#THIS EPISODE WAS HURT/NO COMFORT

[srnileforme]

“Stay here with me. I'm right here, right by your side.”

THE NEXT PRINCE (2025) | EPISODE 6

[wishfulsketching]

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[aventurineswife]

hi!! i hope this request isn't too odd but could i request boothill with a reader who has sleep apnea and sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night really sick and shaky? basically shock-like symptoms in the middle of the night 😵‍💫 stuff like rapid heartbeat, intense shaking, nausea, clamminess, yknow. It usually goes away after like 20 minutes for me but it sucks 😭😭 i'd like to be comforted by boothill during one of these episodes...

“A Heart Wrapped in Steel”

Summary: After a rough night, you experience a sleep apnea episode, waking up in the middle of the night feeling sick and shaky. Boothill finds you struggling and steps in to comfort you. As he holds you through the episode, his unwavering presence and love become the anchor you need to survive the terrifying ordeal. In a rare, soft moment, Boothill proves that his protective nature goes beyond his quest for revenge—he’s there to keep you safe, no matter the cost.

Tags: Boothill x Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Sleep Apnea, Fluff, Comforting Boothill, Emotional Support, Protective Boothill, Mild Angst, Medical Episode, Healing.

Warnings: Sleep Apnea Episodes (described as rapid heartbeat, shaking, nausea, clamminess), Panic and Anxiety, Mild Emotional Distress, Physical Discomfort.

A/N: Not odd at all—I'm so sorry to hear that, I hope this fic can comfort you.

The cold of the stars barely touched you here—tucked inside the belly of Boothill’s rust-slicked ship, where the engine hummed like a tired lullaby. You’d fallen asleep to it, curled against warm blankets that smelled faintly of metal, desert wind, and him.

But tonight, the dark wasn’t quiet.

Your chest heaved with effort—lungs grabbing at air that didn’t feel real. You shot awake, gasping. Heart racing, skin clammy, vision swimming. A tremble ran through your arms, so violent you couldn’t hold your own weight. The nausea hit second. You squeezed your eyes shut and gripped the sheets, trying to ride it out.

You hated this. The middle-of-the-night hell where your body rebelled and your mind scrambled to make sense of the panic, the disorientation. You hated waking up like this—sick, shaky, scared.

And then you heard it: the low, steady clank of heavy boots against the floor.

“Darlin’?”

His voice was rough from disuse—deeper in the dark. Boothill, still half-dressed in his pants and jacket, stood in the doorway with one of his pistols holstered but the other hand empty. The red gleam of his eyes narrowed when he caught sight of you, slumped and shaking.

You didn’t even need to say anything.

Boothill crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside you. “Fudge. You’re havin’ another one.” His cybernetic hand came to the back of your neck, cool and steady, guiding you to lean forward against him. “Breathe, sugar. I gotcha.”

You let yourself fall into him—against the cold metal of his chest and the soft fray of that red scarf. Your fingers clutched his sleeve.

“I can’t—my heart’s goin’ nuts—feels like—feels like—” you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t need to.

“I know. I know.” Boothill’s voice was a low rumble, like a faraway thunderstorm. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath warm against your cheek. “Ain’t nothin’ takin’ you from me tonight, y’hear? Not this. Not anything.”

Your legs jerked with tremors, but he didn’t flinch. Just adjusted his hold, arms tightening around you, hand rubbing slow circles against your spine.

“Sometimes happens when you ain’t sleepin’ right, huh?” he murmured, almost to himself. “Knew I shoulda bolted that CPAP better. Hell, maybe I’ll build you a custom one. Make it prettier. With flames on the side.”

You laughed, a strangled little thing, but it helped. He always knew how to break the fear.

“I feel like I’m dying,” you whispered.

Boothill leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. His aim-marked pupils scanned every inch of your face like a targeting system on a warpath.

“You ain’t dyin’,” he said firmly. “Not while I’m here. Ain’t nobody better at pullin’ folks outta the dirt than me.”

He wrapped the scarf around your shoulders, then dragged you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

You stayed there, shaking less with each passing second. He rocked you gently, a motion that felt oddly natural for a man built for vengeance. The weight of him—iron, rage, and relentless love—was your anchor in this storm.

The worst of it passed after a while. Your breaths evened out. The nausea ebbed like a tide retreating. He didn’t move until you relaxed fully against his chest.

“Thanks,” you said hoarsely.

Boothill leaned down and kissed your temple—just once, soft as a whisper. “You don’t ever gotta thank me for takin’ care of you,” he said. “You’re my heart, [Name]. If it means sittin’ up through every damn episode like this ‘til the end of time, I’ll do it.”

His voice cracked a little at the end. You didn’t think Boothill cried. But something deep in you knew—if this ever took you away from him, he’d burn stars for revenge.

You tucked yourself tighter into his arms and whispered, “I’m okay now. Just... stay with me ‘til I fall asleep?”

“You couldn’t chase me off with a plasma cannon, darlin’.”

And with that, Boothill held you—long into the night, iron arms wrapped around flesh and bone, guarding your dreams like a cowboy angel forged in fire and loss.

[fanged-fanfics]

☆ One Lone Dolly — Ragatha x GN Reader ☆

Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort || They/them pronouns for reader || Spoilers for the most recent TADC episode

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

"Ragatha?" You began, knocking on the door before you. The doll hadn't come out of her room since getting upset at the game, and you didn't have a moment to properly talk to her. "Ragatha, are you okay?" You tried again. A few seconds passed, and quiet filled the air. You stepped back, ready to turn and give her more time. Just then, you heard the knob click open

Ragatha peeked her head out slowly, red yarn hair a mess compared to how it usually looked. Her eyes were tired, mouth downturned in a stubborn frown. "I'm okay, really" she said, much too softly to be genuine "You should go back with the others. I'm sure Caine has another adventure ready for you". "I don't want to go if you're not" You said, stepping back up to the door "Honey, I know you're upset, but I wanna help"

Ragatha sighed, stepping out more "It's okay, I promise" she said "I can fix it". "But... do you wanna talk about it?" You asked. She met your eyes, as if searching for any hint of mockery. She could do this, she could fix everything again. But it was eating away at her. Her shoulders slumped as she opened up the door a bit more with a quiet "Sure..."

You strode in, sitting on the side of her bed. You'd been in here plenty of times, whenever either of you needed the company. It was always Ragatha inviting you in after being worried about you or noticing you being stressed. But now, you were hoping to return the favor. Ragatha closed the door to her room, shuffling over before flopping on her back next to you

You reached a hand out, petting her soft red hair "Did Jax say something again?". "Ugh.." Ragatha groaned "No, it was me" she said "At the stargazing... I said something wrong. I said sorry, but I know it wasn't enough" she confessed. "Ohh" You began "Well I'm sure he'll understand. He did throw you into a deep fryer at Spudsy's" you pointed out. "I know, I know, but I really hurt his feelings" Ragatha frowned "And not only that, but Pomni wasn't talking to me as much. She was talking to him"

You gave an acknowledging nod, reaching your hand down to hold hers instead, gently petting the soft felt texture "Maybe she's just being nice? Giving him the benefit of the doubt?". "Maybe..." Ragatha sighed "I don't know. I just- I try so hard to make everyone happy, and the moment I'm not, I feel like I started losing them". "And that's why you snapped?" You asked. Ragatha nodded

"Kinda. I don't want her to think I'm a jerk. I hate all this arguing and fighting" She went on, voice shaking a bit "Maybe it was a mistake. I should've just stayed quiet. Now it all feels messed up, and I don't know if they're gonna forgive me". "Raggy, you've done so much for Pomni" You began, squeezing her hand "I know she appreciates it. And Jax is always a jerk, maybe he'll stop now that he knows how it feels"

"Mhmm.." Ragatha mumbled. She was looking down and away, still frowning deeply. You gave her a worried look, leaning down to lay beside her. You turned, tugging at her sleeve. She took the hint immediately, shifting to where you could hold one another. Her soft felt nose nuzzled into the crook between your head and shoulders, a small shaky breath leaving her. You rubbed her back, putting your chin on her shoulder "It's okay, hun... it was one little mistake, it'll be alright. Just give it some time"

"I hope so" Ragatha mumbled sadly. She curled into you more, seeking your warmth for comfort. You gladly allowed it, hugging her closer in return. You kept rubbing her hair and back, hoping to comfort her nerves. Her mind was a mess of blame and guilt, swirling and churning in a way that didn't leave her any peace. Your touch was grounding, a reminder that she did have support, even when it didn't feel like it

After what felt like quite a while, she finally leaned back. She still sniffled a bit, wiping her eyes. "You feel better?" You asked gently, cupping Ragatha's cheek. She leaned into your touch, melting into the comfort it brought "A little bit... thank you, you didn't have to do this"

"I wanted to" You reassured, petting her cheek a bit more "You're allowed to feel bad, Raggy. You can be honest with me". "I know, I know, I just-" She began, getting choked up. She held you closer "I don't want to make you handle my problems". "But you do that for everyone else" You pointed out "You need someone to turn to. And I'm right here, always". Her frown finally faded away, turning into a gentle smile. She leaned in, giving you a small cheek kiss "I'll try"

"That's all I ask" You said, kissing her cheek in return "For now, how about we do something fun, hm? Without some crazy adventure being the reason". Ragatha chuckled, sitting up. She carried you with her with a gentle tug on your arm, holding your hands in hers "I'd love to"

[xserpx]

"It's going to be tight and quite tender for the next few days, so, bed rest. And my finest broderie anglaise notwithstanding, don't exert yourself overmuch." "The girl's still missing, I've got to get back."

ENDEAVOUR 1.2 Fugue

[lucy-moderatz]

Sentiment is the greatest weakness of all.

[sophsun1]

Queer As Folk – 2.03: Hypocrisy: Don't Do It

[reijamira]

Speculations about The Heart Killers EP9: protective boyfriends and hurt Style

My, next week’s episode makes my heart flutter. I hope we are in for some hurt/comfort and protectiveness treats! I live for these things.

We definitely will have Fadel protecting Style. We know this scene from the trailer already:

[Gif credit]

And we will have Style getting hurt on his left arm. (I hope it happens while Style is protecting Fadel!) We also knew this from the trailer.

I always thought it would be a bullet graze because of the small bandage and later on a small band-aid that covers the wound. But from the looks of it and the weak state Style is in (Fadel has to support him because Style apparently can’t walk on his own), it looks much more serious.

Also, the makeshift way the wound is dressed here in that screenshot makes me think that Style gets injured when they are already in the field or in the woods where they don’t have access to medical supplies.

The injury could still stem from a bullet and Style’s weak state could still be due to blood loss. (But then again, there is not much blood on his clothes to speak of.) Or he simply has a sprained ankle or something.

You know what my wild guess is? It may probably not be the case, but what if Style is bitten by a snake? 🐍😂

Google says there are various venomous snakes in Thailand. It might actually be a possibility that could explain a smaller wound and Style’s weakened state.

Lord, I so want Style protecting Fadel from a snake, pushing him out of the way to take the bite himself. Uhh, I want Fadel all worried sick like in that fake-choking scene in EP7. Please! 🙏 Hurt/comfort like that makes me swoon.

And there is another scene from the preview that I desperately need answers to right now!

[Edit credit]

It looks like this scene takes place after they reunited with Kant and Bison. They seem to be in the ocean and it looks like Style was in there first? Because, to me, it seems like Fadel is advancing slowly towards him. Why are they in the ocean at night, fully clothed? Why do they look so serious? The intense staring at each other seems magical and so intimate. I have a feeling this scene will mean a lot in their relationship. Maybe Fadel kisses Style here?

I desperately crave answers! Please, Wednesday, come quick!

[blueberry-pies-stuff]

That one episode from Teen Titans where Raven's emotions get split into diffrent people except it happens to Vox and all the emotions are acting as expected except for Love.

Love, who's expected to be loud and boisterous, is timid, shy, reserved and always always surveying his surroundings like an animal that's just been put in a cage for the first time. Love acts like everything Vox isn't. Hesitant and dead silent even if asked a question.

Yet the thing that's noticed the most is that Love seems to be terrified of Alastor.

Alastor walks into a room and Love just bolts out of it. While the other emotions deliberately engage in arguements with Al. Acting just like normal Vox would, Love stands in a corner and glares. Staring daggers till Alastor tries to confront him and then he's leaving the room again if he thinks Alastor's getting too close. Sometimes it feels like Love is afraid of everyone unless it's Velvette.

I don't know about you but my favourite types of fics are 'make up fics'. And I would just love for Alastor to think back on his arguement with Vox and realise maybe he should've just been that bit kinder. He shouldn't have said the things he said, hurt him the way that he did because now there's a part of Vox that's standing right in front him and it's scared of him.

[reddbl]

He too dreams about it.

[samazing0831]

What Should Never Be - Dean Winchester x Reader (mini-series)

After falling into a djinn's dream, Dean Winchester wakes in a world where you - his lost love - is his fiancée. The illusion is perfect: peaceful mornings, shared laughter, and a love he thought he couldn't have. But as he lingers in the fantasy, signs begin to crack the illusion: missing scars, a too-perfect lie, and the ache of unresolved guilt. Ultimately, Dean chooses to leave the dream behind and fight for the real version of you - the one he drove away. When he finally finds you again, he doesn't beg or bargain - he simply asks for a second chance.

2.5k words

Dean wakes up to the kind of peace that doesn’t belong to him.

At first, he doesn’t trust it. The sheets are too soft. The air too quiet. There’s a breeze coming through the cracked window, carrying the scent of lavender and warm coffee, and not a single sound of monsters lurking in the shadows.

This isn’t a motel.

And he isn’t alone.

There’s a weight beside him in the bed. He turns slowly, cautiously, like he’s afraid of what - or who - he’ll see.

It’s you.

Hair fanned out over the pillow. A small, content smile on your lips. Your hand, resting against his chest like it’s always belonged there.

Dean’s throat tightens. His pulse slows, then spikes again.

Your hand.

There’s a ring.

You shift in your sleep, murmuring his name like it’s your favorite word. And Dean swears his heart almost stops.

You left. You walked away from him six months ago with tears in your eyes and your voice shaking when you said, “I can’t keep loving a man who only loves me when the world’s ending.”

And now you’re here. In his bed. In his arms. Wearing his ring.

His first instinct is to pull you close and never let go.

But this isn’t real.

It can’t be.

Still, he lets himself believe for a while.

—

Days pass. Or maybe hours. Time is strange here.

Dean cooks breakfast for you while you hum something under your breath - some pop song he pretends not to like. You tease him about how he takes his coffee and laugh at the old flannel that he still wears.

There’s a calendar on the fridge with wedding venues circled. A photo of the two of you tucked into the frame of the mirror.  You wear one of his old t-shirts to bed.

You ask him if he wants to look at suits this weekend. You call him “babe” in public and he doesn’t flinch. He smiles.

And that’s the scariest part.

He smiles.

This - whatever this is-  is what he never let himself want. What he told himself he couldn’t have. He ruined it when he made you feel like an option instead of the love of his damn life.

And now it’s here.

But it’s a lie.

Every moment that passes is warm and golden and perfect in all the ways that real life never was. You don’t ask about hunts. You don’t cry when he comes home late. There are no bruises. No blood. No secrets.

And no scar on your shoulder.

The one you got that night in Nebraska. Your last hunt together. The night he froze up and you jumped in front of a werewolf’s claws.

You bled all over him. And two weeks later, you were gone.

So why wasn’t the scar there?

Dean stares at you across the bed that night, jaw clenched, heart breaking as the truth settles in.

This isn’t you.

It’s his dream of you.

It’s what he wants you to be - safe, happy, in love with him despite everything.

And he doesn’t get to keep you.

—

You’re sitting on the porch when he comes out the next morning, coffee in hand.

“You’re quiet today,” you say.

Dean doesn’t answer.

You glance over. “Bad dream again?”

He looks at you, and it feels like he’s seeing a ghost.

“I can’t stay here,” he says finally. “This isn’t real.”

You frown. “Dean…”

“I wanted it to be. God, I wanted this more than anything.” His voice brakes, and he looks away. “But I don’t get to keep pretending. I messed it up. I let you walk away. I told myself I couldn’t have this, and I made sure I didn’t.”

You set your mug down, worry in your eyes. “Dean, you’re scaring me.”

“I have to go. I have to find the real you. The one who actually lived through all the crap I put you through. I have to make it right.”

Silence falls like snow.

Then you smile.

It’s soft. Sad. Almost… knowing.

“Then wake up,” you whisper. “And find me.”

—

Dean wakes up gasping.

His body screams in pain. There’s a dead djinn on the floor. Sam is yelling his name. His wrists are raw from the ropes. His heart is broken.

But he’s awake.

He’s alive.

And you’re not there.

—

The first thing Dean does is check his phone.

No texts. No calls. Your last message is from six months ago:

Goodbye, Dean.

He tries every hunter contact he knows. Eventually, Bobby points him toward Oregon.

“You sure about this?” Sam asks.

Dean nods. “She’s real. She’s alive. And I’m not wasting any more time.”

It takes two more weeks. Two motel rooms. One hunter bar where someone finally says, “Yeah, I’ve seen her. Real sharp. Keeps to herself.”

When he sees you, you’re sitting outside a dive diner, eating fries and flipping through a worn notebook.

You don’t see him at first.

He walks up slowly, like he’s approaching a ghost.

“Hey.”

You freeze. Your eyes meet his. And the expression you wear is unreadable.

“Dean.”

—

You let him sit across from you, but your walls are high. Your jaw tight. Your body defensive.

He gets it.

“I saw you,” he says quietly. “In the djinn dream. We were engaged.”

You blink. “Engaged?”

He nods. “You were happy. You danced in the kitchen. Teased me about my coffee. Wore my shirts.”

You say nothing.

“It was a lie,” he adds. “But it felt like home.”

Still, you don’t speak.

Dean leans forward.

“I let you go. I know. I didn’t fight. I thought I was doing the right thing - keeping you safe, sparing you from my mess of a life.”

He swallows hard.

“But it wasn’t right. It was just easy. And I’m done doing what’s easy.”

You study him for a long moment. Long enough that the silence hurts.

Then, softly. “What do you want from me, Dean?”

He looks you in the eye.

“A chance to try again.”

You take a breath.

“You broke my heart,” you say.

“I know.”

“I waited. I fought for us. And you ran.”

“I did.” He swallows. “But I’m not running anymore.”

You stare at him. Then, without a word, you slide your notebook aside and reach for his hand.

He exhales like it’s the first time he’s breathed in months.

“You’re late, Winchester,” you mutter.

He smiles.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I’m here now.”

And this time, he means to stay.

There’s no hunt.

No monsters.

Just you, Dean, a bottle of whiskey neither of you touches, and an old vinyl spinning something bluesy in the background.

You’re in a little cabin somewhere in Montana. A gift from Jodi, who swore it was good for “restorative vacations” but really just wanted the two of you to disappear from the world for a bit.

You’re sitting on the floor, knees bent, wrapped in one of Dean’s sweatshirts. His head’s in your lap, eyes half-lidded as your fingers comb gently through his hair.

He hasn’t said much tonight. He’s quiet like a man who has a storm building inside him.

And you know that look.

He’s been wearing it since the djinn. Since he found you again. Since you let him back in.

You let him in, but you never said you’d stay.

And he’s been waiting - for you to change your mind. For the other shoe to drop.

For the dream to end.

“You still think I’m gonna walk?” you ask softly.

Dean doesn’t look at you right away.

Instead, he says, “Every morning I wake up and I check that you’re still there. That you didn’t leave in the middle of the night.”

Your fingers pause. Then resume.

“I’m still here, Dean.”

“I know,” he says. Then, quieter, “But I keep waiting for the day you decide I’m not worth the second chance.”

You inhale slowly, letting the weight of that land between you.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe you meant it,” you whisper. “You don’t get to keep punishing yourself for the past. Not when you’re doing the work now.”

Dean shifts, sitting up. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the grain of the wood floor like it holds all the answers he’s been too afraid to ask for.

“I never told you,” he murmurs. “What exactly happened. In the dream.”

You stay quiet. Let him talk.

“We were engaged. You were wearing this stupid pink hoodie with a coffee stain on the sleeve and you danced barefoot in the kitchen.” He huffs a breath - half laugh, half ache. “You told me we’d paint the spare room blue.”

You glance at him, unsure what to say.

Dean looks at you then, eyes red-rimmed and raw.

“It wasn’t real. But God, I wish it was.”

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “It could be. Just… not perfect. Not easy.”

His gaze holds yours like he’s trying to memorize it.

And then he says, “I want to marry you.”

You blink.

Not because you’re shocked - but because this isn’t how it was supposed to happen.

There’s no fancy dinner. No ring. No fireworks.

Just Dean.

Tired, hurting, loving.

Dean, who always loved with his whole chest but never let himself believe he deserved it back.

Dean, who just blurted it out like he couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Your breath catches.

He sees your silence and mistakes it for rejection. “I - I don’t have a ring. And this isn’t - this isn’t a proposal, not really. I just - shit.”

He stands like he might bolt.

You reach for his hand before he can.

“Sit back down, Winchester.”

He does.

You move beside him, curling into his side as he exhales shakily.

You rest your head against his shoulder. “It’s not a proposal?”

“Not yet.”

You smile, heart full. “Then maybe you should try again.”

Dean turns toward you, eyes wide, vulnerable.

“Marry me,” he says again, quieter this time. No armor. No bravado. Just Dean.

“I know it won’t be perfect. I’ll screw up. We’ll fight. But I’ll show up. Every day. I’ll love you through the messy parts. Through the fear. Through the real life we’ve got - not the dream I lost you in.”

You lift your eyes to his.

“Okay.”

He blinks. “Okay?”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Yes, Dean. Of course it’s yes.”

—

Later, you’re curled up in bed, wrapped in each other like there’s no space between the two of you anymore.

Dean traces soft circles on your back.

“You sure?” he murmurs.

You smile against his skin. “Completely.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Gonna get you a ring.”

You snort. “You better.”

“We’ll do it right.”

You tilt your head up. “You already did.”

Dean grins against your temple, and this time, there’s no fear behind it.

Just love.

And finally, peace.

They said it would rain. Everyone told you Montana in May would be unpredictable.

But today, the sky is clear. The sun glows golden through the trees, the wind barely a whisper across the wildflowers.

You stand at the edge of a clearing tucked into the woods behind Jody’s cabin, wearing a simple cream dress - no frills, just soft fabric that moves with you. Your hair is curled gently, half-up with sprigs of baby’s breath. No veil. You didn’t want one.

Dean is already standing at the front, boots planted, eyes locked on you.

His suit is charcoal gray, shirt half unbuttoned at the top because of course it is, and his tie - forest green - is crooked in a way that’s almost endearing. Sam probably tried to fix it. Dean probably rolled his eyes and yanked it loose the second he could.

There’s no traditional aisle. Just a pathway made of pine branches and wildflowers, scattered by Claire and Alex earlier that morning while teasing Dean mercilessly about crying.

You walk toward him with a pounding heart and the softest smile.

And he’s crying anyway.

Jody officiates. You didn’t even ask anyone else - she was always family. She stands between you and Dean, holding a small, weathered book she probably found in Bobby’s study. But she doesn’t read from it.

She doesn’t have to.

“(Y/N),” she says, gently, “Do you take this man to be your husband?”

You laugh under your breath, eyes shining.

“I do.”

Dean watches you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

“Dean,” Jody says, already choked up, “Do you take this woman to be your wife?”

Dean nods, then says, hoarse, “Yeah. I do.”

You hold hands.

He squeezes once.

You know that means thank you for coming back.

Sam hands over the rings - silver bands, simple, no stones. You helped Dean pick them out a month ago in a tiny shop in Wyoming. They felt right the second you saw them. Not flashy. Just true.

You slide his on first.

“With this ring, I promise to stay. Through all of it. I promise to fight beside you. Love you like you never have to earn it. And remind you every day that you’re already enough.”

Dean presses his lips together, trying not to fall apart.

He slips your ring on next.

“With this ring,” he says slowly, “I promise to keep choosing you. Even when it’s hard. Especially then. I promise to never make you wonder again where you stand with me. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

Someone behind you sniffles. Probably Sam.

You both laugh through your tears.

“By the power vested in me by this weird-ass family,” Jody says with a grin, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Dean looks at you like he can’t believe this is real.

You beat him to it.

You kiss him first - hands cupping his jaw, mouths soft and sure.

The clearing erupts in cheers.

Claire whistles. Cas smiles faintly beside Sam. Jack claps with wide eyes like this is the most magical thing he’s ever seen.

Dean whispers against your lips, “Hi, wife.”

You beam. “Hi, husband.”

—

The reception is homemade. Pie instead of cake. A playlist made by Charlie. Beer in coolers. Cas grills the burgers like it’s his sacred duty.

You dance barefoot in the grass.

Dean holds you close, arms around your waist, is voice barely audible over the music as he hums along to the slow song playing.

“I used to think I wasn’t built for this,” he murmurs. “Marriage. Peace. Normal.”

You tilt your head to meet his gaze. “Still don’t think we’re normal.”

He chuckles. “Fair point.”

You brush your nose against his. “But you were built for love.”

Dean leans in, forehead to yours.

“And now,” you whisper, “you don’t have to run from it.”

The stars come out slowly.

You stay wrapped in each other as the fire crackles and laughter spills from the porch.

Dean Winchester - hunter, legend, stubborn pain in the ass - is your husband.

And for the first time in a long time, forever feels real.

[ancalimas]

Jack & Joker - Episode 5

I need to post this scene in its entirety, it’s just so so good.

Joker gets beat up while others are forced to watch, and he doesn’t try to fight back. He’s hit on the head with a bottle that practically knocks him out. The pain in his face, spitting out blood, the eye fluttering, the way he can barely talk in his weakened state on the ground...

He is barely conscious when they call his love interest, Jack, to taunt him as they injure Joker more. They move and play with Joker like he's a puppet. Jack is forced to watch him get punched and sees him cough up blood in pain, barely being able to talk or sit up.

[superwhumper06]

I desperately need to see Joke get shot or seriously injured and for Jack to just absolutely break down at his hospital bedside, or literally I just NEED to see Jack break down. He holds his emotions back so hard in every episode and I need him to break

[nentenkoneko]

Dooma's day alt drabble (Tiger + Dooma centric)

I took a five second clip from the episode 'Dooma's day' (when Dooma goes all crazy and tackles Tiger/slams Tiger into the ground as he's about to score a goal) and turned it into something bloody n gory because that's all that's all I'm good for writing, dammit. I also wanted to explore 'refab' and Dooma as a character a little.

TW. Head injuries mainly, blood, concussions, and therefore concussion symptoms, etc.

—

Dancing Rasta to El Matador.

El Matador to Cool Joe.

Cool Joe to Twisting Tiger.

Twisting Tiger to… well.

Hopefully, the back of the net. He only had the keeper to beat.

“He’s taking it! What a chance-!”

All he had to do now was look, aim, lift up his leg, and-

Agony.

Something hard slammed into his side. The swift, brutal force was more than enough to send him careening forwards before he could even begin to brace himself, his fingers barely managing to twitch in reaction before the ground rushed up to meet him.

The impact was jarring. His face hit first. At least, he thinks it does, a sickening crunch reverberating through his head. The sound of a nose breaking, if he had to guess. A brittle, unforgiving, nauseating sound. 

And, for a brief, brief moment, Tiger heard nothing. Nothing at all. As if the entire world itself had stopped. No roar of the crowd, no rustle of the wind. He couldn’t even hear his own ragged breaths, even as he felt himself heave violently into the damp grass below.

Then, just as suddenly as the silence had swallowed him- sound came crashing back in.

It was deafening.

An eruption- gasps, shouts and voices colliding violently in shock. Screams of concern from the crowd, yelling from the sidelines, the sharp, stinging blast of a whistle.

“Oh, God.”  One of the match narrator’s voices overpowered them all, aided by the stadium’s speakers, “This isn’t good.”

“Tiger’s not moving, Brenda.”

“I’d be surprised if he’s even conscious after a fall like that, Mac.” The woman almost seemed to whisper into the microphone, voice uncertain and shaky. “That was unlike Dooma at all…”

Dooma..? That was Dooma?

Tiger let out a low, keening groan. That was supposed to have been a tackle, then, right? God. He squeezed his eyes shut as another round of agony flared through his body, his teeth clenching as every one of his muscles contorted. What kind of illegal, stupid tackle had that been, then?

He needed to get up. Get moving. Maybe, if he got up, he’d feel better. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, Tiger forced himself to move. 

Dragging his hands in from where they had landed, he let his fingers curl into the ground, nails dipping into soft, mushy grass as he did so. His elbows wobbled dangerously as he slowly began pushing upwards, his body trembling under its own weight.

This is the moment, in his experience, where a hand would find itself on his shoulder. Where a voice would gently guide his head slowly to rest back against the cold ground, scolding him for even thinking about getting up. Where medical would be called to aid, a hand continuing to anchor him to the floor, another roaming. Prodding, poking, examining. More voices, more hands, more everything, until he wasn’t sure where he ended and those around him began.

But that didn’t happen. 

No one came to his aid.

His neck ached as he craned it up awkwardly, eyes squinting against the sun’s bright rays as he blinked, dazed.

Despite such a violent supposed tackle, Dooma looked uninjured himself, aside from a long, thin cut that swept across his forehead. He was already back on his own two feet, though, steady as can be. His eyes, as black as coal, peered down at him, gaze darting over his body hungrily. As if he were a predator, sizing up his prey.

Their eyes met.

And Dooma… Dooma smiled at him.

“Is Tiger bleeding?”

“He is-” The male commentator’s voice sounded muffled and distant, “it’s all over the damn grass! I’m gonna be sick…”

His eyes couldn’t help but glance downwards. He was indeed bleeding-  blood dripped down from his face somewhere, landing in thick, goopy droplets onto the grass below. It had already begun to stain the field’s lush spring green into a deep, bloodied crimson. His stomach twisted queasily at the mere sight.

When he looked back up, he found that Dooma hadn’t moved.

“Pathetic idiots.” He heard the man mutter under his breath, lips now curled from a smile to a painful-looking snarl. His hands curled into tight fists- tight enough that his muscles shook under the sheer strain. “Look what they’ve made me go and do now, hmm?”

“Dooma...” Tiger’s voice was slurred and quiet, his own lips wet with blood. Shakes had been right about the Captain- not that Tiger had ever doubted him. The man clearly had… issues. “It’s okay… I’m…” His arms quaked with exhaustion as he attempted to push himself further upwards, breaths wheezing, “-I’m okay. See?” 

His weak attempts at salvaging the situation went unheard, however. Instead, Dooma began to move, stalking towards him slowly. He was swaying slightly on his feet, Tiger couldn’t help but note. Not that that made much difference. “It’s not okay.” The man huffed, “Because you’re still fucking moving-”

“Dooma! What the hell, man!?”

Of all people to come to his aid first, Tiger hadn’t expected it to be Skarra.

The striker had swiftly come to stand between Tiger and Dooma himself, one of his hands balled up in his Captain’s shirt, pushing him backwards angrily, the other gesturing wildly. “This isn’t what I meant, dumbass! Are you insane? What is your problem!?”

Dooma’s own hands reached out to grasp onto Skarra’s jersey, jerking the man upwards onto his tip-toes. “I’m done with your shit.” He snarled, “Talk to me like that again and I’ll rip your goddamn throat out.”

Skarra’s eyes were wide like saucers, his hands raised in surrender, “O-okay- okay!”

Dooma stared at him for a brief moment before grunting and tossing the man to the floor as if he weighed nothing. Skarra went down hard, but he quickly recovered, scrambling away from the pair of them as fast as his body would allow him to, the fight drained out from him in an instant.

“And you.” Dooma’s eyes were back on him now, his gaze black and soulless. “You may not be Shakes, but you’ll do.”

Strong, rough hands grasped him by his own jersey now, yanking him up and into the air with pure ease, just as he had done with Skarra only moments ago. His head wobbled dangerously with the sudden movement, mouth clenched shut as another wave of nausea rolled over him. His own hands instinctively reached out, finding purchase with Dooma’s arms, feebly clutching on as he fought to right himself. “Dooma-” He tried again, once he was sure he wouldn’t vomit all over the man, “Don’t-”

“Dooma!”

Vince? Yet another man Tiger hadn’t expected… Where was his team?

“Put him down, now!” A blur of purple came storming towards them both, a blob of white hot on his heels, their pale fingers ruffling through what looked to be a leather bag. The doctor? “That’s an order, dammit!”

“Don’t tell me what to do, old man.” Dooma spat back, voice oozing with hatred. Tiger had never seen a man look so angry. “I never agreed to any of this shit- those experiments? The drugs?” His lip curled like a rabid dog’s, “I never wanted it. I like me.”

“And what do you want, Dooma?” Vince tried, tone soft, as if he were talking to a child. Tiger felt Dooma’s grip tighten on his jersey. “When have I ever said no to you?”

Suddenly, Dooma’s grip lightened. Considerably so- Tiger found himself slipping from the man’s hands, his own feebly attempting to cling on, to no avail. He landed on his back unceremoniously, breath knocked out of him, his head bouncing unforgivingly once more against the cold, damp ground below.

“You said no to the whole of it!” Dooma’s voice was pitched, full of rage. His hands flew out wildly, gesturing to the stadium around them, before narrowing in on the doctor still at Vince’s side. “This! This ‘Refab’ shit! The headphones, the dark rooms, the shrinks-” His eyes darted down as Tiger found himself moving, his body involuntarily writhing against the pain he tried so desperately to stomp down. A hard, studded, no-doubt expensive boot came slamming down onto his chest, taking his breath away once more as he choked and gasped. Dooma bared his weight down onto it, keeping him pinned to the floor before his eyes flit back up to where Vince stood. “You said no when I begged to be let out. When I begged to be taken out of the program. You kept me in there. You did.”

“It was helping you, son- it helped you so, so much-”

“I am not your son.” Dooma laughed, “You don’t care about your men at all. That’s why you needed me, wasn’t it? To do it for you? Be the soul you don’t have?” The studs of his boot pressed deeper into his skin- Tiger couldn’t draw in a full breath anymore. “You could never love anything other than your own goddamn reflection.”

For… For the first time, since this all started, Tiger noticed something. Something other than the tiring fight playing out before him. Other than the boot on his chest, the throbbing of his head or the lack of oxygen in his lungs.

It was the silence. The stadium, he meant. It was silent. Empty and abandoned- like a… like a ghost town. Half-eaten food, abandoned toys, torn banners. Discarded signs, forgotten bags, broken trinkets- it all lay scattered across the stands around him. Left behind. Forgotten. Alone.

Like him.

He wanted to cry.

“-ou need, Dooma, we can talk about it inside.” Vince’s voice floated back into his ears, “Me and you. No one else. Whatever you need.”

“And what if I want it to stay like this?” Dooma’s head tilted. His eyes wandered back down, meeting Tiger’s own. The pressure on his chest relaxed for a brief, brief moment, before the boot sank down once more as Dooma leant over, rough, uncaring fingers ruffling Tiger’s hair, as if he were simply a dog. “I think kitty here enjoys the fresh air. Don’t you, Tiger?” 

“Don’t be difficult, Dooma.” Vince eventually had to break. He had to snap. And he did, his face contorting into a twisted, irritated scowl, “Come along now so we can try and salvage the screw-up you’ve caused.”

“Don’t be difficult?” The Captain echoed with a snort, eyes snapping back over to where Vince stood, “You want to see difficult? Oh, I can give you difficult.”

Suddenly, the fingers wrapped around his hair tightened. His head was yanked upwards sharply before Dooma slammed it back down into the ground below.

“Dooma-!”

“This is difficult.” Tiger heard him snarl.

Again, his hair was pulled. Again, his head lifted. Again, it hit the floor with a sickening crack.

And again. 

And again.

And…

It hurt. It hurt so badly, and yet it didn’t all the same. He was writhing, and yet his body was still. He was screaming, and yet his throat was silent. He saw stars, and yet his eyes were blind. His brain felt like jelly- or like… like it was stuffed, full of cotton. No… Cotton with needles…? Whatever it was, it made it hard to think, so he stopped doing much of that, too.

Dooma was talking. To who, he didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Someone was shouting nearby, yelling and pleading and begging, all wrapped up into one. They sounded horrified.

His head hit the floor once more. Another hand went for his throat, now, settling snugly against his windpipe, crushing it under its vice-like grip. He barely noticed it.

Someone was crying now, too, it sounded like. Quiet, choked, broken little sobs… He wondered blankly if maybe that was him.

He felt his head forcibly rise one more time…

He wasn’t conscious to feel it drop.

—

The world bled together in smears of colour, dark and heavy and wrong. Somewhere in the mess, figures moved- shifting shadows with familiar, whispery voices, low and urgent. Tiger couldn’t focus on their faces. His eyes refused to cooperate, his vision doubling, then tripling, before it all blurred back into meaningless shapes.

But he knew them. Even here, even now, he knew them.

He knew Rasta was holding him. Knew it by the way the arms around him were steady, yet so very, very gentle- a strong, protective warmth radiating through his aching body at just the touch. Knew it by the careful way he was lifted, slow and deliberate, and the deep, murmured reassurances that rumbled against his shoulder. Rasta didn’t need to utter a single word for Tiger to know it was him.

Joe was here, too. He wasn’t touching him now, but Tiger could still feel where he had been. Where hands had gripped his arms, fingers brushing against his face, clear desperation in their need to find purchase somewhere, anywhere that wasn’t broken. Joe’s voice was closer than the others, pressing through the thick, sluggish fog in Tiger’s mind. The words were indistinct, but he could hear the terrified, panicked worry woven into them, the way his voice dipped just slightly, strained, trying so hard not to break. Trying to be steady. Trying to be strong.

Someone else said his name, further away. Someone deeper, rougher- Bo, maybe. Or… maybe Blok? It was hard to tell. A question was thrown his way, judging by the pitch at the end, and the resulting silence that followed.

They wanted him to answer. Were waiting for him to respond.

Tiger knew that. He understood that. He even thought, briefly, about trying, even if he didn’t know what was being asked of him. But his mouth just wouldn’t work. His lips wouldn’t move- he couldn’t even twitch the muscles in his face in the slightest. Even thinking itself felt sluggish, the attempt to grasp onto his own thoughts slipping through his fingers like sand. The words were there, somewhere, but they were locked inside his head, trapped behind a wall of exhaustion that was just too heavy to fight through.

It didn’t matter, though, right? They wouldn’t be mad at him.

Someone else spoke up, just out of his blurred sight, voice tight with worry. Then, Tiger was moving. Rasta was gentle, muttering incoherent words down at him as he went, but the motion- the swaying- however soft and careful it all was, it only made him want to vomit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, an audible gag rippling from his throat.

“-orry, sorry, Ti’-”

Closing his eyes helped, a little. The darkness felt nice, like a soothing balm for his head. It felt safe, and comforting. Even if his stomach rapidly poked and prodded at him, reminding him that he was, in actuality, very, very close to puking right now.

Next thing he knows, he’s being tilted forward, head aimed downwards, supported by hands upon hands. The change does nothing good for his struggling uvula.

“-it out. Let it out…”

Another hand rubs slow circles on his back as bile spills sloppily from his lips down into the abyss below, “-ere we go, don’t fight it. Shh, shhh.”

Despite his eyes already being clenched shut, darkness quickly begins to enclose his vision. It wraps itself around him like a hug, its softness beckoning him to follow. Seems his body is already ready to give up once more.

He’ll admit, though, it was better than being here. Anything was better than being here right now. This was a free out his body was giving him- begging him to accept, even.

So who could blame him if he took it?

—

There is more to this, it's just not finished as I haven't gotten around to looking at it, but I still wanted to post this since it's been sitting in my drafts for... Well. A LONG time. I wrote the first draft of this maybe six, seven years ago? I rewrote the whole thing to be this a couple months back, and sat on it for a while for some reason.

Either way this isn't going on anything atm and this account is to just shove random bits and pieces I write into for people who might like it (which I think probably isn't a lot lmao, judging by the types of fics I see about for this fandom), so here it is in its sad glory.

[misspoetree]

KinnPorsche + Text Posts: a quick Ep. 11 Rewatch Edition [Ep. 7 | 8 | 9 | 10]

[killianjonesapologist]

‼️‼️MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SEASON 8 EPISODE 13 OF CRIMINAL MINDS‼️‼️

spencer x gn!reader, where reader goes and comforts Spencer after Maeve’s death

(very short, post-zugzwang, no use of y/n, no specific romance between Reid and reader but reader definitely has a crush on him, angst, hurt/comfort, mentions of Tobias Hankel, found family trope near the end, a little cringe but cringe=happy in my book)

VERY self indulgent bc I need comfort after watching it 🥲

You knock gently on Spencer’s door, hoping he might recognize the silly knocking pattern you two had made up when you both first joined the team, a way of communicating that it was truly you who was at the door. 

He knocked back to finish the pattern, but to no avail, the door never opened. 

“Look Spence, I want you to have time to heal and be alone, but this isn’t controlled isolation by any means.” You took a deep breath to collect your thoughts on the subject at hand, “I’m here to help however you’ll let me, and I know it’s incredibly difficult to ask for help, but I know you need this.” Your voice slowly breaking down to a whisper.

“I need this..”

Your ears perk up once you hear footsteps coming towards the door, followed by the echo of a chain latch being undone. 

He squints his eyes hard as he slowly lets the bright lights of the common area seep into his dark cave of a home. He looks… tired. You could tell he hasn’t shaven in a while, and you can’t blame him. At a time like this, basic hygiene isn’t always a person first priority.

“So uh, did Penelope leave all these—“ you’re cut off by a suffocating hug from him. If there was anyone he would be willing to see right now, it’s you.

You tangled your hands into his hair and whispered comforting mantras as you held him impossibly close. He begins to softly sob into your shoulder, soaking the shirt you had borrowed from him after forgetting to bring your pajamas to a case somewhere across the state.

It may not have been a mistake that you never gave it back.

“I���m not here to tell you to be ok, or to get better, I’m here to tell you that I’m glad you’re still alive and still kicking even after something so horrible as that.” You spoke softly, providing an explanation of why you felt so compelled to visit.

“Why am I cursed?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper. You shifted to look into his cold, bloodshot eyes, giving him a small hum, signaling him to continue his train of thought.

“Sure I remember all kinds of horrors just from our job in general, but I also remember every horrible detail of my own trauma. I used to close my eyes and see-“ he chokes out a sob between sentences and you hold him closer, moving your hand to rub his back, “I used to see Tobias, and now I close my eyes and just see her.” They had made eye contact for the first time mere minutes before she got shot. 

“Even when I’m awake, that’s all I can think of.” Your heart broke with every word he uttered. 

“When was the last time you slept, Spence?”

There was a moment of silence that fell over the room, before hearing him letting out more quiet sobs.

“The day before she died.” 

It had been around half a week since it had all gone down. Spencer Reid hadn’t slept in 4 days. 

“Oh, Spencer…” you coo, placing your hands to cradle his head into your neck as he continues to cry. “We’ll get through this. Me and the whole team are here. I don’t know if you saw, but Garcia left you plenty of gift baskets outside.” You try to lighten the mood, your heart glowing as you hear a little sniff of a laugh come out of Spencer. 

“Yeah, I saw. Please tell her I said thank you.” He picks his head up and tries his best to give you a soft smile.

“Of course. We all care so much about you. We’re your family.”

The BAU felt closer to a true family than either of you had experienced. Of course, Spencer had his mother and his aunt, but it was less than a broken home. Here, you had a weird Italian grandpa, a stern widowed father, a badass uncle, and three wine aunts who you all loved so much. 

The BAU was home to both of you, you were just hoping he could find it in him to come back.