#Returning to Work Postpartum

[wellhealthhub]

Comprehending the Nuances of the Postpartum Phase

The postpartum period, often regarded as a pivotal phase following childbirth, encapsulates a realm of intricate adjustments that encompass not only the physical realm but also the profound emotional and lifestyle shifts as individuals transition into the uncharted waters of parenthood. Unveiling the Essence of Postpartum The term “postpartum” unravels the temporal sphere immediately succeeding…

[asxgard]

Handprints | [3/3]

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x pregnant wife!doctor!reader

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Summary: The birth of your first child and all the little moments that you cherish with your husband.

[ My Masterlist ]

Note: I’m honestly enjoying this Robby and Reader, so I might do something with them/inspired by them. Let’s see where season 2 takes us👀

This one got away from me, but I had a lot of fun writing it!

Word Count: 4.4k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: afab!reader, established relationship, pet names (my love, sweetheart), mild angst, comfort, fluff, birth scene (nondescript), postpartum, mentions of a prior panic attack, therapy, Mother’s/Father’s Day, vague smut (minors dni!!!!), Robby getting good things because he deserves it

not beta read

Langdon returned in the last few weeks of your pregnancy, rolling into the Pitt with something to prove. He wasn’t as cocky as he had been, but he threw himself headfirst into the chaos of it all — which worried you that he would only fall back into his addiction.

Michael had put strict rules in place for him after he was done rehab — random urine tests, he needed sign offs for most of the drugs he could prescribe, as well as having him attend NA meetings. You could see plainly that even if Frank succeeded in all of that, Michael would need so much time to trust him as he once had. You didn’t know what had transpired between them during that shift, not really, but Frank had let your husband down majorly.

Most in the Pitt might not have known he had been stealing the drugs from patients, or the ED, but with one glance at you and it was clear Frank knew that you knew about it. How could you not? You were Michael’s wife, his one true confidant in the mess of it all.

Frank sucked up to you, maybe thinking it would be an easier way to soften Michael’s heart to him again. Brought you a muffin from the cafeteria when he saw you hadn’t eaten, pulled a stool over to your computer so you could sit, even taking the meaner or nastier patients from your plate. All with a smile. All with a humility you hadn’t seen in awhile.

You appreciated the gestures, but it did little to help gain your trust back.

“It’ll just take time,” you said to Langdon one afternoon. “He won’t trust you again if you take the easy way out.”

He seemed to consider it. “And you? When will you trust me again?”

You turned away from the computer screen to look at him, “Pass all your drugs tests. Show me that coin you get after one year in the meetings. Don’t fuck with my patients again. Then we’re square.”

He gave a curt nod, “Okay, I can do that.”

You smiled softly at him, “I hope so, Frank.”

Due to your large bump, you were not frequently in the trauma room, not wanting to risk bumping into anything or anyone. Like usual, you stuck to triage and the non-critical patients. Michael wanted to keep your stress and adrenaline levels down, which you accepted with little pushback. He also ensured you always sat down to have lunch, even pulling himself away from the chaos long enough to eat with you when you demanded requested it.

If he was going to make sure you ate, you were going to make sure the same.

It was roughly lunchtime when the cramping started, starting as just a mild sense of discomfort before edging closer to moderate pain. Braxton Hicks contractions, you thought, seeing as you were only in your 38th week. You had been getting them periodically since starting your third trimester, but they never got any worse than mild.

Dana found you hunched over the nurses station, trying to take slow, even breaths. The cramping had gotten substantially worse, edging closer to you not being able to think properly.

“Honey?” Dana called your attention.

You took another deep breath through your nose and out through your mouth. “It’s nothing, I’m okay.”

“You and your husband, I swear to god.” She let out a long breath before raising a careful eyebrow at you, “How long has it been going on?”

You hummed, thinking, “I don’t know, noon?”

Dana grinned at you, “Looks like you’re about to have this baby, kid.”

Your eyes widened, “What? No. I still have two weeks.”

“Babies come when they’re ready, not when you are.” She chuckled.

You groaned. Adam, you really had to make an appearance now, huh? Couldn’t have waited a week and a half for when I started maternity?

You clenched your teeth, “Where’s my husband?”

“I just saw Robby head into Trauma-1.” Frank said as he passed, eyeing you warily. “You okay?”

“Baby Adam just decided he didn’t care about the plans I had, no biggie.”

“You better get used to that.” Frank said with a laugh.

You only rolled your eyes at him, trying to catch your breath after the contraction. You watched as Frank ran to grab Michael from the trauma room, and you mentioned to Dana it might be smart to call in someone to cover until the end of your shift. In one fell swoop, two ED doctors were about to be unavailable.

You tried not to feel guilty.

Michael exited Trauma-1, hiding his annoyance of being pulled away well enough, before he spotted you. His eyes flashed before he was jogging over to you, hand immediately going to your back.

“Sweetheart?” His cool mask had slipped, the one that kept everything between you two mostly professional while you were at work.

You squeezed his hand, “Adam has decided he’s ready to meet us.”

Michael’s eyes widened, gaze flickering between your belly and your face. “What?”

“Contractions edging closer to five minutes apart, for about a minute. They’ve gotten worse since noon.”

“Noon?” Michael yelled, though not at you, glancing at his watch. “It’s nearly five! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“We were busy.” You said, “I thought it was just Braxton Hicks, like it’s been all month.”

“We were busy.” Michael echoed, tone disbelieving. “You were seriously—”

You hushed your husband as another contraction hit, clutching his hand tightly.

It felt like mostly a blur after that. You had gotten up to Labor & Delivery a little bit later, and Michael called a friend of yours to go get your go bag and baby bag to bring to the hospital.

As the contractions got closer, so did your desperation.

“Why did you do this to me, again?” You panted. “Jesus Christ, just get him out of me.”

Michael grinned at you, “Last I checked, you were the one begg—”

You swatted him away like he was nothing more than an annoying fly. “Michael Robinavitch, don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He raised his eyebrows, looking mildly amused, though he tried to contain his grin.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he said a few minutes later, after another contraction, kissing your hairline.

“Trade with me?” You asked with a sly grin.

He chuckled, “I would in a heartbeat.”

You made a small noise in the back of your throat, trying to catch your breath, using the techniques you had learned in birthing classes.

“Now you say that.” You said, closing your eyes. “Wish you had said that before I went into labor.”

Michael kissed your forehead and rubbed circles onto your back. “Tell me what you need.”

You hummed, “I think I want to walk around. Might help.”

He helped you from the gurney to your feet, holding you steady. You wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned on him for support, swinging your hips from side-to-side. After breathing through a particularly bad contraction, Michael helped you walk back and forth across your room.

You breathed through each of them, taking them one at a time and trying not to get overwhelmed with how far you still had to go. Michael was steadfast beside you, nearly intuitively understanding what you needed when you needed it. Cold washcloth, soft caresses over your shoulders, squeezing your hips together while you leaned over the gurney, whispering encouraging words to you, or holding you close when the pain subsided.

“You’re so amazing,” he said, tone soft, standing behind you and swaying with you while you breathed in and out, arms wrapped around you. “You’re doing such a good job, sweetheart. Strongest woman I know. I love you so much.” He kissed your neck, moving to your jaw and then your cheek.

You hummed in acknowledgement, though you kept your focus on breathing through the contraction.

A few agonizingly slow hours later and you were ready to push. You felt ready to cry, clutching Michael’s hand with a grip that rivaled a vice. He soothed you, kissing your forehead.

“You’ve got this. Push when you breathe out, come on,” he encouraged.

Part of you wanted to kiss him. The other wanted to throttle him.

During the next contraction, that was what you did, breathing out as you pushed. Slow, controlled, powerful. It ripped through you and you screamed.

You had once wanted to be dignified during your labor. You worked at this hospital and these people were more-or-less your colleagues, even though you did not always work with them directly. The thought of remaining composed now made you want to laugh.

“Alright, he should be out on the next push.” your OB told you, looking over to Michael. “Would you like to do the honors, dad?”

Michael’s eyes got glassy, though he looked at you. “I’ll stay right here if you need me to.”

“It’s okay,” you breathed out, mustering a smile. “I know you want to.”

He kissed you, before moving to assist your OB with delivering your son. Thankfully, she had been right, and it only took one more push before your son was in Michael’s arms.

Adam Robinavitch was finally here.

You cooed at him softly when he was laid on your chest, though he cried loudly — clearly upset to be anywhere else but your womb. You could hardly blame him, but you felt overwhelming joy finally holding him in your arms. Tears leaked from your eyes, a warmth cascading through your insides at the sight of him, at the feeling of his tiny hand on your skin.

Michael had his hand on your head, stroking your forehead softly with his thumb. His teary eyes remained, looking between you and your son with a soft smile on his lips.

Adam gurgled on your chest, making small noises to highlight his displeasure. You kissed the top of his head before letting your head fall back onto the pillow, letting out a long sigh of exhaustion.

“I love you.” You said, blinking through your fatigue to look at your husband.

“Thank you.” He whispered back to you, big brown eyes soft and warm as he held your gaze.

You raised an eyebrow.

He smiled, kissing your forehead. “For this life. For loving me. For giving me a chance. For bringing our son into the world. I don’t know why you decided to take a chance on an old guy like me, but I’ll forever be grateful that you did.”

Tears blurred your vision and you blinked them away, “Oh, Michael. I’m so grateful it’s you. Even before I knew it, it was you. It always has been.”

He kissed you tenderly, whispering ‘always will be’ against your lips.

—

Postpartum was no joke, and add in being new to motherhood? You were in the trenches. You were thankful Michael had gotten a decent amount of time off to be in the throes of it with you, but at times, it still felt like you were drowning.

You tried not to feel guilty when you knocked out on the couch or turned in early, leaving the brunt of night shift to Michael. He was an ever faithful partner, and never even flinched when you felt he was shouldering too much of it. All he asked was that you rest, heal and spend time with Adam.

He took time in the mornings for himself, even started seeing a therapist via Zoom and you could see it helping. His shoulders seemed lighter and it created healthier habits for when he went back to working.

Michael’s first shift back did not come home with him, though you knew it was not likely to always be that way. Not when harder patients hit, or major casualties, but you hoped the things he was learning in therapy would help him whenever that day came.

You were rocking Adam back and forth, trying to get him to fall back to sleep, humming a lullaby softly. You caught movement out of the corner of your eye, and you turned your head to see Michael standing in the doorway, tired smile stretching across his lips.

“Hey, my love,” you said lowly, trying to keep your voice quiet so as to not stir your baby, who still would not fall asleep. “How was your shift?”

He gave a small shrug, “I’ve had worse.”

You raised a careful eyebrow at him, but didn’t push. “I think Adam missed his daddy.”

Michael stepped into the room, walking until he was beside you, looking at your son in your arms.

“Yeah?”

You made a small noise of agreement, moving to hand him over. As he stirred, Adam opened his eyes to look up at his father, their eyes complete mirrors of each other. It was undoubtedly one of your favorite features that he had inherited from Michael.

“I think he likes your lullaby much more than mine, actually.” You said, kissing the top of your son’s head.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true, is it buddy? No, mommy’s lullabies are the best.”

Despite having a tough day of your own, your heart warmed. You leaned your head on Michael’s shoulder, staring down at Adam and rocking side-to-side with Michael’s movements.

Perhaps this was a healing all its own, in the quiet of your son’s room, just the three of you.

—

Mother’s Day came shortly after you got off maternity leave, and while it was nice to return to work, you missed Adam. It was nearly painful. But all your co-workers made it feel like a second home.

Dana and McKay were happy to swap baby stories with you, while Langdon attempted to give you and Michael tips. You seemed more receptive to it than your husband was.

You had decided that for your first Mother’s Day, you wanted the day off to spend with your son. Michael also ensured he had off, and let you sleep in. It was peaceful to wake up to a quiet house.

Michael brought you breakfast not long after you woke, and you showered him with kisses in gratitude. It really was the little things.

“I have a full day planned,” he told you, sitting beside you in bed, sipping a cup of coffee. “Slow morning, then when you’re ready, we’re gonna go out.”

“Out?” You questioned. “Care to be more specific?”

A sly grin formed on his face. “Nope.”

You scoffed, but you were smiling.

Sometime after noon, Michael was packing a lunch bag while you got changed, curious to see what he had planned. He got Adam ready, and you met him at the car with an eyebrow raised. He only smiled at you.

It was easy enough to guess what he was up to once you pulled up to the park. It was a beautiful spring day, and you enjoyed the little things — a picnic in the park with your family of three was perfect. Not too complicated, or required too much effort from you, and it was simple enough that you weren’t worried about Adam fussing too much.

You relaxed on the picnic blanket, enjoying the feeling of the sun on your skin, the warmth sending a happy buzz through your system.

Adam was only four months, but he took in the world around him eagerly. He was beginning to roll over with only a small amount of assistance, and he clapped his hands when he was excited, babbling nonsense.

It seemed like such a short amount of time since he had been born, but he was already beginning to grow far too quickly for your liking.

Michael kept Adam entertained while you read a bit, before you ate together. Michael really had quite the spread, aside from the sandwiches, he also had fruits and cheeses and crackers and your favorite chocolates.

“This is exactly what I needed.” You told him. “Thank you.”

Michael raised an eyebrow at you, “You think this is it?”

“Oh? Do tell.”

He only smirked.

You discovered when you got home that Michael had hired a babysitter for that night. He said he wanted to take you out to dinner, and an excitement thrummed through you. You and Michael had barely had any alone time since Adam came into your lives, and while you enjoyed all the time you got with your son, you knew a night out with your husband would be good for you.

The restaurant he had picked? It was where you had had your first date.

A quaint little Italian place, and you nearly cried when you pulled up to it. It was not fancy or lavish, but it meant the world to you.

“Thank you for today.” You said, sipping your drink, trying not to cry in the middle of the restaurant.

He grabbed your hand on the table and ran a thumb over your knuckles. “You deserve it, sweetheart. You’re the best mom Adam could ever ask for, and I always want you to know how much I appreciate you.”

Your face heated, suddenly feeling sheepish.

Conversation flowed easily, and it was nice to be able to feel normal again — not just a mom, or a doctor, just you. It made your chest feel lighter. The topic eventually leaned back to Adam, and the fact that you missed him.

“We can take dessert to go.”

You smiled in relief, “Yes, please.”

On the ride home, you intertwined your fingers with Michael’s.

“So…any thoughts on another one?” You ventured quietly, a teasing smile on your lips.

Michael choked on an intake of air, “What?”

You laughed, “Eventually. Maybe. I don’t know. Just popped into my head.”

“Give a guy a little warning next time.” He chuckled.

“Consider yourself warned.”

He squeezed your hand, “Do you want another?”

You shrugged even though he was looking ahead at the road. “I don’t know. Adam’s still so little, but he’s also already so big, you know? I already miss how little he was. I wouldn’t be opposed in a year or so, but I wouldn’t be upset if we just stuck with one.”

“So…possibly another?”

“What do you think?” You asked instead of answering.

There was a long pause, and then a sigh, “I’m not getting any younger, I’d like to watch Adam grow up, go off to college. If we decided to, I wouldn’t want to wait too long.”

“So possibly another?”

You could hear the smile in his voice, “Possibly another.”

—

Father’s Day came with another day off, Michael wanting his first to be spent at home as well. You knew these kinds of holidays might need to be sacrificed in the future, so you were grateful that at least your first of each would be spent at home.

Knowing Michael, you knew he wasn’t one to want much fanfare, so you planned most a day in. From breakfast and lunch, to a few nice things to grill for dinner. It was mostly about spending time together, and you were happy to supply it. The details of his present sat in a card on the dining table, a cabin rented in the Poconos to fish with enough room for Jack and Jake to tag along (both had already agreed).

The day turned into a well deserved relaxing day, though you could see how much Michael was enjoying spending some time off with his family.

After dinner, you handed Michael the card, Adam in your lap. You bounced your legs, making car noises with your mouth, making him giggle and clap. You heard Michael open the card and silently he read over it.

“Jack and Jake already took off, and I worked something out with your shifts, you’ll be all set.”

He blinked at you before he was out of his seat and kissing your face, making you giggle. Adam squealed in your lap, clapping more eagerly while he babbled at his dad.

“This is…thank you.”

“You haven’t taken any time to go back up there in a really long time.” You shrugged, knowing he used to try to get away more frequently earlier on in your relationship. Sometimes you tagged along, but you thought a boys weekend away was just what the doctor ordered (you, you were the one who ordered it). “Soon you’ll have to bring Adam with you.”

Michael grinned, looking down at his son. “You’ll love it, I can show you how to…”

You watched Michael excitedly explain fishing to your son, who watched him with big brown eyes, mesmerized.

You put Adam down to sleep sometime later, before joining your husband in the living room. You curled up next to him.

“Thank you for today…it was very needed.”

You kissed his cheek, “You’re an amazing father, you know that? I’m incredibly thankful for you.”

He pulled you closer and kissed your head. You turned in his grasp and kissed his lips, moving into his lap to kiss him deeper. Michael responded instantly, one hand going behind your head and the other going to your hip.

The first time you had been intimate after giving birth to Adam had been a process riddled with your insecurities. Michael kissed his way through each one and took his time, like he was relearning your body. It took an incredible amount of pressure off your shoulders, and you revealed in his touch.

Your hands moved from his chest to his hair, tongue licking along his bottom lip. His grip on you tightened, his tongue slipping into your mouth. Warmth pooled in your abdomen, and you moved your leg to straddle him.

His fingers ghosted over the skin of your hips, making you shiver. He moved a hand up your torso, grabbing at your flesh and you moaned into his mouth. You moved your hips down to find some sort of friction. A groan echoed low in Michael’s throat, and the sound set you on fire.

Michael had you up and on your back on the couch in a swift motion, settling between your hips. You pulled at the hem of your shirt until he helped you pull it over your head. He kissed down your neck and across your torso, moving lower until your head buzzed with pleasure.

You felt like your body was thrumming under his touch and you lost yourself in it. It wasn’t long before all of your clothes were scattered across the living room, Michael back between your hips.

He whispered his love for you against your skin, and proved it with each slow drag of his hips, until you were a moaning mess under him, a blinding heat overtaking your senses. He was everywhere, feeling so full of him, tears falling from the corners of your eyes, blissed out and overwhelmed with all the warmth swirling around in your chest.

Michael came with a few low grunts, groaning against your throat before pulling you into a rough, sloppy kiss.

You ran your hands over his shoulders, panting with him, foreheads touching. You leaned up to languidly kiss his lips again. He brushed a thumb across your cheek. He kissed along your cheek and nose, the hairs of his beard tickling your skin and making you giggle. You lightly pushed him away.

“Get off me, old man.”

An eyebrow rose, “Old man, huh? This old man can make you come again, if you—”

You laughed, “Get off.”

He moved his head in such a way that the softest touch of his beard ran along your neck and your face, making you squirm. The sensation was incredibly ticklish.

“Alright, alright, I yield. I yield!” You laughed again, turning your face away from him. “You’re not even that old anyways.”

He laughed and kissed your cheek, moving to sit back on his haunches. He looked down at you with a soft smile.

You raised a challenging eyebrow, “If you’re gonna keep looking at me like that, I might have to take you up on your offer.”

A sly grin spread across his lips, “Yeah? Thought I was an old—”

You reached up for him, “Just get back down here, Michael.”

He laughed, but complied.

—

A rare quiet morning was always a welcomed thing in your household, slow and lazy. With the hectic reality you both faced at work, you had begun to cherish these days. Adam on his playmat, you and Michael sitting on the couch eating breakfast and enjoying the company of each other.

When Michael came back into the kitchen from taking a shower, you had Adam sat in his highchair. You had a spread of paints and a canvas print sat on the dining table, a handful of newspapers protecting the wood from any mess.

Michael looked over it all with a face drenched in curiosity.

“Care to fill me in? What’s all this?” He looked over all the paints, raising an eyebrow at you. “This a new hobby, or something?”

You shrugged, “Not quite.”

He stayed silent and waited for you to elaborate, but you were messing with a few different colors, mixing them on a paper plate.

“Blue or red?” You asked.

“...blue?”

You handed him a paper plate with blue paint.

He stared down at it, “Do you want me to..?”

You looked at him and smiled, “Put your right hand in it.”

“Right, right. Of course. Logically, that was my next step.”

You chuckled, “I thought it could be a cute art piece for Adam’s room. Your hand, my hand and his in the middle.”

A softness warmed his face, and then he did as you asked. You pulled over the canvas print for him to put his now paint covered hand on. You handed him a damp paper towel when he was done. You dipped your hand into the red paint and copied your husband, so that your hands mirrored each other.

Adam seemed thrilled to be involved when you dipped his hand into the purple paint you mixed, placing his hand between both handprints you and Michael had left. You wiped his hand off and gave him a kiss on the head.

“It’s perfect.” Michael said in your ear.

You pulled him close, “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

You stared down at the little art piece of your handprints, your heart swelling at your little family you and Michael had carved out for yourselves. Even amidst the chaos, you had found your home.

“Always?”

“Forever.”

No matter what you two faced, you knew it was a promise you would both keep.

FIN.

All Dr. Robby content taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43

All The Pitt content taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph

Robby deserves only good things. This brought me back to the layout I did for A Lesson in Firsts and omg it was another great journey.

Damn, s1 of The Pitt is over. What am I going to do with myself?? Write a lot? Probably

Also?? Heartbeat has over 1k notes?? That’s insane, thank you guys so much🥺🥹

[dcxdpdabbles]

Danny reincarnates as Tim's twin. The only problem is that his ghost powers act up in the womb from either the gross ecto in Gotham or an artifact that Janet handled while pregnant. Because of this only Tim is 'born', the Drake's either assume one was miscarried or never knew they were twins.

Tim meanwhile grows up with a brother his parents ignore more than him. It takes Danny an embarrassingly long time to realize what's going on and fix it but by then the twins are around 4 so can't really explain to the rest of Gotham.

When they become Robin, either Nightwing and Batman are almost convinced he's like Harvey with how many times they've found him talking and discussing plans with himself. Or with how bad their collective mental health was at that time think they're going crazy.

Only Alfred knows what's going on because he's Alfred.

Tim Drake is a strange child. Ever since he was little, he would point to empty air and interact with it as if someone was standing there and responding.

At first, his parents thought it was cute that he had an imaginary friend, and Mrs. Drake even shed a few tears when Tim proclaimed that it was the brother he had at birth. The second son of the Drakes had been growing healthy in her stomach until the very end of the first trimester when he simply vanished.

Not died, not stop growing- vanished as if he was never there.

The doctors and the Drakes had no idea what happened. Test after tests were done, but in the end, they could only conclude that the second baby was gone. It was theorized that Tim may have devoured his brother in the womb, though there had been no symptoms that Janet suffered from.

When Tim was born, Janet had nearly died with a false labor that happened only ten minutes after giving birth. The nurses and doctors had been panicking because they could not understand where the contractions originated. False labor was contractions during pregnancy, not after labor, so there was nothing the body could confuse for the urge to push.

They ruled it as a freak false labor since the only other match was Janet entering second labor. Still, as much as the nurses and doctors were ready for a monochorionic monoamniotic twin, nothing came out. Eventually, Janet passed out, and her body finally finished doing whatever it was doing.

It was no surprise that this experience ended up giving Janet postpartum depression. She tried to connect to Tim, but something in her just never clicked, and Jack was beside himself, trying to care for his child while his wife drifted further and further away.

A therapist suggested Janet return to work, which seemed to do wonders for her. She took part in multiple digs and went on many trips, but eventually, Jack felt like she was never home. Worried his wife wouldn't return to him, Jack jumped on a plane while leaving Tim in the capable hands of the housekeeper.

He said it would be a short trip just to get Janet to come back and get treatment.

Jack ended up helping at the dig site, extending his stay to his once again bright and loving wife. Seeing her back to her usual self led to him booking them another trip.

Then another, and another, and antoher. Before long, the Drakes rarely spent time in Gotham, and Tim grew bigger in their absence. Janet loved Tim, but seeing him only brought back guilt that she could not love him like other mothers could so quickly. She was so excited for their baby and had loved him with her whole heart while he was inside of her, but now, seeing those big blue eyes blink up at her, all Janet wanted to do was run.

She drowned in guilt, and sometimes, it felt that she was only breathing because Jack was there for her. He dragged her back to the surface only long enough to take a breath and be dragged under again.

She missed his first steps, his first words, and his first laugh. That's why hearing him call out to Danny was so jarring. She had stopped outside his room, carrying gifts in the form of toys, hoping they would make up for the fact that she had only seen him a handful of times for a solid year.

He was playing with blogs, babbling to "Danny." She had picked out the name of her other son when she found out she was having twins. The only person Tim could have heard that name from was the housekeeper.

Janet fired her after wiping her tears. She would hire a replacement that wouldn't mock her two-year-old son. She let Tim keep his imaginary friend, figuring he would outgrow it.

Tim didn't.

Over the years, Tim became increasingly convinced Danny was with him. He even started turning in classwork under the name Danny, and when a teacher would call him, he would respond with "I don't know. Tim is better at this than me."

Sometimes, when he acted out, Tim would be the one responsible. Tim was the one who got bored quickly in class, needed to be challenged more, and preferred to follow whatever hair-brain idea he had. Photography, skateboarding, and actual crime shows were what made Tim happy.

Then, he became Danny when he showed effort in school but struggled to keep his solid, slightly above-average results. This side of her son preferred astronomy and baking and seemed confused by their wealth. Almost as if he was new money instead of the old wealth the Drakes had. Janet also heard that Danny seemed to stick his nose in whenever a bully targeted a classmate, confronting them with a bravo she could not associate with Tim.

Tim was more like her. They dealt with their opponents through clever planning instead of confirmation, which Jack preferred. He talked to himself a lot, too. The Drakes weren't even in Gotham, but their family's whispers echoed through the gala halls anyway. As young Tim walked by, there were rumors and speculations.

The elites would gossip as Tim continued arguing that the decor was worth the money and that they couldn't steal it, no matter how much food it could buy people in their charities.

He whispers, yelling at the air as Janet watches from across the hall, her stomach turning with love and repulse.

Years after his birth, she could not bring herself to stand before him for too long. Jack followed because he worried she do something to herself if he didn't.

She could not deny it now that Tim was nine. Janet realized, after a while of reading reports involving her son, that he likely suffered from a split personality disorder. Seeing it in person was entirely different.

They'll likely have to have him instituted, and the thought almost has her throwing up. She wonders if she would have caught on faster had she been a better mother and been around.

She steels herself, crossing the room to speak to her son. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees that Jack has noticed and quickly tries to make an excuse to stop her. Fortunately, depending on who you asked, the men looking for an investor don't let their husbands go that easily, so she is clear.

"No, I won't ask him for an autograph!" Tim hisses, looking at the wall to his right as if someone were leaning against it with him. Janet's resolves wabble a little at Tim's pout. There is a short pause before Tim goes red. "I can't do that! Mr.Wayne is really protective of Richard."

Dread pools into her stomach as Tim's features shift, and a grin with a mad twist settles on his lips. "I already have all the pictures I want about him. My favorite is the one I took last night."

This can't wait. Janet loves her son; she does not care what anyone says that she doesn't, but she can't allow him to harm others. Stalking will eventually lead to harm; she knows it. Those are the early signs.

She opens her mouth, only for Tim to turn to her with a coldness she hadn't noticed he always regarded her with.

She had never seen joy on his face, so she had never had a chance to compare how he looked at her and Jack to how he looked at others. How he looked at Danny.

Janet feels everything in her freeze, and a tremble grows in her arms and hands. Trying to hide it, she drowns the glass of wine in her hand in one gulp but instantly regrets it.

The world become slightly hazy that alcoholic cause, and maybe it's been a long time since she last drank. She could have sworn she was seeing double for a moment, and an exact copy of her child was leaning on the wall behind Tim.

But that wouldn't make sense. Tim's eyes weren't green.

"Son." Jack's warm presence is behind her, placing a comforting hand on her back, and she can't bring herself to speak as her husband commands. He likely feels her trembles. "It's time to leave."

The second image of Tim flickers out of sight, and Janet walks out of the Wayne Gala, wondering if her son inherited his madness from her. Neither adult notices the soft thump of the backseat, nor do they pay much attention to Tim carefully buckling the air or how the blanket he keeps back there spreads itself across Tim's lap.

Janet falls into old habits, and instead of being up to what she realized that night, she convinces Jack to go to Guatemala. They are gone first thing the following day.

Tim watches them leave from the top of the grand stairway, his eyes glowing green in heavy judgment and ice that Janet would have felt in the coldest winter. Jack is chatting nonsense to fill the silence and keep Janet grounded, but when she peeks over her shoulder to the Manor, she spots Tim in the window of his room, watching them leave with a frown.

His green eyes are gone, and she feels a chill race down her spine. There is no way he could have run up the stairs, gone down four different hallways, and gotten to the window before they could get to the waiting car.

"Goodbye, Tim. Keep the house safe!" Jack says as he opens the car door for Janet, but he's talking in the doorway. Because that's where the grand stairway is. She hears her son respond but can't tell what he is saying.

She can only gaze upwards to where Tim waves at her while clutching the curtain. His mouth doesn't move. He isn't the one speaking to Jack.

Janet sits in the leather of the car, Jack beside her, holding her hand tenderly, and she rethinks about having Tim instituted. She should hire an exorcist instead.

When they get back, of course. The car pulls away from the driveway, and Janet does her best not to look back even as the door slams shut, as if the sound was meant to tell her never to return. She closes her eyes, holds her breath, and only lets it go when they are far away from Drake Manor and her son.

Maybe one day she can be a good mother.

[meazalykov]

when the lullaby turns into nightmares

mother!alexia putellas x f!barcafem!mother!reader with features of platonic!irene paredes x f!mother!reader and a baby!oc

warnings: mentions of reciprocal IVF, postpartum rage, postpartum depression, aitana did not win the 2024 ballon d'or in this universe since reader did, anxiety, verbal and physical altercations in a football match, huge angst, comfort.

the crowd vibrates through your bones as you stand behind cata inside of the tunnel.

it’s your first match back, four months after giving birth to esmeralda or mini cariño, as you and alexia call her.

your daughter, with her tiny hands and alexia’s hazel eyes, is somewhere in the stands with her abuela, ale’s mom.

you can still feel the weight of her in your arms from this morning, her soft coos as you kissed her forehead before leaving for the stadium with her mami.

you’re back with barcelona, back with alexia, your fiancée of two years and partner for eight, along with your teammates who you love so dearly (and they love you back).

everyone has been watching on your return, and by everyone... I mean nearly most of the damn community.

you played five games only after your ballon d'or ceremony before the IVF succeeded. now, the ballon d’or you won in 2024 sits on a shelf at home, a glittering reminder of the peak you reached before pausing your career for motherhood.

you remember how alexia had been hesitant about the reciprocal ivf, the idea of you doing all of the hard work by carrying her baby. in a way, she figured that she would be the one since you were now in your prime.

however, one thing you took into consideration was alexia's injuries. especially her acl injury. thankfully, you've never had any injuries that have kept you out of play for more than two weeks, which is rare for a player with much intensity like you.

alexia needed more time to make up for her missing year, and you felt as if you needed a break from football.

you’d sat across from her in your shared apartment, ale's hands fidgeting as she voiced her fears.

“you’re at the top of your game, amor,” she’d said, her voice low, eyes searching yours.

“pausing for a baby… I know we both agreed but I am scared that you'll miss out on something important that might happen this season. another champions league.. no?”

“i won’t,” you’d promised, reaching for her hand.

“there’s no world cup soon. you’ve got the euros next year, and i’ll be back before you know it. i want this, ale. you want them too. i want us to have them.”

she’d softened, her thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“okay but if the process is too much, you tell me.”

you’d carried esmeralda for nine months, feeling her grow as your body changed. the birth was exhausting, beautiful, terrifying... esmeralda’s first cry echoing in the delivery room as alexia sobbed and held your hand. shit, giving birth to her lasted exactly ninety minutes. vicky later jokes that you played a football match in the delivery room.

“you're both perfect, amor,” alexia whispered, kissing your damp forehead.

against atlético madrid, you’re on for the last ten minutes. this is the first time you've seen an actual game in over a year. exactly one year ago you left.

before the match, your blue cleats for gamedays felt stiff as you put them on in the locker room. somehow, your feet weren't so swollen anymore thanks to your daughter being earthside.

the score is 2-1, barcelona leading.

your legs feel heavy but alive, and your muscles try to rememberthe rhythm of the pitch. when you intercept a pass and send it to salma, the crowd erupts, and you feel a spark of the old you...the you who outplayed your own teammate for that ballon d’or last season.

all you did was run around, pass the ball, and even won your first duel since being back. you were still strong, maybe even stronger.

after the whistle, alexia slings an arm around your shoulders, grinning “like you never left.”

“it felt good,” you say, but there’s a tightness in your chest you don’t mention.

esmeralda’s face flashes in your mind, and you wonder if she’s okay with her abuela.

you know she is, but you miss her little face.

the next few matches blur together.

you’re playing more minutes and you are finally starting against eibar and then real sociedad.

esmeralda is at every home game, bundled in a tiny barcelona jersey with her little cute matching jeans, her mini curls peeking out from a hat that alba (esmer's aunt, alexia's sister) made for her.

you wave to her from the pitch, heart swelling when ale's mom points you out. however, something’s shifting and you do not process it.

during this match against sociedad, the opposition’s tackles feel more personal.

before the first half ended a midfielder clips your ankle, and you snap, “watch what the hell you are doing!” before you can stop yourself.

your intensity and passion for the game has been around since the start of your career. I mean, being verbal and getting into debates were never new.

thankfully, the ref doesn’t hear you. however, alexia’s eyes flick to you, brow furrowing.

“you okay?” she asks in the locker room before the second half, tying her boots while the whole team overhears what romeu is trying to say.

“'m fine,” you mutter, but your hands shake as you re-braid your hair. you think of esmeralda’s late-night cries, how you’ve been up with her more than alexia because you’re still breastfeeding partially.

the exhaustion clings to you like damp grass.

at home, esmeralda is your sol. you cradle her after training, her warmth easing the knot in your chest.

“mi cariño,” you whisper, kissing her cheeks. alexia watches from the couch, her smile soft but tinged with worry.

“she’s growing so fast,” she says.

“too fast,” you reply, voice catching.

its funny, since esmeralda is still very much a three-month old baby.

however, you don’t tell alexia or anybody else how sometimes you feel like you’re failing esmeralda and how the joy of motherhood is laced with a heaviness you can’t name.

the champions league group stage against sporting lisbon is when everything in your life cracks.

you convince yourself that things are fine. you’re starting the match, you smile in the starting eleven picture, and esmeralda is in the stands with alba and an injured esmee.

the game is tense, 0-0 at halftime. you’re marking a portuguese winger who’s relentless. shes been dribbling past you, nudging you off balance. what the hell!?

its clear that she has been pissing you off. everyone can see that. your tackles have been more brutal, and the pushes aren't so discrete.

the left-wingers shoulder catches yours in the 60th minute, and you stumble, frustration boiling over.

“fuck off!” you hiss, shoving her lightly.

the player smirks, unfazed, and you nearly decided to get into her face as a intimation tactic before alexia jogs over, hand on your arm.

“cálmate, amor. she’s baiting you.”

“i’m fine,” you snap, shaking her off.

you’re not.

your head is in rage with a mix of exhaustion and something darker... rage that feels foreign, like it’s not yours. esmeralda’s face pops into your mind, and you wonder if she’s crying, if alba is struggling to soothe her.

in the 78th minute, another player tackles you hard when you almost got into their box, her clear studs grazing your shin.

you hit the ground, pain flaring, and before you can think, you’re up, in her face.

“ets estúpid!! who do you think you are?” you shout, chest heaving. she says something in portuguese, and you step closer, blood pounding in your ears.

the ref blows the whistle, yellow card raised at the girl before she raised one at you for screaming and 'verbal attacks' as she put it.

this is your first yellow card in years. seriously, the last one you had was when you nearly tore oberdorf's ankle off in some seek of revenge after she tackled you during the '23 champions league final.

the crowd murmurs, and you feel the team’s eyes on you...ingrid, sydney, even kika from the bench who could've clearly handled and translated the dispute if she was on the pitch.

alexia pulls you back with her voice sharp, “stop that. you’re better than this.”

you don’t answer, jaw tight as you basically walk away from the insulted portuguese player. the game ends 1-0, a late goal from claudia, but you barely register the win.

in the locker room, you sit alone, head in your hands. at first you were angry, but now the guilt screams in your mind.

you’re the most recent ballon d’or winner until the next one in a month... aka the player who’s supposed to stay composed and set an example for other footballers in the community, but you lost it out there.

esmeralda’s giggle echoes in your memory, and you feel sick for letting her see this version of you (even if she is just a now four-month-old baby who is more focused on sucking her thumbs).

alba brings esmeralda to the tunnel after the game. you take her in your arms, her warmth grounding you.

“mi vida,” you murmur, kissing her forehead. she babbles, grabbing your jersey, and for a moment, the guilt eases.

alexia watches as she rubs her daughter's head, her expression unreadable.

“you were off today,” she says later, as you walk to the car, esmeralda asleep in her stroller that alexia is pushing.

“what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you lie, but your voice cracks.

“it was just a bad game.”

ale doesn’t push, but her hand that is not pushing the stroller lingers on your back, warm and steady.

the next weeks are worse.

against valencia, you shove a defender on the ground after chasing the ball, nearly earning another yellow. at training, you nearly snapped at fridolina for a mistimed tackle, your words sharper than intended. the entire team is starting to pick up that something is wrong.

however, nobody seemed to understand.

except for irene.

irene first notices the shift in you during that training session. you were sprinting for a ball when a mistimed challenge from fridoline sends you rolling across the grass.

at first, you stayed on the grass which scared some of your teammates into believing that you were injured. shit, it scared you until the anger settled in.

you leap up, eyes blazing, and snap, “this is a training session not an actual match! watch where you’re going?” the venom in your voice makes everyone pause.

frido raises her hands, apologizing, but you storm off, muttering under your breath. irene’s stomach twists...she’s seen this before, not in you, but in her wife, after their son was born years ago.

irene's wife is not a footballer, but she is a mother too. the defender knows that postpartum illneses like depression, anxiety, and rage doesn't discriminate. it should be taken seriously too.

the woman's postpartum rage had been a storm: sharp words with sudden tears and a sadness that clung like damp cloth. irene recognizes the signs in you...the way your shoulders tense, the way you retreat after outbursts, the guilt flickering in your eyes when you think no one’s watching.

it’s not just the pitch.

at a team dinner, you barely touch your food, staring at your phone, likely checking on esmeralda while alexia is holding your hand. when vicky asks about es, you smile, but it’s strained, and you change the subject.

irene remembers her wife doing the same at home, deflecting joy because it felt like a betrayal of the heaviness inside. she remembers the sporting lisbon match and your yellow card for confronting the player. that answered the defender's questions.

she knows this isn’t just you “getting back into the game,” as alexia hopes. it’s postpartum, a beast that can sometimes end up getting worse until the point of no return if not treated quickly.

she remembers her wife (and her being there for support) had help through with therapy, support, and, for her wife, a low-dose antidepressant prescribed by their doctor.

however, what happens the night after your burst on fridolina scares the crap out of alexia. a point where alexia knew she needed external help for your situation.

it is 2 in the morning. the apartment is dark since it helps the baby sleep better. you’re curled in bed, exhaustion pulling you into a fragile sleep, alexia’s steady breathing beside you.

esmeralda sleeps in her crib across the room by the nice window, her soft snores a rare reprieve as her little breathing bracelet makes sure that she is sleeping normally.

for once, the world feels still. however, a piercing wail shatters the quiet. esmeralda’s screams slice through the haze, sharp and relentless, yanking you awake first before alexia.

your heart lurches, a jolt of panic seizing your chest.

you sit up, breath shallow, as the cries grow louder, each one a needle in your fraying nerves.

you’re so tired... a soul-crushing tired. four months since giving birth, and sleep is a thief, slipping away with every feeding, every diaper change and you have to play football at the same time.

the exhaustion fuels a spark of anger, hot and irrational, at being woken again.

you hate the feeling, hate how it twists toward esmeralda, your perfect girl. you’d never scream at her, but the urge to lash out...at the noise and the sleeplessness terrifies you.

your hands shake as you stumble out of bed, not trusting yourself.

“i can’t,” you whisper, voice breaking, and bolt for the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

inside, the tiles are cold against your bare feet. you slide down the wall, knees to your chest, and the screams echo through the door.

your mind screams at you as well.

why can’t i soothe her? why does her crying make me feel like this?

your stomach churns, nausea rising as your mind spirals. something’s wrong with you, deeply wrong, but the answers feel out of reach, buried under layers of shame and fog. tears stream down your face, hot and unstoppable.

you’re failing her, failing alexia, failing the version of yourself who once had the world at her feet and the lifted the ballon d’or in her hands.

the sobs come harder, ragged, and you press a hand over your mouth to muffle them, terrified of what you’re becoming.

outside, alexia’s voice is a desperate hum, cooing to esmeralda.

“shh, cariño, mamá’s here,” she murmurs, but her tone wavers, edged with fear. the crib creaks as she lifts the baby, rocking her gently.

esmeralda’s cries soften, but alexia’s focus is on the locked door.

“amor, please,” she calls, her voice cracking.

“open the door, she okay now. please??!! everything is okay now” she’s scared...terrified by the silence from you, by the way you fled while she was still opening her eyes.

she clutches esmeralda closer, tears welling in her hazel eyes, her heart pounding as she imagines you unraveling alone.

she knocks softly, then harder.

“y/n, please. we’re okay, but i need to see you.”

you hear her, her voice a lifeline through the fog of your panic. however, the shame keeps you frozen... how can I face her when I am this broken?

your breaths are shallow, chest tight with anxiety that feels like it’s clawing you apart.

you’re supposed to be strong, the one who carried esmeralda, who promised alexia everything would be fine. yet here you are, hiding, crying, sick with a darkness you can’t name.

postpartum anxiety, depression...the terms float in your mind, half-acknowledged, but they’re too heavy to grasp.

finally, her pleas break through.

“i’m here, amor. i’m not going anywhere.” her voice is so soft, so full of love, it hurts. you crawl to the door, hands trembling as you unlock it.

alexia’s there, esmeralda now quiet in her arms, her eyes wide with worry. she kneels, setting the baby in her bassinet, and jogs to pull you into her arms.

“i’ve got you,” she whispers, voice thick with tears. you cling to her, sobbing into her shoulder, her warmth anchoring you.

“i’m so sorry,” you choke out.

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“you-you''ll be okay,” she says, but her hands shake as she holds you. she knows you are not okay now, and does not know when you will be.

she’s terrified, her mind racing.

for a while, shes considered this option but didn't want to involve other parties at first. now, she knows she might need help from the one other teammate who might understand... irene.

as you tremble in her arms, alexia resolves to call her, desperate for guidance to help you through this storm.

the next day, alexia seeks irene out in the captain’s office, game plans forgotten on the desk.

“irene,” alexia says, voice low, “I'm sorry... I know this is not entirely football related but something’s wrong with y/n. she’s… angry, sad. last night she hid in the bathroom when the baby started screaming... i don’t know what to do?” her eyes are desperate as she speaks rapidly in catalan, hands fidgeting, the weight of being your fiancée and captain pressing hard.

irene closes the door, sitting across from her.

“don't worry, its okay to come to me. i’ve seen it, ale. the way she snaps, the way she pulls away... it’s not just her. my wife went through it too. it’s postpartum rage and depression. my wife would yell over nothing, then cry for hours, feeling like she was failing us. y/n’s showing the same signs: the outburst at frido, the yellow card, how she shuts down after games. she’s carrying esmeralda and the high expectations from everyone... it’s too much.”

alexia’s face falls.

“she says she’s fine. i don’t want to make her feel worse.”

“she’s not fine,” irene says gently but firmly.

“she might not see it yet. with my wife i learned to be supportive without fixing. listen to her, love her through it, but don’t let her brush it off. postpartum isn’t just emotional since it can need more than words. she might need therapy and medication. the club’s medical team can recommend a therapist, maybe a psychiatrist for y/n. they helped us find someone for me and my wife...." she says.

alexia nods, eyes glistening.

“i just want her to be okay. her and es.”

“she will be,” irene assures.

“be patient. show her you’re there, no matter what. and talk to the club after you leave me here. they’ll know resources... therapists, support groups, even medication if it comes to that. you and y/n are not alone in this, ale.”

over the next few months irene becomes your quiet mentor, checking in after training, sharing her story to ease your shame. she teaches alexia to hold space for your pain, and together, they guide you toward help.

a seven month old es is at home with a sitter, and you miss her so much it aches. you’re sleeping less, the baby’s nighttime schedule leaving you drained.

when you look in the mirror, the woman staring back feels like a stranger.

alexia sees you looking at yourself. your face is full of concern, as if you were staring at a stranger. from behind, she cups your face, eyes locked on yours.

“you look beautiful." she lightly smiles, one of her hands going around your waist.

you frown, not sure if you believe that yourself.

"you don't believe that, but it is true. y/n, I'm sorry that you’re not at your best.... however, that’s okay. you carried our daughter, and gave us this beautiful life, but you don’t have to carry this alone.... let me help you, please.”

tears spill over, and you hate how vulnerable you feel.

“i don’t want to be weak,” you whisper.

“you’re not weak,” she says fiercely, “you’re the strongest person I know, but even the strongest people need help sometimes.”

the next day, you call a therapist recommended by the club’s medical team. the first session is hard...talking about the pregnancy and the birth. it was hard because of the rage and the guilt you feel after all of the pregnancy glory came crashing down.

what hurts is how esmeralda’s cries sometimes make you want to scream. you told the therapist that, and you feel like a monster.

however, talking about your problems is a start.

alexia sits with you at home, holding your hand as you process. “don't worry... we’re in this together,” she says, kissing your knuckles.

on the pitch, you’re more cautious, channeling the anger into focus. against bayern munich in the champions league, you score a header. it is your first goal since being back from giving birth.

esmeralda’s name is written on the tape beneath your wristband. the crowd chants your name, and for the first time in months, you feel like yourself again.

this is the first game where you didn't let your anger take control of your gameplay, and you let tackle errors from an opponent pass by.

after the game, you stayed on the pitch to talk to pernille, who is one of your closet friends outside of the barcelona team, for around twenty minutes.

as you walk back towards the locker room, alexia meets you at the tunnel, esmeralda in her arms, and you hold them both, heart full.

“i’m proud of you,” alexia whispers.

“for fighting for yourself, and for us.”

you kiss her, then esmeralda’s soft cheek.

“i’m trying,” you say.

it’s not perfect.

some days, the rage creeps back, or the sadness feels too heavy. however, you talk to your therapist, lean on alexia, take your needed medications with the advisory of the club's doctor, and hold esmeralda close.

masterlist

[acosmicbee]

Forgotten Royal

Platonic Yandere King x GN Teen Reader

You stood inside a hidden servant's passage, watching as the royal ball took place. Out there, sitting proudly on their thrones, was the royal family. Well, most of them anyway, but you didn't technically count. You had been the result of an affair between the king and a maid and your birth had caused an uproar in the palace.

The queen had done everything to get rid of the person causing her so much embarrassment by accusing your mother of everything she could. Adultery, thievery, witchcraft. She was barely a day postpartum when she'd been burned at the stake in front of the palace. The maids, however, had saved you with the king's permission. That was the only thing he'd ever done for you.

The head maid raised you, teaching you to stay out of sight and out of mind. She had some level of pity and care for you, but not enough to make you feel welcomed here. Now you were about to turn 14, the age when you would've made your debut and joined noble society. The day when you would've been announced as one of the heirs in line for the throne.

Instead you were hidden away, the secret bastard child of King Peter. You pretended to be unbothered, smiling away the hurt and anger you felt as you did your daily chores. Overtime. you had grown tired of always watching from within the walls and tonight it finally caught up with you.

You turned, dashing through the corridors as you made your way towards the kitchen. The head maid spared you a single pitied glance before returning to her work as you dashed out the door into the garden.

You ignored the rare plants and magnificent decor, a mission in mind. You headed straight towards the outer wall and climbed up to the top, using the gaps in the stone as foot and handholds. From up here you could watch the ocean and beach below the cliffs the castle stood on. 

It was a cloudy night and you strained to see whatever you could when the moon was briefly free of the cloud cover. A few seconds of moonlight illuminated a speck on the water below. The next time the clouds shrank away from the moon they were closer. You realized it must be a boat, probably a merchant ship heading south to the next kingdom over. 

You sat there, watching in glimpses as the ship sailed around the island, out of your sight. Maybe they were heading for the port. Maybe they were heading for the next kingdom. You honestly didn't care too much other than wishing you had the freedom to sail wherever you wanted.

Although, thinking about boats reminded you of a really cool shell you'd found down at the beach last time you snuck down there. It had been a while since you'd gone, maybe you'd ditch your chores tomorrow to go see it.

Eventually, you climbed down the wall and headed back inside the palace to go to bed. You fell asleep quickly, exhausted from the emotional toll of the day and all the chores you'd done. You were long asleep when the head maid peeked into your room. After assessing you were safe and sound she walked off to continue with her work, making a mental note for the next time the king asked about you.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

The ocean was cool and felt like bliss on your legs as you scanned the beach. You'd snuck away from the head maid, taking the long route to get here. While you did have to go all the way around to the beach by the main port before you could climb the rocky outcrops to reach the north beach, it was worth it. 

You'd already found some perfect scallop shells and an iridescent muscle shell. You wandered the shoreline, constantly checking the sand for anything that caught your eye. It was when you reached down to pick up a sand dollar did you feel a strong arm grab you by the waist and hoist you up.

"Well, well, well. What kind of treasure do we have here?" A deep voice asked. You struggled as hard as you could, dropping your shells in the process.

"Let me go!" You demanded, but your struggles were useless against a man way stronger than you were. He easily contained you until you'd tired yourself out. It was then he'd turned you around in his arms, holding you bridal style.

The man wore a crown, similar to King Peter's. He was probably a neighboring king, here as an invited guest to the ball last night. Your eyes locked with his brown ones. You both stared at each other before he smirked down at you.

"What is a maid's child doing all the way out here?" He asked, guessing your profession by the dull and worn out clothing you wore. You glared at him in annoyance.

"I'm collecting shells. Put me down." You demanded again. You were getting angry now, starting to squirm again.

"Where are your parents, child? You're a long way from the castle." The man asked. He finally put you down after an exceptionally harsh glare from you. You dusted off your clothes before picking up the shells you'd dropped before.

"I don't have parents." You answered, inspecting a razor clam shell. You decided against adding it to your growing collection and headed further down the beach. The man followed after you.

"You're too young to be out here alone. Did you scale the rocks to get here?" The man asked. You nodded, picking up a small spiral shaped shell and adding it to your pile. "That was very dangerous. If you slipped you would've fallen into the ocean. Do you even know how to swim?" 

"I don't slip, I know how not to." You answered simply. The man hummed for a moment before his eyes lit up, not that you could see with your back turned.

"I know exactly what you need." He said, striding over and picking you up again. This time you held onto your shells as he started carrying you down the beach.

"Hey! I'm not a kid! You can't just pick me up whenever!" You snapped, giving him a dirty look. He just smiled.

"I think, as your new father, I can do anything I want."

"N- new what?!" You shrieked, trying to squirm and roll your way out of his arms.

"You see, I was planning to come here to send your little king a message. My empire could really use some of the resources but King Peter refuses to trade with us over some past issues. But now," the man grinned down at you. "Now not only do I have an heir, but I will also have the resources I need as soon as King Peter realizes his choices are to trade with me or watch his kingdom burn. He will surrender and I will have everything I need."

Your mouth was open in horror. This wasn't a guest, but a blatant enemy. Then again... what had King Peter ever done for you? Why did you feel any obligation to stop this? But at the same time, what about the servants who had raised you? What about the head maid who was your sole mother figure.

All you could do was desperately struggle as he carried you down the beach.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

"You asked for me, my king?" The head maid said, bowing as she entered his study. Peter just sighed, waving her closer.

"Stop it with the formalities. You know why I called you here and you know what I want." He said, his voice commanding. The head maid just nodded.

"Y/N has been a little down lately. I think it's partially jealousy over their place compared to your other children. They snuck out to the garden last night during the ball, but were in bed and asleep when I checked on them." She reported.

"Jealous hmm..." Peter hummed, a storm of emotions flickering through his eyes. "And where are they right now?"

"Probably down at the beach, my king. They skipped out on their chores today."

"When they return, send them to me. I think it's finally time we had a little chat." He said, dismissing her.

"Yes, my king."

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Your 'new father' gripped your wrists to keep you from hitting as he carried you aboard the ship. You didn't care about the spectacle you were making as you tried your hardest to fight back with just your legs. Clearly you were drawing some attention when a man limped up to your captor with an annoyed glare.

"Lucas! You can't just suddenly wander off like that! You know fully well that your men don't listen to me!" The man seethed. He looked similar to your 'father', or Lucas as you now knew. They had the same green eyes and plethora of freckles, but Lucas had fiery red hair while the second man had dark brown. The second man supported himself on an ornate cane as he stood in front of Lucas.

"Darling, meet my little brother, Pierre." Your 'father' introduced, finally setting you down but not releasing your wrists. You froze as Pierre's mouth dropped open in shock. He glanced back and forth between you and Lucas for a while before he let out a long suffering sigh.

"Did you kidnap a child, Lucas? Really?!" Pierre asked. He limped closer to you, using his sleeve to wipe some stray sand off of your face.

"You always make everything sound so bad, Pierre. They said they had no parents so theres no one to kidnap them from. It's an adoption." Lucas insisted. Pierre rolled his eyes, carefully looking you over.

"You poor thing. Look at these dreadful rags..." Pierre frowned at your clothing and Lucas nodded.

"Indeed. Can you schedule a fitting for them once we return? Both for a new wardrobe and a crown. Until then though, I should be able to scrounge up something a little better." Lucas said. Pierre nodded before gesturing over to a knight who was waiting patiently.

"Go talk to your men, brother. I'll run them a bath while you're busy. I'll also get them some clothes, you wouldn't know proper fashion if it was standing right in front of you." Pierre chastised. He gently led you away from Lucas and towards a private cabin.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

You felt cleaner than you had in ages. Not only were you allowed to use hot water, and the most expensive hair products and soaps, but Pierre had spent a while just brushing your hair for you. He was, in your opinion, the only upside to the spontaneous kidnapping. You'd never had someone take care of you like this before.

Pierre had dressed you in one of Lucas' shirts, and some deer hide trousers. The trousers were likely borrowed from some junior knight because they were only a little loose. The shirt, on the other hand, swamped you and Pierre had to cuff the sleeves for it to fit properly. 

At some point, the adrenaline had worn off, leaving you sleepy, but irritable. You were actually enjoying having your hair brushed, Pierre's hands gentle and caring, when the cabin door had flung open with Lucas standing in the doorway. 

"Thank you, Pierre. How about you go tend to your leg, hm?" Pierre huffed, looking annoyed and uncertain, but eventually did what Lucas asked.

Upon being alone, he grabbed you again which caused you to glare at him again. He carried you over to the small desk in the cabin, placing you on his lap as he inspected something. It horrified you to realize it was a map of the castle.

He held you closer when you tried to squirm away. His grip tightened to near painful, only relenting when you finally stopped resisting. He just chuckled, placing a kiss on the top of your damp hair as he took notes on the side of the map.

It took a long time for the exhaustion you'd felt earlier to come back to haunt you. When it did you resisted as long as you could before your body involuntarily relaxed into his. He placed down his pen when that happened, a dark look in his eyes as his interest shifted from the map to you.

"Don't worry darling, we'll be able to head home soon. I promise you my empire is way more impressive than this. The castle has a private beach attached where you can go scavenge for shells every day if you wish." Lucas promised you, ruffling your hair as you drifted off.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Pierre was the one who took care of you that night. He fed you dinner and tucked you into bed. Lucas had already left with his knights to storm the castle, minus a couple who were guarding your door. You'd never been tucked into bed before, and the weight of quality blankets mixed with a full stomach made your eyes go half lidded.

You were a goner before Pierre started reading to you from a book he'd pulled from one of Lucas' shelves. In an instant you had fallen asleep, Pierres soothing voice carrying your mind to the realm of dreams.

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

"I'm surprised you didn't try and run with them." Pierre didn't turn to look at Lucas. Even from where he sat at your bedside he could smell the metallic scent of blood. His brother always got more trigger happy after a kill.

"And run where?" He asked, closing the book and laying it in his lap. He still refused to look at Lucas, keeping his eyes trained on your sleeping figure.

"Smart boy. You've learned since last time." There was a rustle from behind him and a few minutes later Lucas stepped into his view. He was just wearing his pants and boots, shirt, cape and armor abandoned. "How's your leg brother?"

Pierre growled, anger growing. "You would know, wouldn't you? Seeing as you're the one who broke it." Not only had Lucas broken it, he'd also made sure it never healed correctly, leading to the limp.

"Today must be a bad day then. Seeing as you're so grouchy and you were actually using the cane I got you."

"You know just as well as I do that you're going to hurt them. At some point they'll do something, just like I did, and you'll snap at them too." Pierre said, standing from the chair and finally meeting his eyes. Lucas only smirked, an evil look on his face.

"Family is very important to me. They'll learn that just as you have, brother. Now be a dear and go get some sleep, hm? You've had enough time with them today."

Pierre left the cabin with a sick feeling in his stomach. One of the knights standing guard immediately started to escort him to his own cabin. As he looked up at the stars, past the smoke rising from the now burning castle and ignoring the screaming of the people of this kingdom, he hoped you would escape and lead a happier, and freer, life then he had ever been able to. 

⊹ ࣪ ﹏𓊝﹏﹏𓂁﹏⊹ ࣪ ˖

Peter clenched his fists as he watched his castle burn. His eldest son was commanding the guards to douse the fire and find the queen. His other children were crying, his youngest daughter clinging to his pants. He knew they wouldn't find her alive, he'd already taken care of her before the fire had broken out.

He was about to take over from his son, to redirect the guards to helping civilians, when the head maid came running over, her face streaked with ash. Her eyes looked panicked as she approached him.

"My king, Y/N is missing." With those words the anger burning inside him was stoked into a raging inferno. "One of the guards said they saw a ship flying the flag of the Ashefall Kingdom docked down at North Beach!"

His mind raced as he realized what that meant. You'd gone to the beach today. You had been down by the ship. Had they captured you? Were you being tortured? Had that savage monster killed you? He growled, realizing if he'd been able to get rid of his wife sooner, this never would have happened.

You'd have been raised alongside your siblings as a royal. You would've been escorted by guards wherever you went. No one could have ever laid a finger on you. He growled as he stormed past the burning palace, easily scaling the garden wall. He watched as a tiny ship cruised past the shore, even from up there he could see the maroon flags blowing in the wind.

"Mark my words. I will get my vengeance, for my kingdom and for Y/N." He promised, glaring down at the boat as it sailed away.

[evamame]

postpartum depression / kuroo testurou

postpartum depression has hit you hard. and it doesn’t take much for kuroo to notice. it’s obvious in the way you tiredly rub your temples when your baby girl starts wailing at the top of her lungs for the third time in one hour, or in the way you sometimes look so exhausted kuroo thinks you might actually cry. he feels so helpless it hurts. he can’t stop her from crying. it’s just how newborn babies are. and he can’t take away your motherly duties either. he would if he could, but it’s too bad he’s not able to make his own milk for your baby. he can try to help you in other ways, though.

you’ve finally gotten your daughter to fall fast asleep in her crib, so you begin to drag your feet out from the bedroom and to the kitchen for a glass of water to cool yourself down. the sight laid before your eyes stops you in your tracks. kuroo is in front of the stove, and you can tell he’s grilling some type of meat on the pan from the soft sizzle. a fresh bouquet replaces the one that was left in the vase dying since you were too busy to bother buying a new one. small candles are lit and scattered across the kitchen island, creating a warm glow that lights up the dimly lit room. flower petals tossed around and oh you might just break down into tears right now.

you must have made a sound because kuroo turns around, a soft and understanding smile appearing on his face when he sees your expression. “i wanted to finally do something for you. i know we can’t go on a date somewhere fancy because of the baby, so i did the best i could,” he explains.

you shake your head. “kuroo. . . this is more than perfect,” you say, hands covering your mouth in awe.

his smile widens and he gives you a small nod before turning back to the meat grilling on the pan, flipping it over using the tongs in his hand with practiced ease. once he’s done he turns off the heat and places the grilled meat onto a plate. that’s when you pay attention to all of the other dishes scattered across the counter. every one of your favorite side dishes fill around a dozen plates to the brim. you breathe in the scent of simmered vegetables and fried croquettes as they hit your nose.

“you finally got our little princess to sleep?” he asks, opening the cabinet where you two keep that one fancy bottle of wine.

“yeah. took me a while, as always.”

he hums in response as he takes the bottle out and finds space to place it on the overflowing countertop. “i know. gave me some more time to get this ready, though.”

“when did you buy these flowers?” you ask, inspecting the beautiful arrangement of colors.

he smiles. “i got them on my way home from work. i saw them and thought of you, since i know they’re your favorite. and then i thought about this idea,” he gestures to the array of dishes as he speaks.

you raise a brow, “i didn’t see you with them when you got home.”

he starts carrying plates to the table, “i hid them behind the shoe rack. you’re not very observant when you’re tired, apparently.”

you let out an airy laugh at that and begin following his movements, grabbing plates to carry. he hears a plate clatter against the countertop as you pick it up and looks over his shoulder. “stop, stop. you’re not supposed to do anything. relax, i’ll handle it.”

you hesitate, and he’s quick to reassure you. “if you’re strong enough to handle our daughter day in and day out, i’m sure i can carry a few plates.”

you sigh, placing the dishes back onto the cold countertop surface. he’s right, as always. and you let him take care of you since there’s no reason for you to not. you take a seat at the table, watching as he makes rounds back and forth from the kitchen to you. he finally returns with just the wine bottle and two wine glasses in hand, placing them down on the table with a soft clink. then he sits in the seat right next to yours, not across, because kuroo is the type of man that absolutely despises it and claims it’s “too far.”

he pops open the cork and pours you two a glass, clinking his rim together with yours when you hold your glass out to him. you two eat, making small talk about how his long day at work was, about your baby girl, and everything in between. you eat slowly, savoring the taste of the food he went out of the way to make. and it tastes so good. nothing about your quick five minute sandwiches and microwave meals could even come close to the tender meat and flavorful sides. it’s been too long since you’ve sat down and had a meal that wasn’t rushed or interrupted by a crying baby. and a meal that was made with love. so, so much love.

“is it good?” kuroo asks in between bites, stabbing his fork into a vegetable.

“you don’t even know. i feel like im gonna cry,” you respond, words muffled from your mouth still stuffed with food. you stare at the small bit of remaining food on your plate, holding back tears.

he smiles softly, albeit a bit sadly, at your watery eyes and contorting features. “sorry i’m always at work. i know how tired you are.”

“it’s okay,” you say, shaking your head. you lean back in your chair, hands on your stomach, a tired but content sigh leaving your lips.

“full?” he asks.

you nod, and he stands up to take away the empty dishes. he returns and takes your hand, pulling you out of your seat. “come. i’ve got another surprise.”

he leads you towards the bathroom hand in hand, excitedly flicking on the lights to reveal the most romantic view you’ve ever seen. a similar sight is bestowed upon you as the one in the kitchen, with candles floating in the water accompanied by rose petals and a pink fizzy bath bomb with a subtle floral smell.

he places his hands on your shoulders from behind, leaning forward and tilting his head to look at your reaction in the dim lighting with an expectant grin. his voice is soft and warm, smoother than velvet. you feel his breath tickle your ear as he speaks, “i thought you might want to retire for the night with me. what do you say?” it’s phrased like a question, but he’s already gently and ever so slowly pulling down the straps of your top. you never would have said no anyways. not even in a million years.

masterlist | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @amaliaaliena @mires765

a/n: i keep up loading baby stuff, ig this baby fever is becoming a phase.

© evamame 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

[callsigns-haze]

His Shadow: The beginning

This Is Chapter 1 (masterlist)

Azriel, secretly juggling his responsibilities and personal life, maintains a hidden relationship with YN, who works at a pleasure house in the Hewn City. She was his light, his love, his passion. Yet being his darkest secret is a hard role because life in the Hewn as a young female isn't the easiest as the two of you hold an even dark secret yet to be told...

Pairing: Azriel x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences.

The Inner Circle noticed the change in Azriel almost immediately.

It started subtly. A missed meeting here, a late arrival there. At first, they chalked it up to his duties as the spymaster, knowing full well how deeply he was entangled in the shadows of Velaris and beyond. But as the days turned into weeks, Azriel’s absences grew more frequent, his presence more elusive.

Cassian was the first to voice his concern. “Anyone else noticed how Azriel’s been… disappearing?” he asked, frowning over the rim of his glass. They were gathered in the River House, the warmth of the hearth doing little to dispel the chill that had settled in the room.

Rhysand exchanged a glance with Feyre, his brow furrowed. “I’ve noticed,” he admitted. “But every time I reach out through the daemati, he’s always quick to assure me everything is fine. He’s been more secretive than usual, though.”

Mor, who had been unusually quiet, leaned forward, her eyes shadowed with worry. “I tried to ask him directly last week. He brushed me off, said it was nothing, just more work than usual. But… he looked exhausted, Rhys.”

It was true. When they did see Azriel, it was only for brief moments. He’d sweep in, dark circles under his eyes, his normally impeccable leathers rumpled as if he’d been up all night. He would give them a tight smile, exchange a few clipped words or go to his nephews, and then vanish again into the night. Even his shadows seemed quieter, more subdued, clinging to him like they too were weighed down by something unseen.

Feyre couldn’t shake the image of Azriel from her mind—the way he’d barely touched his food the last time they’d all sat down to dinner together, the way he’d flinched when Mor tried to touch his arm. There was something wrong, something deeply troubling, and it gnawed at her.

“I don’t like this,” Feyre said softly, her hand resting on the swell of her abdomen. “Azriel never lies to us, but it feels like he’s hiding something. Something big.”

Cassian’s hand clenched into a fist. “I’m going to drag him here if I have to. We need answers.”

But when Cassian did confront Azriel, it was like trying to catch smoke. The spymaster simply shrugged him off, his face impassive, his hazel eyes cold. “I’m fine, Cass. Just busy.”

“You look like death warmed over, Az. What’s going on?” Cassian pressed, frustration bleeding into his voice.

Azriel’s jaw tightened, shadows curling protectively around him. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

And that was the end of it. No matter how much Cassian prodded, how much Mor pleaded, how much Rhys tried to subtly pry into his mind, Azriel remained a stone wall. Implacable. Unyielding. Denying every question with the same cold, tired detachment.

It wasn’t until one particularly stormy night that Feyre finally cornered him. Azriel had returned to the River House, drenched from the rain, his normally sharp wings drooping with fatigue. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his face gaunt, his eyes haunted.

Feyre intercepted him at the door, blocking his path with her small frame. “Azriel,” she said, her voice firm but gentle. “We need to talk.”

He looked at her, and for a moment, she saw something flicker in his eyes—something like guilt, or maybe fear. But then it was gone, replaced by that cold, impenetrable mask. “There’s nothing to talk about, Feyre.”

She didn’t move. “Please, Az. We’re all worried about you. You’re hiding something, and it’s tearing you apart. Let us help.”

For a long, tense moment, he simply stared at her, the rain dripping from his hair onto the polished floor. Feyre held her breath, praying he would open up, let her in, let someone in. But then his shoulders slumped, and he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Feyre. But I can’t. Not yet.”

And with that, he slipped past her, leaving her standing in the doorway, her heart heavy with a growing dread.

Whatever Azriel was hiding, it was tearing him apart. And if he didn’t let them in soon, Feyre feared it would destroy him.

The Inner Circle was united in their concern, but despite their best efforts, Azriel remained a ghost in their lives, always on the periphery, always slipping through their fingers.

It was Rhys who finally voiced what they were all thinking, his voice a low, worried murmur as they gathered in the dim light of the sitting room. “Whatever it is… it’s only a matter of time before it comes crashing down on him. And when it does, he'll open.”

They nodded in agreement, but a shared, unspoken fear hung heavy in the air: would Azriel let them catch him when he finally fell?

---

Dinner at the River House was usually a time of comfort and camaraderie, a rare moment when the Inner Circle could gather without the weight of the world pressing down on their shoulders. But tonight, the atmosphere was tense, the usual warmth replaced by a cold, uneasy silence. The kids played outside as the adults sat.

Azriel sat at the far end of the table, his plate barely touched. He pushed the food around absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. His face was shadowed, his eyes distant, and the weariness that had been growing in him for weeks was more pronounced than ever.

Feyre noticed the way his gaze flicked to the windows, as if he was counting the minutes until he could leave. Cassian and Mor exchanged worried glances, and Rhysand’s brows drew together in a frown.

They all felt it—the growing distance, the secrets he was keeping. But tonight wasn’t the night to push him further. Not when he looked so close to breaking.

“Azriel,” Feyre said gently as the meal drew to a close, “You barely ate. Are you sure you’re all right?”

Azriel looked up, his expression neutral but his eyes giving away his exhaustion. “I’m fine, Feyre. Just tired.”

Cassian opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Azriel stood, the movement abrupt. “I need to go,” he muttered, already turning toward the door. “There’s something I need to take care of.”

“Az—” Rhysand started, but Azriel was already halfway out of the room.

“Goodnight,” Azriel tossed over his shoulder, his voice a distant echo as he disappeared into the night, leaving the Inner Circle staring after him in stunned silence.

Outside, the cool night air hit him like a wave, clearing some of the fog from his mind. Without pausing, Azriel unfurled his wings and launched himself into the sky, the wind whipping through his hair as he flew faster, higher, needing to escape the concerned looks, the unspoken questions, the suffocating worry.

He flew over the glittering city of Velaris, its lights twinkling like stars reflected in the Sidra River. But he didn’t linger. He angled his wings and veered away, heading towards the mountains, towards the darkness that loomed just beyond the city’s borders.

The Hewn City was a stark contrast to Velaris, a place where shadows reigned and light was a rare commodity. Even from the sky, Azriel could feel the oppressive weight of the city, the malice that seeped from its very stones. But he didn’t hesitate. He descended into one of the darker parts of the city, where the narrow alleys were shrouded in perpetual twilight, where even the bravest of souls dared not tread.

Azriel landed silently in one such alley, the shadows welcoming him as an old friend. He folded his wings and moved quickly, his footsteps barely a whisper on the cobblestones. The buildings here were ancient, their facades cracked and worn, their windows dark and uninviting. But Azriel knew exactly where he was going.

At the end of the alley was a narrow staircase, worn smooth by centuries of use. He climbed it swiftly, his heartbeat quickening with each step. When he reached the top floor, he paused, gathering himself. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed open the door.

The apartment was small, barely more than a single room with a bed pushed against one wall and a fireplace that cast a warm, flickering glow across the space. But to Azriel, it was a sanctuary. A place where the world’s troubles fell away, where he could be someone other than the Spymaster of Night Court.

And there, in the center of the room, was the reason he kept coming back.

YN, his love, his secret, his everything, was standing by the window, bathed in the soft light of the fire. She was smaller than him by far, her frame delicate, her own scars glowing, her features soft and kind in a way that was the exact opposite of the harshness of the world he knew. Her eyes, so full of warmth and love, lit up when she saw him, a smile spreading across her lips.

But there was a reason Azriel had never mentioned her to the Inner Circle, why he kept this part of his life hidden even from those he trusted most. YN worked under one of the pleasure homes in the Hewn City, forced into servitude under the command of the Hewn City’s lords. It was a dark and cruel existence, one that Azriel despised with every fibre of his being.

The idea of the Inner Circle knowing the truth—that the woman he loved was bound to such a place—was unbearable. He had seen too much darkness in his life, and the thought of exposing YN to the judgment, pity, or even the well-intentioned attempts to “rescue” her from that life, filled him with dread.

But here, in the quiet of this small apartment, she wasn’t the servant of cruel masters. She was just YN, the woman who had captured his heart despite everything, who had chosen him despite the four hundred and fifty years that separated them.

And in her arms was their newborn son, Knox, a tiny, perfect symbol of the life they had created together despite the odds.

The infant was only two weeks old, a small bundle of life that had already become Azriel’s anchor. Knox was asleep, his small, peaceful face a reminder of all that was good and pure in the world. Azriel’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of them.

This was why he disappeared every night. This was the secret he guarded so fiercely, the reason for his exhaustion, his distraction. This was the life he had built in the shadows, away from the eyes of the world.

YN walked over to him, her steps light and sure. “You look tired,” she said softly, reaching up to touch his face, her fingers brushing against the dark circles under his eyes.

“I am,” Azriel admitted, his voice rough with emotion. He let her touch ground him, pulling him out of the dark places in his mind and back into the light of her presence. “But seeing you… seeing him… it makes it all worth it.”

YN’s smile was soft, her eyes filled with a love so deep it made his heart ache. “You’re pushing yourself too hard,” she whispered. “I told you that if coming here after work is too much stay in Velaris for the night.”

Azriel closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, savouring the warmth that radiated from her. He knew she was right, but the weight of his responsibilities, the need to protect them, to keep them safe from the dangers he faced daily, made it hard to let go. “I just want to keep you both safe. And need you,” he murmured, his voice breaking.

YN reached up and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, her touch gentle but firm. “You already do,” she whispered against his mouth. “Just being here, being with us… that’s all we need, just as much as you need us.”

Azriel wrapped his arms around her, careful not to disturb Knox, who slept on, blissfully unaware of the world’s troubles. He held them both close, feeling the tension that had been coiled inside him begin to unravel. In this small, hidden room, in the arms of the woman he loved and with his son safe in her embrace, Azriel finally allowed himself to breathe.

For now, the shadows could wait. Here, in the warmth of their love, he was home. And this home is just the beginning of their secrets...

Let me know if you'd wish to be tagged! Comments and reblogs are really appreciated!

[maybankslover]

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C7cXzFXA4vW/?igsh=MWR5ZWRmdWt0NDN6Yw== this but Rafe x mom!reader and reader is insecure of her body after birth and Rafe always knew she was insecure it but didn’t know she stopped eating so then ig that’s where the video part comes in

dropped your hand while dancing, the reality universe- rafe cameron

drabble- you're still beautiful

requested

warnings: mention of eating disorder, mention of insecurities, mention of birth, mention of postpartum depression.

summary: after giving birth she's trying to find herself in the mirror again even if that includes putting her health at risk

a/n: i hope it's okay i did it in the dropped your hand while dancing universe, the reality after the last chapter. <3

series masterlist

after they found out she was pregnant on that sunday morning, rafe could notice how much the thought of gaining weight roamed around her mind but after the fifth month of pregnancy the worry was mostly gone.

now with a two month old sky in their lives, rafe started to notice the return of those thoughts. he knew about the insecurity it caused her to be naked in front of him even if he reminded her time and time again that she was the most beautiful woman in the world, before, during and after pregnancy. it was no secret that she hadn't lost all the weight she had gained during it but her body was returning to her original figure.

it started with reducing the portions of food she ate.

"baby? there isn't more food?" he asked looking at her plate, the portion less than half of what he had on his plate.

"there's more, i'm not that hungry." she gave him a samile that didn't fool him at all.

"if you say so."

then it with excesive work out's.

"you're going to the gym again?" he asked narrowing his eyes while holding their baby-girl.

"yep, there's milk in the frigde. i pumped this morning hon." she kissed his lips and kissed sky's head. "i'll be back in two hours, call me if anything happens."

and the last straw for rafe to flip out was when she passed out one afternoon while making some tea with something her mom had baked them.

"hon?" y/n said to him. "i'm not feeling-" but the sentence didn't end, her body dropped to the floor, crashing the plate she had in her hand in the process.

he rushed to her side. "y/n!" he picked her body up, taking her to the couch. "baby!" he started to freak out when after his fifth try, she still wasn't waking up.

the ambulance he called arrived a minute before she regained consciousness.

"you have really low blood pressure for your age and while breast-feeding." the doctor said. "are you eating healthy?"

"yes, been on a diet for the last month. trying to loose the wight i gained while pregnant." she answered and looked at rafe, who had an angry expression on his face.

"i'm going to give you an order to do a medical check and you should visit your doctor, i believe you have low iron and need to get that in order."

after thanking the doctor and closing the door, rafe came back with the same expression she had seen before in his face.

"i'll give you two seconds to explain to me what the hell have you been doing to yourself brefore i loose my fucking mind!" he exclaimed.

"i-" she stopped talking and looked at him.

"you what?" he was loosing his temper, he never did with her but what happened twisted every engine in his head.

"i don't like how i look anymore! i don't like it, i have loose skin everywhere, even down there looks weird. i'd go through everything again to get sky but i hate how my body looks rafe." the tears swelled in her eyes and his softned, getting closer to her.

"you look beautiful, i get what you're saying i do but you can't do what you've been doing to yourself. it's not healthy, you're two months post-partum give youserlf a break." he sighs. "we can go see a nutricionist and your doctor, you need to be healthy for yourself and for sky. you're her source of nutrients."

"you don't hate me?" her lip trembled.

"i could never hate you. i love you but i was worried about you. it isn't healthy." he leans down to press a kiss to her lips. "i know it won't do anything because you see yourself the way you told me but you're beautiful. you've always been beautiful, before pregnancy, during and now in the post."

"i love you." she smiled at him.

he would do everything in his power to keep her healthy and happy, reminding her she's the most beautiful woman in his eyes.

taglist: @chenslucy @gillybear17 @imliterallyamirrorball @nichmeddar @gillybooboo @julczimozart @bellbottombaby @silkylovey @droppedyourhnd @jaydaaasworld @congratsloserr @carrerascameron @m1santhropicc @wearemadeofstardust0 @chiaraanatra @rlalliehayes @ijustwanttoreadlols @sunny1616 @theoraekenslover @user123453226780536 @isaidoop @belle101200 @blisslove

[anotherwellkeptsecret]

I am taking a hiatus from drawing. I am not well and I've stretched myself too thin, causing repeated illness and chronic fatigue. I need to get better before I can return to work properly. Baby Secret is still under the weather so I need to focus 100% on her health and mine.

I am deeply sorry I have not been able to handle postpartum like I envisioned. It is, indeed, a monster. I have made a mental health appointment for myself tomorrow--I'm taking this very seriously.

Thank you all for your support as I've struggled again and again to make art during this tumultuous time. I am a better and stronger person for having tried.

[childrenofcain-if]

Wait so ur telling me that Mom got pregnant with us when she was still in college? As a person who's had many pregnancy scare before I graduated college, it mustn't have been easy for her at all 🙁 did she even want to keep us? Or did Elias convince her to do that?

your mother sat on the edge of her dorm bed, the small square of mattress barely big enough to hold her. ‘fake plastic trees’ by radiohead played from the CD player where she’d inserted the signed copy of ‘the bends’ that elias gifted her for her birthday last year.

she felt smaller than the girl who used to sit cross-legged on her childhood bed, staring at the posters she had of R.E.M. and the cranberries, tuning out the shouts downstairs.

now, though, it wasn’t shouts she tuned out but her own thoughts. they were loud and disjointed, clashing like mismatched cymbals in her head, each one sharp enough to make her wince.

her hand rested flat against her stomach. the knowledge of you being there was like holding a fragile, heavy truth in the palm of her hand. it would not be a lie to say she loved you—not yet. but it was too soon, too abstract.

it would also not be a lie to say she feared you. that was probably closer to the mark.

she was twenty years old, and for twenty years, she had walked a line. one side was her mother, all blunt edges and scarred softness, hollowed out by betrayal and depression. the other side was her father, all cruelty wrapped in a charming exterior he presented to everyone else but his own family.

she had walked the tightrope, feeling it shift beneath her with every fight, every slammed door, every time her father disappeared for days, weeks, only to return smelling of perfume that wasn’t her mother’s.

and to think it all started when her father had called her mother ruined. ruined. he said it with the kind of disdain reserved for something you’d like to throw away but can’t even be bothered to muster the energy to do so.

it was after her brother was born, and everything about her mother seemed different: softer in some places, scarred in others.

the postpartum weight clung to her body like an unwanted guest, and though her father never said it directly, he didn’t have to. his glances said enough. his hands, which used to linger on her waist, now found the armrests of his chair instead.

her mother’s descent was slow after that, like the drip of a faucet you don’t notice until it’s flooded the sink. she spent her days shuffling around the house, a glass of something amber in her hand, her white robe hanging loosely on her frame. she looked at your mother and her brother with eyes that didn’t seem to recognize them.

the crying started shortly after. not your mother’s, not yet, but the baby’s. it was shrill and loud, as most babies’ cries are.

your mother remembered watching her mother pick up the baby, her hands trembling, her voice high and thin as she pleaded for him to stop.

he didn’t stop.

her mother’s voice then got even louder.

“stop it!” she screamed, and when that didn’t work, she shook him. not gently, not in the way that you’re supposed to handle babies. her movements were rough and desperate, her arms jerking back and forth with a force that made your mother’s stomach drop.

your mother didn’t remember moving, only that suddenly she was there, her tiny hands gripping her mother’s arm, trying to pull her away from her baby brother.

“stop!” she cried, her own voice breaking now, tears streaming down her face. “you’re hurting him!”

for a moment, her mother froze, her chest heaving, her face crumpled with something that might have been regret or might have been rage. she looked at your mother like she didn’t know her, like she was seeing a stranger. then she dropped the baby back into the crib and stumbled out of the room.

your mother held her brother that night, rocking him back and forth until his cries softened into hiccups.

she didn’t sleep well for several nights after that. she couldn’t.

by the time your mother was a teenager, she had learned how to read the silence in a room.

she could tell by the way her father’s jaw tightened when he glanced at her mother that he was one argument away from leaving. she could tell by the way her mother avoided mirrors that she hated herself more than she hated her husband.

her father eventually did leave, of course. men like him always did. he didn’t pack a suitcase or make a scene; he just stopped coming home.

for a while, your mother thought that might be a relief. it wasn’t.

her mother spiraled without him. the drinking got worse, and with it came the harsh words and the slammed doors and the nights your mother spent sitting on the floor outside her mother’s room, listening to her sob into her pillow as she tried to coax this grown woman to eat something.

your mother had promised herself that she would be nothing like either of them.

she would not love the way her mother had loved, giving so much of herself away that there was nothing left but the empty shell of a woman who could barely hold a crying baby without wanting to hurt him.

she would not hurt the way her father had hurt, tearing holes in the fabric of their family until there was nothing left to stitch together.

and yet here she was, a junior at yale, staring at the old posters of her favourite bands in her dorm and feeling the exact same fear her mother must have felt.

it was like looking into a fucking mirror.

[sirfrogsworth]

Early voting to beat the lines... the best-laid schemes of mice and men often go awry.

So... yesterday was quite the day.

After being stuck in bed for the past 6 weeks with some mystery slump, I was finally feeling better. So I decided I would try to cram as many errands into my day as possible. That works better for me when I drive out into the world because I end up only having to do one big recovery instead of a bunch of little recoveries.

My to-do list...

Go to the doctor

Vote early

Return oxygen machine to FedEx store for scammy eBay guy

Return Amazon package to the UPS store

Get gasoline for my whip

Go to Discount Tire to get my tires filled for free

Drop a check off for my lawn guy

Mail a secret package to Katrina at the US Post Office

It would have been nice if I could have gone to just one shipping place instead of all three, but the universe has a sense of humor and likes to do shit like that to me on a regular basis.

So, I get my checkup, it goes quick, no long wait, I'm feeling good.

As I get in my car, it starts to rain. It was an ugly day and it actually has not stopped raining to this very moment a day later. Just gray, windy, chilly, and wet. I look up the voting place and start the GPS.

Wipers and music on full blast, it's time to get my vote on.

When I reach my destination, I realize early voting is at some kind of private golf club. And at the center is a recreation center—which is a public building.

So it's like this private/public turducken situation.

I was expecting this errand to take 20 minutes. Because early voting always seemed like a way to get in before the crowds of election day for a more convenient voting experience.

But the parking lot was packed and I feared my expectations were about to be subverted.

As I walk through the parking lot I see a bunch of signs in the ground.

And a particular one caught my eye.

This is bullshit.

Like, just a straight up lie. No truth to it whatsoever.

Amendment 3 in Missouri basically restores abortion rights in the state. And Republicans have taken issue with the following language...

"The Government shall not deny or infringe upon a person's fundamental right to reproductive freedom, which is the right to make and carry out decisions about all matters relating to reproductive health care, including but not limited to prenatal care, childbirth, postpartum care, birth control, abortion care, miscarriage care, and respectful birthing conditions."

They claim the phrasing "but not limited to" means you can give an 8-year-old kid "sex change surgery."

This is how their online flyer puts it...

It could also include a free puppy.

Or a zillion bucks.

Or a clown will come to your house after the abortion and honk your nose.

It's ridiculous and desperate. I honestly don't know how it is legal for them to put a lie like that outside of a polling location, but here we are.

The organization "Missouri Stands with Women" is run by... a man.

It was set up by a lawyer named "Edward Greim" on behalf of the Federalist Society.

His law firm has a lovely biography about him. And a bunch of publicly available contact information. I say that for no reason whatsoever.

The Federalist Society funds all kinds of shit like this. Their main thing is installing conservative judges all over the country who will reinterpret or negate legislation. And they do it all to "stand with women" by taking away their reproductive rights.

Here is the board of directors of the Federalist Society.

Ya know, before I looked this up, I said to myself, "I bet it's going to be a sausage fest." I am psychic.

I think it would be more accurate to say they stand with A woman.

Just one.

And she sucks.

Nicole is a law professor at Notre Dame. She chose her Catholicism over her right to choose. The Catholic Church will fuck your rights and your children and Nicole will help them do it.

Anyway... back to my quick and easy voting experience...

So as I'm walking in to vote I keep passing a ton of these awful signs. I notice an older woman standing next to the aforementioned "child sex change" sign and she says, "Can I talk to you about Amendment 3?"

At this point, I'm pretty angry. I look her dead in the eyes and say with my most assholish tone, "NO." as I walk past her.

And then she finishes her sentence...

"...to protect the reproductive rights of women."

Ah, dammit.

I thought she was an old Karen but she was cool as heck. Standing out in the rain telling people the sign is bullshit. I wanted to turn around and apologize but I was stuck in full social anxiety mode so I just kept walking.

If that old lady happens to have a Tumblr and follows me and is willing to read this giant story... I just want to say I am sorry. I thought you were awful and I should have let you finish your sentence. You're super cool and I'm happy there are folks like you fighting for what is right.

I get inside and a young woman greets me. She tells me the line is in the next room and points. I still wasn't quite sure what the situation was. The parking lot being full gave me pause, but I was still hopeful I could have a swift early voting experience.

But I walk through the doors and into a huge gymnasium and my heart sinks.

It's hard to represent in pictures how long this line is.

It goes all the way to the end of the gym, loops around, and comes back. At first I was not too discouraged, because there was a nice gentle ramp at the start of the line.

But then I notice several sets of stairs at different stages of the line. And I'm just thinking how hard it would be to stand in this line and then also having to go up and down several sets of stairs.

So I go back to the young woman working there and ask what their accessible voting options are. And she told me I could do curbside voting and points outside. I then notice a line of cars wrapped around the parking lot. I don't know how I didn't see them walking in, but I guess I was too busy being a jerk to elderly progressive women.

My biggest concern was time.

The longer this takes, the more energy I use up, the longer my eventual recovery will be.

They tell me the car option is the slowest. And I could be in line for 2 to 3 hours. And then an old man who seemed to be in charge walks over and tells me the fastest option is to stand in line.

So I walk back out to my car and grab my cane and decide to try the long serpentine gynasium line.

I start walking up the ramp and some of the other folks see how slow and labored I'm walking and they start encouraging me. "You can do it! You got this!" Which I suppose was meant to be a positive helpful thing. But I found it to be embarrassing.

I get to the end of the line and notice most of the line has bleachers directly next to it. So I decide to sit down and rest and figure out how I am going to survive this experience.

It took me a while to recover from the long walk to this spot. I watched a bunch of people pass me by and the line was actually getting much longer as I rested. I was not really sure what to do. I was trying to problem-solve this situation but the answer that kept popping up in my mind was just... "go home."

But I felt this was too important and that wasn't really an option.

My best idea was to ask someone if they would hold my spot in line. Perhaps I could just sit in the bleachers and follow them around in the line, staying as close to them as I could. But my social anxiety was set to maximum and I was not finding the courage to ask someone.

After about 10 minutes of sitting, resting, and thinking, I basically say, "Fuck it, I'll try to stand in line."

I get up and start walking to the end of the line.

Then I hear a voice yell out to me.

"Hey, man! Come over here! This is your spot!"

A young man was waving at me. He was accompanied by his wife. Both of them were dressed in black and they had a sort of goth skater aesthetic going on. He had a competitively bushy beard, but with less gray. And she had very vivid purple hair.

I was a little confused and still processing what was happening. Then they both started waving at me to join them in line. They remembered I got there just before and told me I should be in front of them. I walk over and thank them. Then he suggests...

"Hey, why don't you just sit in the bleachers and follow us around the line."

He suggested my idea!

Without me asking!

I felt like he read my mind or something.

Can bearded people read each others' minds? Was this some beard skill I was unaware of?

"I got you, man. You just sit and we'll keep your place."

And his violet hair'd significant other agreed. "Yeah, we got you."

The kindness of strangers was more accessible than my polling place and I was just so thankful in that moment.

So I sat in the bleachers and watched them traverse the line. In the middle of the gym there were some teenagers playing basketball. And so I just rested and watched them play.

That young man in the red pants was like a goddamn Harlem Globetrotter. He was just embarrassing the others. He was bouncing the ball behind his back and through his legs and then he just danced around his opponents like a figure skater. It was such an unbalanced matchup. He might as well have been playing 4th graders. Not only was he significantly faster and more maneuverable, but he was consistently hitting 3-pointers.

And then during a break, he ran towards the hoop, jumped from the free throw line, flew all the way to the net, grabbed onto the rim, and proceeded to do several pull ups as if they were the easiest thing in the world. I don't think I've seen anyone jump that far and that high in real life and it was just a bonkers display of athleticism.

I spent the entire wait watching him humiliate the others—hoping he would get a full ride scholarship to some prestigious university.

And I hoped the other boys paid attention in school and got straight As, because basketball was not going to work out for them.

As my new goth skater friends progressed through the line, I would make sure to keep sight of them. Every once in a while I'd give them a head nod to acknowledge we were in this together. After an hour and a half they were at the final segment of the line, so I sat next to the wheelchair folks.

I probably could have argued to sit with them in the first place. But I really did not feel like making the case that I was just as disabled as them and needed that level of consideration. The old man running things seemed quite stressed and was putting out 8 fires at once. And my anxiety wasn't really cooperating enough to be assertive in my needs.

But it worked out in the end, so I'm not going to dwell on the lack of accommodation for people who weren't *visually* disabled.

My new bearded friend neared the end and waved me over. I thanked him and his wife profusely.

I joked, "Thank you for adopting a voter."

They seemed confused by my joke.

"No problem, man. Happy to help."

I told him and his wife they truly saved me. "I honestly don't think I would have made it through the line." And then I looked back...

I said, "As crazy as this is, I do find this kind of turnout encouraging." His wife agreed and said, "We were saying the same thing!" And then I thought, "Can the wives of bearded people absorb the mind reading ability? I hope she can't read my mind right now. Although, I'm mostly thinking that her hair is a really cool shade of purple, so she'd probably find that complimentary."

As I waited to get my ballot I could hear the happy couple behind me. They were very cute. They were making fun of each other in a very lovey-dovey fashion. I had high hopes they were going to grow old and gray and purple together based on their chemistry. And I was just so thankful they were able to recognize that I needed help without me asking. Because I probably would have just caved to my anxiety and not asked for help otherwise.

I got my ballot and sat down to fill in all of the appropriate squares. Thankfully I had prepared a cheat sheet on my phone.

It was an exact replica so I was able to copy it and finish quite rapidly.

Then I fed my votes into the vote-eating monster and they gave me a sticker.

My quick 20 minute adventure to vote early only took 2.5 hours!

And because I didn't want to buck tradition, I stood outside in the wind and the rain and took a voting selfie.

Yep, that seems about right.

Ah, crap... that was only the second thing on my to-do list.

Let's speedrun the rest of this story, shall we?

I drove to FedEx. I hauled a 40 pound box inside. I plopped it on the counter and said, "Man, this thing is heavy!" as I tried to catch my breath. The 20 year old working there then lifted it like it was a feather and I felt great about that.

I drove to the gas station because I was nearly on empty—that is both a metaphor and not a metaphor. I filled my ride with go juice.

I noticed I was a mile from the tire store and they fill up tires for free. So I did that and the guy was super nice and complimented my tires. I felt both weird and proud about having my tires complimented. Like, I had nothing to do with my tires being nice. But I accepted the praise on their behalf.

I drove to the UPS store. The last time I was there I made a scene. They refused to box up a return and I got upset and wasn't feeling well and they had to find a chair for me to sit in because I was going to faint. So I was hoping the same woman wasn't there, but she was. She didn't recognize me, so it was fine.

I drove to my lawn guy's house. He wasn't home. I dropped a check in his mailbox. My checks have corgis on them. My checks are cute.

I drove to the post office. I sent a secret package to my bestie, Katrina. I'd tell you what is in it, but it is an inside joke and you wouldn't get it. The woman noticed my voting sticker and I couldn't help thinking about what I just accomplished to get that sticker.

On my way out I noticed a miracle.

2 of the 4 doors were fixed!

I mean, I don't know why they couldn't fix all 4, but now the employees won't freeze in the winter. So I take that as a win. It only took a year and a half to accomplish and I'm sure all of my phone calls and emails did not help at all. But I'm going to pretend I saved the day regardless.

And then... I drove home.

5 hours of errands.

I was so fucking tired. My back was on fire with pain. I immediately collapsed into my bed. I passed out. And I slept for 14 hours.

The End

[littlejuicebox]

Dadstarion prompt (sorry if I missed the boat on this!) - insecure postpartum Tav, struggling with their new body. Maybe some body worship from Astarion 👀? (Personal experience - I really struggled postpartum with adjusting to my new body, it changed in ways I never even imagined). Thank you and just want to say I love your Astarion 🥰

Adore You

Thanks for your request! Not 100% sure this is what you were looking for, but I already had a mostly finished piece I was working on that definitely fits the body-worship and Tav struggling with her body parts of this prompt. It's smut, though, and when the smut gods bless, I cannot deny their gifts.

Glad you love my Astarion! I adore him. And he adores his Tav. ;)

Summary: You are struggling with your post-partum body. Astarion is here to remind you that he still adores you.

This follows my Dadstarion section of my AstarionxReader series. But no worries, you can read it as a OneShot. Here’s the gist: Astarion is mortal and you have three children together. Gale, named after the Wizard of Waterdeep and the twins. That’s about all you need to know! See my other fics for more info and storylines.

Tags/Warnings: smut with a plot, body image issues, angst w/ comfort, PiV, fingering, oral, light overstim, light daddy kink, breast milk, breast milk drinking, all the depravity i'm generally known for tbh, light creampie kinda?

Word Count: 2.8K

A/N: I'm an unhinged degenerate and no I won't apologize. Also women’s bodies are amazing and can produce life and are beautiful and my Astarion appreciates that about his Tav okay?

“Thank the gods for the nanny,” Astarion says with a dramatic sigh as he enters the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him, “Gale was about to make me read ‘P is for Peacock’ a third time and I was close to ripping my hair out, darling.” 

You chuckle softly as your husband greets you from where you’re seated at the vanity with a brief kiss and then moves to the small table in the corner of your bedroom to pour himself a goblet of wine. 

“And the twins?” He asks as his eyes watch the red liquid fall into the cup beneath it. He takes a few sips as you speak before setting the cup back down on the table.

“I’ve just fed them not too long ago and now they’re both asleep. Having Winifred to help me get them on the same schedule has been wonderful.” You respond as your husband nods and prepares a second, smaller goblet of wine, which he brings to you.

He settles himself beside you while you finish braiding your hair for bed and hums contentedly, “Perfect.”

Astarion’s hands wrap around your midsection and before you can stop yourself, you feel your body tense under his touch. The silver-haired elf pauses and frowns before retracting his hands, “Do you not want me to touch you, darling? You need only tell me.” 

You sigh and shrug as you finish off the half-portioned goblet in one long drink, mostly to avoid your husband’s gaze,  “It’s not that, it’s— it’s stupid.” 

“Look at me, little love.” He whispers, his fingers coming under your chin as they gently coax you to face him and meet his gaze. He moves forward and presses a soft kiss against your lips before continuing, “I love you. More than anything. You know this. Now, won’t you tell me whatever is the matter so that I can help?”

Your husband waits as you gather your thoughts. It’s complicated, it’s embarrassing. You know it’s silly, and vain, and yet you can’t help yourself. And you aren’t quite sure how to verbalize it all.

“I hate my body.” You finally say, your voice cracking as you speak, and something about finally saying that evil little thought aloud causes tears to spring in your eyes. 

Astarion’s mouth falls open in surprise and then he furrows his brows and quickly wraps his arms around your shoulders, not knowing what to say or do apart from physically enveloping you in his love. 

You continue on, speaking into his neck, sniffling as a few more tears run down your cheeks, “After Gale, I quickly returned to my previous weight. I hadn’t had any stretch marks. But carrying the twins— it’s different, Astarion. And I was expecting it to an extent but I just— I hate my body and I hate the way I look.” 

There is a moment of silence as your husband simply holds you against him, allowing space for your tears. When he speaks, his voice is a soft murmur into your hair, “Not that you should care what I think, but I adore your body, darling. And I love everything about the way you look.” 

You scoff and withdraw from your husband with teary, reddened eyes narrowed at him, “You have to say that.”

“I do not have to do anything,” He retorts, arching his eyebrow in a challenge, “Weren’t you the one that taught me that?” 

When you don’t respond, Astarion continues on, knowing he’s won. He takes your hand in his, gently lifting it to press a kiss against your knuckle. 

“I adore your hands. Which have both slain monsters and soothed our children,” He whispers before trailing kisses up your arm and to your neck where he presses another reverent kiss against those little fang scars. 

“I adore your neck, which once provided me with sustenance I hadn’t known in centuries.” 

Your face is beginning to grow hot under his devoted attention and compliments, and you move to shrink away from your husband, but he gently grabs you by the waist. He leans into you and brushes his nose at the meeting point between your ear and neck as he inhales the smell of your skin. 

“Why are you trying to hide from me, darling?” He asks with a little sulky pout, his chin resting on your shoulder. 

“I’m not, I—“ You begin, but Astarion quickly shushes you. 

“Then just be quiet and let me adore you, hm?” He asks before running his tongue against those fang marks, making you shiver. 

You nod slightly and your husband grins, “Good girl. Now, come here.” 

Astarion pats his lap and you slide to sit upon his thighs, forgetting your finished goblet on the floor underneath your vanity stool. He rests his chin upon your shoulder as the two of you gaze in the mirror together. 

“Do you remember when I used to do this all the time?” Astarion asks, not truly waiting for a response before his long fingers trace down the side of your neck, brush along your collarbone, and then wander toward your waist, aiming to untie your dressing gown. He moves slowly and watches your expression in the mirror, waiting for you to give him any indication to stop. 

But you didn’t want him to stop. Despite your feelings about your body, you still deeply crave your husband’s comforting touch. 

The silky fabric slips down your shoulders and pools around your waist, baring you before his adoring eyes. The elf smiles and presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder, still watching the two of you in the mirror. 

“Beautiful,” He whispers as he peppers a few kisses up your shoulder and the back of your neck, igniting a trail of goosebumps across your skin.

Astarion slowly drifts his hands up your sides before moving to cup a heavy, milk-stretched tit in each hand. The sensation causes you to wriggle. 

His tone is reverent, almost a whisper as he turns his head just slightly and flashes a toothy grin, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks, “I adore your breasts, which have fed our eldest and now feed our twins.”

He chuckles salaciously before saying the next part, “And which, on more than one delicious occasion, have also fed me.”

Your husband lightly teases circles around your nipples as he finishes the line that he knows will cause you to blush and then gently nips at your ear lobe, earning him a gasp. You feel Astarion’s arousal pressing into your backside as he continues to caress your breasts and uses two fingers from each hand to tease and stimulate your nipples. You arch into his touch and your thighs press together as you feel a growing slickness between your legs from his attentions. 

One of your breasts begins to leak milk, and when your husband feels the warm liquid dripping onto his fingers he hums and brings the digits to his lips. You watch in the mirror as Astarion dips the two fingers into his own mouth and licks them clean while continuing to tease your other breast. 

It isn’t long before that one begins leaking, too, and your lover chuckles in delight as he watches the liquid gold trail down the bottom of your breast and languidly drip down your stomach. 

The elf brings two fingers to slowly swipe up the stream of white liquid. Then he brings those same fingers to your lips, prompting you to open your mouth.

“Good girl,” He purrs before pressing those two digits against your tongue. Astarion lingers for a moment and you shut your eyes as you eagerly wrap your lips around his slender fingers and suck. You hear a little hum by your ear and feel your lover’s cock twitch in delight underneath you as he observes the scene.

“You are a vision, love.” He murmurs, as he slides his hand away from your lips, “Now, let me take care of you the way you deserve.”

The elf gestures for you to stand, causing your robe to completely slide off your body into a pool on the floor, before he quickly spins you and then hoists you onto the vanity desk. The smallest flicker of that arrogant rogue dances across his face as Astarion moves forward to dip his tongue into your mouth. He unhurriedly teases your tongue against his as he roams his hands up and down your torso until you're panting and moaning softly into his mouth. 

When he retracts, his pupils are filled with lust. His hands come to quickly pull his shirt over his head and then undo the laces of his trousers. Before long he’s standing in front of you in only his small clothes. 

Astarion grabs your hand and guides it to the bulge straining between his legs as he asks, “Do you feel what that divine body of yours does to me, little love?” 

“Yes– my love, I want–” You begin as you eagerly try to delve your hand inside your husband’s undergarments, desperate to free his gorgeous cock. But he catches your wrist and stops you with a soft tut and a playful glint in his eyes. 

“Soon. But not yet, darling. I haven’t quite finished adoring you yet. And I’ve got the best seat in the house.” He teases, before settling himself back onto the vanity bench and grinning mischievously up at you, “Now, be a good girl and open those beautiful, plush thighs of yours for me, won’t you?” 

You oblige, and Astarion takes a moment to admire you, fully barren to him and already soaked with arousal. His arms come under your knees, spreading you wider for him, as he grips your thighs with his hands. Then he turns and begins pressing tender kisses up your thigh. He makes slow work of the task, humming contentedly on his journey toward your sex and always lingering longer in the spots where you’ve developed stretch marks. 

By the time his face is right in front of your mound, you’re positively leaking for Astarion and he groans appreciatively at the sight. 

“Beautiful. I will never tire of seeing that gorgeous cunt dripping for me, darling,” He murmurs and before you can respond, your husband is delving his tongue between your folds and eagerly feasting upon your juices. 

You moan in delight when Astarion brings his tongue to trace around your clit, so familiar with your preferences that it doesn’t take long for him to coax you toward your peak. His tongue dances expertly around the swollen nub, each pass causing your pleasure to build. Two of his long, pale fingers slide into you, meeting no resistance, and he slowly pumps the digits in and out of your walls. 

You grasp onto Astarion’s curls and whine when he adds a third finger, and he knows you’re close, so he continues his ministrations and adds more pressure as he curls his fingers just so. His other hand comes up to find your nipple and tease it between his fingers as you climb the final steps toward your climax. 

A final flick of Astarion’s tongue, a final stroke of his fingers, and you burst with pleasure, whining in delight as your thighs tremble on either side of his head. Your walls spasm and send another gush of arousal onto the elf’s face. You begin leaking breast milk once again. 

“Delicious,” Your husband murmurs as he pulls back slightly to admire the glistening of your sex and then presses forward and takes one more lap of your sensitive folds, causing you to buck into his mouth as he chuckles against you. Astarion languidly runs his tongue up to your stomach, lapping at the thin rivulets of milk running down your torso and covering his face in a shiny layer of your juices and breast milk.

Then he stands to his full height and finally— finally— steps out of his small clothes. His pale cock springs proudly from its confinement, dripping thin strings of pre-come from the reddened tip, just for you. 

“Get over here, Astarion,” You eagerly demand, voice hoarse from your cries as you hook your legs around his torso and pull him against you. 

“Anything for my little love,” Your husband responds, voice full of gravel as he runs the underside of his cock against your slit, using it to lubricate his length. 

And then the head of his cock presses into you and your mouth falls open as Astarion buries himself to the hilt. His thumb comes to lightly tease your still-tender clit as he slowly rocks his hips back and forth. He’s watching your face intently as he thumbs circles around that needy, engorged bundle of nerves. 

You use your legs to pull the elf deeper and he grins before lowering his head so that it’s right by your ear. He takes the lobe in his mouth and suckles gently, causing you to whimper.

“You’ll do one more for me, won’t you darling? You always look so gorgeous when you do.” He coaxes, his mouth so close to your ear his breath tickles the sensitive flesh. And then he’s pitching his hips just slightly, aiming to hit your favorite spot with the tip of his cock. He’s gasping and grunting now as his own need for release starts to overpower him.

You’re almost there. You’re keening with each thrust from Astarion and your walls are clenching tighter and tighter around his cock. 

He moans in response at the sensation before pressing his thumb harder against your clit and rubbing it with single-minded intensity, working you toward release. You begin to relentlessly whimper again and Astarion smiles, his eyes locked onto yours as he watches your face contort in the feeling of immense pleasure.

 “There you go, little love. Let go for daddy.” He whispers, bringing his other hand to palm the ample flesh of your ass. 

And gods, you do. 

The second orgasm ripples through you harder than the first, and you have to clasp your hand around your mouth to stifle your moan. Your walls are pulsing around your lover’s cock as you ride the wave of ecstasy.

You go almost slack and before long Astarion is ripping your hand away from your face and pressing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss as he begins to rut wildly into you, shaking the vanity with every thrust. 

“Gods, the things your body does to me,” He growls as he pulls away from your lips, snapping his hips at a punishing pace as he chases his own release. Astarion’s hand is clutching firmly into your bottom, gripping so tightly there’s sure to be bruising tomorrow. His curls fall in front of his face and his ears begin to turn red as he continues to fuck you into oblivion.

Your husband is trying with every fiber of his being to hold on, to stretch out the delicious sensation of his cock plunging in and out of your walls, but every stroke into your tightness is pushing him further and further towards his peak. He snaps his eyes shut, shaking with the effort it’s taking him to restrain himself, to continue enjoying the feeling of your flesh gripping around his.

You are so thoroughly fucked that you cannot do anything but hold onto your lover and keen underneath him as he continues pounding into you.

 “Darling— hells — my love, you’re so tight, I can’t— I’m—“ 

And then with a sudden, sharp inhale of breath, Astarion is burying his thick length inside your walls and trembling as his cock twitches, relentlessly releasing its spend. He gasps into your ear as he slows his hips, but continues to rut, using his still-hard length to press his seed deeper into you. 

His praises come out in an incoherent string as he continues to languidly rock his hips back and forth. You cup his face in your hands as you kiss him, and Astarion smiles into the kiss, finally stilling his hips as his cock softens between you two. 

“Come here, little love.” He whispers, hooking his arms underneath you. You intuitively wrap your legs around your husband’s torso and he easily carries you to the bathroom. When he finally places you down, he brushes a few strands of hair from your face and then places a tender kiss on your forehead.

“Now let’s get you cleaned up.” He says, turning to start the tap before tossing a glance over his shoulder and chuckling lightly, “And then I have to fix your braid, dear… I’m sorry to tell you that I ruined it.” 

“I think you might have also bruised my ass,” You respond, turning to flash your bottom at Astarion. 

He drops down on his knees to examine the curve of your ass, one nimble finger brushing against the blooming blue marks. You let out a little whine in response, the flesh still tender. 

Astarion presses his lips onto the bruise and lingers for a moment. Then he pulls away and frowns slightly, eyes glossing across the marks before he looks up at you and says, “I’m sorry, darling.”

“It’s okay,” You respond, glancing back to grin over your shoulder. You see your husband peering up at you, the picture of devotion, “I enjoyed it.” 

“Did you, now?” He asks with an amused smirk, his eyebrow cocking in that signature arrogant way of his. 

You nod just slightly as he places another kiss against those little bruises. His hands travel up your thighs, brushing against the wetness dripping from your sex and onto your legs. Two fingers tenderly stroke between your drenched slit. 

“Hmm, and what do we have here, little love? Is this something else that needs cleaning? Won’t you let me take a look?”

You blush but oblige anyway, leaning forward over the counter and exposing your sex, leaking with Astarion’s seed and your arousal. 

He grins and licks a long strip between your folds, causing you to buck slightly and whimper at the stimulation on your still-sensitive cunt. 

“Too sensitive? Want me to stop?” He asks gently from behind you, one hand wrapped around your thigh.

“No, keep going.” You urge him, bending forward to further reveal yourself to him, eager to feel his skilled tongue pressed into you once more. 

A small groan of appreciation from your husband is all you hear before he delves his tongue back between your legs, working to clean up the mess he made. 

The bathtub overflows and spills water onto the floor before he’s done adoring you. At least for tonight.

[flowersforchoso]

Bi-han Marriage Headcanons

he takes his role as your husband seriously. perhaps a little too seriously

since he is a traditional man and a bit sexist, expect a very traditional marriage with you relegated to the domestic sphere

he goes straight home after completing his duties as grandmaster. there's no lingering. no extra hours. no night out with anyone. his routine is simple: work, then home & vice-versa.

strictly refers to you as wife while pet names are more of your thing

going out on dates is a rare occurrence (you'd have to bring it up) and when you do, he takes you to a restaurant or festival.

he is not too keen on pda; even holding hands is an issue that makes one wonder how you got together, but he insists you stay close beside him.

in short, he's very much reserved when you're both out in public because he doesn't want to give the impression that he's softened.

but he takes good care of you. being a man of actions afterall.

and since he's your provider & protector, its only right that he excels at it by meeting your material and physical needs

massages are a thing. he does it to help you relax since you always do that whenever he's stressed. starts with your feet, a little tease here and there then it turns into body worship, and ends with you on your back

also bathing together is a must when he's not too busy. its bonding time and wants to spend it refreshed

when you become pregnant, his care intensifies

he takes care of everything around the house, from cooking to cleaning (he's not above doing chores), not allowing you lift a finger

at first, he didn't know how to cook outside of making soup, but he likes to challenge himself. so he gets recipes from madame bo and follows through on them

surprisingly, the meals turn out great

he's much more present at home since he delegated his tasks to be able to spend more time with you

and after you give birth, this doesn't change.

he was with you all through. giving words of encouragement during that agonizing time

the baby is here and he never lets go. whether its a girl or boy, the gender matters not. he cares for the little one so much that he only ever hands them over to you when its time to feed.

if you're having issues with your self-esteem or health like postpartum depression, he will be by your side tending to you. bathe and feed you; if you found it difficult to do basic care. he's worried but would not allow his face betray such emotion.

aids you back to health. you would have to convince him you are well enough to care for yourself, but he would keep monitoring you just to be sure, before leaving to attend to other things.

he is very caring towards you and ensures you're always comfortable.

your marriage is relatively peaceful but that doesn't mean its devoid of conflict

and since bi han is quite stubborn, that would be the source of any rift between the both of you—his obstinacy

it happens every time you express your dissatisfaction with his prioritisation of the lin kuei. they took precedence over his family, making him unavailable and unattending to your emotional needs, which he takes offence to. because they were accusations, and no matter how soft and placating your delivery was, he didn't appreciate it, even if it was true

he makes a big deal out of being told not to take on dangerous missions when he returns injured, which leads to full blown arguments because he considers it infantilizing. he doesn't want to be babied; he commands hundreds. what kind of leader would he be if he didn't take charge of his fleet?

bi han would leave the house for days on end and when he gets back, he's still passive aggressive towards you.

because of this, you give him space but it only worsens his attitude—he doesn't want you to impose distance on him.

he is the classic example of not wanting to be paid back in the same coin. his attitude towards you might be nasty, but don't you dare retaliate

and he doesn't apologize either. it can be frustrating putting up with him.

you'd need to be patient, understanding and respectful of his role as grandmaster because thats a position he's trained all his life for. its a touchy subject. don't try to make him choose between the lin kuei or you

you'd have to extend the olive branch first by apologizing because the tension would be too much to bear

it'll take a while for normalcy to return with bi han coming to you (he's very prideful so don't rush anything)

he'll get you things of sentimental value like a trinket, or a necklace or a bracelet—this is his way of saying sorry

make up sex would be much more passionate because he needs to connect with you again. fighting puts a strain on the relationship no matter how little and makes his insecurities rear its head, one of which is the fear that you might leave him someday and go be with someone else. he doesn't want that, he wants to retrace his steps and do right by you.

it's at this point that he verbally professes his love for you to assuage whatever negative feelings you might harbor and since he rarely ever say the words, they are much more valued

overall, being married to him would be very fulfilling. nothing too crazy or difficult to navigate

[callsigns-haze]

His Shadow: Chp 7

masterlist part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

Azriel, secretly juggling his responsibilities and personal life, maintains a hidden relationship with YN, who works at a pleasure house in the Hewn City. She was his light, his love, his passion. Yet being his darkest secret is a hard role because life in the Hewn as a young female isn't the easiest as the two of you hold an even dark secret yet to be told...

Pairing: Azriel x reader

This series contains mature themes: Explicit depictions of violence, including physical and emotional. Themes of secrecy. Descriptions of difficult relationships, including strained familial and romantic dynamics. Mature sexual content. Themes of power, control, and manipulation within complex interpersonal relationships. Discussions of parenthood and the challenges associated with it, including postpartum experiences

Azriel returned to work the following week, but the moment he stepped into the River House, the atmosphere shifted. The usual ease that surrounded him had been replaced with something colder, darker. His shadows clung closer to him than usual, swirling in restless patterns around his frame, a reflection of the tension simmering beneath the surface. He was always a quiet presence, but today, there was a weight to his silence that everyone in the room could feel.

He didn’t greet anyone as he entered the main hall where the Inner Circle was gathered. Rhysand, Cassian, and Mor were deep in conversation, their laughter dying down when they noticed him. Feyre, seated by the window with a book in her lap, looked up from her reading, her brows knitting together in concern as she sensed the shift in his energy.

Azriel’s golden-brown eyes scanned the room, taking in each of their faces, but he said nothing. His usual mask of calm and control was firmly in place, but there was a hardness in his jaw, a tightness in his shoulders that betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface.

Rhys was the first to speak, his voice casual but laced with a hint of wariness, as if he sensed the storm brewing beneath Azriel’s controlled exterior.

“Azriel, you’re back. Everything alright?”

Azriel’s gaze flickered to Rhys for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I’m fine,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of the warmth that usually colored his interactions with his High Lord and brother. He didn’t bother with pleasantries or explanations. He crossed the room with a purposeful stride, heading toward the large oak table where papers and maps of the Illyrian war camps were spread out. His movements were precise, methodical, but the tension in his body was unmistakable.

Cassian and Mor exchanged a quick glance. Cassian, always the one to break the silence, leaned back in his chair, trying for a lighthearted approach. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, brother. Rough week off?”

Azriel didn’t answer immediately. He focused on the map in front of him, his hands moving with practiced ease as he made a small adjustment to one of the marked positions. The silence stretched for a moment too long, thick with unspoken words. His shadows, usually so controlled, twined more erratically around his hands, curling like smoke over the parchment.

“It was fine,” Azriel finally replied, his tone clipped, as if that would be the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

Everyone could feel it—an undercurrent of anger, or perhaps frustration, that Azriel was working hard to bury. It wasn’t like him to let emotions get the better of him, but something had shifted in him during his time away. He was always a fortress, a man of shadows and secrets, but today, that fortress seemed more impenetrable than ever.

Feyre closed her book, her voice soft but cautious. “Azriel… if something’s wrong—”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he cut her off, his voice sharper than he intended. His eyes flashed as he glanced at her, realizing too late that his irritation had slipped through the cracks in his carefully constructed mask. He let out a slow breath, forcing the tension in his body to ease, at least outwardly.

Rhys raised an eyebrow, not pressing further, but his gaze lingered on Azriel, studying him. They had known each other for centuries—there was little that could be hidden between them. Rhys knew something was off, even if Azriel wouldn’t admit it. But pushing wouldn’t help. Not yet.

Cassian, sensing the shift, tried again. “You sure? You’re wound tighter than a drum, brother.”

Azriel’s jaw clenched. He knew Cassian was trying to lighten the mood, but it wasn’t working. Everything in him screamed to confront them—to demand answers about the spying on YN, about their constant presence in Hewn City. But he didn’t. Confrontation would only bring their secret crashing down, and he couldn’t afford that.

So instead, he stayed silent, letting the tension coil inside him like a tightly wound spring. He continued to scan the maps and documents in front of him, forcing his mind to focus on the task at hand, but it was a losing battle. His thoughts kept drifting back to YN, to Knox, to the spying, to the way Rhys and Cassian had been watching her at the pleasure house.

The room grew quieter, the air thick with the tension everyone was pretending wasn’t there. Even Mor, usually so full of energy and warmth, seemed unsure of how to break the ice.

Rhys sighed, his voice dropping to a more serious tone. “Azriel, if you need more time—”

“I don’t,” Azriel interrupted, his tone final. “I’m here. Let’s get to work.”

His words left no room for further questions, and though Rhys and Cassian exchanged another glance, they respected his silence—for now.

But as Azriel moved through the motions of the day, reading reports, discussing strategies, and mapping out potential missions, the weight of the unspoken truths lingered. The anger, the frustration, the protectiveness he felt for YN and Knox—it all simmered beneath the surface, ready to erupt.

No one said anything, but they all felt it. Azriel’s anger wasn’t directed at them—not exactly. It was the situation, the impossibility of keeping his family safe while maintaining the secrecy he had so carefully built. The Inner Circle didn’t know it, but they were walking on thin ice, and Azriel was holding himself back from shattering it.

That evening, the tension from earlier still lingered in the air, but Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel decided to return to the pleasure house in Hewn City. It had become an oddly routine visit for them since Azriel first suggested the place weeks ago, and tonight, though there was a storm brewing inside him, Azriel forced himself to follow along. It was better than sitting alone, brooding on things he couldn’t yet fix.

They landed just outside the dark, glittering entrance of the pleasure house. The usual lights flickered along the ornate arches, and the murmur of voices inside could be heard, thick with a mix of laughter and quiet conversation. Rhys opened the door with a casual ease, and they were greeted by the familiar scent of perfume and the low thrum of music in the background.

The three of them settled into their usual booth, a secluded corner where they could have privacy despite the bustling atmosphere around them. Cassian ordered drinks, and they fell into conversation about the war camps, the strategies they had discussed earlier in the day. But even as the others talked, Azriel’s mind was somewhere else.

The entire time, his eyes kept drifting toward the entrance to the back room, where YN usually worked. He hadn’t seen her yet, and something about it unsettled him. She was supposed to be here—she had mentioned her shift this morning, hadn’t she?

Finally, after some time had passed and YN still hadn’t made an appearance, Azriel couldn’t ignore the growing unease gnawing at him. His shadows stirred, as if sensing his concern, whispering around him in silent confusion. He caught the eye of one of the waiters walking by their booth, gesturing for him to come over.

“Where’s YN?” Azriel asked, his tone casual, but there was an edge of urgency he couldn’t quite hide. “She was supposed to be working tonight.”

The waiter, a tall, thin male with pale skin and sharp features, blinked at him in surprise. “YN? She didn’t come in tonight,” he replied, his voice soft but filled with uncertainty. “I’m not sure why. There’s been no word from her, and… well, without her, the pleasure section of the house isn’t being properly run.”

Azriel’s brows furrowed at the response, his stomach sinking slightly. “She didn’t show up at all?”

“No,” the waiter confirmed, glancing nervously between the three powerful males in the booth. “It’s been chaotic. She’s the one who manages the more… intimate services here, and without her presence, things are a bit—disorganized.”

Azriel’s mind raced. YN was meticulous about her work—she never missed a shift, especially not without warning. She hadn’t mentioned any change in her plans that morning when they spoke. If anything, she had seemed resigned to going to work, despite how much he hated her returning so soon after Knox’s birth.

“Thank you,” Azriel said, dismissing the waiter. His shadows curled tighter around him, reacting to his growing confusion.

Azriel’s shadows clung to him tighter, a swirling mass of anxiety as they walked through the dark streets of Velaris. He kept his pace quick, but not quick enough to draw more suspicion from Cassian and Rhys, who followed behind him. Every step felt like a weight in his chest, his mind consumed with thoughts of YN and why she hadn’t shown up to work.

“Where exactly are we going?” Cassian asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity. His wings flared slightly, catching the cool night air.

“To check on something,” Azriel muttered, not breaking his stride. He didn’t want to tell them more. He couldn’t. Not yet.

Rhys’s gaze was sharp as ever, watching Azriel closely. “You’re worried about her,” he said, more as a statement than a question.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. He could feel the weight of Rhys’s violet eyes on him, probing, trying to read deeper into his actions. His shadows rippled with unease, but he didn’t slow down. “She didn’t show up for work. It’s unlike her,” he replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Cassian glanced over at Rhys with a raised brow. “You’re this worked up over someone skipping a shift?”

“She’s reliable,” Azriel said, his voice sharper than intended. “Something’s off.”

Cassian and Rhys exchanged a glance, their curiosity piqued, but neither of them pushed harder for details. They continued walking in silence, though Azriel could feel their unspoken questions hanging in the air. It was unlike him to be this open with his concern, especially about someone they didn’t know. It wouldn’t be long before they pressed him for more information, but for now, they followed.

Azriel’s shadows stretched out ahead of him, sensing the path to the apartment. His heart was pounding, every instinct telling him to fly ahead, to get there faster, but he couldn’t afford to tip them off. Not when everything felt so fragile.

Rhys broke the silence, his voice calm but laced with curiosity. “So, who is she to you, Az?”

Azriel’s lips pressed into a thin line, his shadows tightening around him protectively. He wasn’t ready to answer that question. Not now. “Just someone I work with,” he replied coolly, though even he knew how weak the excuse sounded.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “You’re acting like she’s more than that.”

Azriel didn’t respond, his steps quickening as they neared the apartment. His mind was racing, and he could feel the tension coiling tighter in his chest. He needed to get to YN. He needed to make sure she was alright.

When they finally reached the street, Azriel stopped, turning to face Cassian and Rhys. The apartment was just ahead, and he wasn’t ready for them to know—wasn’t ready for them to see.

“I’ll handle this from here,” he said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Rhys tilted his head, his expression unreadable, but there was something knowing in his eyes. “You sure about that?”

Azriel held his gaze, not flinching. “I’m sure.”

Cassian looked ready to argue, but Rhys placed a hand on his shoulder, silently telling him to stand down. “Alright,” Rhys finally said, though his eyes lingered on Azriel for a moment longer. “We’ll wait here.”

Azriel gave them a curt nod, though his heart was still racing. He could feel the weight of their eyes on him as he turned, heading toward the apartment alone. His shadows swirled around him, and though he kept his face impassive, inside, the panic was clawing at him.

He had to get to YN. He had to know she was safe.

---

YN’s heart pounded in her chest as she heard the angry voices just outside the door. She hadn’t been expecting anyone—certainly not the five men she could now see through the small peephole, all armed with knives and swords. Their menacing glares sent a wave of fear crashing over her, but she pushed it down, her instincts taking over.

Knox.

Her thoughts flew to her son. She moved quickly, grabbing the tiny three-week-old from his crib and rushing to the closet. Inside, there was a basket filled with blankets—Azriel had used it before to hide things in plain sight. She carefully placed Knox in it, her heart clenching as he made a small sound. "Shh, sweet boy," she whispered, her voice trembling but firm. "Stay quiet for Mama."

Once she pushed the basket to the back, she grabbed a clothes hook and quietly wrapped it around the closet door, securing it as best as she could. She prayed it would be enough to buy them time. She wasn’t sure how much time they had, but she had to defend her son, herself—everything she had left.

Her fingers brushed against the cool steel of one of Azriel’s knives. He always made sure she had at least one hidden in the apartment, just in case. She gripped it tightly, her palms sweating, but there was no room for hesitation now. Her other hand went for the large pan in the kitchen—a ridiculous weapon, but Azriel had taught her that defense meant distraction first, striking with the most unexpected object.

Her shadows stirred around her, curling and writhing in anticipation, feeding off her fear and anger. It was their little secret, the shadows. No one knew she had them. Not even Azriel. She had kept them hidden, a part of herself she never let surface, but now—now she needed them.

The door slammed open with a thunderous crash. The men charged in, their faces twisted in fury. YN's heart raced, but she didn’t freeze. She acted.

The first man lunged toward her, knife raised high, but YN swung the pan with all her strength. The clang of metal on metal rang out as the pan hit the knife from his hand. He stumbled back, shocked, giving her enough time to drive Azriel’s knife into his side. He let out a pained grunt, eyes wide, before collapsing.

The second man charged her with a sword, but YN’s shadows snapped to life, dark tendrils wrapping around his legs, tripping him just enough for her to slam the pan against his head. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Her shadows retreated, swirling back into her, but they were weak—too weak to keep fighting like this.

Two down.

Her chest heaved as she turned to face the rest. These men were stronger, larger, and they weren’t going to fall for her tricks so easily. The third man, faster than the others, dodged her swing and grabbed her wrist, twisting it painfully until she dropped the knife. She tried to use her shadows again, tried to summon them with more force, but they sputtered, flickering weakly as the man backhanded her across the face.

She stumbled, her vision going black for a moment as pain exploded across her cheek. She tasted blood, but she couldn’t stop. Knox. She had to protect Knox.

The fourth man kicked her hard in the stomach, sending her crashing to the floor. She gasped, the wind knocked out of her, but her mind screamed at her to get up. She clawed at the floor, trying to reach for something—anything—but the fifth man grabbed her by the throat.

Cold, rough hands squeezed around her neck, and YN’s world spun as she was lifted off the ground and slammed back down. Her head hit the floor, dazing her, but the worst part was the grip around her throat tightening, cutting off her air. She gasped, her fingers clawing at his hands, desperate for breath. Her shadows flickered again, weak and useless. She couldn’t focus—couldn’t control them in this state.

Her vision blurred as the man leaned over her, sneering. "Stupid girl," he hissed, his grip tightening as black spots danced in her vision. The world was slipping away, her strength failing as she gasped desperately for air.

But even as the darkness closed in, YN’s thoughts were with Knox. She could hear him, small and quiet, rustling in the closet. He needed her.

---

Azriel’s heart raced as he neared the apartment, the shadows around him twitching with anxiety. He had been about to open the door when he heard the sounds of a violent struggle from inside—a cacophony of grunts, crashes, and muffled cries. His pulse hammered in his ears. It was YN. He knew it instantly.

“Rhys! Cassian!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the empty street. His urgency was raw, fear clawing at his insides. They had been waiting outside, but now, he needed them.

Rhys and Cassian came running, their faces taut with concern. “What’s happening?” Rhys asked, but before Azriel could answer, the three of them burst through the door.

The sight that met them was horrifying. YN was on the floor, her face twisted in pain, her hands clawing desperately at the man strangling her. The other men were scattered, injured but not out. Azriel’s rage surged as he took in the scene.

Without a second thought, Azriel dove into the fray. His shadows lashed out, extending like living whips to entangle the nearest attacker. The man staggered, his weapon slipping from his grasp as Azriel’s shadows tightened around him, pulling him away from YN.

Cassian was quick to join, his wings flaring as he threw himself at one of the attackers with a roar. His movements were a blur of strength and precision, and the man he targeted barely had time to react before Cassian’s fists and kicks overwhelmed him. The man went down hard, crumpling to the floor.

Rhys, meanwhile, moved with a grace and lethality that left no room for hesitation. He focused on the fourth attacker, his eyes sharp as he dodged a blade aimed at him. With a swift flick of his wrist, Rhys disarmed the man and delivered a decisive blow that sent him sprawling.

But the fifth man—still holding YN—was the greatest threat. Azriel’s vision narrowed as he saw YN’s struggling form beneath him. Anger surged through him, fueling his movements. He lunged at the man, tackling him with all the force of his shadowed power.

The man grunted in surprise, losing his grip on YN momentarily. Azriel seized the opportunity, tearing the man’s hands away from YN’s throat with a savage strength. The man twisted and fought back, but Azriel’s rage was like a force of nature. He threw the man against the wall, sending him crashing down, but he didn’t stop there.

Cassian and Rhys were already on the remaining attackers, their movements synchronized and brutal. Cassian had managed to pin one man to the ground, delivering a series of calculated blows, while Rhys’s elegant strikes were precise, disarming and incapacitating with deadly efficiency.

Azriel stayed by YN’s side, his heart pounding as he gently held her hand. Rhys moved efficiently around the room, assisting with the attackers and making sure the area was secure. The tension in the room was palpable as Azriel’s gaze remained fixed on YN, willing her to wake.

Minutes felt like hours as he waited, but finally, YN’s eyelids fluttered open. Her gaze was unfocused, but she managed to lift her trembling hand, pointing weakly towards the closet. Her lips moved, though no words came out. Azriel’s breath hitched as he followed her gaze, his eyes locking onto the closet where Knox had been hidden.

“YN, where’s Knox?” Azriel asked, his voice tight with worry. But her eyes were focused on the closet, her small, desperate gesture the only direction he had.

He turned to the closet, his fingers shaking as he fumbled with the clothes hook she had used to secure it. It was a clever move, one he had to admit, and the hook was proving to be stubborn. Azriel’s frustration grew, but he fought to stay calm. His heart ached with every second that ticked by.

Rhys knelt beside YN, his expression a mix of concern and determination. “Azriel, be careful. If she moves around too much, she could cause herself serious injury,” Rhys said firmly, his hand gently pressing YN back down to the floor. “We need to keep her as still as possible until we can get a healer here.”

Azriel nodded, focusing intently on the hook. After a few tense moments, he managed to pry it free and pull open the closet door. The sight that greeted him—a small, terrified baby wrapped in blankets—was both a relief and a fresh wave of anxiety.

With trembling hands, Azriel reached into the closet and carefully lifted Knox out of the basket. The baby’s tiny face was scrunched up in a frown, but Azriel’s soothing presence seemed to calm him. He cradled Knox close, his voice a soft murmur as he whispered, “Shhh, Daddy’s here.”

Knox made a small, inquisitive sound but settled against his father’s chest, finding comfort in the warmth. Azriel’s heart ached with relief and love as he held his son. He glanced back at YN, who was watching him with exhausted but relieved eyes.

Cassian, who had just finished dealing with the remaining attackers, joined them. His eyes widened in shock as he saw Azriel holding Knox, the tiny baby resting peacefully in his arms. Rhys stood nearby, his expression a mix of awe and concern.

“Azriel, I didn’t know…” Cassian began, but the words trailed off as he looked between YN, Azriel, and the baby.

Rhys placed a reassuring hand on Cassian’s shoulder. “We need to get YN to a healer now,” he said, his voice steady but urgent. “And make sure Knox is taken care of. Azriel, can you manage?”

Azriel nodded, his gaze softening as he looked at Knox. “I’ll make sure they’re both okay,” he said, his voice firm despite the turmoil he felt inside.

With Knox safely in his arms and YN being carefully tended to, the reality of the situation began to settle in. Azriel knew there would be many questions and difficult conversations to come, but for now, his focus was on ensuring the safety and well-being of his family.

Let me know if you'd wish to be tagged! Comments and reblogs are really appreciated!

What worse can happen now huh? Hehe......right?

[lisenberry]

We drift in and out

Chapter 2: Share the same space for a minute or two

E/NSFW/MDNI

CW: Domestic fluff, postpartum thoughts and bodies, angst, hurt/comfort sex

2.7k

Ch.1. Ch.3 Ch. 4 AO3

“I’ll take first watch,” John said, setting down the diaper bag and the baby carrier on your dining table as you tossed your keys in the bowl and breathed a sigh of relief.

It was late by the time you returned home from the hospital. Between the hourly blood pressure checks and constant feedings, you hadn’t gotten much rest while you were there.

And let’s not forget that every trip to the bathroom was harrowing, and fraught with more discomfort than you’d anticipated. The nurses practically babysat you until you’d had a successful piss. Apparently, it was an integral part of the healing process and could cause life threatening complications if you didn’t empty your bladder regularly.

You didn’t know what you looked like down there, but you could certainly feel it. You’d cried out so sharply, John burst through the door to find you sobbing and shaking on the toilet.

After that, you doubted he would ever look at you romantically again.

But you made it through, fueled by adrenaline and instincts. You just wanted to be back in your own space. To the nest you’d built away from the poking and prodding of strangers. Of the astringent smells of industrial cleaning products and the cold glare of fluorescent lighting.

John had stepped out just long enough to buy a car seat so that he could drive you and the baby home in his truck. He’d laughed when you told him it was unnecessary, and you’d planned on taking the bus back to your apartment.

“Nonsense, I insist,” had been his only reply as he kissed your forehead as if to leave you too flustered to argue.

You had a feeling you were the talk of the nurses’ station. The juicy drama of your life must’ve seemed more captivating than the latest episode of television. They were all genuinely sorry to see the three of you go.

The three of you.

“That’s not how it works, John,” you assured him. This wasn’t a stake out. He was going back to his apartment, and you were putting the baby to sleep in the cradle you’d put together yourself until she awoke hungry and wet in two hours.

And that’s how it would be for the next 18 years of your life.

“You need some rest.” He tucked his arms across his chest and cocked his head downward, as if to intimidate you with his size alone. You imagined it was a practiced tactic, and that it probably worked on his subordinates. Sent them scrambling to please him.

But John didn’t scare you. Never did. It was what kept you going back to him. Or perhaps more like waiting for him, all those years. An easiness. A comfort.

“I’ll sleep when she sleeps. That’s what all the books say.” Despite your confidence, you yawned against your will as you unhooked your daughter from the carrier.

You still hadn’t gotten used to how light she was, and yet how substantial she felt in your arms.

When you looked back up to John to tell him ‘Thank you’, and that you could take it from here, you were met with something you’d never seen in him before.

A longing. Something unshed in his eyes, and unsaid on his lips, as he took a step toward you as if to reach out.

“Do you want to hold her?” In all the commotion, you realized that John hadn’t held her yet. Aside from the few times he’d lifted her gently from the hospital’s bedside crib to pass her to you, as if she was a live grenade.

Maybe it’d made him uncomfortable. To come back, expecting to return to your casual arrangement, only to find you knocked up with some other guy’s kid. To be honest, you hadn’t expected more than a passing hello in the hallway.

For him to take one look at you and never call you again or darken your door for a quickie at midnight. He’d move on to someone from the gym, or the café girl down the street.

Except, he hadn’t seemed uncomfortable. He’d seemed in control, focused. Calm and steady as he’d adjusted your shitty hospital-issued pillow or fetched you a refill on your water. Averted his eyes respectfully while you worked tirelessly to get the fussy newborn to latch onto your breast.

Had he not wanted to intrude? Was he waiting for permission?

“I really do need to take a shower,” you added when he hesitated.

He’d be gone by the morning. Might as well take advantage of his help while it was offered.

“Good.” He nodded at that, relieved to be of service, as he took the sleeping babe from your arms with a grace you didn’t expect from his big, gnarled hands.

A grizzled bear, holding something so soft and small in a white sleeper dotted with blush pink roses. She didn’t even shift at the change from one of you to the next. Content and unbothered in her dreams.

After taking your time in the shower, knowing it might be your last for a while, you emerged to see the two of them on your couch, watching the nightly football coverage on the telly. John was talking to someone, voice raised with heated enthusiasm, and you assumed he was on the phone with one of his mates.

But as you inched closer, you realized he was recounting his opinions on the latest match to the infant on his chest.

“You can put her down if you want,” you smiled, as you motioned to the bassinet. “You don’t have to hold her all night.”

“I tried, but I can’t tell if she’s breathing when she’s over there. Quiet little thing.”

There was nothing in the baby books and videos about seeing a man who’d been inside you hold your child as if it was the most precious thing in the world. How it could change your brain chemistry. Make you stupid in ways you never thought you could be.

You sunk down onto the cushion next to them. He urged you to go to bed, to get some sleep before she woke up again, but you didn’t want to leave just yet. You wanted to see them like this. To be a part of whatever mischief was transpiring between them.

Laying your head on his shoulder, you closed your eyes and let sleep slowly find you.

“Sorry I missed it, love.” He kept his voice low, but it rung with a depth of emotion that cut through your slumber.

“Hmm, missed what?”

“Everything.”

*******

He didn’t leave the next day, or the day after that, except to shower and change clothes in his apartment, or pick up food from your favorite chip shop down the road. Every time he did go, you expected him not to come back.

Assuming he had returned to his usual schedule of sleep, eat, gym, fuck, repeat. With the fucking being someone else, of course. That you’d hear footsteps down the hallway outside and look through your peephole, covered in baby spit-up and leaking breastmilk, to see him leading a beautiful young woman into his flat.

Instead, weeks went by of him driving you to doctors’ appointments and joining you for walks in the park. Decaf iced lattes and naps on the couch. The faint smell of cigar smoke was the only indication that he’d taken a bit of time to himself.

The pang in your heart, and in your gut, when he carried the bags of dirty diapers down to the bin and sang Paul McCartney tunes horribly off key to get the baby back to sleep while you soaked in the bath tub.

Every day was a gift, you reminded yourself. He was just being nice. Playing house until it was time for him to go, the way you always had before. Except this time, he hadn’t even kissed you or made any advances other than a playful hug or a supportive rub of your shoulders as you pumped an extra supply of baby bottles.

None of your clothes fit anymore. You were too slim for your maternity jeans, and not quite down to your original weight. Maybe you never would be. Maybe you were the new you.

Nothing but forgiving loungewear and tinted moisturizer to hold you together.

It didn’t stop you from wanting him.

You’d think the trauma to your reproductive organs would swear you off sex for at least a few years, but there you were. Three months postpartum, salivating over his shirtless chest and slickening at the bulge in his sweatpants as he ate a bowl of tikka masala at your kitchen counter.

Maybe that was how you persevered as a species. The carnal urge to make the same mistake over and over again, consequences be damned. It would appear you hadn’t evolved beyond it.

Your doctor guaranteed you that you were fully healed and could resume sex with your husband (you’d long given up trying to explain away the six-and-a-half-foot beast keeping your child company in the waiting room as anything but) any time you felt comfortable. Had even started you on a new birth control. Hopefully one that worked this time.

But feeling comfortable and feeling desirable were two different things. John wasn’t your husband. He wasn’t your boyfriend. He had expressed no desire to be anything more than just a...friend? What was he even doing sleeping on your couch?

‘Go find someone fun and exciting and leave me to rot in peace,’ you wanted to scream at him.

A menace was what he was.

Finally, you stopped trying to get yourself off with your vibrator and threw it against the wall in frustration. A groan escaped you as you turned over and muffled a scream into your pillow.

You instantly regretted it the moment a soft knock sounded on your bedroom door.

“You all right in there?” He opened the door a crack and the light from the hallway peeked through.

“No, not really,” you whined, pitifully. Grateful that you hadn’t woken up the baby with your little tantrum.

You noted the displacement of the shadows as he bent down to pick your still buzzing vibrator from the floor and switched it off with a muffled laugh.

“Not doing the trick, is it?”

“I’m glad you think this is funny. I don’t even know my own body anymore." Fuck, you did not want to be having this conversation with him.

“What do you need, love?” He set your stupid, useless toy on the bedside table and leaned against the mattress. It tilted you towards him with his weight.

“I need to know that I’m still me. Somewhere in here. That I can still...” you felt dumb. You were a mother. You had a child to worry about. And all you cared about was whether or not you could still—

“Come?”

You nodded vigorously, feeling dumber by the minute. And he was there, in the dark of your room, smelling like pine trees and black pepper. Somehow, underneath it all, like your baby. Even though she wasn’t his.

Confusing and frustrating, and—

His mouth trapped yours then, cutting off any further conversation as his hands hitched under your nightshirt and yours found the waistband of his pants.

“I need you, John,” you gritted between teeth, both yours and his.

“Stubborn you are. Been waiting for you to ask.” He buried his face between the swollen flesh of your tits. Licking and lapping at your skin.

“Careful, they—”

“Squirt? I know. Not what I’m interested in, darling. They’re not mine anymore.”

He moved past your breasts and down your stomach. The raised scars where your skin had stretched too far, too fast. Making room for life within.

You were grateful he couldn’t see them in the dark. Even still, it felt like he found each one with his lips.

“Perfect, you are. You did so good.” You didn’t know what he meant. Only preened at the words as your cunt rose toward him and he moved lower towards your hips.

“Easy, John. Easy, please.”

You knew how big he was. He was the same, but you were different. Changed. You couldn’t do it. It’d been too long. Healed over and shaped anew.

“I know, baby. There’s nothing you can’t handle.”

His tongue met you then, in the cleft at your center. Teasing and taunting, he circled where you needed him the most. Hitting it just right and then moving away when you were teetering on the edge.

His beard and mustache grazing the sensitive nerves around the nub, inflaming you further until you pulsed at the absence of his touch.

Only for him to replace his mouth with the tip of his cock. Hard and thick, it nudged and prodded as it sought a weakness in your soft, wet entry way.

“You’ll tell me if it hurts, won’t you? I know how you like to be brave.” He bit out with a grin.

Brave? You were a disaster. Is that how he saw you?

“Please don’t stop.” The words rushed out as a shudder.

You’d take it, you’d take anything to feel full, to feel him. The pull and tug of being consumed.

Still, he hesitated. Pausing just at the tip. Speechless and restrained.

“Stop being so nice.” You squirmed and sought to meet him, pull him closer.

“There’s a girl. See? Not gone after all.” His teeth dug into your neck and you arched your hips against his.

So familiar. So at home.

He sunk in then, as if with your permission. You clasped and guided him in like the other half of you.

“How does it feel?” You didn’t mean to sound as wanton as you did. You needed to know.

“Like heaven, love. Like fucking heaven.”

He lips found yours again, savoring, remembering, committing you to memory as he reclaimed your pussy for his own. As much his as it was yours.

Offering himself in return.

Pumping in a slow rhythm at first, matching you, following you. Your legs around his waist and his hands tugging your hips to hit that perfect fucking spot.

It was still there. It hadn’t moved. He’d found it like lighthouse in a storm.

“You ready, or do you need more?”

“Don’t stop.”

He grunted then, drawing some sort of strength as he kept his rhythm and touched a free hand to your clit for help.

“Yes, yes, yes!”

He found you. When you couldn’t find yourself.

“That’s it, baby. That’s it.”

“Fuck, John!” You came with a rush of power and nature as he found your mouth again. He drank your sobs and replaced them with sounds of his own.

Tears filled your eyes and slid down your cheeks.

“You all right?” He asked against your neck, when you began to still, but you could only nod.

“I’m good. Thank you.” Simple words for how you felt.

“So fucking brave.” He wiped away your tears and nuzzled your cheeks with his bearded lips.

The couch sat cold and abandoned after that.

*******

But you found him a few weeks later, ashen-cheeked and staring troubled at his phone.

The baby was packed up in the pram and ready for a walk. She could smile now, and glowed with excitement and kicked her feet whenever her dark brown eyes met his glittering blue.

“I have to go. Got called in.” He turned a weary gaze towards you. Regret softening his usual starry skies and adding years to his features.

You knew this day would come, but it surprised you all the same.

A blow to your chest, taking the air from your lungs and tearing out your heart.

“I don’t know when I’ll be back.” The death blow to any hope you’d had that it was a training exercise or a weekend conference.

What if he was gone for another year? So much could happen. The baby would be walking. Talking. You’d be back to work by then. Trusting a stranger with her care because you didn’t have anyone else.

And who would he be when he returned? Always a little different than before.

“It’s okay. We’ll be okay. Just be safe, yeah?” You steeled your spine and tamped down on the tears that threatened behind your eyeIids.

You’d never cried for him before. Never worried about him.

No messy feelings. No expectations. Great sex and a pleasant company, right?

“I’ll say no. They can assign it to someone else.” Even as he said it out loud, you knew he wouldn’t let that happen.

“I had a plan, remember?” A reassuring smile to match the one he’d given you so many times before. “And you were never a part of it.”

He’d called you brave. You’d find out soon enough if he was right.

[goingmerryfics]

Hii! I loved your last headcanons, may i ask for shansk x f reader headcanon where they decide to have a baby, the pregnancy and the birth? I had a kid recently and it's so stressing so i would like to know how him and the crew would handle the situation, ignore this if it makes you uncomfortable, have a good day!

Shanks’ Baby - F Reader x Shanks

Content: Pregnancy, birth, parenthood is hard but you both are trying your best! Shanks is a pirate through and through

Notes* woah, congrats!!! parenthood can be rough but I hope you’re doing well! Please remember that taking care of yourself postpartum is important, too! Also if your baby is colicky definitely try white noise that seems to work sometimes?? Good luck and I wish you and your baby great health!!

Shanks

Having a baby was something that was always a risk between you two, but you both took every measure not to let that happen by accident. Shanks is a pirate and you were not, and the last thing Shanks wanted was to be an absent father

deciding that you did finally want a baby only came after lengthy discussions and planning for months

Shanks still wasn’t ready when you told him you were finally pregnant- but you didn’t really need to say it. He’d returned from another trip of his and you were already 4 months along

He felt terrible that he’d missed the first stages, but he decides then and there to lower his anchor and stay for a while because there was no way he was going to miss anything more

The crew is also very helpful. Pregnancy is harder the bigger you get- cravings, hormones, not being able to tie your shoes- it’s overwhelming at times, so there’s always someone around to help with whatever you might need if Shanks isn’t

He’s right by your side at the birth, holding you hand and taking the curses at him like a champ

He doesn’t let that baby out of his sight, either. He’s got too many enemies to trust just anyone to take care of his newborn, so he demands to either be in every room or for them to do what they need to while he’s holding your child

No one dared defy that man

He’s such an attentive man post-partum as well. There’s so many sleepless nights as you two learn how to be parents but he always makes sure that you are fed and that you have some time to rest

Even if the baby cries on and on, he won’t wake you for help unless he thinks it’s something only you can handle

He LOVES to do skin to skin with your new baby. He heard about it once and now he never puts the little one down

He’s already emotional about not wanting them to grow up

When it comes down to it, he can’t resist the call of the sea. But he knows it’s dangerous, and so one day after a lot of talk between the two of you, he leaves

it’s hard without him. Not having his help, not getting sleep… It’s awful

He’s gone for months. You’re relieved to see him back, and when Shanks sees how much your little baby has already grown, he vows never to leave you again. You end up part of his crew permanently- he’ll figure out the details later but for now, he’s confident he can keep you safe