridan placed a hand on Robby’s shoulder. “You hurt her, and I’ll break your legs. Understand?”

It wasn’t a joke, and it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. Robby respected that.

He didn’t answer, just met the older man’s eyes and nodded. But deep down, Robby was certain that this was just the beginning. He couldn’t just have you in his life, he was already in too deep. She was already his, and everything else, every piece of his life that hadn’t been hers before, was already shifting to make room for her.

Robby had already begun to feel the weight of her world, her family, the house, the wealth, and all that it implied. The evening had been a strange blend of feeling out of place and yet completely at ease, thanks to the small, quiet moments shared with you. It wasn’t the grandeur of your home that left Robby uneasy, though; it was the knowledge that there was more to you than what you showed the world.

The conversation had moved into a natural silence after dinner, and the family had retreated inside, leaving Robby and you alone on the back porch. The air had grown crisp as twilight settled in, and Robby found himself looking at you in a way he hadn’t before, your eyes soft in the fading light, your posture relaxed, but something about you seemed distant.

Your eyes were trained on the streetlight across the yard, but they were unfocused, as though you were seeing something far away. It was as if you had become someone else entirely.

“Sher?” Robby asked quietly, stepping closer, his voice threading through the cool air between them.

You blinked, as if snapping out of a trance, and turned to face him. “Sorry. I was just… thinking.”

“About?”

You hesitated, lips pressed together, as if weighing the decision to open up. Robby could feel you pulling away, not physically, but emotionally, and something inside him shifted. He knew that silence. It was the silence of someone preparing to say something important, something painful.

“I wasn’t always… like this,” you said finally, your voice quieter than before, as if you had just invited him into a room you had kept locked for years. “I used to be a different person. I used to be scared all the time. I wasn’t always so... steady.”

Robby nodded slowly, never breaking eye contact, his hand instinctively moving toward yours. “You don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready,” he said, his tone soft but firm.

Your gaze fell to your intertwined hands, and then, after a long moment, you spoke again. “When I was ten years old, my brother died in a car accident.”

Robby’s heart tightened, the words hanging between them like an invisible weight. He had known there was something in her past, some unspoken tragedy, but hearing her voice the words brought a sharp clarity to the pain she had carried for so long.

“Ethan, He was eight” you continued smiling fondly, her voice shaking just slightly, but still, you pressed on. “My family, my parents, we were in the car, and we crashed. I don’t remember exactly what happened, but I remember the way the car felt when it flipped. The way it… crumpled.” You paused, your lips pressed together as if bracing herself.

Robby didn’t know what to say. There were no words for something like that. He couldn’t begin to understand the weight of what you were saying, the guilt she must’ve carried all these years. He moved closer, instinctively, his fingers brushing her hair in a silent offer of comfort.

“The worst part,” You said, your voice barely above a whisper, “is that I remember it all. I remember waking up, trapped in the car with him, and I remember how they weren’t moving. I was so scared, but I had to get out, had to get help. I freed myself, and I called for help.”

You let out a sharp breath. “But I couldn’t save him. I was just a kid. I couldn’t do anything but watch him die.”

Robby’s chest tightened, and a coldness spread through his limbs. Your eyes were closed now, like you were trying to erase the memory of it, to block out the flood of emotions that always threatened to resurface. He could feel the heaviness of the moment pressing on him, but he didn’t move away.

“You were just a kid, Sheri,” Robby said, his voice hoarse. “You did everything you could. You didn’t fail him.”

But you shook her head, her eyes opening to meet his. “I should’ve done more. I should’ve saved him. I couldn’t even hold him, Robby. He was gone by the time help arrived.”

The guilt in your voice struck him with the force of a fist. Robby knew then that what you had been carrying wasn’t just grief. It was guilt—painful, suffocating guilt that you had never been able to shake.

“I can’t imagine how that feels,” Robby whispered, his hand sliding from yours to rest gently on your shoulder. “But I do know this: you’re not to blame. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you quickly wiped them away, offering him a small, broken smile. “I don’t talk about it. My parents don’t either. They’ve never asked how I’m doing with it. I don’t know if they even think about it anymore.”

Robby’s heart ached for you. It was clear that her family’s way of dealing with the tragedy was to sweep it under the rug, but you had been living with it, trying to carry it alone.

“I can’t even imagine how hard that must be,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your shoulder, offering a silent understanding. “But you don’t have to carry it by yourself.”

You gave him a faint, grateful smile, your hand resting over his. “I’ve been pretending for so long, Robby. But with you… it feels like I don’t have to.”

He squeezed your hand tighter. “You don’t. You’re not alone.”

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken promises. For the first time, Robby felt the full weight of your past—of your life before him—and he knew it wasn’t just about the trauma of the car accident. It was about the loss you had never fully healed from, the grief that had followed you in every step, every decision, every relationship.

And as the night deepened around them, Robby realized that the woman standing before him was more complex than he could have ever imagined. But she was also the woman he wanted to hold, to protect, to love in ways she hadn’t allowed herself to believe possible.

The pain she carried didn’t scare him. If anything, it made him want to pull her closer, to make her feel safe in a world that had taken so much from her. And maybe, just maybe, he could be the one to help her carry it, piece by broken piece. ———————————— Want to join the taglist? shoot me a comment! @rosiepoise88 @nosebeers @andabuttonnose @luvr4miya @cannonindeez @hagarsays @captainoates @lemonlime09 @delicateflorencia @iceb1ink1uck @moonshooter @qardasngan @penbridgertonn @foreverchangingfandoms @msdariaknight @kmc1989 @trustme3-13 @ilikestuffs-stuff @letstryagaintomorrow @steviebbboi @jazzimac1967 @foolishseven @catmomstyles3

[merbear25]

What are akainu, aokiji, and Kizarus turn ons/turn offs?

Hey! I took a minute to consider what to include and decided against NSFW, so I hope you like it anyway! 💜💜

CW: SFW, gn!reader, headcanons

Innocent turn-ons/offs (Akainu, Aokiji, Kizaru)

Akainu

Turn-ons

Being a hard, studious worker would earn his respect but an extra flare of grace would have his eyes lingering a bit too long.

Respect towards your ethics and abilities would need to come before any romantic feelings blossomed. After this, he’d become more aware of subtle changes on the day to day: facial expressions, increase/decrease in talking, and punctuality.

Speaking of punctuality, he’d admire someone who could stick to a regime. This basic level of respect towards your work and him went a long way.

I have the strongest feeling that being extremely hygienic would be a major turn-on for him. This wouldn’t be limited to personal but keeping a clean workspace and home would also be important to him—orderly and pristine.

The scent of lavender and linen on your clothes and/or shampoo would be a guilty pleasure of his whenever you were near. Temptation pulled at him, but he resisted getting closer; that was until your relationship was established.

Turn-offs

There was nothing particularly wrong with having a strong or even abrasive personality, but when it became disruptive that was when it would put a rift between the both of you.

Having any kind of dirt on your clothes would be a major turn-off. If you’d just come back from a fight, you’d better tidy up before meeting with him.

An absence of professionalism wouldn’t be appreciated in the slightest. As a partner, he’d expect nothing but the best from you.

There would be no room for laziness or constant complaining in a romantic interest because he’d admire someone who pushed through the hardships with their head held high.

Aokiji

Turn-ons

When you brushed your hair behind your ear, the motion caught his attention. 

His eyes flickered over to you whenever you played with a random lock of your hair while deep in thought.

Being a dreamer would be something he’d be attracted to. There was something about the light in your eyes when you spoke of the future that made his heart race.

Bedhead and a sleepy appearance: you were adorable when you looked like a bit of a mess.

A soothing voice that didn’t usually reach a yell or scream would practically lull him to sleep (if he ever had an issue with that).

Someone who stuck to their morals and goals would earn his respect. This wouldn’t mean that they would need to perfectly align with his own, but instead mean they should remain firm in their core beliefs.

Cinnamon and apples would be his favorite scent that would quickly remind him of you. Of course the perfume, lotions, shampoo, and bodywash helped, but simply being reminded of your warm and comforting presence was the biggest draw.

An air of mystery would pique his interest, wanting to know what you may be hiding and being the one to uncover it.

Turn-offs

Having a flimsy sense of self. If you can be persuaded easily, that wouldn’t be attractive to him because there would be no base for trust.

Someone who was constantly on the go and never being able to appreciate down time would most likely cause some issues in a potential relationship.

No sense of humor. Though he wasn’t one to crack a lot of jokes, not being able to see the lighter side of life would eventually wear on him.

Being overwhelmingly pessimistic would not mix well with his personality. This wasn’t to say that having bad days or generally hard periods would be an issue, but when it spread to every and all aspects of life on even your normal or happy days that’d be when he lost interest.

Kizaru

Turn-ons

A sense of style, perhaps high-end more than anything else, would make you appear dazzling, a diamond in the rough.

Optimism that didn’t cloud your better judgement would be admirable. Having a mostly sunny personality would mix well with his character. This could mean your typical full grin but could also be the emotion you exuded in your quieter moments. Many give off an aura or air to themselves, so being around someone whose aura was overall pleasant would be a breath of fresh air.

Maturity would be a massive thing for him. Something about the way you could handle yourself even when tensions were high got to him in the best way possible.

Smelling of citrus and honey would remind him of the warmer months and have him dreaming of those less chaotic times again. The scents were warm, inviting and lively much like you, leaving him wanting to spend more time around you in the end.

If you were a good baker, he’d adore that. Knowing that the house would smell of tasty treats when he came home kept him smiling on more difficult days.

Turn-offs

Having absolutely no skills whatsoever. Skills was a term that covered many spheres, so not having at least one or two wouldn’t fare well for you with him.

Taking things to heart too often. The ability to let things roll off your shoulders like water off a duck’s back would be preferred, though he wasn’t unreasonable that some things would affect you more than others. That being said, being in a fragile emotional state constantly would be too much for him.

Not letting him compliment you at all. This didn’t include shyness, but instead would mean a love interest not enjoying him flattering them on their outfit, hair, personality, abilities, etc. He may not be excessive with compliments, but this would leave him feeling rejected if he didn’t get any kind of positive reaction.

[theseinfernalangels]

Need You Now - Brennan Sorrengail

Synopsis: The thing about surviving near-death experiences is that you’ll always remember them vividly. For you and Brennan, unfortunately, that’s just about every other night.

WARNING for night terror-esque flashbacks and something akin to a panic attack from both characters. Take care of yourselves, lovelies. Unspecified time — probably sometime during Fourth Wing.

A/N: Finally something for our Lieutenant Colonel! Sorry it had to be kinda angsty, but I made a list of ideas for myself and this is just something that I feel like writing right now. I am a Brennan girl 4 lyfe.

Running. Running is all you can do. All you can afford. In this place, with these people, the only way to keep yourself alive is to run.

Blood roars in your ears, runs down your arms, but moves what feels so sluggishly through your veins. It’s not natural. You’re running faster than the wind can blow, but your heart ceases to beat. That shouldn’t be possible. None of this should be possible. You glance down before pausing in your steps entirely.

You cannot feel the blood rushing through your veins, you realize, because all of it is gushing from a gaping, gorey wound in your stomach, the red essence seeping into your flight leathers like a rising tide and drowning your senses.

Your mouth doesn’t move, but you hear a high-pitched shriek ring through your ears followed by a feral roar that echoes throughout your mind.

“Saintly One!”

Falling. All you feel is yourself falling, falling, falling into a pit of inky darkness as your senses are choked and wrung with a coppery, metallic scent.

There’s blood. So much blood. All you can see, smell, taste is –

Your thoughts are cut off by another ear-splitting roar.

“Wake up, Saintly One!”

It’s dark. It is so very dark, but it is not black. It’s wine-red, the color of –

“He needs you now! Awaken!”

He needs you now —

He needs you now —

He needs you now.

 ⋆｡°✩

You jerk awake with a sharp gasp, your lungs heaving and gulping down the air they so desperately need. Sweat drips down your brow, and your trembling hands flit around for something to grab hold of – someone to grab hold of.

Brennan. You need Brennan.

You flip yourself over, searching frantically for the familiar head of russet curls that graces the pillow next to yours every night. Of course, he is right next to you, but he too is twitching restlessly in his sleep.

He needs you now, too.

You watch as Brennan lets out a small whimper of pain and fear – so much unlike the man you’re now used to. That sound can only mean one thing, though: He’s reliving the Battle of Aretia for the thousandth time, up to the moment where he’d gone completely limp and pale as death in your arms.

Your heart races, and you feel tears burning at your waterline, but you’re used to this routine now after so many nights of mutual terror. You suck in a breath, hold it for a moment or two, and then exhale shakily.

“Bren,” you whisper faintly. “Brennan. Wake up.”

The trembling man does not stir, but his quiet whimpers increase to hushed murmurs of nonsense. Your heart twists at the sight. During his waking hours, Brennan is the strongest man you’ve ever seen, both in body and in spirit. He’s an absolute powerhouse, but when he’s at the mercy of his own memory…You feel like you’re watching a child hiding from a thunderstorm.

“Brennan,” you try again, a little louder. You reach a still-shaky hand over to his panicked form; you hesitate for a moment, your hand paused mid-motion above his body. You don’t want to scare him further, but you know after years of this that a simple call of his name most likely won’t work.

You suck in another breath, hold it, exhale, and lightly trace a finger over one of his biceps. “Brennan.”

Immediately, he jolts upright with a sound that sounds like a choked scream and whips towards you, hackles raised and eyes narrowed as if he’s staring in the face of an enemy. You slowly withdraw your hand and keep your gaze level with his stern look, fear clouding the edges of his irises.

“It’s just me,” you whisper, your voice still quivering from the sheer intensity of your own nightmare. “Just another stupid dream again.”

You both stare at each other for a few more moments, your chests heaving in an uncanny rhythm that has almost been perfected with the amount of times this very situation has happened. Brennan blinks a few times, his eyes slightly glazed and unfocused.

“It’s just me,” you coax him, slowly opening your arms to show him that you’re unarmed and safe. “Just me, love. You’re safe, Bren. You’re alive.”

A few more beats pass before his form deflates and he sighs softly, scrubbing a hand over his face. He looks back down at you, still sprawled on the bed, before slowly lowering himself into your arms. His head comes to rest silently right next to yours. You tuck yourself into him and run your thumb up and down his forearm.

“Easy,” you murmur. “Breathe. In four, hold four, out four, remember? You wanna do that with me?”

His eyes struggle to find yours for a second, but he eventually succeeds and nods once. His fingers clumsily clasp yours, and the next ten minutes consist of the two of you tangled in each other, finding your lost breath and grounding the both of you back into reality.

Some time passes before he finally speaks, his voice hoarse from disuse. “C’mere, angel.” He lightly grasps your waist and hoists your body on top of his, wrapping his strong arms around you and tucking your face into his chest. Your ear rests right on top of his heart, which still pounds furiously, but not enough to frighten you. His calloused fingers dip into your hair, running through the strands absentmindedly. It grounds the both of you at once; your weight presses into him, and his fingers rub against your scalp in a way that seems unnecessarily gentle.

It doesn’t take any words between the two of you to know that both of you had the same recurring dreams as usual. Brennan takes a few more seconds to breathe before he speaks again.

“How long were you awake before I woke up?”

Your eyes feel heavy, so you shut them without protest. You focus on his slowed breathing for a second before you respond.

“Maybe a minute or two. Couldn’t tell.”

He swears softly under his breath before you feel yourself moving again, your body sliding against his until your head is by his shoulder. His lips, slightly dry from dehydration, brush against your temple lightly.

“”M sorry, angel,” he soothes you, rubbing little figure-eights into your back. “You alright? No pain?”

When the nightmares first started, you’d sworn to him that you could feel the phantom pain of a knife in your gut where the original wound had been, even though it was Mended not long after you’d received it. Brennan, the sweetheart, would always press his hand to your stomach to show you that there was no wound to heal – no wound at all, save for a jagged scar on your abs.

You make a small sound of disapproval. “No, I…” You falter when you taste something warm and metallic in your mouth, a faint sting throbbing at your mouth. You freeze, eyes snapping wide open. 

Blood. All you can see, smell, taste is –

Your panicked thoughts are cut off once more when Brennan’s hand sweeps under your chin, his fingers brushing against your skin as he lifts you out of the crook of his neck. His amber eyes meet yours again, and then soften once he glances at your mouth.

“Oh, angel,” he sighs, swiping his thumb against your lips. You feel a warm sensation flow through you before the sting ceases. You’d bitten your lip open, you realize; probably sometime during your nightmare, trying to muffle your terrified noises out of pure habit. And your boyfriend, like the good man he was, Mended it for you.

You dab at your mouth lightly, your arm now smeared with a dark, coppery stain. “...Thanks.”

You lay back down; you barely pay any mind to the blood in your mouth as Brennan resumes his previous ministrations to calm your racing heart. The two of you go quiet again. For such a terrifying night, this has honestly been one of the more okay scenarios. You wince as you remember the night a few months ago where Brennan had coaxed you awake, and you responded by punching him in the face.

“It is better to remember the humorous times over the scariest ones,” you hear your dragon, Sciath, rumble softly. “I apologize for rousing you so abruptly, Saintly One.”

You make a little noise in return. “No,” you reply, “I’m glad you did. I’d rather have one of us awake to get the other out, you know?”

You pause. “I’m sorry if I woke you up, Sciath.”

The dragon makes a little motherly tutting noise. “Come now,” she chides. “We’ve gone over this. It is not your fault any more than it is the Restored One’s. I was awake, anyway.”

Brennan’s fingers graze your waist. “Sciath?”

You hum in confirmation. “Yep. Marbh?”

He shakes his head. “Bastard is still asleep. I think he’s used to me by now.”

You laugh softly, grateful for a less-than-frightened moment among all this chaos. “That makes two of us.”

A beat. Four beats. Eight.

Brennan hums and smooths your hair over with a practiced palm. “No talking about it?”         You sigh, dipping your head further into his neck. “Nope.”

You can almost hear him smile. “Got it.”

There’s no use in talking about what went on in both of your minds. The two of you had woken up like this so many times that it became easier to guess what you both were dreaming about, what you relived constantly in your memory.

“I don’t think I’m gonna be able to fall back asleep,” you mumble. You feel absolutely exhausted, and you feel sluggish, but there’s no way for you to fall back asleep so easily when all you can see when you close your eyes is red, red, red.

“Me either,” he murmurs, his breath hitting your temple. “You just wanna lay here for a bit, angel? See what’s going on outside later?”

You nod. “I’d like that.”

You’d trade a lot to never have to live like this; to wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, writhing in pain that doesn’t even exist while your boyfriend does the same right next to you.

You would not, however, trade anything for the way he holds you – strong and tight against his chest, heartbeat now strong and steady, his fingers sinking into your hair like it’s second nature – not for the world, and then some.

[fleurriee]

hiii i was wondering if u cld write abt “y/n” being in neteyams position like in twow, the last battle on the ship. (like instead of neteyam getting shot “y/n” does!!)

this one broke my heart, oh my days 🤧 i hope ur happy! thank you for requesting <33

pairing ; neteyam x fem!reader

synopsis ; what if neteyam couldn’t protect you like he thought he always could? what if one time, he’s too late?

themes ; angst!!!! major angst!!! main character death, no happy ending

It seemed as though the day was continuously repeating the worse moments, like it wanted to prolong a time where you couldn’t be more nervous, more scared. Because the battle that raged on only continued to swarm you, to fester in your terror.

All around you, the sounds of gunfire ricocheting off of people or metal, the sounds of screams as others succumbed to their end, the sounds of the relentless thrum and desperation that was this chaotic end.

You hadn’t left Neteyam’s side — that was a given. It was like there was this unspoken rule between the two of you that you wouldn’t let the other out of sight. As mate’s, it was your responsibility to protect one another, to have each other’s backs.

It was all you could do to hold your ground. You hadn’t experienced battle like this before. Sure, there’d been the fights here and there, but this was a whole other level, one that caused a bad feeling to rattle around in the pit of your stomach. There was the obvious realisation that some of you weren’t going to make it out alive — not with the numbers and artillery of the enemy. Still, you did your best ensuring as many as possible wouldn’t fall in this brutal war.

But, as the fighting only intensified, the stakes only becoming higher, your heart pounded harder within its cage, willing to be let out.

Looking beside you, there was Neteyam, his tall and stoic form crouched beside you as the two of you continued to hide behind the wall. His focus was unshakable, strong, but every now and again you’d spot a tremble to his body as he continued to peek around the corner, waiting for an opening. Each time there wasn’t one, you were sure he gritted his teeth harder. But, he seemed prepared for everything.

When the moment arose, a gap between the inevitable, he nudged your arm, ushering you forward. You didn’t hesitate. You could feel Neteyam just a hairs breadth behind you, running in your shadow, protecting your back.

He didn’t realise not all of you was protected, though.

Running, it was difficult to spot if there were any enemies around the corner — you knew there were beforehand, but if Neteyam told you to run, you automatically assumed that meant the way was clear.

And, maybe Neteyam thought the way was clear, too, but when a shot rings out, a gun cracking through the already tense atmosphere, and it hits a mark it was aiming for, you know that was entirely the case.

Instantly, pain explodes within your chest — a different kind of pain you had ever experienced before. This one wasn’t like having a bruise or a cut, this pure bone-tearing pain, sharp jagged edges tearing through your skin and into your heart, into your very soul.

It was excruciating.

You’d felt it all before your body had even hit the water, and the moment it did, the pain only seemed to increase tenfold, the water flowing into the deepest parts of your body. Somehow, you managed to stay afloat, laboured breaths and groans of pain all you were able to produce.

But, Neteyam spotted it. Neteyam knew.

His eyes widened, pure terror laced within his expression, his face paling. The sight of your mate sent a pang through your chest, even as the blood continued to trickle out its wound and flow freely into the ocean.

Neteyam made sure not to waste any time.

“Y/n!” His voice was a plea, as if saying your name would make the world stop, would somehow make everything okay again.

Even when he knew it wouldn’t.

The others weren’t far off, and when they saw the state you were in, they rushed over, allowing Neteyam to place the both of you in as comfortable a position as was possible on the Ilu when you had just been shot.

You weren’t entirely aware of your surroundings, eyes falling closed more often than Neteyam wanted, feeling the rush of sea breeze fling past you as he rode faster and faster.

“Y/n!” he shouted again, his voice more hoarse in the amount he’d clearly been yelling where you hadn’t heard him. You could feel one of his hands begin to gently caress the side of your face, coaxing your attention back onto him. There was a tremble within that touch. “Stay with me. Please stay with me.”

Before you could even attempt to say something back to him, he was lifting you off the Ilu, before placing you with tender care against the ground, hard rock stabbing into your back. Neteyam cursed, knowing that wouldn’t be helping you.

When situated, you gave yourself a second to collect whatever breath you could. “I…” you attempted to speak, your throat dry and beginning to hurt, vision slowly dimming. “I’m sorry.”

“No.” Neteyam’s voice in sharp and instant, a slight break at the end. He’s adamant — even in your delirious state, that’s more than obvious to you. As he continued to shake his head, body trembling from head to foot, his grip only tightened further as he held you against him, like he was trying to hold himself together, too. Like holding you could make you stay. “Don’t apologise. You’re not leaving me — not like this.”

His words, his actions, his demeanour, it was all too much, all too quick. Tears began to well in your own eyes now, hating to see him so upset, in such a state. Even in a moment like this, you were caring more about your mate than you were yourself. “I’m sorry…” you apologise again, unable to hold it all back now. You didn’t want to cry, not when you knew it only made him feel worse. “I couldn’t… protect you.”

Cupping your cheek with his hand, Neteyam continued to shake his head, thumb rushing over your delicate skin in soft and desperate circles. “Don’t say that,” your mate shushed, not wanting you to strain yourself any further. “Don’t. You’ve always protected me — always.” His voice… Ewya it was heartbreaking. Every words was a battle in itself. “Please,” he begged, a small hiccup to the word, “I can’t lose you.”

A faint smile was the best you could do in an attempt to reassure him, even though it was becoming shakier and weaker as the seconds slowly dwindled by. “You won’t…” you cleared your throat, voice hoarse, “you won’t be alone. You’re strong, Neteyam — the strongest person I know.” More hitches fell from your voice, body trembling and breaths heaving, like it knew more than you did that your time was limited. It was too much effort to stay conscious, your world narrowing down.

He hated this. He hated that even in your final moments in this world, you were still doing your upmost best to make sure Neteyam was feeling okay — as okay as he could be, all things considered. Your words were gentle and firm, pushing all your belief in them. He hated this.

Neteyam’s vision was almost completely blurry now, covered entirely in his unshed tears. For a moment, your sadness gazing up at your mate, you could see the boy you’d known for all these years. He was the boy who never showed weakness as the eldest child, as the heir to their old clan, the one who was always so steady and unshakable. And, now, here he was, breaking apart inch by inch before you, because of you.

The inevitable was looming over the two of you like a death shroud, and Neteyam knew he didn’t have long left with you. His only option was to make the most of this short moment. “I love you,” he whispered, chocking with emotion, with fervour. Still, denial was palpable. “Please, don’t leave me. I need you.”

Warmth blossomed from within your chest, even as the ice cold crept further with your every limbs. Your weak hand did its best to squeeze your reassurance into him. One last smile. One last truth. “I love you, too.”

And, then, the world around you seemed to fade away, your heartbeat slowing, body relaxing in your mate’s embrace, soul slipping away. Your eyes glazed over, looking up into the sky, but not truly seeing. The only thing that remained was the feeling of his arms holding you close, his voice calling your name softly.

Then, silence.

Neteyam’s grip of your lifeless body never faltered, his heart shattering within its cage, cracks in the wall, cracks in his soul. Leaning down, he pressed his forehead firmly against yours, your weak hand held tightly against his chest, mind repeatedly praying to Ewya to bring you back, for a miracle that wouldn’t become.

“Please,” he whispered to you one final time, to the night, to anyone who would listen to his desperation. Even the words trembled in the air. “Please stay with me.”

Nobody answered back.

[scribbledghost]

Inhuman!IV Headcanons

Note: Up next is IVy!! I really am enjoying all the world building I'm getting to do with these.

General:

The youngest of the vessels, and has only been officially converted for around 100 years, which isnt long in the grand scheme of things. As such, he hasn't quite been able to discover his specific "inhuman power" yet like the others have. He has the general powers (increased strength and vision, telepathic connection, etc), but not his specific one yet.

He's on the verge though - he can do as many growly metal screams as he wants and his vocal cords stay intact. So IV is pretty sure his go-to inhuman talent will have something to do with his voice.

His physical appearance is probably the most "human" of the rest as well: two eyes, and his canines are only slightly sharper than normal.

There's also a very small patch of skin on his chest that hasn't quite finished changing to the charcoal-black color (when a vessel converts, the black color starts on their toes/fingertips and spreads inward over time).

A bit of a troublemaker (the one most likely to get into Shenanigans with III), but also does his best to not overdo it. Deep down, he's afraid he'll make a misstep and be cast out. It'll never happen, but it's still something that keeps him up at night sometimes.

Has the mouth of a sailor. None of the vessels are adverse to cursing, but IV is on a different level. It's not quite as bad as when he first arrived simply because he's mellowed out a bit over time, but it's definitely there.

Cannot dance to save his life, but he loves doing it anyway. Sure, it's more of a "drunk uncle at a wedding" shimmy when it's just him, but that won't stop him.

Has a very deeply hidden fear of being abandoned. He's finally found a home, finally found his people, and he's subconsciously terrified he'll lose it all someday.

Fluff:

IV sometimes gets self-conscious about the little patch of non-painted skin on his chest. I am begging you to kiss him there whenever you get the chance. He may act a bit flustered and cranky, but he really loves it.

Dances with you a lot. He's a bit less awkward when he's with you as opposed to when he dances on his own, and is a fan of twirling and dipping you if you'll let him.

Like II, he tends to be more quiet in his affections. He absolutely has a soft spot for you, however, and that much is obvious if yo know what to look for.

Another vessel that takes advantage of the telepathic connection you share quite often. He doesn't mind saying things out loud at all, but sometimes he simply likes to communicate in other ways if he's sharing any words of affection. Bonus points if he's got his lips on yours at the time.

Always making sure you're taken care of. And if he's around while you're trying to do anything for yourself (like make yourself food or grab something off the shelf), he's immediately stepping in to do it for you if you'll let him.

If you ever get up and wander around late at night, it's usually IV who comes to find you. He always acts like its a coincidence, but both of you know better. He just gets worried sometimes that something's wrong, and if there is, he wants to be there for you.

His fear of being abandoned doesn't stop with the vessels, it extends to you, too. You can feel it sometimes through your mental connection. He'll never mention it, but you can tell by the way he holds you that much tighter or whispers soft words of affection to you.

The biggest cuddler!! He doesn't care who sees either. If you're around and no one else has started curling around you first, it's almost a guarantee that IV will fill the spot next to you and wrap his arms around you.

Smut (under the cut):

Very good with his hands, if you catch my drift. Loves to use them on you, too, because he knows just what to do to get you making the prettiest sounds. It only takes a couple of encounters for IV to be able to read you like an open book.

IV is more likely to be fast and rough. Not all the time, but often he's driving into you hard enough to leave bruises the following day. It's purely because he can't get enough of you, honestly, and most of the time if he tries to go slow, it doesn't last very long because he can't control himself.

Likely to switch up to different positions (read more about that here), but he's a sucker for a good mating press. Let him fold you in and be at his mercy and he'll have you seeing stars in no time.

Gets VERY growly when he's close to coming. As soon as his words start getting gravelly and low (if they're still intelligible by that point), you can tell he's about to fill you. It's as if his words start coming straight from the bottom of his lungs with how low they tend to get.

Speaking of, IV loves pumping you full. He hates the idea of pulling away from you when he comes, and on top of that he gets the added bonus of watching it drip out of you after - which usually leads to him helping clean you up with his tongue.

He's usually fast and hard, but that doesn't mean he can't be slow and gentle too. Sometimes he gets stuck in his own head and needs to show you how much he cares about you. That usually translates to a few hours in bed with him worshiping every inch of your body.

A HUGE tease. Loves to hear you beg him for more, and likes it when you're specific. Definitely the type to respond to you asking him to touch you with a sly "I am touchin' you" even though he knows damn well that's not what you meant.

Very big on dirty talk as well. Loves the feeling of you clenching around him when he tells you how good you feel, how much he loves being inside of you like this. He also loves including descriptions of what he'll do to you later in your foreplay.

[signanothername]

@meloveanimeforreal7604 your ask glitched so I’m answering with a screenshot chchch

I actually have my own thoughts on their stats and how they changed under Nightmare

Killer is actually canonically shown to have 99999 LV, but later, Rahaf stated people can choose whichever LV they wanted for him, so it’s basically up for interpretation

Murder is canonically mostly at 19 LV, in some timelines, he reaches 20 LV

Horror has never been given a canon LV as far as I know (correct me if I’m wrong)

That being said, in my lil version of Nightmare, he has a “no killing unless necessary” rule, but generally, Nightmare can be a bit lenient if MTT resort to killing as long as it does not affect the negativity in a bad way

As in, if killing someone results in the negativity decreasing, than Nightmare would be pissed, but say if a monster was part of a family and their death resulted in a negativity increase due to their family’s grief, then Nightmare lets it slide

Nightmare only orders MTT not to go overboard with killing, his orders are usually within “Kill as many as necessary to generate a sufficient amount of negativity, otherwise, torture or terrorize”

Murder never ever kills anyone, nor does he tortures anyone, he usually hopes Nightmare would simply assign him a supply run job (which doesn’t always happen) and so if he were to do anything to help with negativity, he resorts to terrorizing only, as in just scaring people by blasting his gaster blaster in random directions, etc, but he never kills or tortures, these people are not part of his own AU, he has no business here, it causes him a lot of problems with Nightmare, but Murder prefers to deal with Nightmare’s abuse than live with more blood on his hands than necessary (I think you can already guess that Murder would deal with forced killing at some point no? >:) )

His stats are very Undertale like, they still follow the same formula and are pretty much uncorrupted, whenever anyone checks him, they get the exact same stats as you’d see in game, his LV stays on 19

Horror would simply follow Nightmare’s orders usually, sometimes during a bad mood swing he might end up killing people, but still stays within the limits of Nightmare’s rules, Horror is generally more responsible for torturing than killing, he’s sadistic af and finds joy in the screams of mercy when people plead for their lives (he might or might not cope with the rage brewing inside him from having to deal with Nightmare and his abuse by turning that rage to sadistic joy when torturing innocents)

His stats are semi-corrupted, his HP doesn’t show up at all, that is because Horror is technically already dead, from his head injury, therefore, his HP can no longer reflect him, his stats simply finds difficulty to assign a number to him, I like to think his LV is somewhere in the middle, not as high as Murder’s but not low either, but it definitely increased a few points after he started working under Nightmare

Killer doesn’t kill unless ordered to, he just tortures and terrorizes, he’s generally apathetic to people’s screams for mercy, only doing his job like the good killing machine he is, at stage 2, he does find his job “fun” but in a way that’s more thrilling to his restless dissociative mind and body then any actual joy, he’s curious and fascinated, not happy, he can’t latch onto his emotions at stage 2 anyway, but I think it’s clear that he carries so much guilt for it that’s only apparent when at stage 1

Killer’s stats are extremely messed up, they no longer truly reflect him at all, his stats are like a corrupted file, it isn’t working as it should be, his HP, AT and DF keep glitching and changing constantly, unable to truly settle on one single number, his 99999 LV would be the closest thing to “consistent” in reflection to him, but even then, it’s corrupted, glitching like the rest but still stays at 99999 LV

His LV doesn’t truly reflect his level of violence, but rather, his soul’s unnatural state, his Determination is way too excessive and his code is way too messed up

An HP can show you that it’s at 1, but no matter how much he’s hit he doesn’t die, or it could show you that it’s at 99 and he dies from one hit

In short, his stats aren’t to be taken on face value as they no longer truly reflect him beyond showing how messed up his state is

Nightmare doesn’t kill unless necessary or when he deems it in his interest, or in some cases, when anger takes the better of him, he finds sadistic joy in the misery of others and a sense of power that he just loves feeling, it makes him feel untouchable, unreachable, undeniably invincible, and by extension, it eases the constant fear of everything and everyone around him (something he’s in denial of)

Nightmare simply put, has no stats, he can be checked, but his stats are never going to be shown, he’s too much of an outcode for his stats to truly show anymore, not to mention, his state of being a semi-god, but the further someone is disconnected from their home, the more likely their stats aren’t going to show or be corrupted when shown, Nightmare falls under the “not shown” category (Killer’s stats’ corruption is also enhanced by his disconnection from his world)

[metranart]

His Mate, finally someone to call his…

ft. Hawks centered, Hawks x reader, Slight! Bakugo x reader, Slight! Dabi x reader.

Hawks x UA Student! Reader (Part 3)

-

Warning tag: obsessed! Hawks, possessive! Hawks, naive! student reader, violation of trust, dubious consent, mating cycles, rut response, obsessive behavior, uncontrollable thirst for reader, manipulation, forced, thigh riding, hormonal minds out of control, sexual content, first time, cock riding, teenage fuck, Dabi's toxically interested in you, Bakugo bestie yet secretly inlove wit you, love confessions, cock-drunk, Hawks trying to be good but failing miserably, gaslighting, HEAVY plot, lots of smut.

-

“Tell me,” Hawks’ voice sounded deeper, raspier almost feral, as it you were facing a darker self of the same man, and the next words that came out of his mouth made you realize how affected he was, for you have never EVER, had such a raw response.

 “...May I fuck you as your way of thanking me for saving you?”

“...W-what?” You stammered, shock dripping down your tone, an eyebrow raising almost comically. 

“Whaddya say, kid—” Hawks purred, closing the distance so much that you found yourself upholstered against the cold wall behind you, the broad chest of the winged hero pressed flush against you as your shaky hands latched onto his black, hero shirt. “You said you could handle me...”

Wrapping one of your hands in his, he guided it down so you could feel his hard rock cock through his pants, a hoarse moan accompanied his next words as the hero guided you to start to pump him. “I can't assure you that I'll be gentle....” the speed of his hand increased, letting you feel every ridge and swelled vein in his fat erection, “but I can assure that you will LOVE to give that tight, warm cunt to me.” 

The golden around his eyes was gone, completely eaten by the blown pupil, anxiety starting to take its toll on you, this was too much.... never in your life have you had such a reaction from anyone you healed... and suddenly Recovery girl's words echoed in your head again. The lack of control from your quirk can have adverse results on the wounded, especially on persons who have animal traits... don't use it at that level until you are one hundred percent sure you can master it... 

Hawks had animal traits, even his fucking hero name was one of an actual animals.... you screwed up, HARD.

“Hawks, S-sir, I...” You didn’t find it in you to move. Every single fiber of your being screamed to listen to his advice and run, but you couldn’t. 

The heat was suddenly too much when you could clearly feel his cock twitching on your palm, and lively snatching your hand, you pushed Hawks away with all your force, a wicked smile stretched his mouth, even so, scooted over so you could attempt to run to a secluded corner next to a dumpster, to catch your breath. 

His step faltered just a second before he felt compelled to trail behind, slumping beside you, unceremoniously. His head lolled, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw, like he didn't care in the slightest, that you were trying to get away from him. 

A warm hand rested over your shoulder, and you felt yourself shiver. “Usually, I don’t fancy brats,” Hawks said, and without breaking a sweat, grinded you against the wall without contemplation, “But you are sooooo cute, I´ll make an exception.” 

“Hawks, Sir!” it was so weird to call Sir someone closer to your age than that of your cousin’s, yet, your voice seemed looped on it, “you are being influenced by my quirk...it is-it is based on energy that–” He didn't let you finish when you were being caged between his arms again, soft lips peppering your face with invasive kisses. 

“—I don’t care, brat, I warned you.” The hero spatted, and a tear threatened to peek at the corner of your eye, yet you inhaled sharply and instead set your mind in hero mode, you weren’t some damsel in distress, you were a hero in training… perhaps there was still a chance for you to complete the healing loop, and satiate Hawks enough for him to come back to his usual self, at least for a moment to be able to talk him out of fucking you raw. 

Slowly, you started to wiggle out of his arms, but then paused for a second to tilt your chin up, and press a tender kiss to his lips to which he responded eagerly, flushed and awfully anxious you tried not to get distracted from your task when he mmphs low in his throat and his hand snaked up to cradle your jaw, holding you there for just a bit longer than you originally planned.

You tried to low his libido down, but your resistance instead urged him to grind his hard rock erection against you, so ready for you to take care of it. And there was when you saw your way out, this was the chance you were looking for, the winged hero was already too lost in his hormonal brain, too affected by your quirk, too deep into his own instinctual behavior to listen to reason....so, you needed to plunge him out by force.... hard and fast, an explosion of pleasurable release.... you were going to have to make him cum, and preferably, without raping you in the process.

The first thing was to separate him a bit from you, but right now that seemed to be the most difficult... since the dirtiness of the things he whispered devilishly against your ear were paralyzing you...

“I´m gonna stuff you with my chicks, you are gonna look soooooo pretty all swelled and heavy...” he breathed into your mouth. His voice teasing, yet again, held undertones of something deeper, something similar to devotion.... almost too caring. This man groping you wasn't the hero persona you’d seen on the news; this was the man behind the mask asking you to bare his children and become utterly his. 

“I can barely wait to come home to my pretty little wifey, waiting for me—” one of his hands dipped under the rim of your skirt, slowly worming his fingers to snatch your shirt up until the skin of your belly was exposed for him to place his big, calloused palm on top—reverently—as if you were meant to be his most prized person, “...round belly, full of my chicks and big, pretty smile on your face,” he kept daydreaming, “-SO ready for me to fill you again.”

Even using all your strength, you weren't able to move it off of you one inch, and worry spiked up when his advantageous palm keep traveling down your lower belly, dragging closer and closer under your panties—you knew what he was after, so you reduced to use a lamer approach. 

“Let me-let me do something first...” you pleaded, and thankfully it caught his sporadic attention, cocking his head to the side quizzically to then dive his face in the hollow of your neck, and breath the next words out. “Sorry, kid, I like to take the lead—”

“That´s okey!” you hurried, “it’s just- it's my... my first time... please, just let me—” you prayed for this to work, desperation really turning your voice into a pitiful sound.

Hawks thought about it for a moment, and grinning more to himself, gift you some space to do whatever you wanted to do –of course under his supervision– it would be embarrassing, and honestly, you didn't know if you would make it work but you had to try, because you refused to have a teenage pregnancy.

“Your show, kid.” Hawks spilled, sassy grin firmly on his face. 

Oh! How you wished he weren't looking so attentively.

“Could you close your eyes—”

“No.”

Well, that was fast, but expected. 

Arming yourself with courage, carefully fixed your disheveled shirt and to the best of your ability stood straight in steady legs, but then stopped for an entirely different reason. 

“Can you please.... —can you please unbuckle your pants?” The words rushed out of you, embarrassment eating you out, painfully. 

“Good girl.” He praised, nimbly unbuckling his belt, and without you having to ask, took himself out.  

Your orbs almost popped out of its sockets, you had seen a dick before but none this big, Hawks was massive, long and thick with a very pretty pink shade, and a dusting of blond hairs nesting on top. “As you can surely see, I’m pretty big, baby,” he cooed in a low rasp, “We better prepare you first, or it’s gonna hurt—like a lot,” you swallowed, thickly. 

And the moment you saw him smearing precum all over the head of his length, and dip two fingers inside his mouth to let his drool cover them to then lick his lips while wiggling the after mentioned digits at you—you didn't know what came over you. Perhaps you truly were possessed or just too determined, but you rushed towards him, and your hand reached between his thighs.

Hawks exhaled sharply leaning into your touch, letting his hot breath wash over your face and you felt him widen his stance to accommodate closer to you. Experimentally, you pumped him once and felt him brace an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the solid wall as your fingers began to slip, treacherously slow, up and down his reddened cock.

He choked out a strangled sigh when you gripped him from the base and began to coil your hand to then cup his heavy balls. His head lolled once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat.

You felt your own breath quicken, felt yourself getting bolder, nevertheless, the uneasy feeling of being jacking off a total stranger in the open, never leaving your mind.

You meshed your other hand into his golden locks and pulled him closer, pressing your body flush against his. Hawks moaned, keening, his arm now firmly around your waist. You shushed him quietly, tightening the hold on his shaft while gaining speed and precision with each stroke. 

In this position, you looked as though you were only consoling a Hero who had a rough week, simply hugging in the dim light of the lonely alley. The shadows hiding you both, that feral Golden gaze reserved only for you. 

“—Is the pressure, Okey?” You sighed into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop...” Hawks whimpered. “God, don’t fucking stop—”

You didn’t, but it wasn’t enough, your touch felt naughtily good, but he was accustomed to experienced partners, even hand jobs needed certain speed and pressure to be fulfilling. The frustrating feeling of not getting what he wanted, edged him to wrap your hand with his and pump your fist faster- it wasn’t as tight, or warm or heavenly as your virgin cunt should feel- but it did scratch the itch, ever so slightly. 

Pressing his face flush against your neck, inhaling deeply. Your scent helped him get closer. He made you jerk him faster, harder. He needed more, more accurate, you, moaning and screaming for him to breed you—mate you. 

His Mate, finally someone to call his… that precious thought and your warm hand achieved the goal a little, just a few drops of pearly cum squeezed out, but enough to grant him a second of coherency. 

“I know what you—what you are trying to do.... kid,” His voice was deep, yet it wasn't the rut speaking, this was actually Hawks.

“Hawks...?” you called out. 

“In the flesh-...ngh!...” he attempted to joke but his voice cracked as he moaned, “This was—FUCK—it was very smart of you...” you could see the struggle in his features, it sounded like he was in pain, “—but I need more....much, much, muchMORE....” he smiled at you, apologetically, “-to be able to tame this fucking rut.”

He knew what he was asking, and even when hated to do it, knew as well that you would prefer that than carry his children and having him strapped to your hip for the next eighteen years, only letting you go once your offspring was able to be autonomous. 

“I-…I can´t…I´m sorry, Hawks—” you trailed, shame curling your lips down, at the knowledge that all of this was your own fault. 

“I know-... sweet girl, its fine...” He cooed, narrowed eyes locked in you cum stained fingers, “I understand… but I need you to understand as well—” 

His voice sounded more strained with each passing second, the winged hero could feel himself slipping away again, he didn’t want to ask, but sure as hell, would hate a lot more to end up taking you by force. 

“—I can’t control myself…” He confessed, “not when in rut and—” 

“I understand.” You muttered, quietly. 

“You do?” 

You nodded, unable to look him in the eye, yet you felt his hand when gently caressed your cheek once, before it latched on to your nape and yanked, hinting you. 

“Then please —please, don’t make me ask.” 

You wondered if he had ever had to beg someone before, of course not, he could have whoever he wanted. Quit stalling, your mind scolded and you felt the pull of his hand again, a little more demanding.

Taking your hand, like a true gentleman, help you to your knees. It was the least he could do, and shame reflected in his eyes when you looked up. Hard and heavy cock throbbing with need in front of your face, ready to be swallowed down. 

Your mouth quivered and before you could set your mind to engulf him, his knuckles gently traced your jawline tenderly, pampering the skin before dip a thumb into your mouth, smearing it with saliva and moistening your dry lips.

You looked as ready as you could be, for someone about to give a blowjob to the number two hero. 

COMING SOON PART 4....

⭕️ In my PATREON LINK you will find NSFW art of this chapter and more spicy MHA NSFW art and exclusive smut fanfiction.... Plus 'Tier reward' like: voting poll privilege for the exclusively Patreon one-shot stories where you can choose the couple pairing and kinky mood for the story and NSFW art, along with some naughty animation like THIS ONE ....and my eternal and vast gratitude for your support!!!

[breelandwalker]

Why is Wicca not a preferred way of practice? I’ve read a couple of posts, and Wicca isn’t favored.

Moral puritanism and performative outrage, plain and simple. There's nothing inherently wrong with Wicca or Wiccans. Some people in the community just aren't doing the work and seem to think that decolonizing our thinking begins and ends with screaming BOYCOTT at anything they deem even remotely reprehensible.

Let's do some of the work and dig a little deeper, shall we?

The main complaint is that Wicca started with people who had problematic worldviews and has had some growing pains and issues with racism, sexism, cultural appropriation, and bad actors in the community as it has evolved, reaching into the present day.

But here's the thing - SHOW ME A RELIGION THAT DOESN'T HAVE THESE PROBLEMS SOMEWHERE IN ITS' HISTORY OR CURRENT CULTURE. GO AHEAD, I'LL WAIT.

It's neither fair nor reasonable to judge a religion based on its' beginnings, or to dismiss the ability of a community to grow and evolve over time, or to pretend that the modern witchcraft movement doesn't owe a large part of its' existence to Wicca. Like it or not, if it weren't for Wiccans, we wouldn't have the kind of organization or recognition that we do, nor would we have had certain landmark legal cases that led to pagans being able to claim the protection of law against religious discrimination in the States.

(And because someone somewhere is going to demand the encyclopedia answer - This is not to discount the contributions of other groups, but the historical fact remains that the people responsible for the foundations of Wicca kickstarted the movement in the UK and subsequent practitioners brought it into public view in a positive light during the counterculture movements of the 1950s and 1960s. And it was Wicca that was first pagan religion in the US to be recognized and therefore included under the constitutional guarantee of religious freedom. This does not change the CULTURAL AND SOCIETAL response to witchcraft or paganism, or the problems that witches and pagans still face in other places, only the presence of civil rights that were not there before. And that has, in fact, contributed to an increase in wider normalization and acceptance. We may not owe EVERYTHING to Wicca and Wiccans, but we would not be where we are as a movement or a community without them.)

Not to mention, Wicca hasn't even been around for a whole century yet and already it's being judged like it has the same kind of cultural and political clout that, oh say, Christianity does in much of the Western world. And it's no coincidence that a good number of the criticisms leveled at Wiccans are the same ones flung at Christians.

Wicca DOES have a strong influence on modern witchcraft, because Wicca and Wiccans were such a big part of the foundation of the movement. Furthermore, many of the published works viewed as standard beginner texts were written by Wiccans or heavily influenced by Wiccan ideas and concepts. Admittedly, there was a tendency for quite some time to think of Wicca and Wiccan tenets as the default for modern witchcraft, and now that we're moving away from that and discovering just how much of our thinking relies on that framework and the ideas present within it, there's backlash happening.

It's important to try and decolonize your thinking as much as possible when it comes to witchcraft. But that involves more work and more effort than just pointing fingers and broadly condemning anything remotely problematic or anything that's ever been touched or influenced by people whose moral and ethical codes don't pass muster under a modern lens. We cannot and should not expect people from 50+ years ago to toe the line when people living today can't even do so reliably.

So to wrap it all up - there's nothing wrong with Wicca and there's nothing wrong with being Wiccan. We are none of us completely unproblematic and until we address the fact that issues with racism, sexism, manipulation, cultural appropriation, and so forth exist in MANY parts of the modern witchcraft and pagan community, we don't get to tar and feather any one group. A bit of critical thinking and self-reflection, and a great deal of Knowing Our Own History, is the key to moving forward here.

Because until the people voicing these complaints most loudly can realize the head-splitting irony of condemning Wicca in one breath and celebrating the Wheel of the Year or venerating a Maiden-Mother-Crone-model goddess in the next, we're not actually getting anywhere.

Anyway, I hope this helps to answer some of your questions. For more information, I highly recommend reading Margot Adler's "Drawing Down The Moon" and Ronald Hutton's "Triumph of the Moon" for a more comprehensive overview of the history of the modern witchcraft movement. Both are written from an outside scholar's perspective and are presented as research rather than rhetoric. Part of knowing where we are and deciding where to go next is knowing where we started and where we've been, after all.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Can you do a Daryl Dixon one where he almost loses her to someone/something/or a walker so he decides to tell her that he loves her and he makes love to her as well. A little possessive and maybe kinda future family references?

.⋆｡Worst Timing｡⋆.

Daryl Dixon x plus size reader

Daryl is an all or nothing man, so obviously he would only tell you that he was desperately in love with you right after you almost died.

Warnings: canon-level violence, walkers, loosely based around s6 ep9, sorry no smut this time (i blame the luteal phase), angst, fluff, confessions, blood, mention of kids  WC: 1.1k

Minors DNI

A/N: Could be read as a part 2 to this but it isn't necessary to read it first

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

The sounds of walkers were almost deafening, almost. The crackling of the flames behind him and the squelch of blades against flesh but Daryl forced himself to ignore all of that, though the volume kept increasing like someone had turned up the world’s biggest stereo. 

Withered hands reached for him, but the hunter battered them away with a swing of his knife. He just had to get further into the crowd, he could see the house where the group had been held up, the candles in the window like a beacon in the night. He was only a couple hundred feet away, a few rows of walkers between him and his people.

The sea of rotting bodies parted for just a moment, right as a street lamp flickered to life, and there you were. A crowbar in your dominant hand, your clothes soaked in blood and walker guts, your eyes reflecting the fire in front of you and for a moment, Daryl froze in awe. You gracefully swung the weapon over your head, bringing it down into the skull of a fresh walker before spinning on your heel and using the otherside to connect with the jaw of another. You moved fluidly, like this was a well-practised dance you had done hundreds of times before instead of a game of survival. 

Your arm came down, spiking a crawler through the top of its skull. But suddenly, you stopped moving, your eyes going wide. You grabbed at the crowbar with both hands and pulled back but it refused to budge, and just as you vanished once more into the crowd, Daryl saw why.

The straight end of the crowbar had pierced all the way through the walker and buried itself in the hard soil beneath your feet and with the walkers closing in around you, you had no room to get enough leverage to pull it out. Then you vanished between the walkers once more.

“Y/N!” Daryl didn’t even think as he launched himself in your direction, hunting knife screaming through the air, cutting down anything that stood in his way. He pushed and shoved and clawed his way through because you were all that mattered, you were all he lived for. The moment he met you in that stupid, beautiful, damned farm, his world had tilted on its axis.

Your smile was his sunlight, your laugh, his favourite music. Your body, his aurora borealis. You were a miracle and yet so painfully human all the same. And if he let you die, his heart would wither away with you before he ever got to tell you that it had been yours since before you both had even met.

Red blurred his vision though whether it was from blood or rage, he didn’t care to find out. He threw his broad shoulder into the chest of a particularly tall walker, forcing it back into the waiting blade of one of the Alexandrians and finally, finally clearing the way to you. 

You were pinned against the street curb, your back curved at an awkward angle as the weight of two walkers kept you from standing or rolling away. You held one back with your left arm, its face barely centimetres from your own, as you wedged a knee between you and the second one.

His fingers sank into the rotted flesh of the creature trying to sink its teeth into your forearm and threw it off with so much force that as soon as it hit the concrete several feet away, its skull cracked open, spilling black brain matter onto the street. You were now fully on your back, still punching and kicking in any direction you could, even as the walkers started to thin. You shoved off the second walker, just in time for Daryl’s steel-toed boot to come down right on the back of its head.

“Daryl.” His name dripped from your lips like honey, immediately cooling his head like some sort of balm to his soul. The ground shook as he fell to his knees next to you. The orange light of the lake still burning strong flickered across your face, illuminating every single detail he had memorised so long ago.

The roughness of his palm met the softness of your full cheek, sending a spark of excitement racing through his tired body. “I almost lost ya.” You pressed into his touch, your own shaking hand cupping his elbow as you leaned in closer.

“But you saved me.” His heart skipped a beat and you smiled gently at him. You were here, you were alive and in his arms and suddenly, Daryl couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

Your lips were chapped and dry but perfect all the same as he finally kissed you. A squeak of surprise passed from your mouth to his before your eyes fluttered shut and you pressed against him. Your fingers curled into the soft leather of his vest, like you were trying to anchor him to you as if he were about to get up and walk away. Daryl snarled at the thought, his grip on your jaw getting tighter as the kiss began to heat up.

You were desperately chasing his lips, your feelings so plainly laid out for him that Daryl felt stupid for never having seen them before. He felt your need to be by his side in the warmth of your touch, the faith you had in him in the way you let his weight rest against you. 

The softness of your body moulded to him in a way he could only imagine it would and it was so much more than that. Your nose bumped into his, prompting him to tilt his head. You responded with a soft moan that shot through his body. 

“While I am happy for you two, we still have shit to do, now’s not really the time.” You pulled away from Daryl’s lips with an embarrassed gasp, leaving him cold without your touch. Michonne stood above the both of you, equally haggard and filthy but her smile, although small, was genuine if not teasing. 

“Sorry.” You scrambled to your feet and pulled your crowbar from where it was still stuck. Your eyes sparkled as you looked at Daryl, a promise and heat in your gaze, before you jogged off into the centre of town where the herd was now thinned but still biting. 

He watched you go, his heart trailing behind you. “Rick’ll want to be godfather to your kids, just so you know.” 

A blush exploded across his face. “Shuddup.” He rushed after you, cheeks still burning and his body exhausted but he felt lighter than he had ever felt before. Because you were surviving and you were his and by whatever god was out there, he would spend the rest of his life thanking them for that.

TWD Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3sloth @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @mooniequeen @slutfor-fictionalmen @black-rose-29 @minedofmoria @relatednative @starboygf

The Walking Dead

@blasianbitch @oxymorondemon @annhells @officertired @minervadashwood @nini-trash-forever @Becausedarylsaidso @originalsourpatch @eternalrose81 @hc-geralt-23 @mandythemint @certifiedhunter @thequeenreaders @honkytonkbabe @eternallyvenus @xxFaithlynxx @amarillyssnowdrop @nyx2021 @midnight-shadow-cafe

[homelanderbutbig]

Nowhere Else You'd Rather Be (G/T Homelander x Reader)

1650 words. Pure fluff. Homelander is 8 feet tall. Reader is non-descriptive. Established relationship.

You have some struggles, and Homelander wants to help. Inspired by this ask.

Your relationship with Homelander is based on mutual love and trust. Unlike the rest of the mudpeople he's surrounded by every day, he's shown you a level of faith far above the rest. He divulges details of his traumatic past knowing you care for him, and he tells you about his problems knowing you aren't just another 'yes-man' and will actually listen to him. Neither of you feel the need to hide your true selves, because you appreciate that you'll never be judged.

But the one thing you've kept hidden from him is your pain.

For quite a few years even before you moved to New York to work for Vought, you've struggled with chronic pain. It inhibits your abilities to function day-to-day, especially during a bad flareup. Regardless, you never let your limitations affect your work, and you always keep your pain under wraps from others who may berate you for your problems… including Homelander. He's never been shy to make snide comments on how humans suffer so easily, how effortlessly they break and how they have no concept of 'true pain'. You were never sure how he'd react to learning about your issues, so you never told him.

That is, until today.

You've been dealing with increased pressure from both Homelander and the Hero Management Department over some new branding deal, and being his personal assistant means the bulk of the paperwork has landed on your shoulders. With this escalating stress you're having a particularly bad pain day. Your muscles are stiff to a painful degree, making it hard to do your regular tasks and walk back-and-forth through the hundreds of hallways in the Tower. There's nothing more that you want than to just be away from this godforsaken place.

Trying to navigate your workload though this pain has left you a bit more withdrawn that usual, your aching body is screaming for a break that you cannot receive. You're hoping that just focusing all your attention on your work will distract you from your increasing discomfort, so the day can go by faster. What you didn't expect is a certain man in blue catching on to your change in personality.

"What's up with you today?" Homelander's voice echoes behind you as you're trudging silently down the hallway. You jump at the unexpected line of questioning; you didn't realize he had been tailing you, using his uncanny ability to sneak up on people despite being an 8 foot tall, 600 pound killing machine.

"It's nothing…" you brush him off, eyes on the ground while you straighten the papers you're holding close to your chest. You try to keep walking, but he quickly maneuvers himself in front of you, blocking any chance of ending this conversation.

"Don't lie to me," he states bluntly, though not coming from a place of malice. He may appear stern, but you can discern the worry in his eyes. He sees how you've been struggling today; he's perceived that something is wrong and he hates knowing you're keeping a secret from him.

"I just… I have chronic pain. I usually have it under better control, but today's a bad day," you concede, staring up at him. You can feel your chest tightening having finally admitted this to him, your mind frantically spinning through all the different ways he could take this revelation.

"Chronic pain?" he asks, raising an eyebrow though his expression remains unreadable.  "You never told me about this before."

"Yeah. I have a condition, it makes my muscles react really bad to stress. I just get all tense and everything hurts," you explain, breathing deep in an attempt to remain composed. "I… I-I didn't think you'd be interested in hearing about my difficulties, when you have so much more than I ever could on your plate. And I'm used to dealing with this by myself already…"

"Hmmm… I see," he says, looking down at you in contemplative thought before silently turning around and walking away, leaving you alone.

You expected that to be the end of this discussion. The next hour you don't see him at all. Now he knows you're not as special as he thought, you're just like everyone else. Imperfect.

However, for some reason, during the rest of the day he stays closely by your side and seems to be going out of his way to help you.

If there's something too high that you can't reach, he's there to grab it without difficulty and bring it down for you. If you drop a book or binder on the ground, he's there to pick it up so you don't have to bend down. If some other Vought employee is breathing down your neck, he's looming over them to give you some space.

And then, as the work day at last comes to a close, you're locking up your office for the night to begin your trek home, happy to go back for a warm bath and to wrap yourself up in heating pads. But you don't make it very far, as you're abruptly swept off your feet and into the air by a pair of oversized hands.

"Allow me," he chuckles, holding you up close to his chest.

"Hey!! Th-this isn't necessary Homelander," you protest. "You don't have to carry me, I can still walk!"

"Nonsense, you rest those pretty little legs of yours and let your favourite supe do the walking," he grins, winking at you. No matter how hard to try to fight his grasp, you're powerless against his unrelenting strength.

With you snug in between his massive arms, he starts strolling down the halls to the elevator. His body heat emanating all around you combined with the softness of his padded suit is admittedly, for the first time today, calming your frenzied mind. Yet there's also something about the way he's not even paying any attention to the people below him, forcing them to get out of his way lest they be crushed under his feet. Usually when he carries you, the both of you are alone and out of the public. From this vantage point you can't help but understand how easily one could see the rest of society as nothing more than ants, but you try and push those unsettling thoughts down for the mean time.

After the quiet elevator ride up to the penthouse, Homelander takes you over to the couch in his living room. He sits down with you on his lap, where you notice he suspiciously left a normal-sized blanket on one of the cushions. Carefully, he picks the blanket up and cocoons you inside like a burrito; with how velvety and luxurious it feels on your skin you wonder how much he spent on it, just for you.

"Wow, look at all the knots you got here! No wonder you're hurting," he declares, removing his gloves before slowly massaging your neck and back. "Let me take care of you."

"You don't have to do this…" you mumble softly, sensing his big hands overtaking your body. The span of just one of his hands is nearly the same length across as your shoulders, not to mention that he only needs three fingers to cover the same width as your neck. He usually doesn't touch you in this way, and you won't lie to yourself that it's a little intimidating actually feeling the size difference.

"I want to," he counters confidently. "You know, I've been researching what you can to do alleviate your symptoms. You're always going out of your bubble, straining yourself. And it's easy enough to relax those muscles if you know how." He moves his long fingers along your shoulders, delicately pressing down and pinpointing your problems faster than any mere physician. "I can feel where your muscle fibres are contracting, there's a little hard trigger point buried in the centre. You just gotta apply pressure right on it, and…. there we go!"

He's rambling on but you're barely even hearing what he's saying. He is systematically going through all your sore spots, releasing your muscles of their painful tension, warming your body as the blood flow returns to those areas. He could just as easily envelop your head with one hand and crack it like an egg, and yet he's using a fraction of that insurmountable strength to simply make you feel better. It's such a small act from a mountain of a man, and it never fails to amaze you how much control he has over his powers.

"You're… you're really good at this… thank you," you praise him as you lean back into his hands, sighing at how good you feel. The fact that he was even willing to learn about your issues and that he genuinely wants to help has left you speechless. You've never had anyone in your life who cared this much about your wellbeing.

His hands freeze at your words, fingers twitching slightly. After a moment of silence, he slowly leans forward to drape his head over you, kissing your temple.

"You already do everything to help me. Now it's my turn," he reassures you, his deep voice resonating through your core as he nuzzles his cheek on your face. "You deserve to be as revered as me."

He continues with your massage as you gradually begin to feel yourself nod off against his expansive form. It's been a long day, exacerbated by your pain and you're succumbing to your exhaustion. Nestled cozily in your blanket, you're being pampered by the love of your life whom surrounds you both figuratively and literally. You smile as you realize just like how he trusts you implicitly with his struggles, you never had to worry about doing the same. He will always be there for you, protecting you, giving you the world he's always wanted to share.

There is truly nowhere else you'd rather be.

[imjusthereformymindpalace]

Shigaraki One-Shot

hi everyone! it’s my first time posting on Tumblr, so please bear with me! this is just a short drabble(?) that wasn’t proofread and mainly just self-indulgent lol hope you all like it!!! :)

comment any suggestions! i wanna write more of tomura!!!

5 Things You Didn’t Know About Tomura (That You Learned Later On)

Shigaraki x AFAB reader!

1. He’s a sore loser

He doesn’t like losing in video games. He’ll throw the remote onto his bed, cursing, and get up to throw away his can of beer, leaving you to sit in his room for over five minutes. You can hear him cursing under his breath as he paces in the hallway outside of his room, ignoring Spinner’s advice and Dabi’s teasing. You can’t do much other than wait for him to come back and restart the level he initially lost.

He doesn’t like losing to heroes either. He’ll scream and scratch at himself, mumbling loudly of his failed plans, cursing the heroes for ruining his villainous schemes of destroying hero society. He’ll turn to Kurogiri, waiting for his direction to the escape warp. Once away from the scene and back at the hideout, he’ll kick the nearest item to him (a chair), and scratch wildly while ignoring the burning sensation of embarrassment on his face. He hates losing.

2. He loves sweets.

He won’t admit it. But he does enjoy the silky smooth taste of chocolate as it glides against his tongue. He’ll sneak pieces of hard candy while on standby during missions, leaving a trail of wrappers as evidence of his presence. He’ll keep enough in his pocket in case you ever ask him for one, or anyone in the League for that matter. But he won’t offer any first. He loves sweets too much after all.

3. He hates the idea of wearing glasses.

He’ll deny the fact that his vision isn’t as good as he thinks it is. After an appointment with the Doctor, he’ll come back to the base with a small case in his hand. When Toga asks about it, he’ll grumble that it’s none of her business and slam his bedroom door behind him. Sitting on his bed, he’ll open the case and grab the thin frames delicately so as to not disintegrate them. He’ll rest the center on the bridge of his nose and peer through the thick lens. Being able to see perfectly only increased his frustrations and it took every ounce of strength not to throw the case against the wall as he put the glasses away.

Hearing your quiet knocking, he’ll allow you entry and move to the side as you settle next to him on the bed. Wordlessly, you reach for the case, take out the glasses, and place them on his face, adjusting them until he’s no longer squinting at you. Seeing your smile as clear as day made the frustrations slightly less, but still. He hates wearing glasses.

4. He won’t ask for your attention.

He won’t ask you for it directly, no. He’ll mope around, coming up to you and asking what you’re doing. Regardless of your response, busy or otherwise, he’ll sit or stand next to you. He’ll watch what you’re doing and not say anything, just inching closer to you and pretending that he doesn’t notice you noticing what he’s doing.

At times, he’ll walk away for a couple minutes, with the excuse of getting a drink, only to come back empty-handed and lingering in your presence. He’ll start rambling to get your attention, whether that be about missions or his current level on a video game. When you finally get the hint and bring his chest against yours, you feel his breath steady in beat with yours as he sighs into the top of your head. He loves attention.

5. He loves you, he hates it. But he loves it more.

He appreciates that you’re an asset to the League. Your fighting skills are competent and your quirk has proven itself useful many times in battle. You’re able to hold your ground around other members of the League, Dabi especially. He doesn’t have to worry about a betrayal from your part, aware of your allegiance to the mission of destroying heroes.

He likes that you’re not picky when the League is scarce on food. He thinks it’s nice that you don’t care what you look like as you scarf down leftovers from nearly two days ago. He thinks your costume is neat, like one from a villain in a video game he used to play. He also likes what you look like under it. What you look like under him. The way you make him feel. He loves it.

And he hates it. The way you distract him from his goal of destroying. How your smile gives him hope, a concept so foreign to him that it makes him nauseous. He hates how aware he is of the mere countdown of societal destruction, and his role as the leader of such a movement. He hates it. But he loves it. He loves how you watch him with admiration as he fights the world’s top heroes.

He loves knowing you’re counting on him for a brighter future. He loves knowing that he’s the reason you’re standing down from the fight. He loves seeing you from far away, your midsection growing, solid proof of the legacy he plans to leave behind. Oh god, he loves it. He loves you.

[ddejavvu]

heyy mei :)) could you maybe write something for lover boy james where reader is starting to get out of her comfort zone a bit and wearing tighter clothes that show of her little tummy pudge and/ or thicker thighs?? i’ve myself am currently trying to get to this confidence level and I know jamie would be the biggest supporter ever <34

as someone who beat the baggy clothes plague i wish you well on your journey my love <3 tw for self-image issues, don't read if you'll be uncomfortable.

You're already awaiting a dramatic reaction when you step out of the bathroom. James Potter never does anything by halves, and you know whether he likes your outfit or not he'll make a scene. Oh, god, if he isn't dramatic at your reveal, if he's measured and controlled and contained- well, that would be worse than if he wrinkled his nose and told you that your outfit was too tight. That would be an outright lie, and you'd rather him just be mean, although you're not sure unprovoked cruelty is a quality that James Potter possesses.

You haven't worn anything quite this snug in a long time. A dip in your self confidence correlates with an increase in your clothing sizes, not because you've gained weight, but because you're not eager to show off the weight you already have. You're particularly sensitive about the shape of your body, how it hangs, how it squishes and warps within tighter clothing, but you're taking steps to conquer your fears, and tonight you've chosen a snug leotard tucked into jeans. There's no hiding your waistline, which is something you're not accustomed to. Your hand wants to subconsciously cover your stomach but you force it into your pocket, stepping out of the bathroom with all of the courage you've got in your body.

James glances up at you as you come out, one sock on his foot and the other perched precariously on his toes. He's tugging it over his sole when he notices your tight-fitting outfit, and his eyes drop to your stomach.

You feel naked, even though the whole issue is over your clothes.

You get the dramatic reaction you'd expected.

He charges towards you from his spot on the bed, and channels his never-ending supply of energy into a truly extravagant display: He drops to his knees, sliding painfully over the hardwood to reach for your waist and shove his face into your stomach. You yelp at the sudden movement and try to shove him away but he latches his grip around you quite firmly, groaning into your stomach like he's repenting at the altar of god.

"Oh, gorgeous," He moans, and you're truly saddened for the theater medium, as they'll never experience dramatics quite like James has to offer, "Oh, darling, it's out. Your stomach is out, I can see it, I can-" He curls his fingers into your belly, nails pricking at miniscule threads in the fabric, "-feel it, I can scream into it!"

It's really a pathetic display. You can't find it in yourself to be critical, though, not when he's so effectively sweeping away any negative thoughts with the way that his lips plunge hungrily into the flesh of your stomach, over and over again complete with sounds you're certain a starved animal makes when it sinks its teeth into game.

Perhaps if you loved him less, you could hate this more. But you don't, so you can't, and you let James lift you from your spot, heaving you right over his shoulder so that he can still turn his head to the side and nip lightly at the pudge of your stomach while you struggle in his grasp.

"You look fantastic, darling," He gushes against your belly, beelining for your bed, the covers still unmade and very inviting, "Unfortunately, our plans have changed. Shame we can't go out tonight and show off your outfit, but I just remembered I have to kiss you until my lips fall off."