#AVOIDING MEDICAL CARE (AGAIN) TO REACH HIM

[chandralia]

trying to casually explain katsuki’s devotion to izuku is impossible because why does it go from helping him train to RISKING HIS LIFE FOR HIM in a split second

[pathologicalreid]

always, i'll wait | s.r.

in which spencer dedicates himself to pulling you out of your depressive state

margotober

who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst content warnings: severe depressive episode, dissociation, medication, reader not taking care of herself, not eating, death, corporeal mark word count: 2.16k a/n: if even one person understands what i was doing when i wrote this then i can die happy. based on this request! i hope you enjoy!

The cushion beneath you was slowly becoming displaced. Your body descends into the cavernous no man’s land that is the crevice of your couch as you stare straight ahead. The TV screen went dark moments ago. The blackness following the Are you still there? screen of your show.

Tugging the knit blanket you had curled up with last night under your chin, you close your eyes, the tears that were welling falling sideways down your face until they land on your flattened pillow. The blanket still smells like Spencer, and you can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take before the scent of his tea tree shampoo fades away entirely.

You could lay on the couch for the rest of your life, and you’d still never be able to understand your actions from the past few days. Distracting yourself from the ache in your heart by wondering if your decomposing body would leave a corporeal mark on your couch.

When you open your eyes and find all too familiar ones staring back at you, the only reasonable explanation is that you’re already dead. You’re dead and your punishment is having Spencer Reid give you puppy dog eyes for the rest of your eternal damnation.

And you’d deserve it.

“How long have you been lying here?” Spencer asks you, using the coffee table for support as he shifts from a squat to a kneel. Tentatively, his hand rests on the couch cushion, just in front of yours.

You blink absently in response. Not only are you being forced to look at the man whose heart you broke, but he’s seemingly intent on making you face the fact that you’ve been on the couch since last night.

The concern deepens on Spencer’s face when you don’t respond, “Can you hear me?”

In the back of your mind, you wonder how he managed to get into your apartment without a key, but you don’t air this concern to him, you just look at him.

Slowly, he reaches into his pocket, typing out a quick message on his phone before leaving the device face down on your coffee table. “Honey, will you talk to me?”

Wanting to avoid the visage of your ex-boyfriend in front of you, you let your eyes fall shut again, grunting when your punishment grows sentient and gently shakes your shoulder.

“Hey, uh uh, eyes open,” he chides, revealing himself as the real version of Spencer.

You frown at him, partially in disbelief and partially in distaste, “What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice garbled from lack of use.

His concern softens slightly at the sound of your voice, “No one’s heard from you in two days.”

Lifting your head from the pillow, your eyes widen slightly, “Days?”

Spencer nods in confirmation, “Have you been on the couch this whole time?”

Furrowing your brows, you rest your head back on the pillow, “No, I’ve been… It was… what?”

Gently, he reached out and rested a hand on your head, gently using the pad of his thumb to gently smooth hairs from your forehead, “What’s the last thing you remember?” His question holds no accusation, the honey-sweet tone nearly enough to make your bottom lip quiver.

“Breaking up with you,” you breathed. The text that you had sent in a flurry of tears being the only thing that resurfaced in your memory.

Hi, we’ve gotta break up. Sorry.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the most eloquent text message that you have ever written, but at the time, you weren’t yourself. At least now you knew that you were in the early stages of a dissociative episode. “I broke up with you,” you repeated, more for yourself than for him. “What are you doing here?”

Softly, Spencer smiled at you, cupping your cheek before standing up and grabbing your TV remote, switching the screen from the muted black of standby mode to the pitch black of being completely off. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat, “That won’t work for me.”

Peering up at him, you prop your head up in your hand, “What do you mean?” Confusion ruminated through your already troubled mind.

He raised his eyebrows, went over to the curtains, and opened them, allowing rays of light to stream into your living room, the daylight made you cringe, but eventually, your eyes would adjust. “You do not get to drop off the face of the Earth. I won’t let you get lost like that,” he told you, his sugar-coated tone cracking as he grew sterner.

Spencer never minded the way you sank to the bottom of your brain, he was always willing to make the trek to rescue you, but you didn’t want that anymore. “Well, I’m up now,” your body was beginning to settle into your skin once again, “You don’t have to stay.”

Your boyfriend—the jury was still out on that one—scoffed in response, sitting himself down on the corner of your coffee table, “Fine, I’ll just wait here until you can give me a valid explanation for ending our relationship via text message.”

Parting your lips, you hauled yourself to a sitting position, “I thought… I didn’t—” No, he completely had you there. You owed him more than a text message, but you didn’t have the dignity to face him. You knew he’d talk sense into you.

“What happened two nights ago?” Spencer asked, resting his elbows on his knees and watching you intently. “Did something happen to you that you felt like you couldn’t share with me?”

Shaking your head, you reached up and wiped your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, “No, nothing like that.”

His expression softened, looking at you, desperate for an explanation, “Then what was it, baby? You know you can tell me anything.”

Your throat burned with emotion, and holding back tears didn’t take any effort—your body was so devoid of water that none even bothered to form. Even so, you hiccupped a dry sob, covering your mouth with your hand to muffle the sound, “I didn’t want you to have to worry about me.”

Spencer’s face fell. Your heart broke even more than it had when you sent that text, “I tried to text you back. I called you. Everyone called you.”

You hadn’t the slightest idea where your phone was, patting around the couch for any sign of it. “I didn’t hear anything,” you frowned, unsure where it had ended up.

“Are you missing time?” He asked, checking in on where exactly you were mentally.

Nodding, you leaned into the couch cushions. You couldn’t account for anything the night before last, you had sent that text and disappeared into the depths of your own mind. An organ that was necessary for survival playing wicked games with your life.

His lips parted, readying himself to ask a question that he clearly didn’t want to, “Are you off your medication?”

You flinched at his question, screwing your eyes shut and nodding again. “They’re at the pharmacy,” you told him, “My head hurts.”

“You’re coming back,” he said, watching the way your eyes flittered around the room anxiously. “Have you eaten anything?”

His question was innocent enough, but you found yourself unaware of the answer. Surely you had eaten something in the last twenty-four hours, you hadn’t been truly withering away on your couch—had you? The tremble of your hands told a completely different story, you steepled your fingers together to keep them from shaking.

Taking your silence as a response in and of itself, Spencer nodded, “Do you want breakfast?”

“I don’t want you to take care of this,” you told him, the response coming out harsher than you had initially intended.

Realization washed over Spencer’s features, looking at your situation in a completely new light. “That’s what this is?” Hurt seeped into his voice, cocking his head to the side, “Baby, you’re warping your need for independence into a reason to push me away. Why?”

Taking a ragged breath, you shrugged helplessly at him, “You’ve spent your whole life taking care of people, and I don’t want to add to it anymore.”

“Has it occurred to you that I like taking care of you?” He asked, voice softening as he leaned forward to press a kiss to your hairline. “Go take a shower, I’ll get breakfast going,” he instructed you, tenderly tugging the knit blanket off of your body before helping you to your feet.

You grimaced at the feeling of your feet on the floor, “I don’t want to shower.”

“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Spencer said over his shoulder as he made his way into your kitchen, reaching in the cabinets for your frying pan.

You unceremoniously returned from the shower; strands of damp hair draped over your shoulders. “Are you going to tell me how you got into my apartment in the first place?” Despite the length of your relationship, you’d never given him a key to your apartment. The leasing office had only given you one.

His back was to you, his expression literally unreadable, “Your landlord did.”

“And why did she do that?” You asked, pulling the glass of water that you assumed he poured for you across the granite countertops.

Spencer turned the frying pan on its side, scraping the scrambled eggs off of the Teflon surface and onto a plate. “I told her she was either going to do it for me or for the police when I call for a wellness check,” he informed you, placing the plate in front of you and pushing the saltshaker over to you. He must’ve noticed the face you were making at the eggs on your plate, because he spoke up once more, “You need the protein.”

You recognized that this wasn’t an overreaction to the situation. In fact, Spencer had maintained a completely calm demeanor when speaking with you, but you saw further past his façade. You saw the way the vein on his temple popped when he clenched his jaw, taking the saltshaker into your hand, you added some on top of the eggs before mixing them around, “I scared you.”

While Spencer lived in the district, your address was in Maryland, and you knew he wasn’t above calling Will at MPD to do a wellness check on you, “Yes.”

His answer was simple, and yet, your chest clenched at the brevity of it, “You’re mad at me.”

“Yes,” he answered again, resting his hands on the countertop and leaning over it. He watched as you stirred the eggs around on your plate, steam rising from them as you did. “Do you want to come with me to pick up your prescription?”

You hummed as you shoveled the first bite of eggs into your mouth. “Sure,” you said, watching him dig a carton of blueberries out of your fridge.

Dropping a handful on your plate, careful to make sure they don’t roll into the eggs, Spencer seals the container again, “Antioxidants and vitamins,” he murmured to no one in particular.

“How can you forgive me?” You asked Spencer, watching him endearingly pop a few blueberries into his mouth before placing the container back into your refrigerator.

He shook his head, “It’s not a matter of forgiveness. It wasn’t your fault.”

You couldn’t help but feel like you needed to shoulder the blame, “Then whose fault is it, Spence?”

“There is no fault. At least, there’s not one that falls on either of us. I can’t fault you for your brain. No matter how misguided you might have been, you thought you were acting in both of our best interests,” he admitted, rinsing the pan in the sink.

A beeping sound caught your attention, “Did you start a load of laundry?”

He nodded, scrubbing lightly at the dish in the sink, “Your hamper was full.”

“You’re doing too much,” you told him, pressing your lips in a thin line.

Setting the pan on a drying mat, he dried off his hands before walking over to you, hooking a finger beneath your chin before he murmured, “How is what I’m doing for you right now any different than when you took care of me after I got shot in the leg?”

Your jaw slackened. You had unofficially moved in with Spencer last year when he had been shot in the knee by an UnSub, helping him with everything from walking around the apartment to cooking.

Taking your lack of response as an answer, he nodded to himself, “I am always here for you.” He nodded his head in the direction of the door, “Come on, the sooner we get to the pharmacy the sooner we can start getting your apartment back in order."

He walked around you, pivoting on his heel as he held out a hand for you to take. Eventually, you accepted the hand he had extended, following him outside, into the light.

[dazzlingjaeyun]

𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐝𝐬 - 𝐬𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧

boxer!jake x nurse fem!reader

୨୧ genre: exes to ??, mostly angst, a little fluff | words: 5.3k | cw: mentions of bruises, blood, heavy injuries and surgery, probably poor medical references (pls bear with me) ୨୧

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"can we get a nurse to the ER immediately, please?" you heard the charge nurse's firm demand through your communication device. you exchanged a quick glance with your colleague, and with a slight nod, she indicated she could handle the task alone. without hesitation, you used your pager to notify the ER that you were on your way, then dashed through the hallway and down the stairs to reach the emergency department.

"sorry, we're completely short-staffed," the charge nurse murmured in apology, ushering you toward a room. "male patient, twenties, just some bad bruises – likely needs stitches. we just got a family from a car crash, and we can’t tend to him right now."

with that, she left you at the door and hurried down the hall toward another room.

you pushed open the door, heading straight to the sanitizer dispenser. you rubbed it into your hands, then pulled on a pair of gloves from the box beside it, and added another layer of sanitizer.

"hello, my name is–"

the words caught in your throat as you turned around. the sharp scent of sanitizer seemed to sting your nose, burning your airways and stealing the breath from your lungs.

you froze, staring straight into a pair of familiar brown eyes – eyes you had learned to both love and hate. once filled with warmth, they now held an icy coldness, mixed with a flicker of surprise at the sight of you. just like you, he was sure you'd never meet again.

"y/n," he finished your sentence.

your throat tightened as your name rolled off his lips. you gulped down the lump in your throat as if you could swallow the whirlwind of feelings right down with it. you shook your head slightly, trying your best to focus on the situation at hand and staying professional.

"yes. i'll be your nurse today," you finished the rehearsed introduction you'd used at least a thousand of times during your two years at the hospital.

with another shaky breath, you slowly stepped closer to where he was sitting, waiting for any type of response from him but there was none.

"can you take off your hood, please?" you asked in the most professional tone you could muster. you nodded slightly when he pulled down his hood and leaned a little closer to examine his face. a pang of hurt rushed through you seeing him in the exact state you'd found him in many times before.

you were sitting on the sofa in the tiny apartment you shared with jake, your knees bent and pulled to your body as if that state could hold together the feelings that dared to overflow. you checked your phone again and again. nothing. as your head started to spin, wondering if tonight would be the night that he wouldn't come home, the sudden creak of the front door finally pulled you out of your daze, and you immediately shot to your feet, rushing toward the door. jake stumbled inside, his gaze on the floor and his hood hiding what you expected to be another field of bruises. "jake..." you whispered, your voice trailing off in a lack of things to say. you carefully took his shaking hand in yours and guided him to the bathroom, where you gently pressed down on his shoulders to make him sit on the edge of the bathtub. "i'm fine," he tried to reassure you the way he always did when he looked anything but fine. you stayed silent as you started cleaning up his bruises. the only sound breaking the silence was jake's occassional hiss when he clenched his fists as the antiseptical burned on his wounded skin. "you don't have to–", the words stuck in his throat with another sharp intake of breath as you cleaned up his bleeding lips with a cotton swap. "i can take care of it," he mumbled, and although he avoided your eyes, you could see a hint of regret flashing through his. "if you took care of yourself, you wouldn't keep coming home like this in the first place," you replied, your voice laced with a mixture of anger and frustration. you threw away the tissues and cotton swabs he'd bled through and faced him again to apply ointment to his bruises and patch them up if necessary. "what if one day you come home and i can't fix it, jake?" you asked, your voice barely louder than a whisper. for a second, you stopped your movements, just standing in between his legs and looking at his battered face. "what if one day you don't even come ho–" "shh," his whisper interrupted you, "that won't happen, baby." jake raised his hands and brought them to your hips, pulling you a little closer to him. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders and just held him close until your thoughts quieted down. for tonight, he was safe, you thought. you let go of him and took a step back, gently running your hand through his silky hair and examining his face one last time. then, you reached for the chapstick that you kept on the sink, gently applied it to the ripped skin on his lips, and softly brushed your lips against his. after you pulled away from his lips, you cupped his chin between your thumb and index finger and leaned down to press a gentle kiss on each of his bruises. "you need to stop this, jake," you whispered later when the two of you had gone to bed and he was holding you tightly although every muscle in his body hurt. he couldn't not have you close to him.

"you won't ask what happened?" he suddenly spoke up, breaking your thoughts and pulling you back to reality.

for a second, you tensed again. then, you sighed almost inaudibly, lingering by his face for another second before taking a sudden step backwards and turned around to gather all the things you'd need to treat him. you could practically feel the intensity of his gaze, although you had your back to him.

you turned back around, your face as nonchalant as you could manage as you shook your head.

"i don't care what happened," you replied shortly.

his lips twitched into something resembling a smirk, though it was faint and visibly pained him. “still bossy,” he said under his breath.

you clenched your jaw at his remark, but sat down in front of him and ran your hand through his hair in the gentlest way possible to get his bangs out of his face.

"and you're still reckless. now, hold still," you ordered.

for a while, the room was silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath as you cleaned his cuts. you tried to focus on the task, but you couldn’t ignore the feeling of his heavy gaze on you.

"this one needs stitches," you said, tapping carefully on the skin next to one particularly deep bruise on his cheek, "it might hurt a litte."

as you began stitching the bruise, his hand moved slowly, almost tentatively, to brush against your wrist. the touch was light, but it still sent a shiver through you. you glanced up sharply, but before you could say anything, he caught your hand.

“jaeyun,” you said, a warning tone in your voice, but he didn’t let go. instead, he brushed his thumb across your knuckles. then, in a gesture so achingly familiar it nearly shattered the walls you’d built around yourself, he pressed a gentle kiss there.

your breath hitched. “what do you think you're doing?” you asked, your voice so barely audible that you hated how vulnerable you sounded.

his eyes met yours, and for the first time since you'd stepped into the room, they softened just a little. “trying to remember what it felt like,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, “to have someone who cares.”

the words hit you like a punch to the gut. you pulled your hand back, your heart racing, but despite everything, you mustered the courage to reply. “i don't care. this is my job, not…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

you wordlessly finished stitching up his wound, grabbed his chin in between your thumb and index finger like you'd done countless of times before and turned his head to both sides so you could examine his face.

your eyes trailed to the bruise marring his lips. they were as plump as you remembered, but the familiar softness was gone. they looked slightly rougher now – chapped and marked with faint remnants of past bruises.

you reached for a clean cotton swab, dipping it gently into the antiseptic. his gaze stayed fixed on you, the weight of it almost making your hands falter. carefully, you dabbed at the bruise on his lips, the antiseptic gliding over it. his lips parted slightly at the touch.

the bruises on his lips were always the hardest to see. he was already struggling with sores from time to time, and every other day, a new bruise was added to what had become a painful collection. but jake loved to kiss you. your lips, your cheeks, your knuckles, your forehead, the tip of your nose – he'd kiss you everywhere, again and again, no matter how much it pained him. only once had he not been able to kiss you. and, of course, it had to be your anniversary. he had promised you to not go that day – had promised you to be home for dinner that you'd prepared so lovingly, cooking all his favorite dishes and even bringing out the nice plates his parents had gifted you when you'd first moved in together. the ones you usually only used for guests. but as time passed, and the blue sky outside your kitchen window slowly turned to black, you knew he wouldn't be home before midnight. you tried to be angry, really, but you couldn't stop the waves of worries from washing over you again and again. with shaking hands, you grabbed your phone to call him, certain he wouldn't answer. but after only two rings, you heard his voice. "babe? i'm on my way, i–" "are you okay?" you interrupted, your voice trembling slightly. just hearing him eased the twist in your stomach, but not fully. jake swallowed hard on the other end, the lump in his throat making it hard to speak. "i'm sorry," he replied after a while. "i know i promised." he sounded guilty. "you did," you replied quietly. "please... just come home." the line went silent except for the sound of jake's breathing, and you knew he was searching for the right things to say, but you still hung up. the dinner you'd put so much effort into had long gone cold, yet you couldn't get yourself to empty the table. you waited silently, eyes fixed on the clock on the wall, until the door clicked and jake's footsteps echoed through the hall. "princess?" jake's familiar voice called, a little unsure but loud enough to hear. he kicked off his shoes and rushed to the kitchen where you were sitting in your chair. you looked at him, your heart aching at how tired his eyes looked – at how his face was covered in fresh bruises; one on his jaw, one right below his temple, and a fresh one on his bottom lip. your eyes filled with tears that you quickly blinked away. he didn't say anything as he stepped closer, pulled you to your feet and embraced you in a tight hug, although it made him flinch. you buried your face in his chest, inhaling his scent as you tightened your arms around him. “i’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, “i should’ve been here. i shouldn’t have–” you pulled away and looked up at him. jake hesitated, his eyes scanning your face. then, he leaned down and kissed your forehead. it hurt him – you could see in the way his jaw tightened and feel it in the way he pulled back immediately. "i'm sorry."

jake's sudden hiss broke the silence another time. "ah– y/n–"

you quickly pulled back the cotton swab from his lips, only realizing then that you had kept it on his wound while deep in thoughts yet again.

"sorry," you mumbled, blinking quickly as if that could erase the image your mind had just replayed, "did it sting?" your eyes flicked up to his.

"a little," he admitted, his voice low.

you pressed your lips together, focusing on your task as you cleaned away the faint streaks of dried blood and dirt clinging to the cracks. for a moment, your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, steadying his face as you worked.

your hands were itching to pull out the chapstick you kept in the pocket of your coat and soothe his lips with it like you always used to do after cleaning up yet another bruise.

"you used to just kiss them better," he mumbled, more to himself than to you, but his words still made you freeze for a second.

"are you hurt anywhere else?" you asked, avoiding his eyes as you took one of his hands in yours and silently cleaned his bleeding knuckles.

his eyes traced down from your face to his hand in yours, slightly bigger, probably a lot rougher. it reminded him of how you'd often cleaned the blood off of his knuckles before, but also of how you'd loved to play with his hands when you were cuddled up against each other on the sofa or in bed. or how you'd always let him take the leftover lotion from your hands whenever you'd applied too much again. he was sure your hands were just as soft as he remembered them underneath the thin plastic gloves.

"jake?", you asked again, reminding him of the previous question he'd left unanswered.

he hesitated for a second, before slowly pulling his hand out of your hold, internally forwning at the loss of your touch, and reaching for the hem of the shirt he wore underneath the zip hoodie.

he slowly pulled it up until you could see a dark red bruise blooming on his ribcage. you winced slightly at the sight but still leaned in a little closer to get a better look, bringing two fingers up to the bruise and carefully letting them ghost over his skin.

"there's not much you can do for a hematoma. ice packs and... rest," you said, your eyes flicking up to his at your last word. jake lowered his shirt again and just nodded wordlessly.

for a moment, neither of you spoke. you just stood in front of him, not close enough for your legs to brush against his knees but not far enough to feel entirely out of his reach. his eyes met yours and for the first time since you'd seen him sitting in the ER, you didn't look away.

secretly, you hoped he'd see the hurt somewhere in your eyes. that he'd somehow understand how badly he fucked you up, even now that you supposedly didn't care about him anymore.

jake's hand was itching to reach for yours, to graze his fingertips over your knuckles again. hell, maybe to take your hand and pull you into a tight hug – knowing damn well every muscle in his body would hurt too much – but still, holding you so close you'd never leave him again.

but just as his hand moved forward the tiniest bit, you broke eye contact and took another step back, bringing more distance between the two of you.

"you're all patched up," you said sternly, "you'll get your papers and instructions in a few." with these words, you walked toward the door, yet you hesitated to leave.

you turned around to look at him one last time. "take care, jake. seriously, i don't want to see you here again."

.｡*ﾟ+.*.｡

the flourescent lights softly buzzed above you as you rushed from patient to patient. your feet were hurting at this point, but you knew you'd only have two more hours left until your shift was over.

you had picked up extra shifts, not entirely voluntarily due to the staff shortage, but you honestly didn't mind. keeping yourself busy kept any thoughts about your encounter with jake almost three weeks ago in the very back of your mind.

you'd be lying if you said you weren't worried deep down, but he hadn't made another appearance in the hospital since the last time, so at least, he was dealing with less severe wounds now.

you were finishing a report on the patient you'd just treated when the charge nurses firm voice made you flinch.

"incoming male patient in his twenties with suspected head trauma and possible internal bleeding. ETA three minutes. notify surgery – likely immediate intervention."

you looked up from the paper, focusing your attention on her and waiting for further instructions.

"y/n, you're prepping," she said, giving you a short look. you nodded, put down your clipboard and followed along as the team moved toward the ambulance bay.

"paramedics said he got injured in a fight," the charge nurse informed. you nodded again, mentally going through the steps you'd have to take now, until you really registered what she'd said.

suspected head trauma. possible internal bleeding. injured in a fight.

the combination of the facts she'd thrown at you and your colleagues so professionally started to ring in your ears like a deafening alarm.

jake.

you felt your heart starting to pound violently in your chest and your airways seemed to swell with every step you took toward where you'd await the ambulance. every worst-case scenario ran through your mind, each more terrifying than the last.

only when you tripped over your own foot, stumbling forward just slightly before catching yourself, you snapped out of it and managed to gather your thoughts again. countless of people got into fights every day. it's not him.

when the double doors of the ambulance burst open, you caught sight of the stretcher, slightly shuddering at the sight of the motionless figure laying on it. it wasn't your first time seeing a patient like this, but that didn't make it more pleasant.

"he's stable for now," one of the paramedics announced, "caller said he hit his head on the floor after a punch. unconscious when we found him. nose bleed, slight swelling of the head, pupils unequal," he rattled off the patient's symptoms.

"we managed to stabilize him, but his vitals dipped twice."

your heart was already in your throat, but when you stepped closer and got a clear view of the patient's face the world seemed to stop.

he looked battered, but you'd always recognize him – in every state, in every lifetime. his skin was pale, sickly so, and blood stuck his bangs to his forehead. a deep gash stretched over his temple, still leaking blood. dried red stains under his nostrils, on his cheeks – everywhere. so. much. blood.

you tried to stay calm but the walls were closing around you, squeezing you tighter until you couldn't breathe anymore. your vision started to blur as you reached for the handle of the stretcher with termbling hands.

"y/n," someone called, but the sound was muffled, like it was coming from underwater.

"jake," his name slipped past your lips in a whisper. you felt your head spinning, every late night thought that had plagued you for so long before you'd walked away from him crashing down on you – revealing reality in its ugliest form.

you didn't realize how much you were shaking until one of the other nurses grabbed your arm to gently guide you away. "i don't think you should–"

"no!" you exclaimed, pulling your arm free and stepping closer again, "i n-need to–"

“y/n,” the charge nurse’s voice cut through, snapping you out of the haze. “step back. now.”

the tone in her voice left no room for argument, but your feet still felt rooted in place. it wasn’t until the stretcher began to roll toward the operating room that you finally stepped back.

the outline of jake's body, all blurry from the tears in your eyes, was the last thing you saw before the doors swung shut behind him.

the charge nurse started to say something, but every noise around you shut down except for the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears and your breath coming ragged.

jake.

you hated him. you loved him. and now, it felt like he was slipping through your fingers for good.

your legs felt numb as you paced up and down the hall, not able to stay still. your body felt exhausted after pushing through your intense 10 hour shift, but you felt restless. time seemed to extend forever as you kept waiting for an update. you didn't know how long the surgery had been going on when the doors finally swung open and revealed the surgeon.

you quickly approached him, although you didn't know if you were ready to be confronted with whatever news he had. his expression seemed calm, but he might as well have looked horrified – you wouldn't breathe until you'd heard the confirming words.

"he's stable," he said finally, and as you hesitated to reply, he added, "he'll be fine. he'll take some time but–"

"can i see him?" you interrupted.

the surgeon furrowed his brows slightly. "he's not awake yet. he needs rest now, y/n."

you should have felt relieved but your terror wouldn't ease until you've seen him with your own eyes.

"please," you pressed, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

he hesitated for a while. your stomach started to drop another time until he gave in and sighed. "i guess you can help out in the recovery room," he mumbled, clearly not fully happy with the idea. you paced off before he could change his mind, only stopping to hesitate for a second once you reached the room. you took a deep breath before opening the door.

your eyes fell on jake immediately, he was lying in bed and although the sight of him wired to all types of machines and with a bandage around his head was worrying, you let yourself breathe for the first time since his arrival. he looked almost peaceful.

your vision blurred as you stepped closer and pulled a chair to his bed to sit down for the first time in hours. you reached out, your hand hovering slightly over his before you pulled it back again.

"i swear to god, jake, i–" a soft sob escaping your throat cut you off.

minutes passed, maybe an hour. you were just sitting next to his bed, blankly staring at him while the tears rolled down your face until you didn't have any left to cry.

when jake's eyes slowly fluttered open, the bright lights above forced him to squeeze them shut again immediately. his head was pounding, the almost unbearable pain forcing a quiet groan out of him.

he took a deep breath and forced his eyes open again, slowly taking in the environment in an attempt to make sense of his whereabouts. as he slowly came to his senses, he started feeling the even rushes of air against his arm.

jake forced himself to move his head to the side, although that only reinforced the pain he now felt in his entire body.

but all the pain melted away when he saw you – your head placed next to him on the matress, your soft breath brushing against his skin. your eyes were closed, your lashes wet and your cheeks slightly flushed. you had been crying for him. and you were here. even after everything he'd put you through.

it was only a few weeks after the ruined anniversary dinner when jake couldn't hold it in anymore. "there's something i haven't told you," he stated when you were cuddled up against him on the sofa. his heart was pounding violently in his chest when you sat up and swallowed so hard that he could hear it. "what is it?" you asked and jake swore the anxiety in your voice nearly shattered his heart into a million pieces. because it wasn't the first time you'd sounded like this, not the first time he'd made you sound like this. and the worst part? he couldn't blame you. when had all of this gone so wrong – when had he stopped being a safe place for you? jake took a deep, shaky breath before he continued, his voice careful as if it could break you. "you remember how i... worked hard, right?" your expression stayed blank, except for the crease that formed between your eyebrows. jake took your wordless nod as a sign to go on. "last week, after one of my boxing sessions," jake began, pausing to gather his courage, "there was this scout. he said he’d been watching me for a while... and that he liked what he saw." your lips parting slightly as you processed his words. "he offered me a chance to go pro." there it was. the sparkle in your eyes. the one thing he wanted to see the most, and the one thing he'd extinguish yet another time. "that's amazing, jake," you said, the relief in your tone only pressing down harder on him. "that means... proper guidelines, more safety?" he nodded slowly, avoiding your eyes as his gaze stayed fixated on the cushions of the sofa. "so...?" you continued carefully. "i turned it down," jake said quickly, as if saying it slower would take away the courage to say it at all. he didn't look at you. couldn't get himself to see the announcement crashing down on you in another wave of disappointment and worry. "you what?" you asked. your voice sounded so unsure – as if you'd only misheard – and jake's heart cracked when he repeated his words. "i turned it down," this time slower. "jake, you said–" "i know what i said, y/n. that i'd take the chance immediately if i got it. but this is not who i am, this–... i don't want to play by other people's rules and–" "do you even hear yourself?" you interrupted. your voice was filled with both anger and frustration and even though jake hated it, you were right. "play by other people's rules? you turned down the chance to do what you want to do, but safely. you've been coming home looking like hell for months. i don't care if you win or not, a body can only take that much," you continued, growing a bit louder with each word. jake knew you were right, and he knew it was wrong when he raised his voice back at you. when he shoved your feelings aside for his pride. "i don't get why you care so much. it's not like you're getting hurt," he replied, his tone agitated. "you're my everything, jake, don't you get that?" you almost screamed, tears of frustration daring to fall from your eyes. the sight of you like this deepened the crack, finally breaking his heart. but he just gritted his teeth, his jaw visibly tensing. you blinked a few times before standing up. "but you're right," you said in a stable voice although jake could see your hands slightly shaking, "i can't keep caring about you when you don't give two shits about yourself." and with that, you left the room – and a few minutes later the apartment.

another low groan stirred you awake. you slowly opened your eyes, blinking away the sleep, and then straightened your back almost immediately when you realized you'd fallen asleep.

your eyes immediately fell on jake and you felt like the weight of the world lifted from your shoulders when you saw him looking back at you. he was awake.

you immediately shot to your feet. "are you hurting?" you asked in an almost alarmed tone, turning around to provide him with painkillers, but the weak grasp on your wrist stopped you.

you slowly turned back around to face jake as he raised your hand to his lips and weakly brushed an attempt of a kiss against your knuckles, just like he'd always done.

"why are you here? i thought you hated me" he said, his voice so faint that it was almost inaudible.

you looked at him blankly, "i... do hate you."

jake didn't reply. the silence between you stretched. you wanted to say it, to admit it. to tell him that you didn't hate him. that you were still so fucking in love with him. that you'd always been, even when his reckless behavior made you lose your mind. that you'd never stopped caring about him.

but you just stared at him, your throat tightening with the words you didn’t know how to say. jake’s eyes, even though they were filled with exhaustion, never left yours.

he broke the silence first, although with only a whsiper, “i’m sorry.”

your breath hitched, and you blinked, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“for everything,” jake continued. “for all the times i didn’t listen. for making you hate me.” his lips curled into a faint, sad smile. “and for breaking every promise i made to you.”

your heart ached at his words. you searched his face for a hint of insincerity, but there was none.

“you’ve got a lot to be sorry for,” you said softly, sitting back down in the chair.

“i know.” he shifted slightly on the bed, wincing at the pain but refusing to break eye contact. “at some point, i didn’t care what happened to me because…” he trailed off, his gaze leaving yours for the first time.

“because...?”

his eyes returned to yours. “because i knew i was losing you, y/n. i know it sounds stupid," he hesitated, "but losing you already felt like i was dead. so i didn’t care what happened.”

the words hit you like a wave, knocking the breath out of your lungs. your fingers twitched, and before you could stop yourself, you reached for his hand. his skin was rough, but the way his fingers curled around yours was heartbreakingly gentle.

"every time you came home like this, i thought i’d lose you, " you said, your voice shaking, "and then i guess i finally did.”

jake shook his head, despite the new jolt of pain that rushed through him. “you never lost me,” he whispered.

the walls you’d spent so long building crumbled, piece by piece. you wanted to hate him, yes. but you also loved him – so much it felt like your heart had never been ready to let go, even when your mind had told you to.

“i don’t hate you,” you murmured. “i never did.”

your eyes met his again, and for the first time in months, it didn't feel like drowning – it felt like coming home.

just as jake was about to bring your hand up to his lips again, the door swung open to reveal the surgeon. you quickly pulled your hand away and straightened your back.

"mr sim?" he asked, to which jake looked at him expectantly.

"i'm sure you've heard this before," the surgeon continued, his eyes flicking to you, before focusing back on jake, "but you need rest. that means no boxing for now. you got severely injured and it will take a long while to heal fully."

your eyes went from the doctor to jake, and as you saw him swallowing, you absentmindedly took his hand in yours again, his fingers gently curling around yours.

jake nodded as best as he could and the surgeon left without another word. as you looked back at jake, you opened your mouth to say something, but he beat you to it.

"no boxing at all anymore," he said softly, causing your eyes to widen just slightly, "i'll stop if it means i'll get another chance to be with you."

© dazzlingjaeyun, 2024. please do not copy.

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[moody-alcoholic]

On a Wing and a Prayer

Part 2 - Not Guilty

As promised part 2 because I have no self control... CW: Dead dove don't eat , torture, no comfort yet.

Previous parts - masterlist - next

It's different today. They’ve switched tactics.

John came in with a box. Simon reaches in and pulls out a snake. 

They’re using your fear against you. 

Something you told them in confidence, a secret, something vulnerable you told them. It brings tears, makes a pit form in your stomach as you remember you can’t move. You can't escape.

John holds your head in place as Simon agitates the snake causing it to hiss. You try to turn away but John holds you firm.

“Tell us what you know and this can all go away.” His voice is low in your ears. 

“I don’t know anything.” You whimper as Simon moves closer. You’re kicking your legs, or trying to. They're strapped down just like your arms. You’re powerless to stop them, what if it's poisonous? What if it bites you? 

You never thought you would prefer a method of torture more then another. You never thought you would be in this position. The water-boarding still continues. Only this time when you open your eyes you’re face to face with your biggest fear. 

You've not screamed before. Even as they hurt you, even as they broke your resolve. You’re screaming now. It feels like a fever dream, between the lack of oxygen and the constant presence of your fear, you can't even focus on John's questions. 

“I don't know anything, please make it stop!” You beg as you keep your eyes squeezed shut, your head hanging down as you sob. You’re cold and tired, your body shaking. It’s been hours, at least you don’t think you’re afraid of snakes anymore.

The door to the room fly's open, you look up, it's Kate with a tablet in her hands and a look of horror on her face.

“It's not her.” She says. John takes the table out of her hands. “We’ve seen the messages. We have the guy.”  Someone else is in the room now pushing past her. Kyle, he comes straight over to you. He presses his warm hands on your face. You try to smile at him but you can’t.

It almost doesn't feel real. 

“Laswell, go get a medic!” It's Kyle’s voice level and controlled. You feel your restraints loosen and you slump against Kyle. There's another hand on your shoulder. 

Maybe it's not over yet.

“No! Don’t fucking touch her.” The hand leaves as Kyle pulls you to your feet wrapping your arm around his shoulders supporting you as you lean against him.

You can’t remember the last time you were on your feet. You look back. You see Simon looking at the tablet now, John's eyes focused on you as Kyle pulls you closer, his arm gripping your waist. 

You dont think you’ve ever seen that look on John’s face before. 

Fear.

You barely register meeting the medics halfway to the medbay. Hands touch you, your body is moved but you stay silent only nodding or shaking your head at them.

You’re poked and prodded, your body examined from head to toe. Kyle is always there, you see him out of the corner of your eye. His arms crossed his gaze soft, sometimes talking to the medics.

Then you’re alone again. 

Your mind turns to Johnny, he's in this hospital somewhere. Fighting for his life. He’s all you care about now. 

You dont cry again. You want to, tears threatening to spill every time you remember what happened. John's face, his shouting. Simon's eyes, hard and dark like daggers digging into you. 

They’ve made requests to see you. You refuse. The only person you’ll see is Kyle but even then you barely speak a word to him. He keeps you updated on Johnny's condition. He avoids topics about Simon and John. 

He still asks you every time he visits if you’ve got anything you want to pass onto them. That's when you have to bite down on the inside of your cheek and look away. Hoping you haven’t betrayed yourself. 

You’ll never let them see you cry again.

That night you sneak out of your room. Your body is stiff and sore but you don’t care, you want to see Johnny. You need to see him. After a little bit of searching you find his room, he’s alone on the other side of the ward. 

That's when you cry, when you see his body laid up in bed connected to tubes and wires one even shoved down his throat breathing for him. You pull a chair up next to his bed, you take his hand in yours lacing your fingers with his. 

This feels like your fault, maybe it is. Or maybe it’s the fact you’ve spent the last few days being told it is. You stroke his arm telling him how sorry you are. That's where you let the tears out. You let yourself be upset with them, angry at them, the people you love. 

Or maybe loved. 

They’re not the same people you knew before you were locked in the room. And neither are you.

next I need overprotective Kyle in my life Banners by firefly-graphics

[vieoeil-riae]

take you down with me

steb/fem!reader

warnings: NSFW, dry humping, making out, selectively mute!steb, 18+ MDNI, 3.1k words

synopsis: Both of you think the other might have died in the battle for Piltover, so you get emotional and fuck in a broom closet when you see each other again. Sounds fair, no?

read on ao3 | ao3 profile | ao3 collection | masterlist

It had been two days since the war ended, a miniscule amount of hours since the retreat of the Noxian soldiers following the death of their leader. The dead had to be collected, the wounded had to be tended to.

As someone with some amount of medical knowledge, Steb had immediately fallen into line attending to the wounded. He supposes his bedside manner was definitely below standard, the man having grown even quieter in the wake of all the death and displacement. It kept his hands busy however, and it kept his mind away from you.

When the fighting broke out he wasn’t sure where you’d ended up. Though there had been civilian evacuations, there was no guarantee you’d even managed to get on one of the airships.

For all he knew, you could be face down in the streets, another littered body buried under many others. Steb shivered at the thought, the pallor of death imagined on your face made him queasy and he couldn’t be throwing up on patients. So he shoved the thought down, drowning it in the wounds of his comrades and fellow city-goers alike.

Just a few days without you were hell, though, and he’d already had a taste of it several months ago when you’d frowned at him and averted your gaze — avoiding him for almost a week after Caitlyn’s strike team weaponised The Gray.

But that was a silly worry then, that you wouldn’t come back to him, because back then there was always the chance you would. Now, there was always a chance you’d be lost to him forever, and that cut much, much deeper.

Steb worried his lips as he debrided a fellow enforcer's wound — gruesome work, both for him and the patient — his careful hands easing out the shattered fragments of a Noxian blade from a wound on the man’s thigh. The man hissed, and so did Steb.

It smelled awful, but if he concentrated hard enough he could imagine how you smelled instead. The scent of your body soap, your perfume, your natural scent, all mixed together into a smell he could almost taste. God, how long had it been since he smelt something other than rubbing alcohol and infection?

Not that there was anyone to complain about that to. The only person who wasn’t you, that could understand all of his gestures without a long game of charades and short words was both dead and a traitor of the state. Steb swallowed around the memory of the way her ginger hair fell over her eyes as she slumped to the floor with a bullet between her eyes.

You’d understand, one look and you’d have him in your arms and muttering about how he really ought to quit. You’d trace the shape of his eyes and know him, it was the most relaxing game in the world and the prize for winning made it golden. To get him like that… without the words, it always made his heart flutter.

Steb held a sigh in the back of his throat, despite the summer heat the atmosphere was frigid. You would warm him up nicely, let him drift away in your soft skin, the swell of your breasts, the chub of your thighs. Two days of barely sleeping, you sounded like heaven.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Footsteps, a regular noise around the hall that had been turned into an impromptu medical care station. He payed no mind, still lost in his thoughts and in his work.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. 

Running, also plenty familiar — especially on the first night.

“Steb!” Oh, the lack of sleep must really be getting to him.

“Steb!” A warm hand came to rest on his shoulder, too gentle to jostle his work. A familiar sense of care, but also maybe he was hallucinating. He stared at his hands, when had he finished with the man’s wound?

“Steb…” Melodic and warm, fond like the hand that reached up to tilt his chin towards you.

Not making things up in his head then. Steb’s eyes widened at the sight of you, perfectly fine and haloed by the setting sun through the broken window. 

His eyebrows pinched and his lips fell open just enough for you to see a sliver of his tongue. The way he stared at you was precious, like he was afraid to look away lest you vanish. You smiled fondly back, he must’ve been worried — Steb had a strong sense of duty, both to his work and you, sometimes at once, like the past few days. 

Steb’s face shifted again, blinking several times before searching your face desperately like he was trying to drink in your whole visage at once. You flustered, even in strained circumstances, he certainly knew how to make you feel wanted.

His hands gripped at your wrist, one thumb digging into your pulse. He rested there for a moment, his eyes glazing over with focus as he felt for the steady thrum of life there — finding it and latching on like it was the only thing in the world.

The frills decorating his cheeks fluttered, a ripple that spread across his cheekbones. You followed it closely, rhythmically, as it almost copied your heart beat. Following it further, you found his ears pinned closely to his skull. Worried must’ve been an understatement, then. You frowned slightly.

Steb’s eyes met yours as you traced his frills again. The energy you found there was intense, thick with a multitude of wants. Turning his head and tugging at your wrist, you felt a soft kiss land over your pulse — the shape of Steb’s lips was unmistakable, thinner on the top and plumper on the bottom and always in a sort of mildly pouty frown. 

You bit your own lip, staring intently at where his lips landed, where the projected trail of his kisses went. For a moment, Steb’s face grew somber, then soft in the most incredible way. So pretty, he was, even from where you stood above him; jewel-like eyes and soft, almost luminescent skin that looked so artful in the sunlight that poured in around you.

Taking advantage of where your hand ended up, you gently brushed his cheek. Exploratory, but known, you reached around to cup where the back of his head met his neck where your fingers found the small fins that trailed down his back. 

With even more care, your thumb gently stroked the shell of Steb’s ear, tracing over its points. Under your touch, he shivered, eyes closed as he subtly twitched between leaning into the touch and pulling away. 

A shaky sigh left his lips as he finally leaned into your touch. The way he opened his eyes and gazed at you was lethal; the intense glacier-blue of his eyes eaten up by his blown out, hazy blue pupils; the slump in his shoulders; the reverence that saturated every inch of his face.

You tilt your head subtly to the door, watching the twitch in his eyebrows and eyelids. They scrunched in worry, Steb’s head turning to look behind him again, at the patient he’d been tending to prior. You watch a little longer, letting his face speak.

The man on the floor behind him shrugged and rolled over. Steb looked back to you, searching your face also. You smiled again, cheekier, and nodded towards the door once more — your eyes focused on his, gazing at him through your lashes.

Sliding his hand around to hold yours, you pulled him up from his small stool. Steb let you, eyes shimmering as you walked hand in hand out of the door.

You dropped the collected facade the second the door closed behind you, gripping his hand tightly as you speed walked down the hall all but dragging him behind you. You heard him snort, and you smiled at the sound.

Your eyes spied exactly what you were looking for. A door slightly thinner than the others and less ornate. Crossing the hall with Steb in tow, though he looked more confused now — frills fluttering almost nervously — you carefully opened the door, listening for voices inside.

Waiting a second, you felt Steb press into your space behind you. His breath skimmed your ear as he listened alongside you and your teeth found your lips again, biting and pulling.

You deemed it clear, and possibly a little ungracefully, yanked Steb into the broom closet behind you and slammed the door shut.

In a flurry, you had his back pushed against the wall with your hands pawing at his front. Yet you refrained a moment longer to look in his eyes. Permission. You wanted permission to unravel in his arms and a sign that said he wouldn’t mind if he did the same.

His eyes seemed to glow a little brighter in the dark, and you could feel the way they traced from your lips to your eyes, to your lips again. Looking up again, this time through his lashes, Steb brushed his nose against yours; an invite.

You took it gladly, meeting his lips with your own. Just a few days without him had left you starving, the fear of having lost him plaguing your thoughts since you left, you drank him in.

The kiss grew less chaste and more desperate. You toyed at his bottom lip, plump and warm under your ministrations, listening to the way he sharply inhaled as you gently bit his lip. Steb’s hands dragged over your waist, needy, but it was a ghost of a feeling — he was refraining from touching you.

Frowning, you pulled away. Steb chased you as you left, lips unwilling to part with yours, eyes opening in confusion over your sudden absence.

He tilted his head with a concerned look. You settled your hands over his, and gently pushed them down to meet the flesh of your waist once before letting off and giving him the choice. His lips made an ‘o’ that turned into a bashful smile.

Steb wiped his hands on his jacket, he’d been fiddling with wounds, without handwashing (which he’d prefer) this was next best. One hand returned to your waist, but the other drifted up to your face, brushing stray hair from your eyes before carding through your hairline. Soft under his touch, you nodded in understanding. 

Steb kissed the corner of your mouth, reveling in the way he could feel your smile, before trailing slow kisses across your jawline as if he was savouring it. You dragged your hands up his sides, draping them across his firm shoulders as he worked towards the junction between your neck and your jaw.

You shivered at the sensation, inhaling sharply when his teeth met a sensitive spot, and sighing when his lips soothed it.

In a shuffle, he’d turned you around — pressing you to the wall instead, caging you in as he wrapped his arm around you tighter. The hand in your hair remained there, but his other hand took a downward path, tracing the curve of your spine like it meant the world to him.

Against your neck, you felt his frills flutter; ticklish and delicious, you clocked how heavy Steb’s breathing had gotten, how his ear twitched when you gasped. Your own hand weaved into the back of his hair, brushing gently against the tiny fins that began to appear where the back of his skull connected to his spine.

“‘Door’s not locked.” You mumbled into his uncharacteristically messy hair.

“Mn.” Too late to stop now, Steb was long lost in you. 

Your smell, familiar and so normal compared to everything around you. Your softness, the way your unbroken skin gave way to his touch. How warm you were, gasping and arching into him. There was no helping himself as he drank you in greedily, moving your shirt’s neckline and peppering your collarbones with nips and kisses. 

You tilted your head, both out of pleasure and a need to give Steb the most area of exposed skin to lavish as you could. 

“Steb…” You called breathily,  the feeling of his tongue dancing over your sensitive skin making your knees buckle. 

There was relief, there was need, and they brought both of you to the floor. Steb not once letting go as he followed you downwards. 

If anything, it meant he could focus on groping you more. Pawing at your chest, while his other hand slid south to squeeze you your hip — having ended up pressed to your side as you were both brought to your knees. His head was spinning, touching you was dizzying every time but right now it was satisfying a desperate sort of hunger.

Taking a deep breath against your skin, he dragged you closer. You whined at the feeling of his bulge pressing against your hip, your cheeks flushing with heat as Steb’s eyes grew even hazier. Your combined panting filled the small closet, you were warmer now but neither of you could tell if the shivering was borne of coldness or bubbling desire. 

Quietly, Steb whined, burying his face back into your neck — letting the frills that decorated his pretty cheekbones rub against your hot skin as a shiver traveled the length of his spine. He couldn’t tell if the pulsing he felt was his racing heartbeat or his throbbing cock, aching and needy.

For a moment, he pulled back. His smouldering eyes met yours and Steb thoroughly enjoyed the ruined look that swam in your lust-widened pupils. The marks and reddened skin were a delicious look on you, and it only served to make his cock feel heavier in his pants.

Steb’s head sunk back into your shoulder, biting and nipping with more forced than before — the way he seemed so intent on devouring you, tasting every inch of you that you offered, made you mewl.

You whimper, but don't resist as Steb moves to settle between your legs, all but haphazardly manhandling you with his needy grasp.

His ears flick at every sound you make. It was utter indulgence the way you hum and sigh and gasp, tantalising in a way that went straight to his cock. You sound so much better if you were even closer if that were even possible with the way he pressed your bodies flush. 

Steb let out a sinful moan, grinding his throbbing cock against your clothed cunt, catching on your warm, pulsing clit. The noise and the way his hips buck into you has your eyes fluttering closed.

You shift, tightening your legs around his slender hips, moaning into his ear as you feel him grind harder against your cunt. He pants down your neck, and you feel the sweat and heat starting to creep into the miniscule gaps between you.

Teeth nip at your earlobe, nibbling so delicately it makes you shiver. They trace your jaw, kiss the nerves that lay under your ear and trail down your soft neck in what feels like worship. You grip Steb tightly, one hand twisting itself into his jacket while the other runs up the length of his spine before drifting towards his ear, petting the ends with a trembling eagerness.

It pays off as he gasps against the junction of you neck; his hips cant into you with a jolt. You can’t help but smile, pleased, as you trail your fingers feather-light across the delicate frills you could reach — watching as they fluttered out of sync at your touch.

He pulls back, flushed, with swollen lips that had felt so hot against your skin and looks at you with such wet eyes. God, he’s pretty when he’s needing it so bad.

Your hand travels in reverse, over his frills and then his ear and tangles in his hair, before you pull him into a deep kiss. It’s hungry and heavy and you swallow each other whole as Steb’s hip move sensually slow.

His hands find their way under your shirt, finally. His fingers skip down your sides like sparking electricity. 

You moan into the kiss, pressing your warm cunt against his leaking cock in a way that makes him shudder and grunt, chasing his tongue. Your cunt throbs as he does much the same, but Steb-like — quieter, more intimate than wanton. You love it, he’s yours alone, you’re the only one who gets to hear him whimpering desperately into their ear.

His thumbs dig into your waist, holding you tighter, and you writhe in your spot at the feeling.

A breathless, loud moan bubbles from Steb’s throat as his face twists in pleasure against your mouth. He pulls back and you're graced with the pretty sight of his head tilted back and his mouth opening in a silent continuation of a moan. His cock ruts into you frantically, you hold him tightly, it feels like you’re reuniting after years — but no, a few days is all it takes to become so starved of you he becomes a sort of need-driven beast.

You can feel your own arousal pool in your underwear even better when he pushes you back into the wall hard, his hips bucking wilding against your cunt. You arch into the wild movement, deep, heady desire pooling in your gut as you angle yourself to catch you clit on Steb’s thrusts.

You pull away from the kiss, panting, and he takes the opportunity to bite down hard on your shoulder. You yelp and it only sends a pang of need to his gut. Your clit is throbbing and his cock aches as the feeling of his length rutting sloppily against your clothes folds.

Steb prying your thighs apart, gripping at your ass and pulling the soft plane of your cunt even closer. His thrusts become sharper, an unraveling held in the jerking motion that begged for just a little more.

He groans and you almost drool at the rare sound. Its muffled, in a familiar way, when he bites down on the bruised flesh of his bottom lip. He’s close. You grin through a whine at the thought, your hands tangling in his hair yet again and giving it a tug.

It pulls Steb’s face away from you enough to enjoy the way his eyes roll back as his hips move in an even more erratic pattern as he cums. The vigour of his thrusts as he rides his high tips you over the edge soon after, making you grip his hair as tight as he was gripping your ass.

Panting, still out of breath, you guide his lips to yours; a kiss strikingly sweet compared to the last god knows how long. You can feel him smile against you and the feeling is contagious. You know you both have each other, the world feels at peace again.

A/N: I figured out how to do the cool text I'm so proud of myself! (if I post this and it breaks I'm gonna lose it!) if u saw me on ao3 first ily

banner cr: @/cafekitsune

[transformers-spike]

"Cybertronians reacting to getting kissed", in which kissing is not something cybertronians do as an act of affection, so they're completely new to the human concept of kissing to express romantic love. Talk me one Knock Out who is so versed in wooing but doesn't know two shits about human kissing, and finding himself kissed for the first time. Or Starscream who's gonna freak out. Or Megatron who doesn't even know why you're smashing your intake against his

This is such a good question, anon, I've been rotating it in my head for a while now

Knock Out is well-versed in the drag and frag technique. He’s probably one of the youngest members on the Nemesis, still old as balls by our standards, but some rebellious youngin’ by theirs. He’s all about sliding in with a smooth pickup line and buttering you up until he reaches the “let’s get down to business” level, where he starts flashing his biolights in a “come hither and frag me” display. When it comes to human kissing, he’s… improvising to say the least. He’s seen humans make out in a wide variety of drive-through horror movies (many with questionable acting), and while he doesn’t “get” why we do it, he does his best to lean into the act and find what makes it so pleasurable by our standards. When you do kiss him for the first time, he’s already been hyping himself up for months, and whatever smoothness he tries to apply immediately disintegrates because oh fuck, your lips are so small and he has so much to give. He’s absolutely suffering despite the confident front he’s putting up. After fumbling the bag, he’ll ask you how he did. “Mid,” you’re tempted to say. But the hopefulness behind those smug optics stops you in your tracks. Starscream must have had a very confusing interface life even by Cybertronian standards. But there’s no way he didn’t get frisky back when he was Air Commander of Vos, even if the workload was immense. Although that’s probably the most action he got in his entire life, and even then the closest equivalent to “kissing” by their standards is merging EM fields and hoping for the best, a careful manipulation of wavelengths to fall into perfect sync. We humans do not possess a hyper-developed EM field, which is enraging for Starscream because what do you mean you smash intakes??? Mass-displaced or not, the only fluids he accepts in his intake are energon and transfluid, thank you very much. Kissing is a bad idea, and you’ve learned it the hard way, so good job! Now you have to deal with his drama queen ass acting like you just spit in his mouth. Worst thing is, he is interested in trying it again, but with his stipulations (aka watching him fail to figure out how to kiss you). He doesn’t even fail in a funny way, he’s so bad it’s concerning, you’re half tempted to contact Knock Out and blackmail him into sending you Starscream’s medical file.

Megatron was… surprisingly abstinent back on Cybertron. Yes, he’s been around for a long time. Yes, he used to be a gladiator at some point. And yes, it had its perks, but he was always more of a “sensitive spark” than a typical casanova. He had more important things to focus on at the time (mainly surviving the pits of Kaon and, before that, not offlining in a freak mining accident). Honestly, who knows what he did as a politician, whatever freakiness he had going on while trying to depose the government is none of our business and I am totally not typing this with a fusion cannon to my head.

He’s been through so much; fought countless beasts and fellow gladiators, avoided assassination attempts and blood-thirsty mutinies while leading a millennia-long war. Nothing can surprise him anymore. Yes, you’re a weird little freak for smashing intakes with him, but you need not fear for your safety. He’s… intrigued by your display of affection. You can mumble excuses all you want, but you’ve smashed intakes with him and it can’t be undone. Watch out for those sharp teeth and prepare a tetanus shot just in case. You have to deal with the consequences of your actions whether you like it or not, especially when he’s got a claw under your shirt and another down your pants. Your lips are bleeding and you pray it’s an accident, if he gets a taste for human blood you’re done for.

[mournthebird]

Silver and Garnet.

summary: Soldat hurts himself a lot.

warnings: Post!HYDRA Winter Soldier | Post!HTP and abuse | PTSD symptoms & behavior | Self harm | Mentions of non-consensual medical procedures | Body mutilation | Post!Body torture

a/n: I had another wip but I have no clue where I'm going with it so I started this one. Since someone commented the other day, I had to write another scenario specifically for this. I wrote something kinda touching this subject on my other blog but this one is exploring it better. Heed warnings, potentially triggering. Unedited. ;; wc: 4.3k

So many things to tackle with him.

You had done the hardest so far. That was good.

He was still wary around you. He avoided you.

He stayed locked in the bedroom you spared, hiding like a frightened animal. You hadn't seen him in a few days, the only evidence of his presence were the slightly eaten down bowls of broth and mashed potatoes you left for him. The untouched portions of these meals showed you just how fragile he still was, barely sustaining himself on the meager amounts he managed to consume.

His self-imposed isolation spoke volumes about the depth of his trauma, leaving you to wonder about the extent of his emotional wounds and the long road to recovery that lay ahead. You had never been a caregiver before, hell taking care of yourself proved to be hard sometimes. But now you had a responsibility for someone else, someone who really needs it.

Luckily, he had taken the opportunity to at least go to the bathroom without any sense of apprehension or unease. You often heard the shower running and he spent close to an hour in the shower at a time. You never went in to question him or why it took him so long to shower. Sometimes he'd let you wash him off, he did when he first arrived.

But for now, he liked having privacy, and you didn't blame him for wanting it.

You had been sitting on the couch and his shower had exceeded well over an hour, which was odd. Normally he only clocked close to an hour, just below sixty minutes. But he had been in the bathroom for much longer, and the shower had been running the entire time. You could spot steam peeking out from the cracks in the closed door, rising to the ceiling and fogging your apartment lightly.

Today, the shower had been running for an unusually long time, prompting you to check on him. Given his delicate health condition, you couldn't afford to be anything but vigilant. With a slight sense of concern, you gently pushed aside the warm, fuzzy blanket that had been draped over your legs. Rising from the comfortable embrace of the couch, you stretched your limbs briefly before padding across the room towards the bathroom door. The sound of running water grew louder as you approached, but there were no other noises coming from inside.

Reaching the door, you hesitated for a moment before raising your hand. You gently rapped your knuckles against the smooth surface of the door, being careful not to make too loud a sound. The last thing you wanted was to startle him in his potentially vulnerable state. "Soldat?" you called out softly, your voice barely audible over the steady stream of water, "Are you okay in there? It's perfectly fine if you're still showering, I just wanted to make sure you're doing alright. Is everything okay?"

Silence greeted you, save for the continuous patter of water against tile. The lack of response sent a small shiver of worry down your spine.

"Soldat?" you tried again, your voice a touch louder this time, tinged with growing concern. "Can I come in? Just to check on you?" You pressed your ear against the door, straining to hear any sound of movement or acknowledgment. Several long seconds ticked by, each one amplifying your unease. Still, there was no reply, not even the slightest indication that he had heard you. The silence stretched on, broken only by the relentless sound of running water, leaving you to grapple with mounting worry and indecision.

After a moment of hesitation, you decided to confront the situation head-on, pushing aside any thoughts of future repercussions. You reached out and gently grasped the cold metal of the door handle. Taking a deep breath to steel yourself, you slowly turned the knob and eased the door open, the hinges creaking softly.

As the bathroom came into view, your eyes were immediately drawn to him, huddled in the corner of the shower. His form was hunched over, back pressed firmly against the tiled walls as if trying to disappear into them. The shower was running over him but instead of clear water, a steady stream of crimson flowed beneath him, swirling ominously before disappearing down the drain.

Your gaze was inevitably drawn to his right hand, it was covered in blood, fresh and glistening under the harsh bathroom lights. His nails were ragged and torn, thick chunks of flesh clung to them, the aftermath to the frenzied self-mutilation he had inflicted upon himself. The raw, exposed skin underneath looked so painful, the pieces of skin that he clearly had torn and tried to rip away from himself clear as day.

Your eyes slowly traced the contours of his body, lingering on the gleaming silver titanium that seamlessly merged with his flesh. The junction between metal and skin was marked by a vicious scar, a sight you had seen before during your previous bathing sessions. However, this time it appeared significantly more severe. The area was angry and inflamed, with fresh blood seeping from the edges, and the surrounding tissue looked far more mutilated than you recalled. The overall damage seemed to have intensified, leaving you with a sense of growing concern.

His eyes, wide and unblinking, were fixed straight ahead, as if seeing something beyond the confines of the room. The vacant stare sent a chill down your spine, he looked so empty and haunted there under the steady shower. His hand trembled visibly, betraying the depth of his distress very clearly, as if his wounds weren’t enough to go off of. Words couldn’t compare to this sight alone.

"Soldat..." You whispered, your voice barely audible as you gently closed the door behind you, careful not to startle him. The soft click of the latch seemed to echo in the tense silence of the room, the shower had been muffled by now, your brain zoning the sound out in hopes he would speak. "What's going on, hm?" You asked carefully, your tone was slightly apprehensive, your approach had to be very careful. You remained rooted to the spot, instinctively knowing that approaching him too quickly might escalate the situation. Instead, you stayed put, your body language open and non-threatening. "Did you do that?"

He remained motionless, unresponsive to his surroundings, as if frozen in place. Despite the scalding temperature of the water cascading over him, he shivered uncontrollably, as if he were trapped in a blizzard. The relentless stream of hot water had turned his skin an angry, vivid red, resembling a freshly boiled lobster wherever it made contact. You slowly stepped closer, speaking up again. "Did you do that to your arm?" You repeated.

Soldat finally stirred, his trembling hand slowly reaching up to his bleeding shoulder. His nails dug deeply into the scar tissue as his gaze fixed upon the metallic surface of his prosthetic limb. Unbeknownst to you, his mind was awash with vivid, haunting memories of endless saws mercilessly cutting into his flesh. The loss of his arm hadn't been a clean, swift amputation. No, it had been a gradual, excruciating process that began around his elbow.

In the sterile confines of the laboratory, they had methodically removed the rest, piece by agonizing piece. Throughout the entire ordeal, Soldat remained horrifyingly conscious, forced to endure every moment as they systematically dismembered him, carving away at his body with the cold precision of butchers preparing a carcass.

The gruesome experience marked the beginning of his torment at the hands of HYDRA. It was merely the opening act in a long, nightmarish performance that would span decades. As hellish as this initial ordeal was, it paled in comparison to the tortures that would follow. The amputation of his arm, as brutal and inhumane as it had been, would come to be seen as almost merciful when juxtaposed against the relentless cruelty he would endure in the years to come.

The memory of the cold metal was seared into his consciousness. He could still vividly recall the sensation of the frigid prosthetic fused to his body, an unnatural extension of himself that felt more like an invasive parasite than a replacement limb. The cold was so intense it transcended mere discomfort, burning his flesh with its icy touch. In his desperation to be free of this foreign appendage, he had made numerous attempts to tear it from his body, clawing at the juncture where flesh met metal until his fingers were raw and bleeding.

HYDRA's response to these acts of defiance was characteristically brutal.

They forcibly removed his fingernails, not out of concern for his well-being, but to protect their valuable asset. In their eyes, Soldat was no longer a person, no longer human. He had been reduced to a mere object, a weapon to be wielded at their discretion, stripped of his humanity and autonomy.

They did this frequently, until he stopped clawing at himself.

He had nails now, and they served as desperate tools in his frantic attempt to extricate the metal embedded within his flesh. His prosthetic limb was a source of intense loathing; he yearned to be rid of it, to cast it off entirely. The sensations it produced were a maddening contradiction; simultaneously frigid and scorching, each moment bringing fresh waves of agony. The pain was all-encompassing, radiating from every point where flesh met metal, leaving him bewildered by its relentless intensity. Where was this torment originating from? How could this damn appendage cause such overwhelming suffering-

"Soldat, you're hurting yourself," you intervened, your voice cutting through the fog of his anguish and halting his downward spiral into self-destruction. Slowly, as if emerging from a trance, he lifted his gaze to meet yours. His fingers had burrowed beneath his skin like eager maggots, exposing the cold gleam of metal that had been forcibly inserted beneath layers of tissue and muscle. You reached out slowly, doing your best to avoid startling him. Carefully, you grasped his hand, applying just enough pressure to halt its destructive path, and gradually eased it away from his bloodied shoulder.

"There we go...oh, Soldat, look at you..." You whispered gently, watching the scalding water sear down on his wound, washing dark garnet into a watery pastel.

He whimpered softly in response, his body trembling with fear as he anticipated your reaction. You had caught him in the act, and he had been surreptitiously harming himself for some time now. His timid, apprehensive eyes slowly lifted to meet yours, filled with a mixture of dread and resignation. He fully expected you to unleash a torrent of angry words, to raise your hand against him, or to inflict some form of harsh punishment for the self-inflicted damage to his arm.

But to his surprise and confusion, you did none of those things. Unlike the cruel handlers from his past, you exhibited a gentle demeanor that was entirely foreign to him. Your actions spoke of kindness, a concept he struggled to comprehend.

"Ты не собираешься меня наказать?" He questioned hesitantly, his brow furrowed in a perplexed frown as he addressed you. His voice emerged as a barely audible whisper, weak and raspy from prolonged disuse. It sounded like he had swallowed broken glass, his throat utterly torn apart.

Prior to this moment, he had only uttered three single words on separate occasions: a tentative ‘thank you,’ a fearful ‘no,’ and a hesitant ‘yes.’ You found yourself grateful for your basic understanding of Russian, which allowed you to decipher his simple words, but full sentences would be trickier. He hadn't said a thing in English yet.

"Eh...I'm sorry, I don't understand, Soldat...but...I'm not mad." You reassured gently, your voice barely above a whisper. "Let's get you out of here and cleaned up, okay?" You spoke softly, reaching out with a steady hand towards the shower knob. With a twist, you halted the flow of water, the sudden silence amplifying the sound of his ragged breathing. His body began trembling more noticeably now, the loss of the near-boiling water leaving him exposed to the cooler air. You couldn't help but wince internally at the sight of his scalded skin, angry red compared to the rest of him. However, you forced yourself to push that concern aside for the moment. His bloody scars, still weeping and raw, demanded your immediate attention.

You allowed him to remain seated in the shower for a brief moment, giving him time to adjust. You moved towards the bathroom counter, your eyes scanning the contents of the cabinet as you opened it. Methodically, you began pulling out the necessary first aid supplies, arranging them neatly on the countertop. Your gaze flickered back to him, noting how his trembling had intensified. You carefully approached him once more with a large, soft towel draped over your arms.

“Here, I know you’re cold now.” You draped the towel over his shivering form, taking care to keep his injured shoulder exposed so you could tend to it properly. He flinched as the fabric settled around him, instinctively responding to the unusual action. You maintained your calm demeanor, choosing not to react to the flinching. “I’m going to clean this up a bit, okay? All you have to do is sit still. That’s pretty easy, right?” You tried your best to sound comforting, knowing his nerves were through the roof and he was especially fragile.

His shoulder was a gruesome sight, coated in a deep crimson layer of blood with ragged pieces of flesh hanging precariously from where he had been violently digging. You couldn't help but let out a soft, empathetic sigh as you reached for a substantial handful of sterile gauze. Kneeling beside him with careful movements, you noticed how he deliberately avoided your gaze, his eyes fixed intently on the intricate patterns of the tile floor beneath you both.

With precision, you reached up and began to gently dab at the blood-soaked area, allowing the pristine white gauze to gradually absorb the viscous red liquid, allowing the injury to become more visible to you to assess the proper kind of treatment.

The self-inflicted damage from his frantic clawing was even worse than you had initially feared. Deep, angry tears marred his shoulder, the surrounding scar tissue visibly swollen and undoubtedly hypersensitive to the touch. Despite the pain he must have been experiencing, Soldat remained remarkably still for you, permitting you to continue your ministrations as you meticulously dabbed away the excess blood.

Your heart ached at the sight, and you found yourself whispering softly, your voice barely audible in the quiet room, "Oh, Soldat…look at what you've done to yourself." Your tone was filled with compassion rather than judgment as you continued, "You must be in so much pain to have resorted to this. I wish I could take it all away."

He didn't reply, which was expected given his current state. He simply allowed you to continue dabbing at his wounds until the majority of the bleeding had subsided. The condition of his skin was a bit alarming, and you found yourself hesitating, unsure of how to properly treat such severe injuries. Your medical knowledge was limited, lacking the expertise required for advanced treatments such as suturing.

But, upon closer inspection, you felt a wave of relief wash over you as you realized the wounds, while serious, weren't as bad as you had initially feared. Not bad enough for stitches at least. A few carefully applied butterfly bandages and snug gauze wrapping would be sufficient to promote healing. Besides, you hoped his enhanced healing might help aid on this too.

"I'm going to start wrapping you up now, okay? I'll also need to apply some bandages over certain areas to help keep the skin together. You're being so brave and cooperative," you said, your words of encouragement causing his eyes to lift slightly, meeting yours. The subtle shift in his demeanor made your heart rate quicken, a warmth spreading through your chest as you sensed him beginning to trust you. "I need you to remain as still as possible while I do this. Can you manage that for me?"

After a moment of consideration, he responded with a soft, barely audible, "...да." The Russian affirmation, though brief, conveyed his understanding and compliance.

You offered him a warm, reassuring smile as you began the delicate process of tending to his wounds. You carefully cleaned each injury using soft cotton balls soaked in a mild antiseptic solution. You winced slightly as you dabbed the open wounds but he hadn’t flinched at all, despite knowing the antiseptic stung. Once the cleaning was complete, you applied bandages to the areas where his skin had been broken, taking extra care to position them for optimal healing. For the scar itself, you had a handful of things. First laying down a layer of soft, cushioning gauze to help with any bleeding that might occur, you then wrapped it with an adherent bandage to keep everything in place.

Throughout the entire process, he observed you intently, his gaze alternating between your focused expression and the various medical supplies you used. His eyes searched quickly for anything sharp, but he didn’t see anything like that. This experience was entirely new to him; never before had he been allowed to witness the ministrations performed on him.

The HYDRA scientists had preferred to keep him in the dark, relishing his startled reactions to unexpected pain or discomfort. It was so different to your approach. They liked watching him struggle against the bindings he was kept in, then used it as an excuse to hurt him more, as if his very valid reaction to being cut open with a scalpel or stabbed with a needle was unwarranted. But nothing you did hurt. You were so careful, like you were afraid to hurt him.

"There...all done." You hummed gently, a soft smile playing on your lips as you looked up to him once the bandages were securely fastened in place. Your eyes scanned over your handiwork, ensuring everything was just right. "Now, I want you to take it easy, okay? Don't push yourself too hard. But if it happens to come undone or feels uncomfortable, just let me know. I can always redo it for you." You reassured him, your voice warm and caring. Taking a small step back, you gave him some space, understanding that he might need a moment to adjust to the new sensation of the bandages.

Soldat, still silent, gripped the towel tighter and wrapped the damp fabric around himself, creating a cocoon of sorts. The quiet that enveloped the room was almost tangible, broken only by the soft dripping of water. You watched him carefully, noting how he seemed to be taking inventory of his newly bandaged body. In your mind, you surmised that he probably needed a few seconds to get accustomed to the feeling of the bandages against his skin, perhaps even testing their flexibility as he moved.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely only a minute or two, Soldat made a move to stand. His legs were a bit unsteady, trembling slightly under his weight as he rose. He took cautious steps out of the shower, leaving behind a trail of water droplets. He came to a stop directly in front of you, close enough that you could feel the residual warmth from his shower-heated skin. His still-wet hair continued to release tiny rivulets of water, the droplets trailing down his face and neck before disappearing into the towel.

Your eyes were drawn to his, those steel blue irises that always seemed to hold so much depth. As you gazed into them, trying to decipher his thoughts, you realized that while they were as inscrutable as ever, there was something there. A look, a silent request perhaps. He seemed to be seeking something more from you, though you couldn't quite pinpoint what it was.

"Alright, let's get you properly dried off," you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Your hands moved of their own accord, grasping the edges of the towel he held. "And then... well, I think we should get you settled comfortably in the living room. How does that sound?" As you spoke, you began to gently pat him dry, your movements careful and considerate, especially around the newly bandaged areas. The act felt intimate, you had done it before, but it felt different this time.

He was carefully dried off and dressed in clean, comfortable clothes before being gently guided to the living room. You led him to the spot where you had been sitting earlier, allowing him to sink into the warm impression left by your body. As you draped your thick, cozy blanket over his legs, he instinctively pulled it up higher, cocooning himself in its comforting weight. His tense muscles began to relax as he nestled deeper into the soft folds, finding a small measure of solace in the simple act of being warm and protected.

You settled yourself beside him, your eyes drawn to the bandages adorning his shoulder. You broached the subject that had been weighing on your mind, wondering about his habits, "Do you do that a lot, Soldat?" The question hung in the air, your tone carefully modulated to convey genuine concern rather than accusation or judgment.

For what felt like an eternity, he remained silent, his eyes fixed on some distant point. Just as you began to think he wouldn't respond at all, he gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"Да." The single word, spoken so softly you almost missed it, carried the weight of countless untold stories.

"Why?" you pressed gently, hoping to coax him into opening up, to share even a fragment of the burden he carried. You yearned to understand, to offer whatever comfort or support you could. Your underground research on HYDRA had come up short, you hadn’t discovered much yet, and many of the released files the Black Widow had released were heavily encrypted. But as quickly as that tiny crack in his armor had appeared, it vanished. His lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line, and the brief, guarded glance he cast in your direction spoke louder than words.

Without uttering another word, he had made it abundantly clear that this line of inquiry would go no further. The wall between you, momentarily weakened, had been fortified once more.

"I understand... you don't want to talk about it right now. That's perfectly okay," you reassured gently, your voice filled with compassion. "I want you to know that if you ever feel the urge to hurt yourself again, you can come to me. I'm here for you, and I'll do everything in my power to help you through it." You offered this support sincerely, hoping that your words would resonate with him and provide some comfort. Your intention was to show him that there were alternative ways to cope with his pain, rather than resorting to self-harm. You wanted to be a source of safety and understanding he could turn to.

He remained silent, but you could see that your words were having an impact. His eyes, previously averted, briefly met yours, conveying a mix of vulnerability and gratitude. Then, he slowly shifted his position on the couch. He leaned closer to you, gradually lowering his head until it rested lightly on your leg. He was using your thigh as a makeshift pillow, a huge sign of the trust he was placing in you. It was an incredibly significant step forward in your relationship, a wordless acknowledgment of the connection between you.

You knew this was a big gesture, how much security he must feel for him to allow himself this closeness. Considering he never allowed himself to lay down around you, this was a big step in the right direction. As he settled, he pulled the blanket higher, adjusting it to cover himself more fully. He was positioned to lay on his uninjured flesh shoulder, seeking relief for the wounded one and to be covered by the blanket for some extra security, you knew he didn’t like feeling exposed.

Your hand, trembling slightly with the weight of the moment, slowly descended towards his damp hair. You were acutely aware of your own nervousness, not wanting to make any misstep that might shatter this fragile trust. This unexpected display of vulnerability had caught you by surprise, and you wanted to handle it carefully. Your fingers gently made contact with his hair, gently running through his chestnut locks in a soothing gesture. Your touch was light and tentative, massaging and lightly scratching at his scalp as he laid there.

Soldat permitted this rare moment of complete vulnerability. He was feeling particularly exposed and fragile, yet he felt secure enough in your presence to lay beside you. To lay on you. The comfort he found in your company was evident as you both settled in to watch television together.

The episode progressed, you noticed a gradual change in Soldat's subtle movements on your thigh. His breathing began to slow and deepen, becoming more rhythmic with each passing minute. Before long, the weight of his body pressed more heavily against you as he drifted off into a peaceful slumber. You looked down to make sure you weren’t just imagining things.

Soldat felt safe enough in your presence to completely let his guard down and fall asleep.

It was a clear indication to the trust he placed in you, a rare and precious gift from someone who typically kept the world at arm's length upon severe conditioning. The simple act of Soldat falling asleep beside you spoke volumes about the growing bond you had, your chest warming and swelling with warmth as you observed his sleeping form.

You couldn't help the smile that spread on your face.

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Cover images from Pinterest

I had a few people inquire about being tagged for my fics, if anyone is still be interested in being on a tag list, please let me know.

[revelboo]

love ur writing (੭ु ›ω‹ )੭ु⁾⁾♡ thank u for sharing your work with us!

Thank you for reading it!

Transformers x Reader Headcanons- possessive

Soundwave x Reader, Starscream x Reader, Jazz x Reader, Megatron x Reader, Ratchet x Reader

Starscream

• It’s nothing really. Just the way your face lights up when Soundwave brings you a case of bottled water, as if what he’s provided is inferior. His wings flick stiffly up as you thank the other mech, daring to reach out to touch Soundwave’s servo. It’s nothing. Shouldn’t bother him, but there it is, eating at him. How many of your little smiles have you gifted the other mech?

• You realize almost immediately that you just messed up. Can almost imagine you can feel the temperature dipping as you look over your shoulder. And of course he saw. He’s always watching you and now his expression is oddly empty aside from the slight quivering of his wings. There’ll be yelling later, his temper sparking out of control if you don’t distract him quickly. Down play Soundwave’s gift. Or ask him for something. Need him.

TFP Ratchet

• Fowler isn’t exactly a stranger, even if Ratchet doesn’t particularly care for the human. That disinterest quickly shifts when he sees the man lay a hand on your shoulder and you offer up a tired smile. It’s good. You should interact with other humans instead of being cooped up with him all the time. But it bothers him. That hand on you. The creak of metal makes both humans look over to stare at him and the tool he’s just accidentally bent at an angle in his hands.

• You pick up on the fact that your grouchy medic is irritated about something pretty quickly. Being flippant and avoiding you, and that only makes you angry too. If something’s wrong, you’d rather talk about it. And he’s not giving you a chance. You wear him down, pestering until he just lets go of whatever that was. It’s almost like he’s a tiny bit jealous of Fowler talking to you, but surely not.

Jazz

• There’s a strange car in the driveway. A strange human on your step. Pretending to be nothing more than a car, he shifts on his shocks when you open the door and smile for this person. Invite them in. The spy in him runs scenarios. You might be in danger. Might need him.

• It’s a relief when the intruder leaves and you finally join him outside, A coworker you tell him as he transforms and scoops you up, ignoring your protest. There was no danger. He knows it, but he needs to reassure himself. Feel the frantic beat of your heart as you shove at him, annoyed. He’ll check into this coworker. Learn everything there is about them and he’ll decide if they’re allowed to visit again.

Wheeljack

• As oblivious as he can be, he’s very aware of his tiny lab partner. You’re always there, asking him questions and encouraging him to talk about his projects. He’s gotten used to that easy companionship. Looks forward to it, because he’s well aware the others avoid him. Think he’s an accident prone danger to life and limb. You don’t treat him like a walking catastrophe, though. You like being around him.

• So when you’re not around, he goes looking for you. Seeing you talking to Bumblebee and Bluestreak, he knows you’re in good hands, but still. He’s walking up before he can think better of it, vocal indicators flickering a sickly mauve as he just picks you up in one hand, lifting the other in greeting. Aware of the two younger bots staring and the bemused look you’re giving him. He’s not jealous, but you did promise to help him. That’s all.

TFP Megatron

• You’re kept close, his little plaything on a leash. His pet. Partly because it amuses him to toy with you, but also because he can’t trust anyone. There are too many among his Decepticons who’d love to accidentally break Megatron’s pet. Some because they see you as a weakness- that the warlord is far too attached. Others just for cruel amusement.

• There’s no peace for you. He’s always near. Watching. Your life depends on keeping him amused with your antics. Even knowing that, you’ve grown oddly attached to him, recognizing the loneliness under the casual cruelty. He’s safe in his own, awful way. Because no matter what, you can count on that possessiveness to keep you alive. He takes care of what’s his.

Soundwave

• While he can’t exactly read your thoughts, he can get brief little flickers. Images and emotions that can overwhelm him. Or worm into him and leave behind a hunger for more. Being in control has always been something he prided himself on. The calm one. The reliable, loyal soldier. But you’re a problem. When he first found out Starscream’s secret, he should have passed the intel along.

• But every time the thought enters his processor, with it comes the worry of the fall out. It’s not only Starscream that will suffer. Most likely you’ll die just to punish the Seeker. And he doesn’t want that. Not when you always look at him with such trusting eyes. It’d be as if he hurt you himself. So this secret he keeps. For you and for him.

[mrpenguinpants]

See you, space cowboy

— Parting words at the end of the day.

— Jing Yuan, Blade, Dan Heng, Imbibitor Lunae, Dr. Ratio + Luocha

[Masterlist]

The title is from Cowboy Bebop. I used their "Parting" voice lines if anyone was curious. Ignore how I'm using a Kafka gif for a fic with only men. I promise this is still a "genshin" blog.

Jing Yuan

"Mmm, rest well... My apologies. There is still some work to be done and I can't see you out personally."

You blink at him before you narrow your eyes and give him a judging stare. Your fingers reach out to curl around the sleeve of his uniform, giving it a small tug that he willingly steps into despite his earlier words. He doesn't try to hide the amusement in his eyes, even letting out a soft chuckle that makes your lips downturn into a frown. Jing Yuan reaches up, smoothing the crease between your eyebrows before resting on your cheek.

"It's obvious that you're tired. You should rest for a little bit more before you go back to work," you lightly scold as you give another weak tug for him to return to your shared home. Another chuckle escapes him as he places his other hand on your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles through the fabric for a few seconds to attempt to appease you. "It's been a while since we've shared a meal together..."

Jing Yuan's eyes soften yet he politely removes your hand attached to his sleeve. This time he avoids your gaze, the disappointment flowing heavy in the air, when he shakes his head and steps back.

"Next time, I promise," he whispers, squeezing your hand to hopefully convey his sincerity. "I'll take a day off as well. I heard that our Trailblazer friend has restored Aurum Alley back to its former glory. I'm sure Yanqing would love to join us as well."

You seem to mull over it in your head. To trade one night for a full day is tempting, plus Yanqing has been running himself ragged given the recent events. It would be nice to have a break where it can just be the three of you without any military or political weight hovering above you.

"...fine. But if you break your promise, I'll sic Mimi on you," you pout at him, twisting your hand from his grip to poke him in the chest.

"I...shall plan accordingly then," he laughs awkwardly because he knows you will follow through with that threat. He still has the scratch marks on the walls as proof. Playful or not, Mimi is unfortunately an overly heavy lion.

Blade

"Go. When the mara strikes, you don't want to be next to me."

"Is that what you say to everyone who tries to help you?" you huff as you carefully bandage his wounds, the white bandages seeping red slowly as you wind them around his torso. Despite the sarcasm dripping from your tone, he can tell you're genuinely angry with him this time. If it were anyone else, he would shake them off to leave, but when you look like you're two breaths away from bursting into tears, so he can only take a deep breath and let you bandage him up.

"They'll heal. They always do," he says after a moment of silence. Alas, his attempt at comfort does nothing but make you more stressed. He winces slightly when you pull too tightly on the bandage, the gauze scrapping against his gash that's already stitching itself together again.

"I know, so shut up already," you spit in an attempt to save face, and he decides to offer a bit of kindness by not commenting on it, "I'm not doing this for you."

He knows. You used to be an ordinary medic before the Stelleron Hunters recruited you, and you incidentally had to switch careers to something more violent. But old habits die hard, and this small bit of control helps to ease your worries. Even if it's only by a small margin. Your weakened hold lets the bandages fall into a heap on your lap as your shoulder shag. You press your forehead against his shoulder just slightly above where his wound is already rapidly healing into another scar.

"Can't you be more careful?" you sigh into his shoulder, a smear of red on your cheek that you both ignore. Blood will wash out.

"I'm sorry," he replies. He won't lie to you and say that he'll try. For as much as the mara controls him and his emotions, he wills them away for a few seconds.

Dan Heng

"Time to turn in already…? Thanks for the reminder. It's easy to lose track of time in the archives — before you know it, a whole day's gone by… See you tomorrow."

You have to stifle your laugh lest you make Dan Heng more embarrassed that he kicks you out of the room to save some dignity. Even though he says all that, he hasn't once lessened his hold on you for you to actually get up and leave. If anything, his arms around your waist tighten so you're practically molded into his chest. To be fair, you had lost track of time as well. After the recent adventures and running everywhere, it felt nice to settle into Dan Heng's lap and waste a day away in the archives, just basking in each other's presence. No crazy hunter trying to stab Dan Heng or overactive mara-struck enemies attempting to decapitate you. Just the hum of the machines and the warmth of company that neither of you are ready to leave so soon.

"You know...technically it's already "tomorrow" since it's 2am. We could just stay here," you muse as you tilt your head up to look at his unimpressed expression. The longer the two of you stay up, the worse the rest of the day will be from the lack of sleep. Plus it's not healthy to stay up to reset a sleep schedule.

"You know we can't do that. Besides, you might be comfortable but this shelf has been digging into my back for the past few hours," he sighs, shifting his body to prove a point further.

"10 more minutes," you bargain.

"2," he denies flatly.

"5?" you try again.

"2." He stares you at with a frown.

"3!" You stare right back with a cheeky grin.

"...fine."

He hides the fond smile into your hair as you cheer on gaining a single minute.

Dan Heng • Imbibitor Lunae

"It's getting late, I won't be staying up much longer. Sleep well."

You have to stifle your amusement less you make Dan Heng recede even further into his shell, but you can't help but think it's kind of cute how awkward this dragon can be sometimes. The way he stands so stiffly and not at all relaxed for sleep, how his eyes are staring at anything but you who is standing right in front of him, coupled with the uneasy way he says for you to "sleep well.". As if he's questioning if it's okay for him to say something so casually despite all the time you've spent in each other's company. Dragon horns or not.

"Much longer...huh. And pray tell, how many minutes does that equate to again? It's kinda hard to tell when I'm talking to an infinite respawn glitch," you tease, lightly punching him in the shoulder makes Dan Heng crack a tiny smile. You mentally pat yourself on the back for that little win. Ever since the Astral Express concluded its journey on the Xianzhou, the new dragon had been walking on eggshells around everyone.

"You're talking too much to that hacker girl. That's not how the vidyadhara reincarnation works either," he sighs but the tension is gone from his shoulders. If you're able to joke about it then you're not mad at him lying about his origins, even though you haven't been in the first place. "But I will return to the Archives with the system hour."

You spare a glance at the clock. It'll be midnight in another 20 minutes. Has it really gotten that late so quickly?

"Alright, but if I check the data bank and there are new entries, I'm kicking your door open mister," you place your hands on your hips as you gesture two V-sign fingers at your own eyes, then at him. "Good night Dan Heng. See you in the morning.".

Dr. Ratio

"Another day has passed. If your problem still hasn't been solved, is it possible that the problem is you?"

He tilts his head to the side gracefully as you hurl your pen at him. The cheap plastic breaks on impact and leaves a smear of ink that you'll have to clean up unless you want another stain for Dr. Ratio to insult you for. Perhaps you can use his name as a tax write-off? It's the least he could do for you with how much attitude you put up with.

"What if my problem is you? If you didn't dodge then I wouldn't have to waste so many precious pens," you counter as you reach for the white cloth hanging from his waist to use to mop up the ink. One that has Ratio slapping your hand away with his stone booklet. He even dares to wipe at it with a handkerchief, as if touching your skin is equivalent to touching trash, rather than offering it to you!

"Ow! Geez, you really don't hold back. I wasn't going to actually use your clothing!" you fake sob as you nurse your poor hand close to your chest. It doesn't hurt as badly as you're making it out to be. You've seen Veritas throw chalk at his enemies and leave chalk-sized holes in them. "Besides, it's not like I can do anything about my "problems". [ Rahu ] isn't the easiest place to investigate..."

Your body slumps in as you think back on how little progress you've made with that strange planet. Diamond has been kind enough to not assign a deadline but you can feel the quiet disappointment every time you report that you don't have anything new to share each month. Maybe Veritas is right. Maybe the problem is you.

"Which is why you've been given the role. The numbers written on a stats page or monthly reports do not measure the trial and error of someone's pursuit of knowledge. Very few scholars I know would be capable of continuing for the sole purpose of finding the truth. Surely you're capable of seeing that? Unless I've severely underestimated your intelligence," Veritas states as if it were a fact. He reaches to take your hand, giving it a once over to see if he has truly hurt you. His words bring a small smile as your heart swells at his encouragement as you squeeze his hand back.

Luocha

"Have an early rest. I'll keep watch here."

It's the last thing you hear before your eyelids droop close and sleep takes you under. Your body slumps against Luocha's side, his hands already out and ready to catch you, before he gently maneuvers you so your head rests in his lap. He hums humourlessly as he combs through the strands of your hair, a bit of dirt clinging onto the ends. He'll have to tend to that later.

"I wonder what someone like you dreams of," he contemplates although he doesn't expect an answer. Your face is the picture of serenity as your chest rises up and down slowly with each breath, completely dead to the world. You're far too trusting of him, even his first meeting on friendly terms with Dan Heng hadn't made that man lower his guard. Sure, they had been on the same team but Dan Heng would constantly look behind him as if he was waiting to get stabbed in the back by Luocha's sword. Yet here you are, fast asleep in his lap and entirely defenseless.

A loud buzzing sounds from your pocket that Luocha reaches for to check, you're not going to be awake to answer it anyway.

"What considerate companions you have," he muses as Dan Heng's caller ID flashes on your phone before his call gets sent to voicemail. It's truly a blessing that all phones operate under the same system programming as he holds down the power button, effectively shutting the phone and other potential distractions silent. Under the artificial night light, when it's just the two of you here, no one can see the secret smile on his lips. Nor the possessive hold he has on you.

[eu-nicola]

the fastest driver part 3

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc

warnings: take of pills

word counter: 7364

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request, thanks for the comments 🤍

tags: @ilovechickenwings @amortentiaaaa @ananyasribughead @supertrashbread @amalialeclerc @rawr-123s-stuff @wierdflowerpower @malvikareader @freyathehuntress @sweetmuffynsblog @vjbillno

Endless hours passed after the accident before the first clear update about your condition reached the media and the paddock. Everyone was anxiously waiting for news about your health. The uncertainty left fans, journalists, and especially those who truly knew you in a state of tense anticipation.

Finally, a statement from the hospital's medical team brought some relief: you were stable and conscious. While initial tests had ruled out serious spinal injuries or significant fractures, the impact had been severe, leaving you with a moderate concussion and several internal bruises that required monitoring. What concerned the doctors most were the potential psychological and emotional aftereffects: the nature of the crash, the impact, and all the built-up stress could take a toll later.

Hours later, you woke up in a hospital room softly lit by the afternoon light. Everything was quiet except for the rhythmic beeping of the monitor beside your bed. Your body felt heavy, like it was filled with lead, and the headache was sharp and constant. As your eyes adjusted to the light, you noticed someone sitting nearby.

It was Charles. He was there, his hands clasped in front of his mouth, as if praying or just trying to calm his own nerves. When he saw you stir slightly, he lifted his head, and his expression changed a mix of relief and worry crossed his face.

“You’re awake,” he said softly, as if he didn’t want to scare you. “Thank God.”

You hadn’t expected to see him there. In fact, you hadn’t expected to see anyone. And yet, here he was.

“Charles…” you tried to speak, but your voice came out as barely a whisper.

“Shhh, don’t talk too much. The doctors said you need to rest.”

“What are you doing here?” you asked, ignoring his warning, even though just talking felt like needles stabbing your skull.

He shrugged, offering a light but sincere smile.  

“Someone had to make sure you were okay.”

Charles stayed by your side for hours, even when the doctors came in and out to check on you. He answered questions from the journalists crowding outside the hospital, desperate for a statement, and refused requests from photographers trying to get a shot of you. There was something unusually warm and protective about the way he acted.

As you lay back, eyes closed to avoid making the headache worse, you heard his voice.

“You scared me, you know? I’ve never seen anything so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “So violent. Not since Jules. And when I saw the crash on the screen, I thought the worst.”

You opened your eyes and looked at him. There was sincerity in his face, something you hadn’t expected.

“I’m okay… sort of.” You tried to joke, but the pain turned it into a grimace.

“No, you’re not okay. But you will be. You have to be.”

As Charles stayed with you, messages started pouring in. Your phone sat on the bedside table, just out of reach, and Charles offered to read some.

“Everyone’s worried about you. Here’s one from Lando… and even one from Toto. Seems like the entire F1 world is waiting for you to get better.”

“Who else?” you asked, almost dreading the answer.

Charles scrolled through, his expression hardening briefly before softening again.

“Max,” he said simply.

Your heart stopped for a moment. You didn’t know what to expect. Since the accident, you’d assumed Max was too caught up in his own world to care, but the fact that he’d written at all was enough to twist your stomach.

“What does it say?” you asked, trying to sound indifferent, though you knew Charles could see right through you.

He hesitated before answering.

“‘Hope you’re okay. Sorry I wasn’t there sooner. Let me know if you need anything.’”

The neutrality of the words didn’t match the intensity of what you felt hearing them. You closed your eyes, trying to process it all. What did that message even mean? Was it just courtesy, or was there something more behind those words?

Charles noticed your discomfort and set the phone aside.

“You don’t have to reply if you don’t want to.”

“I won’t,” you said quickly, though part of you knew that wasn’t true.

As night fell, Charles finally said goodbye, promising to return the next day. There was something comforting about his presence, how he’d set aside any competitiveness or formality just to be there for you. Yet, when you were left alone, the thoughts began to overwhelm you.

The crash, the messages, the worries it all tangled into a mess of emotions you couldn’t unravel. The only thing clear was that while you were physically stable, emotionally, you were far from okay.

After that day in the hospital, Charles became a constant presence in your life. His support wasn’t limited to encouraging messages or occasional visits. He went beyond that. Where others saw a moral obligation or an opportunity to score points with the media, he saw something else: a chance to show you that you weren’t alone.  

The medical team made it clear you could return to racing, but not without certain restrictions. You had to stick to a strict combination of medications after every race: anti-inflammatories, painkillers, and supplements to manage the physical and mental stress you still felt after the accident. Charles was the first person to offer to help you with this. It wasn’t his responsibility, but he seemed to take on the role without hesitation.  

The first race after the accident was a mental and physical challenge. As you prepared to get back in the cockpit, fear swirled in your chest. The accident was fresh in your memory, and even though you knew you were capable, there was a shadow of doubt you couldn’t shake.  

The day before the race, Charles showed up at your hotel. He had a small bag in hand and a calm expression, almost as if it was meant to soothe you.  

"I thought you might need this," he said, placing the bag on the table.  

Inside, there was a box of relaxing tea, a small book about mental strategies in sports, and a handwritten note. When you opened it, you found a simple phrase: "You’re stronger than you think."  

"Thank u," you said, moved by the gesture.  

"You don’t have to thank me. I just want you to know I’m here, okay? If you need to talk, if you need anything..."  

You nodded, grateful for his sincerity. For a long time, you’d felt alone in this world. It was strange to realize someone was willing to stand by your side without asking for anything in return.  

Race day was a whirlwind. Even though you tried to stay calm, every time you sat in the car, the memory of the crash resurfaced. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, reminding yourself you’d done this thousands of times before, that you were capable—one of the best.  

The race wasn’t easy, but you finished in a solid fifth place, a result any other driver would’ve considered a success under the circumstances. When you got out of the car, exhausted but relieved, Charles was the first to approach you.  

"Well done," he said, patting your shoulder.  

After every race, Charles made sure you followed the medical protocol. Sometimes, when you forgot the pills, he’d show up holding the box, reminding you that your health came first.  

"How do you even know I haven’t taken them?" you asked one day, half-joking.  

"Because I know you well enough to know you hate depending on this stuff," he said with a smile, handing you the water and pills.  

It was strange how his presence had gone from sporadic to constant. He wasn’t just there for the serious moments; he also found ways to make you laugh, to lighten the weight on your shoulders.  

It wasn’t something you’d planned or even imagined after everything you’d been through, but your friendship with Charles was good for you. So much so that you felt comfortable asking him something after noticing he’d been off for a while. You’d seen his behavior become quieter than usual, even in the paddock, where he usually managed to keep up appearances in front of the cameras.  

"Are you okay? You seem... off."  

His response came almost immediately.  

"Do you have time to talk?"  

You invited him to your place, where you saw a different side of Charles. He’d shed his usual composure and looked... vulnerable, almost like the facade he kept in public had cracked.  

"Thanks for this," he said, sitting on the small couch as you handed him a bottle of water.  

"You don’t have to thank me, Charles. What’s going on?"  

He sighed, fiddling with the cap of the bottle before speaking.  

"It’s... complicated. Ferrari doesn’t feel like my team anymore."  

You frowned, surprised by his words.  

"What do you mean?"  

"Since Lewis joined this year, everything changed. I knew it would be different, it’s Lewis Hamilton, of course but I didn’t think it’d be like this," he confessed, his voice low, almost a whisper. "I feel like everything revolves around him. The strategies, the resources, even the engineers’ attention... It’s like I’m a shadow in my own team."  

You felt a pang in your chest hearing that. It was almost an exact replica of what you’d felt when you shared a team with him at Ferrari.  

"Charles... you don’t know how much I get it," you said, sitting across from him. "That feeling of being invisible, like your efforts don’t matter... I went through the same thing with you."  

He looked up, surprised by your honesty.  

"Really?"  

"Yeah. Do you remember all those team orders? All those moments where no matter how fast I was, they always put me aside to favor you. It’s... frustrating. It makes you question everything you do."  

Charles nodded slowly, processing your words.  

"I guess I never saw it from your perspective. I always thought the team’s decisions were fair, but now... now I know what it feels like."  

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees.  

"Charles, I know how hard this is. But what you need to remember is that your talent doesn’t depend on them. Ferrari is just one team, one stage in your career—it doesn’t define who you are as a driver."  

"How did you deal with it?" he asked, genuinely curious.  

"At first, I didn’t," you admitted. "I kept everything inside, let the frustration eat me up... until I couldn’t take it anymore. But I learned something: you can’t let them take away what you love about this sport. If Ferrari doesn’t value you the way they should, then prove your worth on the track. Force them to see you."  

Charles nodded slowly, as if your words were beginning to sink in.  

"It’s easier said than done," he said, with a bitter smile.  

"I know. But I also know you have the talent to do it."  

The conversation went on for hours, shifting from serious topics to shared memories and stories from your days at Ferrari. It was strange, but comforting, to share that space with him. He’d gone from being the rival who overshadowed you at your lowest to someone you could fully trust.  

When he finally stood to leave, Charles paused at the door and looked at you with an expression you hadn’t seen before.  

"Thank you for this. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you."  

"I’m always here. You know that."  

As the door closed behind him, you couldn’t help but smile. Charles was so much more than you’d ever thought. And somehow, he’d brought out the best in you too.

While you were helping Charles find his way in a team that relegated him to second place, you couldn’t ignore the fact that your own demons were still lurking. And, as if that wasn’t enough, Max remained a constant presence both on the track and in your personal life.  

Since your move to McLaren, the rivalry with Max had reached a new level. If before you shared moments of camaraderie and confidences, now every interaction was loaded with tension. And not just on the track.  

The championship was on fire. You and Max were leading the standings, swapping first and second place race after race. On every circuit, every corner, and every straight, it felt like only the two of you existed. It didn’t matter who else made it to the podium; the battle was always between you and him.  

During qualifying, both of you pushed to the limit, but an incident in Q3 left Max without a lap time. As soon as he got out of the car, Max stormed straight toward you, visibly furious.  

“What the hell was that?” he snapped, his voice sharp as he closed the distance between you in the paddock.  

“What was what?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though you knew exactly what he was referring to.  

“You blocked me on my flying lap.”  

“Max, you were too far behind when I started my lap. I didn’t block you.”  

“Of course you did!” he insisted, stepping even closer. His blue eyes burned with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn’t quite place.  

The argument caught the attention of journalists and members of both teams. You knew that one wrong word could make headlines the next day, so you chose to stay calm.  

“If you have a problem, take it up with the stewards, not me,” you said before turning and walking away, leaving Max with the words stuck in his throat.  

But the tension wasn’t confined to the track. It had started to bleed into your personal lives. Even though both of you tried to avoid each other outside of race weekends, coincidences were inevitable especially at sponsor events or official meetings.  

At one of these events, an FIA gala in Monaco, Max couldn’t resist looking for you in the crowd. When he finally spotted you, you were talking to Charles, laughing at something he’d said. The sight seemed to ignite something in Max, and he couldn’t hold back as he approached.  

“Can we talk?” he asked, cutting into the conversation.  

Charles glanced at you, his expression a mix of curiosity and caution, before stepping back to let you decide.  

“What do you want, Max?” you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral.  

“You and Charles, what’s going on between you two?” he asked quietly, though his tone carried an accusatory edge.  

“What kind of question is that?” you replied, crossing your arms.  

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m losing it, but… every time I see you two together, I can’t help thinking that…”  

“That what?” you interrupted, annoyed. “That maybe someone else can actually support me and understand me in this chaos that you chose to ignore?”  

Max pressed his lips together, clearly feeling the sting of your words. But instead of responding, he looked away and muttered:  

“You still know how to twist everything around.”  

The conversation was left unfinished, but the night didn’t end there. Later, as you tried to avoid him, you found Max alone on the terrace of the venue, staring out at the sea, his figure illuminated by the lights.  

“Why do you do this?” you asked, walking toward him. Your tone was no longer defiant but tired.  

“Do what?” he asked without looking at you.  

“Show up, disappear, demand things from me that you can’t even give yourself. You’re still with her, and yet…”  

Max closed his eyes, as if your words were too heavy to bear.  

“I don’t know how to handle this,” he admitted finally, turning to face you. “You and me… I don’t know how to handle it.”  

“Then maybe you should stop trying,” you said, though your voice cracked at the end.  

The silence between you was deafening. Too many unsaid emotions, too many decisions both of you refused to make. Finally, Max stepped back.  

“It’s easier said than done, isn’t it?”  

And with that, he left, leaving you alone on the terrace, feeling like the two of you were trapped in a vicious cycle neither of you knew how to escape.  

In the days that followed, you tried to focus on racing and your friendship with Charles, who had become a kind of refuge in the chaos. But every time you saw Max, every time your eyes met in the paddock, you felt the storm lingering, waiting for the right moment to break again.  

The rivalry on the track only grew more intense. Max and you raced as if every race was the last, as if the championship depended on who was stronger, more determined, more ruthless. But off the track, you both continued to grapple with the same internal conflict: what you felt for each other and what the world expected of you.  

You and Max were the top contenders for the title, and every race turned into a war. The media called it “the battle of the century,” comparing it to the legendary Senna-Prost rivalry. Every overtake, every strategy, every word in a press conference was scrutinized.  

At the Brazilian Grand Prix, things came to a head. From the first lap, the fight between you and Max was fierce. You knew every one of his tricks, every weakness, every strength. There were moments when the cars seemed to touch, pushing the limits of competition to the extreme.  

On lap 43, you attempted an overtake on the inside of Turn 1, but Max, in his trademark aggressive style, shut the door almost recklessly. Your front tires brushed his, and though both of you managed to maintain control, the incident was enough to set off commentators and social media.  

“This is unacceptable!” your engineer shouted over the radio. “We’re reporting it.”  

But you didn’t want to win the championship through a penalty.  

“Leave it. I’ll settle it on the track,” you said, with a determination that surprised even yourself.  

In the end, you finished second, behind Max, but the battle was epic. Fans were divided, some siding with you, others defending Max. But in your mind, one thought started to take root: maybe you’d had enough of this world.  

After that race, you decided to take a break. You flew back to your hometown to spend time with your family, seeking comfort in their presence. One night, sitting in the garden of your parents’ house, you opened up to your mom.  

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” you admitted, staring at the stars. “Every race feels like a battle not just on the track, but inside me, too.”  

Your mom, always wise and patient, looked at you with gentle understanding.  

“Then why do you keep going?”

You stayed silent for a moment, searching for the words.  

“Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Since I was a kid, my entire world has revolved around racing. But lately… lately, I feel like I want something more. I want a normal life, a family. I want to stop fighting all the time.”

“What’s stopping you?.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I don’t know what that life would look like, or who it would be with.”

It was the first time you’d said those words out loud. The idea of giving up Formula 1, of walking away from everything you’d worked so hard for, was terrifying but also freeing.  

You couldn’t help but think of Max. Even though your relationship was broken, and the rivalry had reached its peak, there was still something about him pulling you in. But the question that haunted you was: did he feel the same?  

Max was still with his partner, at least publicly. But his actions, his looks, even his comments during races, hinted at something more. Could you build a life with someone who seemed incapable of facing his own feelings?  

“Maybe it’s not Max,” you muttered to yourself that night, curled up on the couch in your childhood bedroom. “Maybe it’s someone else. Or maybe I just need to find myself first.”

When you returned to the paddock for the US Grand Prix, something had shifted inside you. You hadn’t made any final decisions, but you knew this chapter of your life was nearing its end. Still, as long as you were in F1, you were going to give it everything you had.  

In the pre-race interviews, journalists bombarded you with questions about your rivalry with Max.  

“Is it personal?,” one of them asked with a sly grin.  

“Everything in Formula 1 is personal,” you replied with a wry smile, offering no further explanation.  

Max, sitting next to you at the press conference, shot you a sideways glance but said nothing. The tension between you two was palpable, even in front of the cameras.  

That race turned into yet another head-to-head battle between the two of you. During the final laps, the radio chatter grew more intense.  

“He’s losing rear grip. Push him.”

“I already am!,” you snapped, pushing the car to its limit.  

In the last lap, you pulled off a risky overtake that left everyone stunned. You won the race, and as you stepped out of the car, you felt a mix of euphoria and exhaustion.  

While celebrating with your team, your thoughts drifted back to your conversation with your mom. Maybe this was the ending you’d been searching for, or maybe it was just the start of something new.  

Max watched you from the podium, his blue eyes filled with something you couldn’t decipher. In the crowd, you couldn’t help but wonder: could you ever leave it all behind, even him?  

The next race, under the scorching Qatar sun, felt heavier, both in the air and in the paddock. Everything about this second-to-last race of the season felt like a countdown to something inevitable. You and Max were tied in points, both neck and neck after a season of epic battles, controversies, and moments that had pushed you to the edge emotionally.  

The tension in the McLaren garage was palpable. Though your relationship with your team was excellent, you knew the pressure was on you. Lando tried to lighten the mood with his usual sense of humor, but even his energy couldn’t cut through the wall of your thoughts.  

“Come on, don’t be so serious. We could both use a win today,” he joked while adjusting his gloves.  

“Sure, but if you win, I won’t complain,” you replied with a faint smile, though you both knew that wasn’t true. This race meant everything to you.  

Meanwhile, Charles had sent a message that morning: ‘Remember, one race at a time. You can do this. You’ve already proven you’re the best.’ His unwavering support had become one of the few things keeping you mentally afloat during this emotional rollercoaster.  

From qualifying, it was clear this race would be another direct battle between you and Max. Both of you blocked every attempt the other made to set the fastest time, ending up on the front row: Max on pole, you in second.  

The start was clean but intense. From the first corner, Max showed his usual aggression, shutting you out in an attempt to stay ahead. But you knew this game; he had taught you how to play it. You used the slipstream on the main straight, and on lap five, you overtook him with a surgical move in turn 6.  

For a moment, the world seemed to stop as you led the race, but you knew the real battle had just begun.  

Midway through the race, things heated up. Teams began to play with strategies, and tire choices became crucial. On lap 32, as you exited the pits after a tire change, Max appeared beside you. The overtake that followed was so tight the two cars brushed slightly, sparking an explosion of shouting over the radio.  

“That was way too close!,” your engineer protested, but you were too focused to respond.  

Max didn’t back down. In the following laps, he kept relentless pressure on you, looking for any weakness in your defense. On lap 48, he attempted an inside overtake on a tight corner, but you managed to hold your position with a move that left everyone on the edge of their seats.  

In the final laps, your mind was torn between the adrenaline of the race and the mental exhaustion you’d been carrying all season. Max was glued to your diffuser, but he made a small mistake on the second-to-last corner, giving you just enough of a margin to cross the finish line first.  

Your team’s shout over the radio was deafening:  

“Victory! You’re incredible, what a race!.”

But you didn’t have time to celebrate. As you parked the car in parc fermé, reality hit you: this victory only meant you were still tied in points, and everything would come down to the final race.  

The journalists were in a frenzy. In the post-race press conference, the questions came at you like bullets.  

“How do you handle the pressure heading into the last race?.”

“Calmly. One race at a time.” you replied, echoing Charles’ words, even though calm was the last thing you felt.  

Max, sitting beside you, spoke after you.  

“I always knew this season would be decided in the end. I’m ready for it.”

His gaze met yours for a second, and in that brief moment, the tension between you two felt more personal than ever.  

Back at the hotel, you tried to disconnect, but it was impossible. Your mind raced, replaying every detail of the race and anticipating what was to come. Charles called to congratulate you but also to remind you to rest.  

“Don’t let this consume you, okay?,” he said, his tone serious but kind. “You’ve done an amazing job, and you have everything you need to win.”

“Thanks, Charles. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I don’t know what you’d do without me either,” he joked, managing to make you laugh.

However, when you hung up, you kept staring at the ceiling of your room, wondering if you were truly ready to face everything the final race was about to bring.  

Even though you hadn’t seen Max since the press conference, you knew he was just as restless as you. Despite everything that had happened between you two, you couldn’t help but think about him, about how this rivalry had consumed everything you once shared.  

Is this really what you wanted? To keep fighting, keep competing, keep losing yourself in the process?  

You closed your eyes, trying to calm your thoughts. Just one race left. One final battle. And after that, maybe you’d finally have the answers you’d been searching for.  

The last week of the season was a whirlwind of emotions, preparations, and a tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. The entire paddock was on edge. Everything would be decided in Abu Dhabi.  

Escaping the media’s attention was impossible. Cameras followed you everywhere, looking for any reaction that could turn into a headline. The atmosphere at McLaren was optimistic but tense. You’d brought the team to its highest point in years, and that was already a monumental achievement. But for you, it wasn’t enough. You wanted that title.  

During the press conferences, the questions were relentless. You and Max were the center of attention. Though both of you kept calm outwardly, the discomfort between you was obvious. Every word, every gesture was analyzed by the journalists.  

“How do you feel heading into this decisive race?” they asked you during one of the press rounds.  

“Focused. This is what we’ve worked for all year. I just want to do my job and see what happens,” you replied diplomatically, though inside your heart was racing.  

Max, sitting next to you, simply said:  

“I’m focused too. We both know what’s at stake. May the best win.”  

There was a moment when your eyes met, but it was fleeting. There were so many words left unsaid between you, and the weight of that silence felt unbearable.  

In the final strategy meeting with your team, the tension was palpable. You knew every decision would matter, every detail could be the difference between winning and losing. Your race engineer, always meticulous, reviewed the plans calmly, but even you could tell he was nervous.  

“I believe in you. You’ve proven you can do this,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder before you left the garage.  

Lando, on the other hand, tried to lighten the mood with a joke.  

“If you don’t win, can I keep the consolation trophy?” he said with a cheeky grin.  

“There won’t be a consolation trophy,” you replied with a smirk.  

That day, Yas Marina Circuit was lit up like a jewel in the desert, and the atmosphere was electric. Before getting in the car, you took a moment for yourself. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and visualized every corner, every move. You knew you had to give it everything.  

The anthem played, and the world seemed to pause for a moment. Max was beside you on the grid. Though you didn’t speak, you could feel his presence, his energy. You both knew this race wasn’t just about the championship but also everything that had happened between you.  

The start was flawless. From the first corner, you and Max were locked in an intense battle. Neither of you gave an inch. Every lap was a fight, every overtake a statement. The rest of the drivers might as well have been racing in a different category; it was as if this championship was meant to be decided between just the two of you.  

On lap 35, a slow pit stop almost cost you the race, but you quickly recovered, overtaking Max in a spectacular move on lap 42. The crowd went wild.  

But Max wasn’t going to give up. On lap 50, he took the lead back, forcing you slightly off the track. It was an aggressive move, but clean—classic Max.  

In the final five laps, both of you were at the limit. Your hands trembled slightly from the adrenaline, but your focus was unshakable. In the penultimate lap, you found a gap on the main straight and passed Max on the inside. This time, he had no answer.  

When you crossed the finish line, the world seemed to stop for a moment before exploding in celebration. You’d done it. You were a world champion.  

Your team screamed over the radio, their voices full of tears and joy.  

“You’re the world champion! You did it!”  

As you climbed out of the car, the emotions overwhelmed you. Your team surrounded you, celebrating. Lando was one of the first to hug you, shouting:  

“I told you! I knew you’d do it!”  

As you stood with your team, your eyes instinctively searched for Max. He was there, watching you from a distance. Slowly, he approached, his steps a mix of pride and resignation.  

When he reached you, he extended his hand.  

“Congratulations,” he said, his voice calm but heavy with emotion.  

“Thanks, Max,” you replied, shaking his hand. For a moment, his eyes reflected something that looked like regret, but he said nothing more. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.  

That night was magical. There was laughter, tears, toasts. The tension of the entire season melted away in a whirlwind of emotions. Charles called to congratulate you, and his genuine happiness was like a balm to your heart.  

“I knew you could do it. I’m so proud of you,” he said, his voice full of sincerity.  

As the celebration went on, you took a moment to reflect. You’d reached the pinnacle of the world, but you knew this was just the beginning of a new chapter in your life. The future was full of uncertainty, but that night, you decided to enjoy the present, savoring every moment of your triumph.  

The emotional hangover the next day was overwhelming. It wasn’t physical, nor from the celebration, but a deep emptiness you hadn’t expected to feel after achieving the dream of your life. You’d won the Formula 1 World Championship, the peak of your career, but instead of feeling complete, you felt lost.

You woke up in your hotel room, sunlight streaming through the curtains. Around you, there were remnants of the celebration: a half-empty champagne glass on the table, the dress you wore last night carelessly thrown over a chair. The trophy, shiny and imposing, sat on the nightstand, but as you looked at it, you didn’t feel the euphoria you’d imagined for years.  

You got up and walked to the mirror. The reflection staring back at you was different from the one you were used to. It wasn’t just the physical exhaustion from the season; it was something deeper a sense of disconnect with yourself.  

You spent the morning avoiding your phone, even though you knew the notifications had to be flooding in. Messages of congratulations, articles from the media, videos of the highlights... but you weren’t ready to face it yet. Instead of feeling celebrated, you felt isolated.  

The idea had been lingering in your mind for weeks, maybe even months. The crash, the endless emotional struggles, the pressure to always be the best... it had all left its mark. And now, after achieving what you’d always dreamed of, you realized something: you didn’t want to keep going anymore.  

During breakfast with your parents, you decided to share your thoughts. You’d avoided bringing it up before, afraid of their reactions, but now felt like the right time.  

“I’ve been thinking about something... important,” you said, breaking the silence while fiddling with your coffee mug.  

Your mom looked at you with concern.  

“Are you okay? Does this have to do with Formula 1?”  

You shook your head.  

“No… well, partly, yes. Like I said, I’ve been reflecting, and I think... I don’t want to keep racing anymore.”  

The silence that followed was heavy. Your dad, ever the pragmatic one, was the first to speak.  

“Are you sure? You’ve worked your whole life for this.”  

“I know, Dad. But I’ve also given it everything I had. And now I feel like if I keep going, it’ll just be out of habit, not because I really want to.”  

Your mom took your hand.  

“We’ve always wanted you to be happy, no matter what you do. If you feel this is the time to stop, we’ll support you.”  

That conversation was the turning point. Over the following days, you talked to your team, Lando, and even Charles, who, although surprised, understood your decision. Lando tried to convince you to stay for one more year.  

“Are you really going to leave me here alone? We were just starting to have fun!” he joked, though there was genuine sadness in his eyes.  

“It’s your time, Lando. I’m sure you’ll do amazing things,” you replied, hugging him.  

Charles, on the other hand, was more serious.  

“I didn’t see this coming, but I get it. Just… promise me you won’t disappear completely.”  

“I won’t. I’ll always be here, even if it’s just as a spectator.”  

That same night, after hours of figuring out how to word it, you sat in front of the camera in your room. You were nervous, not about the decision, but about how the world would react. You wore a simple t-shirt, your hair tied back. You wanted the message to be honest, without distractions.  

‘Hi, everyone. I know this isn’t the video you were expecting after the incredible season we just had, but I wanted to share something important with you...’

You took a deep breath before continuing.  

‘I’ve decided to retire from Formula 1. This year has been the most exciting but also the most exhausting of my life. Winning the championship was a dream come true, but it also made me realize it’s time to close this chapter and start a new one.’

You paused, letting your words sink in.  

‘This wasn’t an easy decision. Formula 1 has been my life for so many years that I barely remember what it was like before. But I also know I want other things. I want time for myself, for my family, to explore who I am outside of this sport.’

Your voice wavered slightly, but you kept going.  

‘I want to thank my team, my teammates, my rivals, and, of course, the fans. Without your support, none of this would’ve been possible.’

When you finished, you turned off the camera and fell onto the bed. It wasn’t immediate relief, but there was something freeing about putting an end to that chapter.  

The video was released the next day and, as expected, caused a storm. The media debated your decision, fans flooded social media with messages of support and gratitude, and some even expressed disbelief.  

Charles sent you a text:  

“I saw it. I’m proud of you. You’ll do amazing things, no matter where you go.”  

And Max, who had avoided talking to you since the last race, also sent a short message:  

“You were the best. I always knew it. I hope you find what you’re looking for and that you forgive me.”  

Even though his words were few, they left a lump in your throat.  

That night, while staring at the stars from your balcony, you realized that, even though the future was uncertain, you were ready to face it.  

Weeks passed since your decision, and life finally seemed to find its rhythm. The constant noise of racing and the pressure to be the best slowly faded. But deep down, you felt like something or someone was still missing.  

Your house, now quieter than ever, became your sanctuary. You spent those days focusing on yourself, resting, discovering what you truly liked outside the track. But even in the peace of your own thoughts, Max lingered in your mind. He wasn’t a constant thought, but you’d remember him, especially when news of his breakup with his girlfriend started circulating. That, unexpectedly, stirred something in you, a knot in your stomach.  

Late one night, your phone buzzed. The name on the screen made you hesitate for a second. Max.  

The message was short, direct.  

“Can I see you? I need to talk to you.”  

You didn’t think much about it. You knew this conversation needed to happen eventually. You’d been avoiding it, but now it felt like the universe was putting it in your path.  

You agreed to meet at your house the next day, and when the door opened, there he was. Max, with that intense, direct gaze that had known you for years. Now, though, there was something different something more vulnerable.  

“Hi,” he said, his voice softer than usual.  

You invited him in, and he settled on the couch like it was his own home. The silence between you was heavy, filled with unresolved emotions.  

“I don’t know where to start,” he began, with a nervous smile.  

“Neither do I,” you replied, sitting across from him.  

The two of you just sat there, watching each other, waiting for the other to make the first move. Finally, Max spoke.  

“Breaking up with her... wasn’t easy. I knew it wasn’t fair, but I couldn’t keep lying to myself. The truth is… I never stopped thinking about you.”  

Your heart skipped a beat, and a lump formed in your throat. You didn’t know what to say. Max, always so sure of himself, seemed completely different now.  

“Max... I don’t know what you want me to say. We’ve been on such different paths. You… always so focused on F1, on competing… and me too. Things were never easy between us, and now… I don’t know if any of this makes sense.”  

He nodded, understanding what you meant.  

“I know. I’ve been an idiot. I thought I could keep everything under control, but in the end… I lost what mattered most.”  

He looked at you intently, and in his eyes was a sincerity that made you question everything you’d been thinking until that moment.  

“But that doesn’t mean I forgot about you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care about what we had. If anything, it’s taken me time to realize that… maybe there’s something here we never really figured out.”  

You stayed silent, processing his words. The tension was thick, but something in his voice made you want to listen, even though you knew the situation was complicated.  

“And what is it that you want, Max?” you asked, your voice a bit shaky.  

“I don’t know,” he admitted with a small, sad smile. “I’m not asking you to forgive me or to go back to what we had. But I think… we should at least try. Not now, not right away, but… maybe we can see what happens, without the pressures of F1, without everything that kept us apart.”  

You got up and walked to the window, staring outside without really seeing anything. Max watched you from the couch, waiting for your response. The atmosphere between you had shifted somehow, and for the first time, it felt like you had both let go of the fight to always be the best.  

You turned to look at him.  

“I’m not sure I’m ready to start something new. After all, I made the decision to retire for a reason, Max. I’ve spent so much time on F1 that now I need to rediscover myself. And I don’t know what I want.”  

Max got up from the couch, slowly approaching you.  

“I get it. I’m not expecting it to be easy, or for everything to be resolved right now. But I want you to know I’m not pressuring you. I just… wanted you to know that, no matter what happens, I’ll be here. And if someday you decide what we had is worth another shot, I’ll be ready to try, no matter the past.”  

A deep silence followed his words. You knew there was still so much to figure out between the two of you, but something about his attitude, about his willingness to wait, struck a chord within you.  

You didn’t say anything else. You walked toward him, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. The look in your eyes said it all. Still, there were no promises, no certainties just a silent understanding that, maybe, the future could be different. Maybe even together.  

“We’ll see what happens,” you finally said.  

Max nodded, not pushing, knowing that time would have to decide the course for both of you. And with that response, the future remained suspended between you, open, uncertain, but carrying a possibility that hadn’t existed before.

[rayraelleaizawa]

They're going hard on you

TW: none i think

gn!reader

Short stories of when OP men go hard on you out of worry

Characters: Shanks, Trafalgar Law

Shanks

You sat in the captains office and looked at Shanks who was unusally quiet. You had an anxious feeling in your guts. You knew you had fucked up, but you didnt think he would be that mad.

The red hair pirates docked at some uninhabited island, and you were assigned to not leave the ship since Shanks wasnt sure how dangerous the island would be. But when you saw a strange animal falling from a tree and into a river, trying desperately not to drown and reach the shore again but couldnt make it, you left the ship and jumped into the river and helped the animal out of there. The scared animal didnt realice you only wanted to help him, and trashed around in your grip and scratched and bit you.

When Shanks and a part of his crew came back from exploring the island, and he saw that you were standing on deck, soaked from head to toe and trying to clean up your bloody injuries, his usually carefree face fell. He wore an unreadable expression as he told you to come into his cabin when Hongo was done treating your wounds.

Now, half an hour later and bandaged up, you sat in Shanks office and looked at your lap. He still had that unreadable expression on his face and you werent sure in what kind of trouble you were right now. You had breaken the rules before, nothing too bad, but he never acted like that because of you. You thought that he'd understand why you left, everyone knew that you had a soft spot for animals.

You anxiously waited for him to start talking, but he didnt even look at you. After another silent ten minutes, he finally said something.

"What did Hongo say?"

"He said that it is nothing too bad, just some scratches. I need to go check up regulary tho in case of infection and if I feel weird I am supposed to go to him instantly. Hongo checks the books right now if the animal that bit me is poisenous or not."

You gladly would have left out the last part, but you knew you shouldnt do that right now. He would talk with Hongo and find out anyway.

There was another short silence before he spoke again.

"What did I tell you to do? No, what did I order you to do?"

"To stay on the ship" you quietly said.

"And what did you do?"

"I...left the ship."

"You disobeyed my orders. That's what you did. No matter what relationship we two have, I am your captain and you have to follow my orders like everyone else on this ship."

You were quiet for some time. You didnt mean to disappoint him, but you didnt think about his orders when you saw that helpless animal fighting for its life.

"I'm sorry. I only wanted to help the-"

"I dont care what you wanted to do. You had clear orders. Orders, which were meant to protect you. Protect you from exactly those animals that hurt you. We have no idea if they are venomous, or aggresive, or a religious species for any natives that live here."

You stayed silent. The uneasy feeling in your stomach growing by the second. Sadness and fear joined that feeling too. You thought he'd understand you, but in the end you just disrespected him infront of his crew with ignoring his orders.

"I'm sorry for messing up" was all you could get out in that moment, and you heard Shanks sigh. He stood up from behind his desk and walked over to you.

"What am I supposed to do with you? Even when i try to protect you you still seem to find a way to end up in Hongos medical office. Why cant you just listen to me?"

His tone was softer than before, and you finally dared to look up at him. He had a worried expression on his face.

"I- I didnt think in that moment" you admitted as he bend his tall frame down to you, looking at your bandaged hand where that animal bit you.

"You have no idea how it felt to see you all bloody on deck. How it feels to know that you could die if that animal was highly venomous" he said, gently touching your arm.

You avoided his eyes and looked at the stump of his left arm.

"Yes I do know how that feels. I didnt want to make you experience this too. I'm sorry."

He sighed again, moving his hand under your chin and forced you gently to look him in the face.

"Never do that again. I love you too much for that."

Trafalgar D Water Law

You didn't look at him as he walked past you. You both ignored each other since the argument you had. You felt frustrated and angry at him, but mostly because he was right.

There was an emergency at the submarine, something about the boiler malfunctioning in the middle of the night. You were the closest to it so you tried to fix it, but you werent an engineer - you weren't sure what to do so you just improvised and tried your best until the persons who knew what to do came. Before that happened, hot water splashed onto your arm leaving a nasty burn on it.

Law had bandaged you up, but you noticed something wasn't right with him so you asked him. Which resulted in a heated argument between you two which ended with him snapping at you.

"If you have no idea of something then why do you even try? You're no help here, we just have more work now because of you."

Your eyes got teary when you thought back to his words, but it hurts even more knowing he was right. He had more work because he had to bandage you up, while your crewmembers probably had to fix the boiler more because you damaged it even more with your improvised actions.

You self doubted your worth on this crew now. Sure, you knew how to fight, but that was it. You could bandage up small injuries and cook, but in the end everyone knew how to do that. You had no specialty like the others.

With frustration bubbling up inside you that your captain and lover thought of you as an useless inconvinience, you started working even more. You didn't take a break, you just cleaned the Polar Tank or trained. The burn on your arm hurt most of the time, but you didn't care. You wanted to prove yourself that you weren't just on this crew because you and the Captain were dating.

You asked Shachi if he could explain to you how the boiler and stuff worked. He was perplexed as why you wanted to know that, but you convinced him with saying that next time an emergency happend you could actually help. He agreed, tho he knew that Law wouldn't be so happy about you working when you're already injured.

He explained stuff to you in the engine room and of course, no other than Trafalgar D. Water Law walked in on you two while you were trying to name some parts of the enginge. He looked displeased and coldly said your name and then just walked off.

You didn't want to follow him, but knew that he would be even more pissed if you ignored him. He led you two to the infirmary and told you to sit on the exam table. He then grabbed your hand and unwrapped your bandanges.

"What do you think you're doing, y/n-ya?" he spoke calmly, but you immediately noticed that he was holding back.

"Learning new stuff so next time i can actually help" you answered in a snippy tone.

"You won't do anything next time. I don't allow you to" he said while turning around.

You started to argue back that you just tried to be a help when he interupted you mid-sentence.

"How do you want to be of help when you cant even look after your own wound!"

"You were the one who told me I wasnt capable of anything, and now it's wrong when i try to become usefull!" you almost yelled back, tears of frustration and hurt in your voice.

"I never said you weren't capable of anything, I simply stated that-"

"You said I am no help, that I have no idea what I'm doing and that you all have more work because of me!"

A tear rolled down your face and you started shaking slightly as Law looked at you with widend eyes. He grabbed his hat and pulled it over his eyes as he looked down.

"That wasn't what I meant. I just...you got hurt on my submarine while I was present. I- you shouldn't have gotten hurt when I'm there to protect you."

You looked at him with wide eyes, the tears now streaming down your face.

"You are more than capable of sorting stuff out on your own, you are a big help to everyone on this crew. I didn't mean to insult you or tell you you aren't worthy to be here. It's just...this could have ended up bad. And now I see you working in there again. I can't have you getting injured when I'm just a few feet away" he added as he walked towards you and grabbed your face so you'd look him in the eye.

"I want you to be safe, y/n-ya. And i failed to do that. You and this crew, you're everything I have. I'm a doctor but I can't heal everything. I'm sorry for insulting you, my heart."

Your eyes softend at the last nickname he called you. It wasn't often that he used it, which made it even more special when he did. He is a big softy and constantly worried about you. You laid your head to his chest and murmured an apology, while he leaned down and kissed your hair.

[gold-onthe-inside]

amelie, where'd you go?

who? spencer reid (s2) x medic!reader summary: after you save spencer from his overdose after the hankel kidnapping, he's haunted by the glimpse of you. content warnings: drugs, addiction, overdose, hankel word count: 1.5k a/n: inspired by 'amelie' and 'this is what the drugs are for' by gracie abrams.

Spencer's a scientist. He doesn’t believe in God, just the statistical possibility of one. But you defy his ability to reason. He doesn't remember much after his overdose, just your face, a face he's never seen before, a voice he's never heard.

He remembers a light, like a halo around you, your hair pulled back, your eyes worried, in a way that makes him want to reassure you that he's fine, even though his chest hurts and his feet sting. “We're gonna take good care of you, Spencer,” you say in his dream, and he wonders who ‘we’ is.

In his research on dreams, he knows it doesn't make sense that you aren't real; he doesn't remember seeing you before Hankel, so there was no reason for him to dream about you. It's not in his conscious memory either. Try as he might, he can't actively remember you, only when his subconscious decides to be merciful.

This sweet mercy is only afforded to him when he's in pain, when he craves the drug and the relief that comes with it, when he aches for the pleasant feeling that dulls everything else. Your voice comes to him then, “Stay with us, Spencer. Just a little longer.” He can stay a little longer. The vials go back in his satchel.

Gideon’s gone, leaving behind a letter to explain himself to Spencer, about not believing in happily ever afters anymore. Sarah was Gideon’s happily ever after, and what was his? A glimpse of a face from a blink of his eye, there, and then gone. He can see you, in his mind’s eye, but the memory’s fading around the edges. Spencer closed his eyes, leaning back in his chair, facing the ceiling, trying to remember you. He half wonders if the drugs will help. If the association between you and the Dilaudid would trigger the memory again - it’s wishful thinking at best. At worst, it’s a new form of craving the high, one that’s more dangerous and tempting than the idea of avoiding pain.

They say he shouldn't try to remember the details of the traumatic event; that what he's experiencing is perfectly natural. Except... You're the only good part worth remembering.

And then it’s fall, the air brisker, the leaves crisper, turning rusty and burnt, and he’s entering a cafe near Quantico when he’s bumped into by someone bundled up in a coat and scarf. “Sorry,” you cried quickly, your hand going out to steady him. He almost doesn’t recognise you with your hair down, but there’s no mistaking those eyes.

“You…” is all he says, whispering in disbelief. You, who have haunted his nights, your voice soothing him to sleep, telling him to breathe when his chest feels tight, tells him to hold on a little longer when the needle feels like all there is.

Your brow furrowed, noticing him freeze as he looked at you. “Are you okay?”

“Are you real?” he asked before he could think not to, and for a moment, it’s like you’re trying to recall something, reaching into his mind and trying to find a match. He can practically see the gears turning before your expression cleared and you looked at him, tilting your head.

“Pretty sure I am,” you answered and your brow creased with a confused smile.

“Who are you?” he asked quietly, and there wasn’t a single doubt in his mind now about whether he’d seen you before or not. You raised your coffee cup, so he could see your name etched in marker on the side. “Well, that answers my question,” he said, looking at you with wide, fascinated eyes. He didn’t want to sound crazy, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “I dreamt about you.”

He knows he’s screwed up the minute he says it, stammering to correct himself, but you beat him to it. “As far as pick-up lines go, that’s really bad,” you said, “but I appreciate your commitment to the bit.”

“You didn’t let me finish,” he said, “I dreamt about you… after I was kidnapped. You, you told me to stay alive just a little longer.” He said it quietly, trying not to draw attention to the fact that he’d been abducted. You looked into his eyes and he shifted, trying to think of a joke or anything to lighten the mood, and then he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, that was definitely a bad start.”

Another customer walked in, the bell disrupting the two of you from your bubble, realising you were both standing in the middle of a cafe like idiots. “Can I buy you a coffee?” you asked, wanting more time, a proper conversation. You can’t leave him like this, not with how he looks like he hasn’t slept right in weeks.

“I’d like that,” he said with a nod, trying not to appear so eager or excited as he followed you to the counter, placing an order. He’s still quiet, wondering if he’s hallucinating again, a delayed effect of the Dilaudid, though it’s been weeks now. The barista calls his name to alert him it’s ready, and the two of you find seats near the back, near the window, the table small enough your legs touched as you sat down.

You study him, properly this time, trying to piece together who he was. Operational rescues were a standard of your life, rushed into the field armed with medical supplies, the closest thing to an army medic you could be without being in the army. “So, I saved your life?” you asked, your voice hesitant and tentative. You don’t want to imply that he’s forgettable - not with that jawline and those eyes and the swoop of his hair. There’s a beauty underneath his struggle, the unbuttoned sleeves of his pale yellow shirt revealing a slender wrist, spindly fingers wrapped around his cup of coffee.

“You don’t remember me,” Spencer said, trying not to sound disappointed but it didn’t quite work. “I suppose it makes sense. Heightened adrenaline and cortisol can make a unique situation memorable. Like after 9/11, people could remember exactly where they were when the towers were attacked. They, um, they call them flashbulb memories. But when you’re used to that kind of stress response, the emotions don’t make the event special, ergo… you don’t remember me.”

You swallowed, wishing there was more you could say other than apologising again, but it’s not like you forgot him on purpose. If you remembered every life you did and didn’t save, you’re not sure you could fall asleep at night. “It’s… easier,” you explained eventually, slowly. “To not remember, in general. You dwell too long on one life, it makes it harder to save the next.”

“Hard to do when you have an eidetic memory,” he said dryly, looking into his coffee cup.

“So you never forget things?” you asked, raising a brow and he looked at you.

“I remember seeing you for 20 seconds, and now you’re in my head. Forever.”

“Must be awful,” you say without thinking, rotating your coffee cup.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “I’d rather see you like that my whole life than be haunted by the rest of it.”

Your eyes flitted up to look at him, your frown easing. Is he… flirting? No, he’s too honest to be flirting.

“I-I only mean, um, that in comparison to-to everything else I saw that day,” he stammered, then sighed, relenting. “I’m sorry, I’m… I’m not good at this.”

“You hold onto the good things, and you hope it’s enough to outweigh the bad,” you said, offering a small smile. “If it gets you through the day, it gets you through the day. I won’t judge.” A moment of silence passes, his hazel eyes appreciating you as you continued. “It’s part of why I do it, anyway. Wanting to put more good in the world, fix the bad where I can.”

He’s frozen in that moment, staring at you, wishing he had something profound to say, something that would impress you the way you’ve stunned him. “You’re amazing,” is what comes out and you dip your head with a slight chuckle, and of course there’s a dimple in your cheek because you’re an angel, pure light, heaven-sent for him. “I-I mean,” he stammered, trying to get his words out, “if you hadn’t been there, all I would’ve remembered would’ve been darkness, but you… You gave me a reason to hold on.”

Colour rose to your cheeks, heat blooming along your face and your chest constricting. “You’re very welcome, Spencer,” you replied, more to your coffee than to him, and your watch beeped, reminding you that you had a job to get to. “I should get going,” you said, turning the alarm off and his expression turned desperate.

“Can I see you again?” he asked, so hopefully that all your training goes out the window as you scribble your number on a paper napkin. That said, there’s a pit in your stomach, warning you not to get involved with a patient. He just wants to see me again. It’s not a big deal.

Except, when you walked past the window on your way to work, seeing his adoring eyes follow you, and when your stomach flips… you know it is.

[chandralia]

Toga saying she loves both boys and girls explicitly, that she loves differently, was ridiculed/abused for FOR loving differently, saying she wanted to be like people around her instead. Twice suggesting her villain name be Carmilla? (THE FIRST LESBIAN VAMPIRE)

Ochako calling herself strange for wanting to save Toga, reaching out and leveling, speaking in a way only Toga can understand, telling her she’s the cutest girl in the whole world, and offering to give Toga her blood for the rest of her life??

Deku saying “I’ve spent my life chasing after you,”“you’re my image of victory,” that he “can’t imagine a world in which kacchan doesn’t exist,” “kacchan and everyone else” over and over again, LOSING HIS MIND WHEN ONLY KATSUKI’S INJURED, being told to control his heart three times (COUNT THEM: THREE) over Katsuki?? Kudou having to use Katsuki to motivate Deku? “their feelings become one” just from locking eyes…???? Deku’s world shifting when Katsuki’s alive again, looking at him in awe (the way he’s only ever looked at him).

Katsuki risking his life for Deku repeatedly, thinking of only him before death, having to imagine Deku in danger to further his quirk, being targeted because he’s the closest to Deku (VERBALLY STATED BY SHIGAFO), avoiding medical care at every turn to get to Deku, always reminiscing about their past, A MISSED HANDHOLD, imagining their future together and breaking down crying in front of Deku at the possibility of that being ripped from him, saying he wanted them to keep doing this forever?

“that’s just how shonen is, everyone’s gay but no one’s canon” SHUT UP PLEASE. we quite literally do not know what Hori is or isn’t allowed to do. He’s been vocal about fighting for what he wants in his story, and even if it is an executive or editor saying “no you can’t do this” look what he’s managed to do so far.

not to mention THREE canon trans characters, toga correcting overhaul at misgendering. kendo saying “I just want to be me” when talking about gender, the entire side plot with discrimination and people fighting for acceptance, Hori reading and approving all the stuff that happens in the light novels/team up missions, AND thanking/praising those authors for knowing his characters so well.

His assistant (nstime23) openly shipping bkdk, drawing fanart of them, blatantly using their ship name, WHILE STILL BEING MUTUALS WITH HORI.

and the reception???

Hori does not live under a rock. It’s not an “oopsie he made it gay on accident” thing, and it’s not done maliciously either.

sharing what I’ve said before because I’m tired:

[jscrawls]

Widows rest

My take on a Black widow! Reader x Batman and Batfam but with a slight twist, reader doesn't know the Bats but they seem to know them...

Warning: contains avengers infinity war spoilers, black widow spoilers, mentions of death, hospitals, poor writing, possible ooc,

Pt 1: New year new me, wait what?

Waking up wasn't in your cards, staring at the ceiling of a hospital room with nothing but the rhythmic beeping of machinery to welcome you to the realm of the living wasn't what you expected at all. Did you fail your mission? Did Barton and Natalia bring you back and somehow save you? Your joints ache badly, but it's nothing like what it should be, even your advanced healing can't fix a shattered skeleton.

You push yourself upright, it's surprisingly difficult and you have to take a break before pulling yourself up all the way, nausea hits you like a train and you have to take slow deep breaths so you don't puke. What meds did they have you on? Looking over yourself you take stock of everything, you're pallid and skinny, like you've been here a while. medical coma possibly?

Your head feels like it's stuffed with cotton and helium, There's multiple machines attached to you in some way, Just how bad was it if you felt yourself literally die. The room is clean, smells clean too. It's just full of medical equipment, no other beds in the room so…not the med bay? There's no windows either so you can't see what time of day it is, where did they put you? Possibly in doctor cho’s care? You see English writing on the heart rate monitor beside you so maybe not in her Korean facility…before you can start ripping tubes out of yourself the door opens, a young woman walking in with a cart behind her and her focus entirely on her phone. She shoves it in her scrubs pocket and idly glances towards you while reaching towards some cloths on the cart, she freezes like a deer staring down a semi. you try to speak but she suddenly darts out of the room while yelling for a doctor.

“stay here mx Wayne! Doctor! I need a doctor in here!” her sneakers squeak loudly on the linoleum as she leaves.

Who the hell was Wayne?

🔹🔹🔹

‘*this entire board meeting is complete and utter horseshit.’* Bruce thinks to himself as he smiles tightly at his chairmen, several investors are sitting around and complaining about their lives even though the meeting isn't even over yet, and there's still policies to discuss, yet they're acting like just because they're invited guests they run the show.

It's been chaos ever since the incident, his stocks have gone up somehow, the public's reaction to this whole mess. his shareholders love it, they're like greedy sharks smelling blood, thinking he's too frazzled to know when they're trying to make moves behind his back to line their pockets. They're even throwing dates at him, as if his spouse isn't still alive. He'd nearly broken his code when Mr Smith told him to ‘line one up for when he has needs’ like he's a goddamn animal. As it stands he's been avoiding as many in person meetings as possible so he can avoid murder and jail time,

Tim keeps giving him looks for the last twenty minutes, subtly signaling to relax, smile, play dumb. He must be losing his edge if he can't even keep his poker face straight. His temple throbs as Mr Johnson opens his mouth again, If he has to hear *one* more complaint about their healthcare policies costing the company too much he's gonna -

His phone buzzes in his pocket, this time of day it's probably work related so he ignores it and starts aggressively drinking his iced coffee, he's half tempted to ‘accidentally’ spill it on Mr Smith beside him and ruin his beige suit mid speech about what is and isn't necessary to provide your employees, he's about to ignore Tim's warning look when his phone buzzes again, this time it's Alfred's notification pattern. Tim subtly shifts so he knows he got one too, Bruce fishes his phone out under the table and briefly glances at the notification tab, reads it twice, before promptly standing up and walking out without saying a word to anyone, Tim scrambling to cut the meeting short and follow him.

🔹🔹🔹

M.list | prev | next

A/n: has anyone wandered how much work Bruce does at Wayne enterprises? What does he actually do there?? 😅

Taglist: @cxcilla

[littlelamy]

I was the one who requested Reader going through a depression and stopped responding to Rafe. That was soooooo good, I just wish it was longer because you're such a talented writer and I could read your stuff forever. Could I.....maybe request a part 2? With some happy ending. Maybe she opens the door....or maybe he bumps into her outside when she's getting her perscribed anti depressant pills at the pharmacy or something. WHatever you want, but I just want Rafe to show Reader that HE CARES and she lets him in emotionally, and he is super attentative, not at all making her feel like a burden, and is happy to take care of her

a/n: here’s part 2!😘

you hadn’t expected to run into him. you’d finally worked up the energy to go outside, the sun's warmth on your skin almost foreign after days—weeks—spent in the isolation of your apartment. your hands trembled slightly as you stepped into the pharmacy, clutching the prescription your doctor had sent over. it was supposed to help, the medication, but even taking this step felt monumental.

you kept your head down, trying to avoid any familiar faces. but of course, the universe had other plans.

“y/n?”

your heart sank at the sound of his voice, soft but unmistakable. you turned slowly, your eyes meeting rafe’s. he was standing near the entrance, a small reusable grocery bag in hand, his expression shifting from surprise to something gentler.

you froze, unsure of what to say. your mind immediately jumped to how you must look—unkempt, tired, a shell of the person he’d met a few months ago.

“hey,” you said finally, your voice barely audible.

rafe’s brows knitted together as he stepped closer, his blue eyes scanning your face. “what are you doing here?”

“just picking up something,” you mumbled, holding up your prescription bag as if it explained everything.

he nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on you for a moment before he spoke again. “do you have time to talk?”

you hesitated, glancing around the store. the thought of having this conversation here, in public, made your stomach churn.

“not here,” you whispered.

“okay,” he said immediately, his tone reassuring. “my car’s outside. we can talk there?”

you nodded, following him out to the parking lot.

the silence in his car was heavy but not uncomfortable. rafe didn’t rush you, didn’t push for answers. he just sat there, his hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, waiting for you to speak.

“i’m sorry,” you said finally, your voice breaking. “for disappearing. for not answering your texts. for… everything.”

he turned to face you, his expression soft. “you don’t have to apologize, y/n.”

“yes, i do,” you insisted, your chest tightening. “i’ve been a mess, and you don’t deserve to deal with that. you have your own life, and i—”

“stop,” he interrupted gently, his hand reaching out to rest on yours. his touch was warm, grounding. “you’re not a burden. and i don’t care how messy things are right now. i care about you.”

his words hit you like a wave, breaking through the walls you’d built around yourself.

“i don’t understand why,” you admitted, tears streaming down your face. “why would you want to deal with someone like me? i can’t even—”

“because you matter to me,” he said firmly, cutting you off again. “and it’s not about ‘dealing’ with you, y/n. it’s about being here for you. because that’s what you do for the people you care about.”

you didn’t go back to your apartment that day. instead, rafe drove you to his place, insisting that you didn’t have to be alone.

“just for a little while,” he said when you hesitated. “you don’t have to talk or do anything you don’t want to. just... stay.”

——————-

his house was quieter than you’d expected, the warm tones of the furniture and the faint smell of cedar making it feel more like a home than you’d imagined.

he led you to the couch, draping a blanket over your shoulders before disappearing into the kitchen. when he returned, he had a cup of tea in his hands, setting it on the coffee table in front of you.

"it’s chamomile,” he said, sitting down beside you. “i don’t know if you like it, but wheezie taught me how to make it back when i couldn’t sleep."

you managed a small smile, the gesture feeling foreign but welcome. “thank you.”

“anytime,” he replied, his voice soft.

the first night was the hardest.

you felt like an intruder, like you didn’t belong in his space. but rafe seemed to sense your unease, keeping his distance while still making it clear he was there if you needed him.

“if you want to talk, i’m here,” he said before heading to bed. “but if you just need to rest, that’s okay too. whatever you need.”

——————-

you spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, your mind racing with doubts and fears. but when the morning came, you felt a little lighter, the weight of your thoughts less suffocating than before.

over the next few days, rafe became a constant presence in your life.

he didn’t push you to talk about your feelings, but he also didn’t let you retreat completely into yourself. he’d sit with you during meals, even if you only picked at your food, and he’d put on movies you liked, filling the silence with soft laughter and the occasional comment.

when you mentioned feeling guilty about imposing, he shook his head, his expression serious.

“you’re not imposing,” he said firmly. “you’re here because you need someone, and i’m glad you trusted me enough to let me be that person.”

his words stayed with you, a small beacon of light in the darkness that had consumed you for so long.

one evening, you found yourself opening up to him in a way you hadn’t expected.

“i started the medication,” you said quietly, your hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

rafe looked up from his phone, his full attention on you. “how’s it going so far?”

“it’s... okay, i think,” you admitted. “it’s only been a few days, but it feels like a step in the right direction.”

“i’m proud of you,” he said, his voice warm. “that’s a big step.”

you felt a lump form in your throat, his words touching a part of you that had been starved for kindness.

“thank you,” you whispered, your eyes meeting his.

he smiled, reaching out to rest his hand over yours, gently rubbing small circles on it. “always.”

——————-

as the days turned into weeks, you started to find pieces of yourself again.

it wasn’t easy—there were still bad days, moments when the weight of everything threatened to pull you under. but rafe was there, steady and unwavering, his presence a constant reminder that you weren’t alone.

he celebrated the small victories with you, like the first time you cooked a meal together or the day you went for a walk around the neighborhood. and when you had setbacks, he was there too, offering quiet reassurance and a shoulder to lean on.

“healing isn’t a straight line,” he said one evening as you sat on the couch together. “it’s okay to have bad days. what matters is that you keep going.”

his words stayed with you, a mantra you repeated to yourself during the harder moments.

one night, as you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, you felt a surge of gratitude for him—for his patience, his kindness, his unwavering support.

“rafe?” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet.

he stirred beside you, his arm draped over your waist. “yeah?”

“thank you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “for everything. for being here. for caring.”

he shifted closer, his lips pressing against your temple. “you don’t have to thank me,” he murmured. “you’re worth it, y/n. every second.”

and for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @sixrosberg @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

additional tags: @rafegf-real and @readingsmuts

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Some Dad!Cod Character Scenario and Appreciation Post

Characters In Mind: Simon "Ghost" Riley, John "Soap" MacTavish, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Alejandro Vargas, Rodolfo "Rudy" Parra, Alex Keller, König, Keegan P. Russ, Gary "Roach" Sanderson.

The original creator of the picture, they also have so many works that are used in so many fanfics as well so please credit her. I found her account here on Tumblr (@ave661) and here is the post.

AFAB!Reader and used pronouns are "you"

Apologies if this is a bit too short but;

ꕥ HOPE YOU ENJOY! ꕥ

A/n: I've had a good but also bad week (good thanks to @puff0o0 and other extremely sweet mutuals), it's neutral, I'm not here to rant of any sort but my personal life has not been good. I understand that not everyone will like me but it feels as though everyone hates me, most of those people happen to be at school. Sure I'm not really going to do anything about it because I prefer avoiding conflict but those same people are trying to flip the story around as if I'm the one who hates them when in reality I don't and by being mean to me they're giving me a reason to dislike them. Sure I'm average academically, sometimes I have difficulty pulling my weight in group works and I'm not outstanding in reportings but we all have our difficulties. I just don't understand people who love to hate on others because they have nothing better to do.

This is a word of advice to everyone, don't let others let you feel insignificant, you aren't and you have many talents that make you different from them. (I don't really practice what I preach because I love self-deprication, however I don't want people to feel the way I do because I know what it can cause)

Disclaimers/warnings: OOC??, Pregnancy, Implied birth, Children (Pretty sure that was obvious from the title), People who don't want/hate children be warned.

Short note: This is also a dedication to all the Mistki and Hozier fans out there <3

He was so used to the smell of hospitals, the smell of medication, it always indicated death for him but this was a whole new feeling. It was the opposite of what he has seen most of his life

So much so that he refused to hold them, afraid of potentially hurting the fragile little one. He looked at you as if you were crazy when you tried to hand him the baby, "Come on now love, you can't just avoid holding them forever" you said to him as of it was a life or death situation.

Hesitantly letting you guide him through the proper way to hold them, he felt his breath hitch at the sound of cooing. The first time the baby opened it's eyes, the first thing they saw being their dad.

The moment he looked at the baby sealed it, he was going to protect them their whole life, he would go as far as feeling all the guilt of having blood on their hands again if it meant your baby would be protected and cared for.

The baby was so small that it's little head was practically the size of his palm, he didn't know initially what to do when the baby cried and shocked himself when he managed to make them stop.

Once the baby was old enough to crawl, he'd let the baby crawl all over him. The little one babbling non-sense while he just chuckled and replied as if he understood what the baby was saying. Gods be damned if he misses an important milestone such as their first word or their first time walking.

You'd often wake up to seeing him shirtless snoozing on the couch, the tv playing only ads for home appliances late at night while the baby only in a diaper having skin to skin contact with their dad, his huge hand big enough to support the little one from falling.

He almost cried the first time your baby reached for his face an touched it, resting it's tiny little fingers on his cheek, giving him a gummy smile. His little one unaware that they just healed something they never broke.

He NEVER wants to ever see your little one grow up, though sure it makes more memories with them, sometimes they just wish time stops for a second so they can enjoy the moment longer.

Initially was terrified that he'd pass his trauma down but he realized that wouldn't be possible and he will NOT ever let them go through what he did.

Eventually chose to resign from his work because the risk was far too much, what if he died? He'd leave you and your child to grieve over him? He won't be there for them growing up and he'd miss everything.

Sure he's worked most his life to get where he is now but nothing is ever worth more than spending a lifetime with you and your child together. He's been lonely almost all his life until he met you.

You are his family, his everything. He promised that whatever happens, he'll crawl home to you...