#it's really just 'there is no coming back there is no me anymore'

[ruinix]

Thinking about dad!quinn who’s perfect not only with the newborn baby, but also with mama and he looks smoking hot walking out the hospital-💕

Hey there, lovely. Little confession, sometimes I just stare at my ceiling and think of Quinn and his future kiddos. He'll be such a great dad. I know it. I am a 100% believer of him being the best dad in the future. Do note that I have no idea how delivery rooms are...I've never been pregnant (thank goodness, i am not ready). This one ended up having a little bonus in your POV. As usual, you can skip it if you don't wanna read it... :> I hope you'll like this. 🥺🧎🏻‍♀️

His Little Princess

TW/CW: None, Fluff, a bit suggestive tones. Pregnancy and birthing (Pregnant!reader; mentions of cravings, pain during labor, epidural), Quinn being a fussy partner and dad

Count: 3889 words (+ 942) | Masterlist

You press a kiss on Quinn’s cheek, making him instantly turn towards you, his hands wrapping around you, so he can kiss you fully on the lips. Not so subtly, he runs his hands over the swell of your belly. His heart flutters in his chest.

“40 weeks, my Love,” he giddily reminds you, rubbing his nose against yours.

“Any time now,” you replied with a giggle. “Just going to sit on my ball.”

Without a word, Quinn escorts you to your yoga ball, his head filling up with worry at the sight of your waddle. He’s always concerned with how your center of gravity has shifted, with how your legs are probably aching, but he won’t dare try to touch you if you’re going to sit on it. You made it perfectly clear that you need your space when you’re doing that, especially when you caught him basically drooling over how you ass looked.

“You want something?” Quinn asks while you settle. “Apples?”

“Yes, please.” You nod happily. “No skin?”

“Anything for you, my Love.” He kisses your head before he turns to prepare apples.

Taking one from the fridge, from the fruit drawer that was brimming with Honey crisp apples, the one you have craved constantly throughout the pregnancy, which are perfectly red with splotches of yellow and green, he easily skins it. He never really knew how to do that before. He would always get huge chunks of apple flesh with the skin, but now, he can remove the skin in a continuous spiral.

“Can you give me a few slices with a bit of skin, Quinny?” you ask loudly as you turn on the TV to watch your show.

“How many?” He asks, finishing the first apple, slicing it into six.

“Just a few.”

Your vague answers don’t faze Quinn anymore. They never do. Before and during this pregnancy. But the way your ass moves right now though, it makes him gulp, secretly praying that you might ask him to help you get the baby out faster. That help meaning you and him gently fucking you, but you’re not. He can only sigh and swallow his horny thoughts.

It only leads to him getting worried and jittery. The baby might come any moment now. The problem is Quinn has always been so jittery all throughout your pregnancy. He tried—still trying—to appear so put together and calm. He must or else he will lose it in a frenzy of nerves. You don’t deserve him crashing out ever. Not when you’ve done so much carrying your—and his—child.

Catching you smoothen your hands over your tummy, he finishes up with your apples. He quickly places it on the table near you, then he softly runs a hand over your stomach, his cheeks burning when you press your hand over his, his soul lurching when the baby kicked right against his palm, his alarm ringing when he sees your wince after another kick.

“She says, hi,” you say in a tight voice.

“Are you okay?” He asks, kneeling on the floor, holding himself back from taking his hand away because you are clenching his fingers tightly. He watches you take deep breaths.

“It was a strong kick,” you sigh. “I’m fine.”

He cannot be contained. He is panicking. The baby kicking so hard had made you sore so many times, yet he cannot get used to it. He hates seeing you in pain.

 Slowly he leans down, pressing a kiss right where he felt the kick. He says, “Take it easy on mommy, Princess.” He kisses again, feeling a softer push just below. “That’s it. Gentle, sweetie.”

“She always listens to you,” you softly say, your eyes shining with tears. “Oh, Quinn, I wanna see her already.”

He reaches up, swiping the tears that fell with his thumbs, then he kisses your cheeks, over the tear tracks, on your lips. He already knows that you’re worrying about your little one “getting stuck” or past due, about pushing her out, about little fingers or toes missing because it’s possible. Anything’s possible and that worries you. It also worries Quinn. So much.

“Me too, my Love. She’s going to be fine,” he eases you. “She’ll be pretty and perfect.”

“What if—”

Quinn cuts you off with a small peck on the lips. “It will be okay. No matter what. She’ll be perfect.”

“Promise?” You stare at him with wide eyes.

“Yes. I promise.” He nods, offering you a slice of apple. The worry in your eyes dissipates as you accept it. “Scoot over so I can watch too.”

You grin, expertly maneuvering yourself, while he settles on the couch. He tries to watch the show, but nerves are bubbling up his throat. Something just feels off. Still, as usual, he settles, reminding himself that it would be okay. He keeps looking at you to ground himself. You look so peaceful while you watch the show and munch on your apple, taking little sips of your well-decorated water bottle.

Right now, you can easily get spooked, so Quinn keeps his worries to himself. Although, all he wants to do is hover over you, make sure you’re all safe and comfortable like he always did throughout the pregnancy. 

He does his best, because it’s what you deserve. Every craving you ask for—no matter how late you suddenly craved it, no matter how tired he was—is provided. The only thing he asked for was to press his ears and hands against your belly, to feel the little baby inside, even when she was still so small. When he was on the road, he would use Uber to get them for you or bribe your friends and his to deliver exactly what you wanted.

He wonders now if you need a massage. He loved doing that. Your feet. Your ankles. Your legs. Your back. Even your breasts. They’re always so tender. He makes sure to press kisses on your skin, right where you’re aching, muttering his apologies, and praises and compliments about how strong and amazing you are. Because you are.

His eyes follow your feet that are planted on the floor. You’re wearing the grippy socks that you bought online with cute bears on them. The sight of them makes him feel giddy. You have quite the selection of socks now. He always inspects them when he kneels and helps you into your shoes, doing your laces or straps. Sometimes he will mentally curse at the shoehorn that you purchased—technically it’s for both of you but he rarely uses it—while he also thanks its existence because it helps you whenever he’s not home.

The number of times you two went out shopping. He can still feel his excitement from those sprees. He took it upon himself to listen and be attentive to the quality of everything. Durability. Longevity. Comfort. He had taken out his phone as soon as the shop clerk finished explaining the features to look up reviews on YouTube or TikTok. Thank fuck for those apps. Nothing had hopefully escaped him. He would be so critical until you told him what you wanted with the reason being “just because”. Quinn gladly agreed—still will today—and bought whatever it is.

When it comes to clothes, he still feels mushy at the memory of the little pajamas, dresses, onesies, mittens, socks, bibs, and beanies. They’re all so fucking cute. Plus, the way you smiled while you were looking at them got him falling for you again and again. You just looked so at ease, so excited, so happy. He is happy too.

When you two shopped for maternity clothes, all the help he could do was to hold everything you chose and wait while you fit them all. Everything is so amazing on you. For every outfit, he felt his knees grew so fucking weak that he had to sit down, gazing at you with hearts for eyes, his chest squeezing at the mere sight of your beauty and at the sight of your tummy being showcased by the clothes. Every time you two came home, he would be severely attached to you. He cried his eyes out while he hugged you so tightly. He can’t help himself. He just loves you so much and you are carrying his child. Even now, you are wearing leggings and a flowery shirt that cinches under your breasts and flares like a dress. You are so effortlessly beautiful and hot.

When you stand up to get something from the kitchen, his eyes follow you. He wants to come up behind you and take all your weight with his big hands securely lifting your belly. He’s done it so many times after he saw it in TikTok and he will do it again. However, he just ends up staring at you from the couch, truly mesmerized. He always is.

Back to that app, it really helped him a lot. There are lots of mothers there that shared their experiences—in addition to the help he received from his Mom—which helped him prepare the hospital bags for you and the baby. Those bags are already in the car, waiting for the big day. On top of all that, he also finished stocking the nursery just a week ago.

Quinn is proud that he did his diligent research. Maybe, a tad too diligent, because when he offered you his servitude for your perineal massage—which he had heard about after he went into deep, deep scrolling through natural birth—he confused you so much. It was understandable because what the fuck is a perineal, right?

You thought Quinn was being fucking horny—which he is always. But then, after a lengthy doctor’s appointment, it was explained and suggested since you were in your 34th week. He wasn’t blind that you got embarrassed for not believing him and clearly you were expecting him to gloat. He didn’t. Why would he? It would’ve hurt you and him. So he said the same words he had said before when he was still suggesting it, “I will help you.”

The waterworks that day were long. He didn’t let go of you until your tears were dried, until you two fell asleep instead of starting the massage. You spent the whole next day trying to do the massage without you laughing at Quinn’s look of focus.

“I need to pee,” your voice breaks him out of his daydreaming.

“Do you need help?” He’s already standing when you shake your head. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. You laugh, making your cheeks flush. “You are so silly, Quinn.”

He watches you disappear in the hallway. His hands start to shake from the nerves. He needs a clear view of you. The need to stand outside the bathroom and wait for you is making him jumpy. He tries to settle himself, rubbing a hand over his chest, sitting down then standing back up again. He starts to pace. It really, really, really feels like something is off.

Minutes pass.

The feeling just expands and expands, festering the longer he doesn’t see you.

He needs—

Then he hears you call his name.

Quinn never ran so fast.

“What? What is it?” Quinn asks, opening the door so quickly. He finds you sitting on the toilet. Your eyes are so wide. Your calmness is the only thing that’s keeping him from losing it because for some reason, he knows. “What is it?”

“I thought I peed myself…but my water broke.” You carefully stand. “I want to change first.”

“Okay,” he nods.

He quickly supports you. He’s trying his best not to panic, but his hands are shaking as he helps you out of your clothes, into a new dress, into sandals. He’s dissociating. Everything is blurring and the only thing keeping him afloat is the feel of your hands gripping his. He can barely function as he does your seatbelt. He tries to calm down, but he is fraying, panting as he falls to his knees with his eyesight blurring.

“The stuff.” He grips your hand. “I need to get our—”

“Quinn,” you firmly say. Your other hand finding his cheek, urging him to look at you. He does. “You’ve prepared this car weeks ago. The bags are in the trunk. Get it together, Q.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out. He finally gets the strength to stand. “We need to hurry.”

He rounds the car, only to realize he doesn’t have his fucking key. He nearly bolts until your hand rests on his shoulder.

Softly and unhurriedly, you give him the car keys. “We have precious cargo, Q. Please drive safely,” you say, giving him a nod.

“I will.”

The car ride to the hospital is quick. Quinn takes that time to calm down, to ground himself. He manages that, not losing his head when your contractions started halfway through the ride. He didn’t spiral then. He has collected and tucked his frayed edges. He manages to get you safe in the hospital and now both of you are in a labor room with the bags stored on the couch.

He’s on you, gripping your hands when you let out a pained groan. He listens to the labor nurses, gulping down the panic that still tries to come up, because he will not stress you over him again. You are going through so much. You need him whole. And he is.

He attentively watches the doctor check the baby through an ultrasound, sighing in relief that the little princess is still in prime position and your cervix is slowly dilating. No C-section is needed. Just like what you wanted, but the contractions are truly getting to you. Every groan and moan of pain, every squeeze of his hand, every sob is getting to him. His heart squeezes in a painful way. Even more so, when your labor progresses, which means the interval of contractions is more frequent.

"It hurts, Quinn. Hurts,” you cry out, breaking his heart. "I need something. I can't. Make it stop."

You don’t need to tell him twice. He shouts for a nurse to get the forms. He understands that you’re asking for an epidural and you’ll get it. Whatever you need he’ll give it to you. As the nurse explains the consent forms, you grip his arms tightly, sitting up. He helps you change your position, on your knees and the headboard. The nurse sets up a bar for you to grip. 

“You’ll be okay, mama,” the nurse eases, tucking the forms into her arms, stepping out.

Quinn almost yells for them to hurry the fuck up, but the anesthesiologist appears to administer it. The yelp coming from you makes him twitch. He almost punches the specialist who explains it will work in ten-to-twenty minutes. Why the fuck not immediately? He wants to demand that. He just needs you not be in pain.

“I’m here, my Love,” he whispers, kissing your temples as you sag against him. He wipes your sweat with a soft towel. “You are doing amazing.”

“How are you so calm? You were panicking an hour ago,” you hiss, groaning as another contraction run through you.

Quinn isn’t calm now. He’s losing his shit. He worries about you. He worries about the little one. An hour. It has been an hour. He doesn’t know if that’s normal. He wants to search it up, but he doesn’t want you to see him fucking fumble with his phone when you’re doubling in pain. He wants to ask the nurse, but he doesn’t want to leave you. He wants to call his parents who are on their way to Vancouver and his brothers who are still in New Jersey.

He may have tucked away his frayed edges, but they are still unravelling. He is unravelling. Inwardly. He can’t tell you about it. So, he presses soft kisses on your shoulders when you shift to lay down.

“No words, Q?” You sigh in relief, your grip on him loosening. “It’s working. I think.”

“Yeah?” he asks. You nod, blinking at him. He knows you’re still waiting for his answer while he wipes away your sweat. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about me.”

“What if I don’t want more kids in the future?” You blurt out just as a nurse walks in. The nurse clears her throat, doing her business of checking your status. Your attention burns into his soul. “Q?”

“I’ll get a vasectomy,” he says in a low tone, clearly aware of another person’s attention. The nurse is a bit…nosy. Why is she not going away? What the fuck.

“What?” you ask, looking so confused.

“I mean it. You hated your birth control so you will not be going back to that.” He tucks your hair behind your ears. “If you don’t want more kids, then I don’t too.”

Ever since he met you, whatever makes you happy makes him happy. Genuinely. He is so attuned to you. Everything he does is for you. He needs you to be happy and be you. That’s all he wants. All he needs. Because you breathe life into him now. His heart beats inside yours. You’ve taken it from him since before you married, since before you accepted him as your boyfriend, since before you met each other.

Quinn doesn’t want to take his heart back.

It will be yours.

Forever.

Until you two grow old.

Until you two find each other in the next life.

“I mean it. Just tell me what you want. I’ll make it happen.” Quinn grips your hand. He leans for a kiss but stops when the nurse stands up.

“You two are so sweet, but you’re crowning now, mama,” the nurse announces.

Maybe Quinn spoke too soon. He is spiraling. The obstetrician and labor nurses come in. He’s helped into a hospital gown and a hair cap over his head. His ears are ringing as he holds your hand. He can’t focus on what’s happening. He’s just there. His lips are moving and whispering encouragement into your ear, but he’s gone.

Gone until loud cries break him out of the haze.

The little princess—his and yours—is so small as they bring her to your chest. Quinn’s heart tumbles at the sight of you cooing and welcoming her. Such a little one who is still wet yet so incredibly red, crying her eyes out, showing off her strong lungs. His eyes fill up with tears because she is so beautiful like you.

“You’re amazing,” Quinn sobs, kissing your head, kissing a soft peck on your lips. “I love you so much, my Love. You did it. You are so strong.”

“Oh, Quinn,” you sniffle. “She got all her fingers and toes.”

She does. Now you don’t need to worry. He doesn’t need to worry.

“Look at her ears. They’re so hairy.”

“Hairy? Just a bit fuzzy,” he thinks, gazing at his daughter’s ears. He can’t help but look between you and the baby. He can’t even hear the doctor announcing that you will be delivering your placenta next. He’s cataloging your shared features. “Nose. Definitely your nose. Your lips.”

While she also has your smile? Quinn hopes she does. You have the prettiest smile.

“She got a little birthmark behind her ear,” he says out loud. You and one of the nurses look. It’s the slightest birthmark. Just two shades darker than the baby’s complexion. It’s almost like…

“It’s like a little heart,” the nurse remarks.

Quinn nods. His heart almost melts when his little one finally stops crying, getting more at ease with the world. He quickly starts snapping some photos, smiling when you grin so proudly. You should be proud.

He almost jumps when it’s his turn for a skin-to-skin contact. He nearly vibrates as he made to sit down after you deliver your placenta and the baby is brought against this chest.

It finally clicks in his head how small his baby is. He can cover her whole back with his hand. When he reaches for the curled-up fist, he chokes at how little her fingers are.

Then those fingers just open and clasp around his pinky.

Immediately, he looks towards you. His tears fall in heaps. He can barely see you as he feels the soft steady breaths of the baby, her heart beating quite fast. Is it supposed to be this fast? He doesn’t fucking know. Maybe it’s just his heart? No. It’s not. His little baby’s heart. Oh, so precious.

He blinks hard, keeping the tears away, looking around to see if someone is panicking, but no one is. He hears snippets of words.

“She’s healthy baby.”

“Needs to get cleaned up.”

“You did well, mama. No tears.”

“Thank goodness. Quinn, did you heart that? The massages worked,” you say in a soft yet exhausted voice. That has him in full alert, watching you so intently. You still look pretty, but you are blinking so slowly. A smile is on your face as you reach for him. He stands, holding his daughter securely, giving her to you when your hand runs over her back. “Just want to sleep a bit.”

“Is that normal?” He asks the doctor and nurses who clearly see his distress as you fucking pass out. “My wife—”

“Is fine, Mr. Hughes,” a nurse says, giving him a reassuring nod. “It’s normal to be exhausted after you gave birth. She’s fine. No excessive bleeding. We will clean up and we’ll take your little one in a few.”

He nods, not knowing what else to do, so he leans closer to you, brushing your hair away, brushing his knuckles gently over the baby’s cheek. Oh, so soft. His heart melts when she tries to open her eyes. He gasps when she somehow manages. Just a quick flutter that exposes her eyes are the color of his. His. His baby girl has his eyes.

He starts crying again, sobbing into your hair.

He can’t help it.

He’s feeling so much love, and it comes out as tears.

At some point, he doesn’t know how much time has passed, but someone is helping him to calm down as his unnamed baby is taken away for necessary checkups. He knows she’s in good hands, so he stays with you, not even stepping out of the room so the forms are being brought to him. He feels guilty for being such a fucking diva for that, but he can’t leave you. He doesn’t think he can even step out of the room without crashing out.

Then he makes his calls, going through the list of his contacts, telling everyone about his perfect baby girl in whispered yet prideful tone. His hand is wrapped around yours.

“She got her nose and her lips, Mom. Got the fuzziest ears,” he sniffles. “So perfect.”

He finishes his last call. Gazing at you, he feels his emotions overflowing once more. For the last time before you wake up, he cries.

A promise forms in his heart, carving itself deeper that he will carry it every day of his life.

He promises to protect his little one and live for her.

He’ll love her as he loves you.

˚｡⋆ ❀ ˖ Bonus: Your POV ˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚

When it’s time to be discharged, you stare at Quinn who carefully helps you into a wheelchair. He has been fussing over you for the whole stay. His cheeks are still flushed when he notes your dress—as if he didn’t buy it with you—after his arrival from a quick trip to the car and the reception area for your discharge papers. He’s so cute. Always so gentle. Even more so now when he greets your daughter, calling her his princess, before he lifts her up from the hospital bassinet.

You heard and saw him cry so much. Your Quinn has been on an emotional roller-coaster as you have. He looks at you with so much warmth and affection, so much pride for you and your baby, so much love and adoration, so much want that you can’t even think about how different your body is now. You told him that you might not want another child, and he replied something about a vasectomy. He’s always putting you first. And it’s clear he will be putting your daughter first too.

You can already see her getting so spoiled but also keeping her well-behaved. Quinn has that air of being the perfect dad.

You just know it and you’ll be right next to him in caring for the little one.

Honestly, you don’t even know if you want another child or not. That’s okay. Never once in your life did Quinn rush you to a decision. Always so patient and kind. But the way he’s staring at you, you might be leaning on the former. He looks so hot in his white linen shirt and khaki shorts. If he doesn’t stop dressing like that, it will be a quick decision.

But you won’t say that just yet.

You just gave birth.

Again, there’s no use to rush.

“Here she is, my Love. All bundled up.” Quinn grins as he presents his baby girl.

“You swaddled her up so well, Quinny,” you chuckle, holding her securely, softly and lightly caressing the little mark behind her fuzzy ear.

It’s still so amusing to you how hard Quinn insisted that her ears are just fuzzy and not hairy. You don’t think that he knows that it will be gone in a few weeks. It’s always so refreshing knot that he doesn’t know everything, because this man had researched quite a lot. Sometimes it amazes you. Sometimes it annoys you. Because, seriously, how can someone—a first time dad—know so much more than you? Still, it’s what makes Quinn the best.

“All settled?” he asks, kissing your cheek, his three-day-old scruff feels so rough and nice.

“Yes. I wanna go home now. Our parents are waiting,” you remind him. You see the way he pursed his lip in a tight line, his eyebrows frowning, so you scold him, “You can’t monopolize our princess, Quinn.”

Luckily, all of your parents are understanding that you two prefer them not to visit in the hospital, that you two just needed the calm to settle your little one, but the three-day stay has you already wanting to show off your daughter. Quinn looks like he just wants to keep you and his baby to himself. Like a mighty dragon hoarding his golden treasures. Gosh, he’s so silly, hoarding you to himself after he gloated so much over the phone calls and video calls.

“Quinny,” you whine, pouting that has him immediately melting.

“Fine,” he sighs, booping your daughter’s nose which got her cooing. You two go still at the how delicate she moves which is barely since she is still sleeping. “They need to be quiet.”

“Quinn, you already told them that.” You chuckle as he grumbles while pushing the wheelchair.

He told everyone that they need to be quiet. He’s already getting too protective over the little one. He’s firm with the no-kisses rule, hand washing, and facemasks. You try to tell him that the masks can go, but he won’t have it. You saw how his hackles were rising and the panic in his eyes were doubling, so you agreed. You ended up consoling him for ten minutes, telling him that your and his parents agreed.

“Maybe they should stay at a hotel.” Quinn hovers over you as you stand up and place the little princess in her baby seat.

“We got lots of room, Quinny.” You let him secure the seatbelt, seeing the way he blinks his tears away. “She’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay?” He steps into your space, his arm going around you. “I don’t want them to overwhelm you. You need to rest.”

Oh, he’s worrying about you.

You reach up, your heart beating harder in your chest when he leans his head into your touch. “I’ll be fine. They’re also excited to meet our baby. I want them to see how she looks like you and did you hear? They’re preparing dinner for us. Our moms told me they got some tricks to show me.”

You can see his brain going into a full overload. He’s overthinking again, so you rest your forehead against his. You feel his shuddering sigh as you give him a small kiss.

“Just tell me if you get uncomfortable with anything.”

“Okay,” you say. It’s clearly not enough so you add, “I promise.”

A beautiful smile spreads on his face. He’s so handsome. Your stomach is filling up with butterflies. You swoon as he opens your door for you and do your seatbelt. You silently watch him round the car and enter. You can’t help but think that he’s so perfect and that you are so lucky.

[morganbritton132]

Wayne loves when his nephew stays the summer with him.

Eddie is six, curious about everything, and brings so much light in this ol’ home of his.

Wayne loves the kid, but working in the summer is a pain.

He saves up his PTO to take as much time off as he can but it doesn’t last Eddie’s entire stay so he pays a girl in Forest Hills to sit with Eddie until he falls asleep and Tracy across the way keeps an ear out for him. It ain’t perfect, but they make it work.

So, it’s a curious case when he gets off a mid-shift at three in the morning and finds Eddie still awake.

The boy ain’t slept a wink, Wayne can tell. He’s sitting on the couch, kicking his feet as a caterpillar crawled over his hand.

“Hi, Uncle Wayne,” Eddie waved. “I made a friend today. Can I keep him?”

“Is that why you’re still awake, to ask me that question?” Wayne asks. Eddie nods so Wayne nods back and asks, “You got a good habitat for your friend?”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie grins, gesturing to the blankets that have been permanently draped in the corner of the room all summer, “In the tent.”

Wayne makes a show of contemplating his answer just to see the anticipation in Eddie’s eyes, “Well, I guess so. You can keep your little friend.”

“Really?” No take backs?”

“No take backs, but you gotta go to bed right now,” Wayne tells him. “Go brush your teeth for me so I know you did it.”

Eddie runs off and Wayne is about to do the same to get ready for bed. He yawns as walks towards his bedroom and then he trips over something sticking out of the tent.

Not something. A leg. A small leg. A small leg of a small child sleeping in the tent in - “Eddie, what’s-“

“Shhh,” Eddie shushes, coming back into the room with his caterpillar inching across his shoulder. “You’re going to wake him up.”

Wayne rubs at his eyes, wishing this whole thing would go away. He almost hates to ask, “Who-“

“He’s called Steve,” Eddie supplies helpfully, “But I’m gonna change his name to something else. He cries a lot and he likes ice cream.”

Wayne ignores everything else Eddie says because his tired mind finally connected the face to the name to the angry adult, “Hopper’s boy Steve?”

“Not anymore,” Eddie says climbing into the tent to lay down. He pulls the teddy bear out of Steve’s arms and then pats him on the head, “He’s called Frodo now, Uncle Wayne.”

Yeah, his nephew kidnapped a child. He’s gonna have to call somebody, “Good lord.”

[absdollievu]

Roommate Abby tutoring another girl and reader getting jealous? 🙈🙈 just a thought

Not the One I Notice

nerdy!abby x jealous!reader

Warnings: fingering

thank you anon for this request, you ask and I shall deliver

You’re not sure when it started bothering you. Probably the second or third time Maddy showed up with coffee and that bright, over-familiar smile.

The first time was easy to ignore—just a tutoring session, textbook open, Abby sitting cross-legged on her bed while Maddy leaned over her shoulder, laughing at something stupid.

But then she kept coming back. Kept touching Abby’s arm when she talked. Kept calling her “Ab’s” like it was something she’d owned.

Now it’s every other afternoon. Abby’s bed isn’t hers anymore—it’s a shared space. Maddy stretches out on it like she belongs there, and Abby doesn’t tell her otherwise.

That’s the part that sticks.

⸻

You try not to care. You really do.

But you come back from class and hear that laugh through the door again—Maddy’s high, rehearsed, flirty—and it gets under your skin.

You barely say a word when you walk in. Abby doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. Maddy says hi in that voice that assumes you don’t matter.

You stay with your headphones on 24/7. You stay out later. You start timing your returns to avoid her.

Still doesn’t work.

She’s always there.

⸻

Friday night. Rain.

You’ve been out drinking, but not enough to be drunk. Just enough to dull things a little.

It’s quiet when you walk in. Abby’s sitting on her bed, reading. She looks up when you close the door behind you.

“Hey,” she says.

You pull off your hoodie and drop it on the chair. It’s still damp from the rain.

“Where’s Maddy?” you ask.

She blinks, like the question caught her off guard. “Not here.”

You don’t say anything. Just start digging through your drawer for a shirt.

There’s a pause. You feel her watching you.

“She hasn’t been over today,” she adds.

You laugh once, short and tired. “I didn’t ask.”

“You kind of did.” She raised an eyebrow.

You shake your head and pull your shirt over your head. “Forget it.”

“Seriously, what’s going on with you?”

You look at her now. Really look. She’s tense, arms crossed over her knees.

“Nothing,” you say.

“You haven’t looked at me all week. You barely talk. And then you come in and bring up Maddy like—”

“Like what?” you cut.

“Like you’re keeping up a fucking score!” She snaps back.

You step forward, arms crossed. “I’ve been here every day watching her crawl into your space, and you just let her. What am I supposed to think?”

“I was tutoring her,” Abby says, slow and measured. “That’s all it was.”

“She flirts with you.”

“She flirts with everyone.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But you don’t flirt with everyone back.”

Abby exhales through her nose. Her voice drops. “I didn’t even notice.”

“You noticed enough.”

There’s a beat of silence. She looks like she’s trying not to react.

“You really think I wanted anything from her?”

“I think you didn’t care what it looked like.”

“You’re mad because I’m tutoring her? Mad because she’s sitting in my bed?”

“I’m mad because you didn’t care how I felt. Watching her touch you. Take up space that used to be mine.”

Abby’s face hardens. “It was never yours.”

You flinch.

Then she shakes her head. “That’s not—fuck. That came out wrong.”

“No,” you say. “I get it.”

She takes a step closer. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t look like you know.”

You say nothing.

Then: “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

“Why didn’t you?” you shoot back. “You think I didn’t notice you looking? That I didn’t feel it every night we fell asleep a foot apart?”

She’s close now. Two feet away, maybe less.

“I didn’t say anything,” she says quietly, “because I wasn’t sure you wanted me to.”

You swallow. Your voice is tight. “I did.”

More silence. Rain against the window.

Then she says it. Plain. Honest. “She’s not the one I think about.”

You nod once. “I figured that out eventually.”

Abby watches you for a long second. “So what now?”

You stare at her. At the line of her jaw, the pulse in her neck, the tension in her arms.

Then: “I’m still pissed at you.”

“I can tell.”

You step closer. “I don’t care what she meant. I care that you didn’t say it was me.”

Abby’s jaw tenses. “It’s always been you.”

That’s all it takes.

The space between you disappears in one move—her hands on your face, your mouth on hers.

Your lips crash together like it’s the only way to shut each other up.

It’s not soft. It’s not sweet. It’s everything that’s been boiling under your skin for days—every look she gave someone else, every time you held back, every night you lay there needing her and saying nothing.

Abby backs you into the wall with the weight of someone who’s done waiting. Her hands are rough when they grab your waist, drag you closer. You don’t resist. You bite down on her lip instead, hard enough to make her groan against your mouth.

She lifts your shirt—impatient, fingers fumbling—then yanks it over your head. Her mouth drops to your neck before it’s fully off, teeth grazing skin, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You grip her hoodie, pulling her down to your level, and your voice comes out sharp. “You knew what you were doing.”

Abby exhales hard against your collarbone. “Yeah,” she mutters, lips brushing your skin. “I fucking did.”

She fists the back of your hair and tugs your head back, forcing your eyes up to hers. Her face is tight, jaw set.

“You really thought I wanted her?”

You just stare at her.

“Answer me.”

You swallow. “I didn’t want to think it.”

She pulls back just long enough to strip off her hoodie, then pushes you toward the bed without a word. Her body is solid against yours, muscle and heat and frustration.

You fall back onto the mattress. Abby’s on you in seconds, mouth everywhere—your chest, your ribs, the soft skin of your stomach. She drags your pants down rough, no ceremony, and drops them to the floor.

“Tell me to stop,” she says suddenly, voice low.

You don’t.

Instead, you hook your leg around her waist and pull her down on top of you.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Not tonight.”

That’s all it takes.

Abby kisses you again—messy, angry, hungry. Her hand finds its way between your thighs, and she doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers slide through your slick and she exhales hard against your mouth.

“Fuck,” she mutters. “You’re already wet.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wonder why.”

She pushes two fingers in without warning, and your back arches.

Her pace is fast from the start—no teasing, no games. She pins your hip down with one hand and fucks you like she means to leave a mark.

“You think she could do this to you?” she says, close to your ear. “Think she’d know how to fuck you like I do?”

You can’t answer. You’re already gasping, hips grinding down into her hand, chasing something fast and violent.

“Say it,” she growls. “Say it’s me.”

“It’s you,” you struggle. “Always you.”

She kisses you hard, swallowing the sound you make as her thumb finds your clit. Her rhythm changes, sharp, focused. Your hands claw at her back, digging into the warm skin under her shirt.

“Abby—” you gasp, legs starting to shake.

She doesn’t slow down. “You gonna come for me?”

You nod frantically. “Yes. Please.”

She curls her fingers just right and your whole body goes tight, breath catching in your throat. The orgasm hits hard—your hips jerk, your thighs clench, and all you can do is hold on as she works you through it, jaw clenched, eyes locked on yours.

When you finally go limp beneath her, chest heaving, Abby pulls her hand back and drags it slowly up your thigh.

She leans down, kisses the corner of your mouth.

You look up at her, eyes narrowed, breathless. “Still pissed at you.”

A smirk twitches at the edge of her mouth. “Good.”

Then she flips you over.

“Because I’m not done yet.”

[adomaniahaze]

It’s been nearly a year since the Byers family left Hawkins, and the town has only grown quieter, colder, for Mike Wheeler. Last year was tough. A shitty course of disgust and shame every time he wrote. Writing, once his escape from the world, had turned its back to him. Everytime he took the pen, a pit of anguish washed over him. 

He didn’t know anymore if the affirmation El gave him of being normal in the slightless was worth the disgust of knowing he was lying. What would he do otherwise? Tell her he’s not only a coward but also a faggot in love with his childhood bestfriend who, by the way, was now her step-brother?  

Yeah. No way in hell. Not even Vecna could get that one out of him.

Then after Cali, the Byers and Eleven stayed. Forced back to Hawkins, resurfacing threat in the air. 

Eleven stayed with Max, Hopper nearby. There was a lot to talk about between the two girls, but also no space left in the Wheeler’s household. 

That was Mike’s biggest misery right now - he couldn’t hide away. Joyce stayed on the basement with Jonathan, who snuck out every night to Nancy’s room. And there was Will. Will stayed in his room. 

Whenever the party wasn’t together, they had long days of silence. The distant sound of the TV downstairs or Holly screaming down the hall only a background noise over the silence. 

In Mike’s defense, he tried. 

He did, really. 

He tried talking to Will, who often didn’t reply with more than a slight nod or a rushed monosyllable. 

Will had changed. Will Byers is nothing like the boy who left. He hardened, was distant, his once soft-spoken nature replaced with a burningly subtle fire whenever he talked to Mike.

He knew he had fucked up, that he sould’ve sent him something. Anything. But he also knew that was impossible. He couldn’t. He could lie to Eleven with letters (never signed with love). Whereas Will’s — Will’s were always unconsciously more romantic than her’s. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was even worse to covet for a call and hear his voice, even if they always went to mail. He knew keeping the discarded letters under his bed was a dangerous idea, but he couldn’t throw away the only way his feelings found form.

Mike, hoped to pick up where they left off, even more after he and El talked and broke up. He tried to reach out — but Will rebuffed every attempt. 

That afternoon, Mike tried, once again. He brought a The Clash vinyl, hope bubbling in his chest as the first notes started to play.

Darling, you've got to let me know

Should I stay or should I go?

Will looked down to Mike after a beat, who was sitting now in his own bed. 

“What are you doing?” Will asked, confused by Mike’s behaviour.

This indecision's bugging me

“Playing music,” Mike replied, not looking up from the book in his lap — not even reading, just trying to hide his flushed cheeks. “Found a couple of old vinyls in the basement. Thought you might like it.”

If you don't want me, set me free

“Why are you doing this?” Will asked, his voice sharp.

“What are you talking—” Mike started, before Will cut him off.

Exactly who I'm supposed to be?

“All of this. Pretending you know me.” Will’s voice rose. “You don’t know me, Mike,” he said, bitter, enraged by the absurdity of Mike's attitude. “I’m not the same person anymore. It's been a year. More than a year.”

Don't you know which clothes even fit me?

Mike looks up at Will, their eyes meeting. His gaze was soft against the hardness of Will's.

“That’s okay,” he says. “I’ll get to know you again.”

Come on and let me know

Should I cool it or should I blow?

I can wish all that I want, but it won't bring us together - I will write a second chapter, if anyone is interested. ;)

"You don't know me. I'm not the same person anymore."

"That's okay. I'll get to know you again."

[babydoll372]

Hi, big fan here. Can you do something like fallen angel Wanda who's still innocent about humans? She was sent down to earth due to some reasons. She's curious about humans especially human's physical interactions, she's curious onto why human body seemed to be weak when she had taken reader over and over. Reader who's passed out naked in front of Wanda, and Wanda who's innocently angel-like looking and tilting her head on reader curious on why she's passed out when she's not even starting yet.

It started when Wanda saw a movie and there's this scene that piqued her curiosity about physical human interactions. And straight out told reader, "I want to do that to you." She may be innocent, but Wanda knows what she wants. Additional if Wanda's having her wings wrapped around reader while she pounds reader for her dear life...

Angel

Pairings: Angel!wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: 1,242

Warnings: smut, overstimulation, innocent!wanda, clinginess from Wanda, strap ons

Maybe taking Wanda exploring in a sex shop wasn’t the best idea. And maybe letting her pick out her favorite toy wasn’t either. Because now she giggled to herself with a mischievous grin as she held you close to her own body, the large strap pounding in and out of you repeatedly. She didn’t even realize her strength, her speed, her overstimulation. No, she was just having fun, and watching your eyes roll to the back of your head always satisfied her. Your hands went to her chest to try to wordlessly push her off due to your multiple orgasms now controlling your mind and emotions. But deep down you knew you wanted to keep this up for hours if it wasn’t for how quickly she tiptoed you over the edge. She tilted her head in confusion, not exactly understanding why you were trying to push her off. Her lips formed a pout, thinking you didn’t want her so close to you anymore. 

“Y/N…do you not want me hugging you anymore? I really like your hugs…” She could almost make you feel guilty for needing to push her off, but you shook her off, a loud moan rippling through your throat. You glanced down at your swollen cunt and she followed your eyes. “Oh, yeah, that! What about it?” 

“Please…c-can’t- ah! Can’t take anymore!” You rushed out, your hand coming to cover your mouth as your body began shaking violently once again. Her eyes widened, quickly pulling out of you and pausing your next breach of release.

“Fuck…I- whatever, thank you, baby…” You muttered out, your breath shaky as she sat there with a wide smile before looking down at your cunt.

“Uhm…are you sore? I- I didn’t mean to hurt you, I swear! I’m really sorr-“

“No, no, baby, it’s…it’s okay. I’m okay.” You tried to reassure, but your body was too weak to do much else. You tried rolling out of bed, but you fell instantly. Wanda instantly rushed to your side and picked you up bridal style in her arms, her eyes searching your face for any misfortunes. 

“Are you okay? Did you get hurt? Why did you try getting out of bed?” She continued asking multiple questions while continuing to hold you as if you weighed the same weight of a feather.

“Wanda, I- I need to clean up, you understand?”

“Clean up what? The house is spotless already! You do a really good job of cleaning, you know-“

“No, I mean me! Me, I need to clean me.” You slowly got out, the weakness in your bones forcing your mouth to move as slowly. She had a face of realization and then quickly brought you into the bathroom, leading you to the toilet after your instructions. She closed her eyes and looked away when you went, and then took over five minutes searching for a cloth that was right in front of her the entire time so that she could clean you. You would bathe in the morning and clean the sheets then too, but right now, you couldn’t. 

—

A few days later you were watching a movie your friend suggested to you when Wanda came in, awoken from her nap. She was pouty, clearly upset that you had gotten up in the time of her sleeping but, to your defense, she was such a light sleeper and you didn’t want to wake her up. Plus, you had no clue how long she’d be sleeping for. She plopped down next to you, basically on top of you, and dangled her feet back and forth over the couch, watching curiously. She asked every question you could since she joined late, and you eventually just had to restart it so she’d be caught up. Did that stop the questions? No. 

“I have another question,” You quietly sighed and nodded, encouraging her to speak. “Can I do that to you?” She pointed to the screen where a male character had the female character bent over and started thrusting into her. You nearly coughed on the popcorn you had been eating due to the shock factor, but slowly nodded.

“Yay! I’ll go get my toys then!” Wanda quickly sprung up, only for you to grab her arm and hold her back.

“Wait- now?” 

“Well…yeah? Please? Pretty please?” She dragged out her words, making it impossible for you to deny her puppy dog eyes. Moments later she came back with the large strap in hand and had you put it around her waist, giggling to herself as you did so. She then gently turned you around and bent you over the couch, your ass facing up and your face down. She hesitantly smacked your butt like the character did, only to quickly apologize and rub the area with her hand, pressing a kiss to the soft skin.

When she was inside you, she couldn’t feel how heavenly her long, protruding length felt. She didn’t realize that it took you about two minutes to orgasm due to some power she must’ve had. No man nor woman had ever been able to mimic what she was doing, and she didn’t even realize it. 

“Wanda- Wanda, please! Fuck, I- I’m gonna cum!” Wanda tilted her head in confusion but just kept going, watching your legs shake furiously the more she thrusted into you. She held onto your hips and leaned over you so she could simply hug you, yet the small action caused her to scratch your g-spot perfectly.

“D-don’t move, honey- s-stay right there!” You mustered out, only to feel complete disappointment when she stopped moving in general. “No! I- Wanda, I mean keep moving your hips but don’t move from where you’re holding me right now, you got it?” 

“Oh…okay!” All you could feel was overwhelming pleasure as your second orgasm came over you in a title wave, your mouth hanging low but your moans becoming silent. Your cunt was starting to feel sore, and you knew one more was the maximum. But now Wanda was starting to feel the strap rub against her clit softly, and she was chasing that with her thrusts. The quicker she fucked you, the quicker her little bud was played with. She whimpered softly into your ear and felt her wings forming around you, the two of you being wrapped up in her ball of protection. She cried out, quiet moans being whispered against you.

“Y/N…I- I feel funny…”

“You just need to cum, baby- so do I! Let it-…fuck! Right there, such a good girl, Wanda…let it all out for me!” She felt her teeth gently sink into your shoulder as her orgasm rippled through her body. You felt your own doing the same and tightly clasped onto her hand holding your stomach. 

“Wanda, honey, no- no more, okay?” She whined, her hips still jutting into you.

“But it’s fun! And it feels really good…”

Wanda, if you don’t listen to me I’m going to have to punish you.” She gulped, her movements instantly halting. That was the first time she heard the words come from your mouth; punishment. But she knew exactly what it meant. Her wings slowly unwrapped around you two, the strap slowly escaping you, yet her arms stayed where they were.

“…Can I at least hold you still?” You chuckled softly, reaching behind you to play with her hair and kiss her lips.

“You can always hold me, pretty girl.” 

[enwoso]

lovin' red | alessia russo x child!reader x leah williamson

there is still a part four to come from weight of world but i wanted to put this little one out before it wasn’t relevant anymore:)

grumpy masterlist

the emirates was a wall of noise. the crowd was still roaring, still chanting, still very much in love with the the team, as even after a bit of a ropey season and amongst the doubt they'd finished second in the league - cementing that with a win over manchester united.

golden boot under her arm, alessia strolled with leah, her girlfriend and teammate, hands brushing. but their attention was on a small blur sprinting ahead of them.

"Y/N mind the cameras!" leah called out with a laugh. there being many reporters and media staff all with cameras you not having the best sense of direction (something you definitely got from your mum) 

but you weren't listening — you had locked eyes on your target. "AUNTIE ELLA!" you yelled, a wide grin on your face.

ella turning around a second too late as she was tackled by the flying bundle of your blonde curls and arsenal red. the manchester player staggering a bit but caught herself in time, lifting you up in a spin. "there's my favorite little russo," ella grinned.

you wrapped your arms around her neck like a koala. "you came!"

"of course i did," ella laughed slightly as she held you in her arms. "wouldn't of missed it. even if your mummy did thump us."

you blinked, playing with the collar of the blue away shirt that ella was wearing before a tiny gasp came from your lips. "did you see mummy got the shiny boot."

"i did see! a big golden shoe. it's very fancy."

"i helped," you said so proudly and matter of the factly. "i told her to score more goals and also did the lucky dances."

"oh! the lucky dances, of course," ella said, nodding gravely having seen a few from videos and england camps. "those are world famous by now."

"they are," you confirmed not really understand what the word famous meant, before narrowing your eyes slightly. "you sad you didn't win?"

ella shrugged, lips tugging up. "a little bit, but that's football innit. but i'm also proud of your mummy. and proud of you. you've been the real booster this season.”

and just then, alessia jogged up behind them, flushed from the walk, still riding the adrenaline. "thought you two might be together. you trying to kidnap my daughter again?"

"hey, little russo here is just spending time with her favourite auntie ella!" ella said innocently with a wide grin, still holding you.

"good job your her only auntie ella then," alessia teased, stepping closer. then there was a pause. something warmer passed between the two former teammates.

"you were class today, less," ella said, sincere now. "golden boot... you've made it look easy all season long."

alessia's smile softened. "thanks, tooney. never easy though you know that. but it meant a lot."

they bumped shoulders lightly, not needing much more than that — a shared history tucked into one glance. they'd always be the bestest of friends. for life.

"right," ella said, kissing your cheek. "go on, your mummy's got a stadium to conquer and i've got a shower callin' my name!"

you reached for alessia not before giving your auntie ella one last hug and getting scooped back into your mummy's arms as the two of you wandered down the pitch.

ahead, you spotted renee talking with a few teammates near the center circle. your eyes lighting up again. "mummy! quick. put me down!" you squirmed.

"you're gonna give someone whiplash," alessia muttered, but she obliged. lifting you down and before she even had a moment to blink you were darting across the grass and straight into renee.

"THANK YOU!" you shouted, throwing your arms around her.

renee staggered. "whoa—hey tiny! uh—thank you?" before the dutch coach knelt down, a little thrown. "but what for?"

you looked up seriously as if the answer was obvious. "for being cool."

renee blinked slightly confused. "i—well... thanks. i guess?"

you nodded, matter-of-fact. "you always give me fist bumps and you always say hi and you don't tell me off for running too fast."

"right," renee laughed, ruffling your hair a little. "well, you're welcome,, for all of that." behind the two of you, the arsenal girls had stopped to watch, arms crossed, grinning.

"think tiny is more popular than us at this point," caitlin whispered, a wide smile on her face as they continued to walk.

beth grinned. "oh for sure, she’s definitely got better pr."

you waved at the group like she was on a float, then spotted someone else and took off again. "CHLOE! LOLO!”

chloe turned, instantly catching on after a few more yells from you. "let me guess. another hug?”

"yes and no," you said, stopping dramatically in front of the chloe, scott chloe’s boyfriend standing nearby. "you have to stay lolo."

"stay?" chloe blinked a small chuckle from scott coming from behind. "with arsenal?"

"yes," you said, arms crossed as if you were able to control chloe’s future at the club. "i told mummy that you’re not allowed to leave."

chloe crouched down to your level, amused. "did you now?"

"i did," you replied you bottom lip wobbling slightly. "c-cause if you leave, who's gonna dance with me?"

beth snorted behind them along with a few others watching on. "she’s got your number, chloe."

chloe tilted her head thoughtfully. "that is a very strong argument."

"very very strong," you nodded. "you do the spin lifts. no one else does the spin lifts."

"true," chloe admitted. "but sometimes football changes. transfers, contracts..." you looked up at the blonde very unimpressed and slightly confused by the big words.

chloe sighed, not wanting to put a dampener on the already great day. "okay, okay. if i go, i promise i’ll fly back every weekend just to dance."

"you better." you paused, then offered her hand. "we do one now?"

chloe took it with a wink. "thought you'd never ask kiddo."

as the crowd roared and the players laughed, you and chloe spun in the middle of the emirates — like it was a stage built just for them.

a little off to the side, alessia and leah sat watching, arms around each other, boots laying next to them as they’d walked around in just socks along the turf which had carried them through the highs and heartbreaks of the season.

"look at her," alessia murmured, eyes soft as she watched you twirl with wild, fearless joy.

"she’s stolen the whole show," leah said, squeezing alessia’s waist.

"she’s picking up your attitude," alessia said, nudging leah slightly as she smirked. “and your cheek." the two of them bursting into laughter, leaning into each other, heads touching lightly.

"you’ve done it, less," leah whispered after a moment, voice quieter now. "golden boot. the perfect season. you’ve gave her something to remember forever."

alessia looked down at the trophy in her hands, then back at you, spinning and beaming under stadium lights. before she turned toward leah, eyes glowing. "so did you," alessia said. "we did it together."

leah kissed her then — soft and sure, in front of their team, their fans, and the daughter who made the whole world feel like home.

as the music faded into the hum of the crowd, you came running back over, breathless, cheeks flushed pink with joy.

"mummy! mama!" you shouted, barreling into both of them with a big squeal.

leah crouched first, scooping her up as alessia wrapped her arms around both you and leah. "you were having fun out there" alessia said, brushing your hair back from your slightly sweaty forehead.

"i know," you grinned, chest puffed out. "lolo says i’m a natural."

leah smirked. "we might have to get you an agent."

you wiggled between them, arms tight around their necks. "you both won today."

alessia blinked. "what do you mean?"

you pulled back slightly, looking serious. "you won your trophy, and mama won 'cause she's bossy. but i won 'cause i’ve got you two."

alessia melted instantly a pout forming on her lips as she could feel the tears building up in her eyes. leah went completely still for a beat — then tugged you in tighter.

"alright," leah whispered. "you’re definitely staying up late now."

"hot chocolate?" you asked, a cheeky smile on your face. "with marshmallows," alessia added.

"and a movie."

"deal."

the three of you sat there a moment longer — tangled together in the heart of the pitch, framed by confetti and floodlights and the fading hum of celebration.

three hearts, one family.

and as you looked up at the two women who were your whole world, you didn't care about trophies or titles.

you already had everything you’d ever need.

and under the hot sun of the emirates, with laughter in the air and trophies in hands, you all stood — family, and something even better: home.

[topherwrites]

𝘈 𝘍𝘖𝘙𝘌𝘚𝘛 𝘍𝘐𝘙𝘌

jack abbot x fem!reader — you have a shared understanding of each other, it's the worst sort of relation. warnings: mutual pining, angst, burn out, grief, terminal illness of parent, attending x resident, hr hates to see them coming. a/n: wrote this while sick and sleep deprived, so it's in third person for some reason. let me know if ya'll like this!

Jack has seen burnout, the way this job chips away at even the soundest of doctors. He’s used to tired eyes and cracked hands and sore backs. But this is different. It’s like watching a ghost move through the hospital.

She's crumbling under the weight of grief. She’s always clocked in; there’s no escape from it. No air to come up for. There’s just a void, deep and dark, that she pulls with her through every day.

And she doesn't sleep well anymore—or at all—terrified every time she closes her eyes that she won't be there when it—the horrible thing rapidly approaching—finally happens, that her mother will be alone. That she’ll have failed in the simplest of tasks.

She doesn’t feel human now, not really. She’s a candle burning at both ends—wick nearly gone. 

He sees it, the barely hidden exhaustion, the forced smiles, the vacant stare when she doesn't know anyone’s looking. But he is—always, watching her for a reason he can’t face, knows is wrong.

And so he’s there to witness her collapse, a full breakaway. They lose a patient—young. Stupid young. One of those ones who should’ve made it. Who would’ve made it, if the universe cared for things like fairness.

His eyes stay on her as he calls it, as she slowly stops compressions, discards her gloves silently, and slips from the room like if she’s quiet enough, she can just disappear. He knows that look. He follows her at a distance, checking in with Dana, the other residents, keeps his eye on her the entire time. A ticking time bomb. He sees the tremble in her hands, the measured way she’s taking in every breath. 

And then she bolts—not truly, but in her professional way, she does. Sets the chart in her hand down and goes straight for the stairwell.

Dana catches him watching her and tells him to go.

He pushes the door open, stands in the doorway as he watches her fold into herself on the cold, concrete stairway floor—knees pulled to her chest, shoulders shaking in that awful, silent way. The dam has broken. 

She sees him then, her breath hitching, and a sob, uncontrollable, leaves her throat—because now there’s a witness to her failure. She’s failing her patients and her mother and him. The door shuts behind him with a click, the sound of her breaking echoing around them. 

He moves, kneeling in front of her, as well as he can, every old part of him protesting all the while. He tries not to crowd, just be there. 

“Hey,” he says, voice firm, “Look at me.”

He knows what she needs, her Type-A constitution: someone to tell her what to do, give her permission to stop brute forcing her way through this.

She tries to swallow her emotions back down, regulate her breathing, get back to it. Her eyes raise from the ground, but she doesn't quite look at him. That's fine.

“You’re off.” She opens her mouth. “Don’t argue.”

“I can’t, I just,” her throat clogs, she imagines going home, to that house that shouldn't be as quiet as it is, just dead air and the sounds of machines. 

He sighs a long breath out of his nose, thumbing it as he offers something up to her. A piece of his own grief. 

Death, the great equalizer. 

He husks out, “If you stop for even a second, it’ll all go to shit, right?” 

He waits to see her eyes. 

He knows some of how she’s feeling, not the same, but close. She was there one day, gone the next. No in between, dead in everything but name. He imagines her version is worse. The long goodbye. The drawn-out cruelty of it.

His hand, large and calloused, cups her knee, thumb rubbing gently at the tendon there, grounding. She swallows down hard. Finally, her focus returns to him, and the look in his eye—understanding—draws her out of her spiral, if only for a moment.

“It won’t," he takes a breath, waits to see if she's really listening, “Not unless you don’t take a moment for yourself.”

She wants to believe him. But the thought of having to go back—to that house, to the hospice nurse, to her mother’s living death—makes her stomach churn. She feels ungrateful, selfish. 

Her mother’s dying, and her daughter’s trying to figure out a way not to go home. 

She finds she keeps having a particular thought, more and more these days, I want to go home. And yet she never seems to find herself there in the quiet of her childhood home. There’s no relief or sense of safety. Just quiet dread. I want to go home. And it’s the cool skin of her mother, paper thin. The occasional brittle sound that works its way out of her throat. 

She thinks, I want to go home. 

But there’s no home anymore. Just a ticking clock.

And she’s trying to let go of something that isn’t even gone yet. 

He keeps his eye on her. He’s sure that his words won’t sink in until later, the truth of them hard to swallow for people like them.

“My shift ends in an hour.” He leans back. Reaches into his pocket. His knuckles prod her closed fist, and something cold is placed into her grasp. Keys. He says, “Wait for me.”

She nods. 

What else is she going to do?

Then he leaves her in the stairwell. 

Eventually, she gathers herself together, eases back up onto her feet, and ambles her way out of the sliding doors. In a haze, she clicks the lock button and locates his car by the responding beep. It’s nice, smells like leather and pine—attending salary, she supposes.

She sinks into the passenger seat, numb; it’s the first time she’s sat still in weeks.

The car is quiet when he slides in beside her.

She doesn't open her eyes, just hears the soft click of the door, the sound of his bag hitting the backseat, the sigh he lets out like he’s been holding it in for hours.

He doesn’t start the engine right away. Just sits with her.

“You hungry?” he asks, like any of this is normal routine. Like this could be a date. 

Her tired mind pauses. Like she isn’t very obviously in the midst of a clinical breakdown.

So, she shrugs halfheartedly. Can’t quite remember the last time she ate, especially the last time she ate without her mom’s nurse forcing her to just sit and chew. She feels reduced to a child, unable to care for herself. 

His fingers tap against the steering wheel.

“Okay.” 

The engine turns over. She sits there with her head against the window, watches the city lights blur past in the dawn. He doesn’t talk, doesn't force conversation onto her. But she can feel his eye occasionally drift over; she can’t think about the beat of her heart when it does.

His place is clean in a lived-in way. Coffee cups in the sink. A stack of foreign medical journals on the kitchen counter. Throw slung over the back of the couch. 

She doesn’t say anything, just stands in the doorway. A tad uncertain and eyeing. 

He toes his shoes off onto a rack. Shrugs his jacket off and hangs it on a hook next to her.

He motions for her to turn around, helps her out of the stiff shell of her scrub top with gentle hands. Careful. Like she might break.

She shivers against the cool air of his apartment, sweat clinging to her skin and tank top. 

His hands purposefully don’t linger. He steps away, through the large sliding barn doors at the back, where she assumes his bedroom is. A moment later, he comes back with a sweatshirt and blankets in hand. 

He presents the sweatshirt to her silently. Their fingers brush as she takes it, slipping it on over her head. Worn cotton. Faded logo. It smells like detergent and him.

Already, she feels a little more alive.

“You can take the bed,” he offers, already walking toward the kitchen, giving her space. “I’ll be on the couch.”

It takes a moment. And then, “What?”

She pads quickly after him, floorboards creaking under her foot. 

He doesn’t answer right away—just opens the fridge, peers down, and makes a vague sound of confirmation—nothing particularly edible left.

“I can’t cook for shit, so…” 

She glances past him, can't help the comment, “And your fridge is sad.”

His eyes narrow and slowly, he straightens up, but there’s the giveaway, a little twitch of his lips. “I invite you in and you go in on my-”

“It’s, like, mostly condiments.” 

And beer, but she doesn’t mention that. She’s pretty sure Harrison, McKay's kid, would call it divorced dad core. He pulls two out, silently tips one toward her in offering. Why not, she figures, reaching out and taking the bottle from him. She cracks it open, takes a sip, and leans on the counter—the taste reminds her of college, probably the last time she can remember relaxing. 

Then, she sighs, returning to the topic, despite his attempt at a detour, “I’m not kicking you out of your bed.” Voice scratchy with fatigue, she adds lamely, “Don’t be stupid.”

He exhales through his nose, sentiment he doesn't know how to word staying firmly in his throat. 

Arms tucked into the sleeves of his sweatshirt, she watches him over the counter. 

There’s something buzzing in her chest. Inappropriately tender. 

“Not a big deal,” he says finally, then drinks, his eyes on her. Not in a waiting-for-her-to-fall-apart way. Just… on her. He’s watching her like she’s a person and not a patient, not a problem to be solved. 

She’s not quite sure what to do with it. At work, at home, she has to keep it together, pretend in equal measure that nothing is wrong, that she has it all together. So now, with the space to just breathe, she falters. She doesn't know how to be anymore. 

“You let strange, frazzled women crash your place often?” she says, trying for levity, settling into a stool across the island.

He seems to ignore her self-deprecation entirely. Doesn’t smile, doesn’t flinch. Not even a pity laugh thrown her way. The quiet that’s left sobers her. Again, he sees her. 

She shifts, realizing how near he is—how inconsequential the island is between them.

“No,” he swallows, looking down at the counter, then up at her, “just you.”

It lands with weight. She wonders what it means, if he even knows. 

She tries to take it casually. But as it rests in the quiet, she’s forced to swallow down her clashing confusion of feelings. 

She wants to say something, anything, to fill the void. Make a joke about him agreeing with her—she is frazzled. More so now. And there’s something dangerous crackling in the quiet. Instead, she sits there, eyes tracing the lines of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens slightly when he notices her watching him. 

She’s so fucking tired, and her brain is a mess—fogged by grief, adrenaline, the echo of chest compressions, the tremor still in her hands. She could be imagining it all. Probably is.

Just you.

“You need sleep,” he says, firm. “Real sleep. Not just half-hour naps when your body gives out on you.” 

“Look that bad, huh?”

“Little worse for wear,” he starts, a familiar tilt to his mouth, “Still better than most on their best.”

Again, he throws her a fraction off-kilter. 

She takes it better this time. A quick study—as he’s told her before. She’s usually better at volleying, but today she’s an exposed nerve. In the ED, the banter feels harmless, a way to pass the time. Here, in the confines of his place, it feels charged, intentional. Dangerous. 

Jack sighs, more at himself than anything else, and pushes off the counter. Releases himself from looking at her. His fingers flex at his sides, a twitch like muscle memory, like he’s already imagined what it’d be like to touch her. Pull her close. Lay his palm against the back of her neck and give in to the worst of his urges, the ones that have built up in him since he very first saw her.

But he doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because she’s grief-struck and unraveling, and he knows this would be a sort of theft.

He wouldn't be able to take it back. And she rightfully may not forgive him. He might shatter this bit of comfort he’s been able to extend to her. Or perhaps worse, she’ll want him, this, now, but not when the fog dissipates, when a clearer head prevails. 

“I’ll order in,” he says as he turns from her, flicks open a drawer overflowing with takeout menus. Mindlessly, he rifles through them as he takes a breath. He feels her eyes on his back, that prickling awareness at the base of his neck.

She knocks her knuckles on the counter, “Kay. I'm forewarning you, I’m gonna snoop.”

His eyes meet hers over his shoulder, and he nods to the low shelves in the corner, “Records over there.”

He watches her turn, the corners of her lips lifting in response. She unwinds, that last little bit of tension leaving her as she falls back into a familiar rhythm. 

“You're such a hipster piece of shit.”

“No, just old,” he states dryly just to get a smile out of her. He’s rewarded with it, accompanied by a short exhale out of her nose. 

She wanders over to the corner, squatting down as her fingers run over his collection. Taking her time gently sorting through them, she occasionally pulls one from the shelf, eyes scanning the tracklist. He can’t help the interest that’s settled into him: Which ones are to her taste? Which are bands she’s never heard of?

He’s curious about her, always—the briefest glimpses of her leading to more questions.

“You,” she starts, declaring as she pushes to stand, “are a fleetwood mac stan.”

“Of course I am, I'm a self-respecting child of the seventies.”

Her eyes stay on him for a moment before she hums, approving.

It’s that bit of curiosity that’s going to do him in. 

He hasn’t told his therapist about her. Not exactly. Not in a way that counts. The predicament that’s not a predicament. Because he’s kept his head, kept things mostly professional. 

His voice rings in his head, saying what he knows the man would, placid to promote some amount of self-reflection: 'Are you sure that’s a good idea, Jack? '

No. He’s not.

But he’s already in it. Not much farther to fall from here.

She watches as Jack pulls out a diner menu, asks her, “You like pancakes?”

“I'm partial to them.”

They remind her of weekends and summer and her mom. Of giggles and the smell of burnt batter. So yes, she supposed she likes pancakes.

Jack pulls out his phone. Presses it between his ear and shoulder like it’s muscle memory. Always multitasking.

“You a chocolate chip or blueberry kind of gal?”

An hour later, they’re sitting side by side, quietly eating. Forks clink against ceramic. Her elbow brushes his every now and then. Neither moves away. 

He’s taken his leg off. She’s let her hair loose from its bun. Something about it feels telling. 

Too comfortable for what their relationship should be. 

Beer and pancakes. Two things that shouldn't mix.

“Thank you for,” she sighs, “you know.”

The air is still around them. 

He looks over at her, and his eyes are as soft as she’s ever seen them, kind and unguarded in a way that’s a punch to the gut. They quietly roam her face—pinning her. It sits between them—this vast unnamable thing. She wonders what he’s looking for in her face. Perhaps the same thing she’s looking for in his. 

When his gaze lands on her lips—momentary, maybe accidental—it zips down her spine, lands hotly in her stomach.

He doesn’t know how to formulate the devotion on his tongue, say, I’d do anything for you or I’m sorry or Maybe if circumstances were different.

So instead he says, “You’re not a machine. You can’t run on two hours of sleep and caffeine forever.”

She hums in return.

He knows she’ll show up to the next shift the same way—dark circles, thermos in hand, too much tension in her shoulders. Tonight, his words, will probably change very little in the grand scheme of things. Change is difficult at any scale. Especially for people like them. He’s learned that much.

But if she sleeps soundly, lets some of that tension in her shoulders release, even if only for a few hours, then maybe that’s enough.

The rest of their meal is finished over hushed conversation—him digging up the remnants of his past for a good story. A few close calls, some risky maneuvers, the periodic breaking of protocol all teased out to keep her eyes on him. But eventually, time runs out, she stifles a yawn into her fist and her lids grow heavy. 

Quietly, he takes her empty plate and slides it into the dishwasher, urges her up with a hand between her shoulder blades. A gentle push to bed. His grip slides down to her waist as she reaches up onto her toes and thanks him with a press of her lips to his cheek. 

And then she’s gone, the sound of her feet padding down the hallway. She doesn’t say goodnight.

She thinks, in another version of this night, he might have followed her.

But in this version—the only they have—he just stands in the kitchen, eyes on the hallway long after she’s disappeared. He rinses the cups. Wipes down the counter like it matters. Like it keeps him from thinking too hard.

He turns the record player on. Starts an album. Keeps the volume low.

Jack sinks into the couch like it’s an old friend—his hip cracks, his back protests. This isn’t his first stint sleeping in his living room. On certain nights—bad ones—his bed is too big, too empty, too quiet, too full of memory. He’ll grab a blanket and crash out here, maybe catch an hour or two of actual rest before his next shift.

Now, he stares at the ceiling as if it might offer him clarity, like it’s penance.

It doesn’t. It never does.

He remembers how she looked—backlit by his kitchen light, sipping beer like this was any normal Tuesday, like this morning wasn’t a death sentence for his already fragile grip on propriety. It’s not even the presence of her that wrecks him—it’s the ease of it. Like she belongs here. Like it’s natural. Like the universe didn’t put a giant red do not fucking cross this line between their lives and laugh every time he toed it.

She’s asleep in the other room.

And nothing happened.

Nothing will happen.

But still, there’s that buzz in his fingertips. He wanted something to happen. It burns behind his eyelids.

Somewhere, faint through the speakers still murmuring in the background—

Billy Joel starts to hum again.

She steals like a thief, but she's always a woman to me.

Jack sighs, closing his eyes. 

Sun starts to fill the room.

Oh, she takes care of herself; she can wait if she wants. She's ahead of her time.

A/N: Thank you for reading!

[mystiqquen]

coming back to add: it took me an annoyingly long time, and my mom to get work at a place with disabled people to get past the social wall of kinda just thinking disabled people can do nothing and are just children, to actually be like "hey, this person has mobility problems but that doesn't change the fact that their brain works like min does otherwise" and like, that's honestly really embarrassing. like, she now works with people that have gotten a stroke and one of them can't talk anymore, and have trouble walking around on her own but that doesn't change the fact that she is really intelligent and deserves basic human respect.

sorry for the long rant and sorry if I've explained it badly, all I tried to say is that I'm sorry for ever thinking that disabled people were more than a child in a wheelchair. so so sorry

Wild concept that shouldn’t be wild and the coldest take ever: disabled adults are *adults* and not just children trapped in adult bodies

Disabled adults have sex

Disabled adults do drugs

Disabled adults curse

Disabled adults get piercings and tattoos

Disabled adults can make adult decisions and act and behave like adults because we are adults

It’s just so weird for people to constantly infantilize me all because of my mobility aids when I’m not a child!!!

[rafeslittlepup]

rafe can’t resist you… not even when you’re sleeping

"stop being so touchy," you giggle, slapping his hands away.

rafe just chuckles softly. "hmm, i can’t, fucking look at you" his big arms touch you as he presses his body up against yours. his lips brush against your skin, you can feel his breath on your neck.

he releases you, pouting angrily, saying, "why are you not letting me touch you."

“i’m just a little tired” you sigh as he lets go of you.

"oh, c’mon, bunny," his voice is a mixture of frustration and anger.

"no, i’m- i’m sleepy” you reply.

his face lights up with anger when you turn down his advances.

"i will touch you when you are sleeping if you don't let me touch you."

"don’t- rafe…", you chuckle and give him a death glare.

he laughs ominously. as he speaks, he raises his face directly above yours. "who’s gonna to stop me, huh, you?”

hours later, you are asleep. your body shifts in the sheets as you feel somebody's hands on your body.

rafe’s arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you tightly against his muscular chest.

“can't fucking resist you anymore, let me fuck you… just really quick.”

he kisses the back of your neck gently before slowly moving his hands inside your nightgown, exploring your sensitive skin. his erection presses firmly against your backside.

his big hands travel to your breasts, squeezing them gently. your eyebrows frown in sleep. his fingers brush over your nipples, he whispers, "you look so powerless" he grins. “and you’re not even pushing me away…”

carefully, he pushes your nightgown up, you start to slightly twitch.

"shhh.. don’t wake up, keep sleeping."

he reaches down to play with your clit, watching as your breathing gets a bit heavier and your hips buck subconsciously. he slowly pulls your panties off, revealing your wetness.

he groans at your wet cunt before sliding two fingers inside you, stretching you wide. and he cannot resist the urge to thrust deeper.

you stir in sleep as your stomach feels a little weird. and quickly pulls his finger out.

he slowly rubs himself through his boxers, and takes his thick hardness out. “j-just the tip, baby.”

taking a deep breath, he spreads your legs and slowly sinks his tip into you.

you gasp lightly, frowning. he pauses briefly, waiting for your reaction. he goes a little deeper, “fuck, so tight…”

the sensation makes you wake up. he freezes. "rafe?!", using one leg you slightly push him.

"it’s just a dream, baby. go back to sleep,"

"fuckk!" you breath in pain? in pleasure? but you end up giving in "just- just finish fast, alright? i’m tired, rafe…”

so rafe thrusts into you with urgency, hitting your spot.

he kisses your neck desperately. groans, each thrust becomes harder and faster, seconds later, he feels himself coming hard.

"why are you like this", you say, panting a little.

he chuckles, catching his breathe.

“just can’t resist you….”

[callmecoke]

Cw: handjob, pillow talk, casual sex but not in the “no strings attached” kinda way more in the “wanna quick wank before work?” Kinda way. gn reader x soap smut!!!

Had this brain worm where you are giving Johnny the best handjob in his entire life while you lay next to him and vent about your day…

“I just don’t get it, you know?” You lamented to him, your head propped up by your hand as you laid on your side. “Like, I’m not trying to be greedy, I just wish I could be acknowledged for the work I’ve put in.”

All while, your other hand was lazily stroking up and down his length, using the slickness of his precum to smooth the friction between his hard cock and your fingers. And he’s trying his best not to throw his head back and cry out into the wind but you make it really hard to concentrate when all the blood in his skull has rushed down into his balls.

“Aye…” he strained out between gritted teeth. The only word that was able to escape his lips without releasing the throaty moan building up in his lungs.

“So, should I say something? I want to be acknowledged but it’s so hard to rock the boat.” You continued to vent as if you weren’t single-handedly (literally) ruining this man.

“Do…what…you need to…luv…” he choked out, feeling your hand glide up to rub over his red needy tip, the bulbous head leaking out desperately as you caress it.

“Are you sure? I don’t know…”

he bit his knuckle as you mused, trying not to let out the deep guttural cry that was threatening to bubble out of his throat.

“Mhm…yeah…oh fuck yeah.” He had no idea what he was agreeing to anymore, so lost in the pleasure of your touch his mind had gone foggy.

He felt his balls tighten eagerly as your angelic hand continued it’s assualt on his cock. He felt his release impending like a tidal wave, legs shaking with anticipation and pure overstimulation.

You said something to him but it didn’t quite reach his ears, his body flushed hot against your welcoming palm as it jerked him, fast and tight. He could feel that familiar bubble of warmth in his pelvis, the chase of a release close to come.

“Fuck…gah, fuck!” He groaned out, his head thrown back and his mouth forming an O in a silent scream. The tidal wave of his orgasm came crashing down, his sensitive dick pulsating and spitting hot white strips of cum across his shirt.

He was left panting on the bed, entire body a rosy red as his hips jumped as even the slightest brush of your fingers was enough to keep him sensitive and aching. His entire body felt weak and boneless, all the energy he has left now a stain on the front of his shirt.

“Okay, I think I’ll try that.” You said, almost triumphant and pleased in your decision. “I’ll say something to her once I get to work. Put myself out there.” You leaned over his flushed body to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, a rather tame and loving moment compared to what had happened seconds prior. ”I’m gonna wash my hands and leave for work. you want to me put your shirt in the wash before I head out?”

He shook his head weakly and raised his hand to usher you away, in a sort of “I’ll be fine” gesture.

You smiled, giving him one last kiss on the cheek before standing and leaving the poor weak man on the bed

[sinkuna]

୨୧ ― Nanami’s breath was warm against your temple as calloused palms cradled your face. “Sweetheart, you really are such a desperate thing, aren't you?” he murmurs as he thumbs away the tear clinging to your lashes before leaning in to kiss you softly.

When his thigh presses upward, the groan you swallow trembles in your throat, cotton panties clinging to your slick folds as his knee rocks against you in torturous circles. It's almost unbearable, the need that coils tight within your belly- the dampness between your legs… Your cheeks tinted with embarrassment when you can't control the sob that slips between your lips.

“Shh,” he soothes, catching your whimper with his mouth, lips curving into that private half smile reserved only for moments when your self control frays. His wedding band glints for a second as he brushes damp hair from your forehead, the gold cool against your feverish skin, “Look at you, trembling like a leaf. Have I let you ache too long, my love?”

You shake your head, fingers fisting the crisp linen of his collar as your hips roll and press down against his knee.

Pulling away from you, Nanami looks deep into your eyes- nothing but pure love and affection coming from his own, “tell me, what is it you need from me?”

Your mind spins as the words come tumbling out, voice trembling and needy, “mn’need you~ Kento inside m-me- n-hah~ now…“

He smiles, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of your nose, his hands gently gripping the soft flesh of your hips, “You don't want the vibrator first? That way you’re nice and prepared…? You know I don't want to hurt you…”

You look up at him through lidded eyes, your chest heaving and cheeks flushed as you shake your head, the movement slight, your hair falling over your shoulder with the motion, “p-please... I- I want the stretch- wan’it to hurt- just please, Kento... please, please fuck me already-“ you pant lightly, “just need you- need you inside me- need you to fuck me so hard, make me scream until my voice is gone… i- I can't stand it- i- I’ve missed you so much. I- I thought I lost you…”

Nanami is silent for a moment, taking in the sight of you… His large hand coming up to stroke through your hair, “…I know.” His lips trail up your neck before teeth nip at your earlobe, “I know darling… but, I’m here now, and I've got you wrapped in my arms. You don't have to think about anything anymore… just relax, let me take care of you, okay? Just like always...”

Your back bows when he moves down to press an open mouthed kiss to your hipbone, his once neat hair falling into his eyes as his hand dips beneath your panties to drag a thick finger through your folds.

“And I promise,” Nanami removes his hand momentarily from your pussy, licking your slick from his finger before reaching for your hand to bring it to his mouth. Pressing the softest kiss to the tips of your fingers, his eyes never leaving yours, “I'm not going anywhere...”

[bubobubosibericus]

OK FINE I'LL WRITE ONE

I don't remember what happened, not really. I remember it being unexpected, and I remember the movement of the air around me being strangely comforting. But that is all. I don't know why emotions are all I remember of the before when most of the thing experiencing those emotions is gone, but that is how it is. When I woke up I was laying in a clinic. Blind in one eye, but otherwise okay, or that is what I presumed.

I was right in that I could no longer see out of one eye, but I was as far from okay as it is possible to be, and it wasn't really that I was blind in one eye. More that there wasn't an eye to be blind in anymore.

It was gone, along with most of the left side of my head. The doctors told me they had only kept me alive because they were amazed I was alive at all when they found me and wanted to run some more experiments on me before dropping the stasis field and burying me. Of course, that was before I woke up.

I don't begrudge them the experiments, really. I would have done mostly the same ones. Of course, I had my fair share of critiques of their work, but that was just academic. My left arm will never work again due to the bronze rods they stuck straight into my nerves but the information we obtained that way makes it more than worth the small sacrifice.

Looking at my reflection still feels strange, with the large, fragile mesh of iridescent crystal that has grown to replace most of where my brain had been so plainly visible, grafted into the mostly healed skin, starting at my cheek, going just barely over the bridge of my nose, and then all the way around to the back. Of course, the scars go much farther than that. I did not fall off the highest tower in the capital, but it had been plenty high to mangle my body quite severely.

I can use my right arm and legs now, but to get to that point a very skilled immortal craftsman had to meticulously shape the crystal into manageable chunks and I can feel it awkwardly being pulled on by my muscles with every movement I make.

We don't really know why I fell. Wizards have never been a species particularly know for their dexterity but I had been a veritable athlete compared to some of my far older peers. I had been well liked among them, too, of course, but the field of temporal research has always been prone to strangely mundane deadly accidents.

The story goes that the entire subject is cursed for attempting to manipulate the hands of fate, but I have never been convinced by those rumors. Power struggles are not rare among mages, and such a rumor might provide ample cover to get rid of potential competitors. I have no idea who did it, but I am convinced that someone did.

Thankfully saner heads prevailed over my preservation and I had been quietly moved out of the city long before I woke up. Out of the hands of whomever might intend to do me harm. I can never return there, but at least I can continue my research in silence here, in the mountains of ash. Also a place said by myth to be deeply accursed. I guess I just can't seem to learn my lesson.

But I just can't help it! the place speaks to me, and I don't mean that figuratively. That is another thing that has changed since the accident. I hear voices. Every place has its own. Most places have been fairly uninteresting. Places do not have complex desires. They want the same things the life on them wants and for most of them that is nothing more complex than to enjoy the light of the sun and the gentleness of mild rain on a hot day.

Not so with the mountains of Ash.

This place has a morose sorrow to it. The skies are blue and the rocks are plain, but it isn't the shape of the place. Something has happened here. It wasn't always like this, the voices tell me. Someone did something to this place. For the past year, I have been traveling in these mountains, and I have come to agree with the rocks. The mountains of ash are not cursed at all. they are simply like me.

Badly hurt, angry and sad. And most of all, they want to understand what happened to them like I want to know what happened to me. We have been helping each other out in that regard. I do research on what happened here, and in return, the mountains keep me safe and hidden. Sometimes, I get to see glimpses of what happened to them, and of what they were before. I see a great many-winged beast soaring overhead and a vast storm on the ground. I see castles collapsing and I see beautiful meadows that are no more. I see the burning dead and I can feel their anger and fear crash into me like a wave and then the sun breaks through the clouds a little faster than expected and I somehow know with absolute certainty that I am safe. It is as if the hills themselves are glad to finally share their woes with someone.

I am still no closer to knowing who took my brain from me, but at least I have gained a home.

When a mage is badly injured, magic sometimes "fills in the gaps"—growing an arcane hand or leg. You suffered brain damage that would have killed most. Magic filled in your mind.

[always1star]

staring

caleb always stares at you, but why?

caleb x reader, lil hurt/comfort. not proofread (ofc)

-----------------------------------

You often catch Caleb staring at you. 

Reading a book? Eating a meal he made you? Scrolling lazily on social media? He’s always looking at you, with that dumb little grin on his face, leaning against a table or doorframe, just admiring you. 

Everytime you catch him, you get flustered and try to shoo him away. “Caleb! Stop staring at me!” yelling as you throw something at him so he can just go away. He stands there like an idiot, blocking himself with his arms, laughing. 

“What do you mean?” he throws his arms over his head again as he braces himself for whatever you next decide is throwable. 

What you don’t realize, however, is the reason behind why he does it, let alone so often. Sure, he stares at you for a long time because he gets lost thinking about how adorable you are, but the true reason why is far more daunting.

Caleb can’t stop looking at you because he’s scared of losing you again. He’s scared of turning around and finding you gone. He fears every time he sees you may be the last and he wants to engrave every aspect of you into his soul just in case. 

One night, you invite him over knowing he’ll be back from Skyhaven. While waiting, you find yourself falling asleep on the couch while watching a particularly boring movie. Some time later, you wake up to see him looking down at you and yelp. You try to rub the sleep away from your eyes then return his stare. You definitely weren’t expecting him to watch you sleep. 

You’re about to say something, yell at him for not waking you up and for scaring you, but something is a little off. This time, that boyish grin is nowhere to be found. He’s frowning with his brows furrowed as he watches over you. Your expression soon matches his. “What? What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t reply to my messages. I got worried that something happened to you.” He’s never usually this serious. You awkwardly laugh and brush it off, “Sorry, I got sleepy, haha.” You sit up and pat the spot next to you, yet he stands unmoving. 

He continues to stare at you to take in the fact that you’re intact and totally alright. The worry is still evident in the tenseness of his face and body. He was truly scared that something happened, that he really lost you again. He won’t tell you that he rushed here, breaking every rule on the road as his heart beat out of his chest, just to find you peacefully sleeping. 

“You gonna keep staring at me?” you tilt your head slightly and smile. You hope it lightens the mood. “You worry me, you know that? Looking at you puts me at ease because I know you’re okay.” he softly says as he walks over to the spot you offered earlier. His eyes never leave yours as he sits down. 

He leans against your shoulder and snuggles his head into the crook of your neck. His arms wrap around your waist, You’re not exactly sure what to do, hesitating before you run your hands up and down his back. 

“Don’t forget to text me back next time, okay?” he slightly peeks his head up to look at you. You nod in acknowledgement, “Okay, I will.” That’s all he needed to hear, and that’s all that needed to be said. 

Lesson learned: from now on, you are going to text him back and you’re not going to question why he stares at you anymore.

-----------------------------------

i lost all ability to write and im so angry at this spring banner (caleb come home)

[chamomiletealeaf]

Taking care of Simon when he's sick :(

He hides it like a sick dog trying not to show weakness. You don't even realize something is off until he gets really quiet and doesn't snuggle up to you on the couch anymore.

At first you thought he just needed time to readjust to coming home after a mission but he wouldn't let you anywhere near him and it made you a little sad. What was wrong?

Then you heard him trying to suppress coughs in the bathroom, his body getting weaker, and him sleeping longer.

"Simon baby are you ok?" You ask, sitting next to him on the couch while he watches the game.

"Hm? oh yeah love." He says, but you don't buy it.

"No you're not. Why don't you wanna snuggle me? You been avoiding it. And you're sleeping longer too. What's wrong?" You say, looking at him with sad eyes that make his heart hurt.

"Oh just. Not feeling the greatest that's all. I'm sorry love." He says, feeling terrible for making you feel neglected.

You hum in response and try not to take it too personally. He had a rough few months.

Then one afternoon, you come home from the store and find Simon laying down on the couch, arm slung over his eyes.

You place the groceries down and walk over to him.

"Hi honey! I'm back.... you ok?" You ask when you see the state he's in on the couch.

He grunts in response and that was it. There was definitely something wrong.

You walk up to him and sit next to him on the couch, removing his arm, which he lets you due to the weakness of his body right now, and you place your hand on his forehead.

"Oh honey." You coo. "You're burning up baby. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Can take care of myself love I'm ok." He says, trying to roll onto his side away from you. "Don't wanna get you sick."

You grip his jaw gently and turn him towards you.

“Look at me.” You demand, and he does.

“Oh baby your eyes are bloodshot.” You say, voice dripping with sympathy.

You get up and walk to the medicine cabinet then to the kitchen to get a wet rag for him. You return with some Advil, a water bottle, and a blanket.

"Now I don't know what you were thinking trying to hide from me. But I'm not leaving you like this alone." You say, putting the blanket over him where he lays on the couch.

"Come here baby this'll help you." You sit by him again with a wet rag, and he lets you place it on his forehead.

"Really I'm fine love-" He protests.

"Ah- none of that. Lay down and I'll make you some soup okay?" You cut him off.

"I'll make it later." He argues yet again.

You pause for a moment, wondering how to get him to relent and let you take care of him.

"No." You say, not being able to think of anything else.

He raises an eyebrow at you, and it really was cute. Him thinking that you really were just going to leave him alone and let him suffer in silence.

You sit down next to him and open the Advil bottle and the bottle of water.

"Here baby, open." You say, the Advil pill in your hand. "Gonna help break the fever."

He waits for a second, looking at you, then at the pill in your hand. He sits up in defeat with a sigh, finally letting you help him.

"There we go." You coo. "Now open." You reach your hand to his face, lightly squeezing his cheeks to open his mouth. He let's it happen and you pop the pill in his mouth.

"Good. Now drink this." You bring the water bottle up to his lips and he takes a few gulps, giving it back to you when he's finished.

"See? isn't that better baby?" You say as he lays back down and he nods.

You reach to cup his cheeks to feel his burning skin once more.

"Oh honey. You're all flushed. Drink that water down for me ok? I'm gonna make you some soup." You tell him softly, your eyes sad that he felt like he needed to hide from you.

He nods as he lies back down, eyes closing from the exhaustion of the fever and headache.

A few minutes later you come back with some soup for him and place it in front of him.

"Here baby." You say.

"Thank you love." He responds, taking the soup and swallowing it down. Poor baby really was hungry and was too afraid to ask for some help :(

He finishes then sets the bowl down.

"I'm sorry lovie." He says, and your eyebrow raises.

"For what?"

"Making you feel like I was avoiding you." He says with regret.

"Oh honey. C'mere." You say, laying next to him and pulling him into you.

"No, gonna get you sick dovey." He says, getting cut off with a cough.

You pull him into your chest, him laying on top of you despite his protests of being so close to you where he shoves his face into your chest, your cooler skin contrasting his significantly warmer skin.

You play with his hair as he closes his eyes and you find it funny his actions are the opposite of his words.

"I don't care about getting sick. I care about you feeling better. That's what I'm here for baby." You coo down at him.

He grunts into your chest and you press a kiss to his head.

"Feel a little better?" You ask, and you feel his lips form into a smile against where he has his face shoved in your cleavage as he lets out a confirming hum, making you giggle.

"Aw you're still burning up honey." You say, brushing your thumb against his flushed cheek. "Go to sleep. I'm right here."

And with that, you both doze off in each other's arms.

This is kinda shit but enjoy I guess

[rafes-honey]

𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐭 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐌𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐢𝐭. ౨ৎ

(Summary - You always say you love Rafe and he always replies with “I care about you to.”)

There was a time when you thought love would fix Rafe Cameron.

Like if you just held him hard enough, loved him loud enough, stayed patient and sweet and sunlit long enough, the shadows in him would dissolve. The anger, the numbness, the mess Ward left behind. You thought you could kiss away the bruises on his heart like they were nothing more than cuts from falling off a bike.

But Rafe wasn’t broken in the way you understood.

He was twisted. Twisted by a lifetime of never being enough, of being told to toughen up and silence the soft parts of himself until they shriveled into something cold and cruel. And for a while, he let that version of himself bleed into you. The version that yelled when he was scared, pushed when he wanted to be held, ran when he should’ve stayed.

You still remember that night the fight.

It started like most things with Rafe did: soft, then sharp.

He had been distant all week, buried in work, too tired to come to bed, snapping over things that didn’t matter. The dishes. The mail. The way you left your sweater draped over the porch swing instead of hanging it up. You tried not to take it personally. You always did.

But that night, you couldn’t take it anymore.

You were standing in the kitchen, barefoot in one of his old shirts, arms crossed so tight your knuckles turned white.

“You know what I don’t get?” you said, voice quieter than your rage should’ve allowed. “You say you care about me. You say you’re trying. But I don’t think you even love me.”

He didn’t look at you.

Just stood by the fridge, jaw clenched, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I’ve said I care. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yeah. Physically. But emotionally? You’re a ghost, Rafe. I tell you I love you and you just say I care about you too. Like it’s a fucking business transaction.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. You hated that it did.

Rafe’s eyes darted up to meet yours. There was something in them you couldn’t read not anger, not softness. Just… conflict.

“I’ve never said that to anyone,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Said what?”

“That I loved them.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, like the air had thickened. Your stomach twisted.

“So what, I’m just another girl you’re fucking until you find someone you can love?”

“No.” His voice was sharp now, laced with that familiar frustration. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me understand, Rafe, because all I see is a guy who takes and takes and can’t even tell his girlfriend he loves her after everything she’s given him.”

Silence. Heavy. Immovable.

And then your voice broke completely. “I love you so much it hurts. And I don’t think you feel anything close to that for me.”

His lips parted. But nothing came out.

And that silence hurt worse than if he’d screamed.

You’d gone to bed alone that night. You heard him outside on the porch for hours, pacing, lighting cigarette after cigarette and never finishing one. You cried until your eyes swelled shut, gripping a pillow that still smelled like him and wondering how long you could keep loving someone who couldn’t love you back.

But something changed after that night.

He didn’t say it not that but he changed.

Therapy became more than just a checkbox. He stopped deflecting. He let the sessions carve into him, dig up all the rot and guilt and twisted wiring. He started talking. Really talking. To the therapist, to you. Not always easily, but honestly.

He started showing up. Not just coming home, but being home.

And he got the job. A real one. Building houses, pouring foundations, laying the kind of bricks he said felt solid beneath his fingers. You used to joke that Rafe needed something outside of his brain to break and rebuild, and construction was just that. Each wall he built was another piece of him coming back together.

The two of you bought a house too big, a little old, with hydrangeas out front and floorboards that creaked when it rained. You called it “haunted cottage core.” Rafe hated that, but not really. He rebuilt the staircase by hand. Repainted the kitchen cabinets with you one weekend, both of you speckled in white and blue paint, laughing until your ribs ached.

But he still hadn’t said it. And some nights, that silence still echoed.

Then came the ring.

His mother’s. Found it in a box from Tannyhill, tucked between old photographs and hair clips. Simple. Silver like center like a piece of ocean frozen in time. He stared at it for hours that night.

He didn’t know what it meant if he was worthy of using it. If she’d want him to. If you’d want him to.

But every time he imagined losing you, the air left his lungs.

And that meant something.

So the night he did it, he didn’t plan anything grand. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t you.

You were on the porch, sitting on the swing, wrapped in a blanket, hair still wet from your bath, wearing the hoodie of his you always stole when you were sad.

He sat beside you. Silent. For a long time.

Then, his voice quiet, almost hoarse. “I know I’ve been… a lot. I know I’ve hurt you.”

You looked at him slowly, heart already racing, but said nothing.

“I used to think love was something people said just to get laid. Or control each other. Or pretend shit was okay when it wasn’t. My parents? Yeah. They loved each other. And they still broke everything they touched.”

You watched him, your heart breaking in slow motion.

“But then you came along. And you stayed. Even when I made it impossible. You stayed.”

You swallowed hard. “Rafe…”

“I didn’t say it before… because I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like.” He reached into his hoodie pocket. Pulled out the ring. “But now? I get it.”

He dropped to one knee right there on the porch, the light from the windows casting a soft glow across his face. His hands were trembling. He didn’t care.

“I love you.”

You gasped, lips parting like they wanted to say finally, but the words got caught behind your tears.

“I love you so much it scares the shit out of me. And I should’ve said it that night. When you begged me to. But I didn’t want to say it until I meant it. And I mean it now.”

His voice cracked. “You’re the only person who ever made me want to be better. You’re the only thing in my life that’s ever felt real. So I’m asking you… will you marry me?”

You dropped to your knees too, hands flying to your mouth, laughing through your sobs.

And you whispered the only word that ever felt big enough for the moment.

“Yes.”

He slid the ring on your finger, and you didn’t even look at it. You just kissed him like your soul had been waiting years for this exact second.

And in that kiss, in that trembling embrace, in that breathless, beautiful collapse into each other Rafe finally understood what love felt like.

It felt like safety.

It felt like pain.

It felt like home.

[munv]

Cld i also request for diasomnia + ignihyde w raiden ei! like reader really love ur character! reader fics AKAJSJSHDH sorry if its too much </3

DIASOMNIA / IGNIHYDE X RAIDEN EI !READER

No because thank you SO much for requesting this. My inconsistency was coming back and I literally needed something that would make me work

MALLEUS

He notices you immediately. It's in the "thunder literally crackles around me too so I noticed yours from like 20 miles away" type of thing. Ancient fellow meets ancient fellow and it's one of those times where conversation isnt necessary. He realizes that you might also not be human after a while and he questions you about it.

He's a little scared that you might not take a liking to him anymore since he doesn't want to come off as brazen, yet he cant help but be curious.

Only to find out that you're a god of you're own country? He stares for a moment, slowly processing it and goes "is that so?". Not in the "I don't believe you and you're crazy way". It's in the "we now have a lot more in common" type of way.

He indulges in your oddly specific sweet tooth, bringing you little snacks and stuff to try together since you both have no idea what normal people eat.

LILIA

He laughs. In your face. First meeting.

Lilia is a good 700+ years old. So when he was face to face with someone who has been one for over 3000? He questioned for a moment if he would become that stoic (miserable) by the time he finishes 1000.

He pokes around your exterior, trying to see if he could possibly rile up a storm out of you. You dont strike him, so he takes that as a go ahead to keep it up. He teases you endlessly, noticing how you are exactly like malleus and way behind on trends and such. Although he isnt as shut in as the both of you, he is somewhat well versed in the latest things.

He doesn't find himself surprised when he gets you a phone and it ends up sparking up because you couldnt control your quiet excitement when you got it.

SILVER

He treats you gently, and he finds himself careful to not overstep any boundaries you have placed around yourself. Not because he finds himself scared, but because he genuinely respects you. He nods when you speak a few words, he opens doors for you, braids your hair under trees.

You're surprised when a bunch of animals follow him around, especially when he actually does a good job in braiding your hair. The flower additions into it? You love that too.

SEBEK

If you thought that silver was your no.1 admirer? you got another thing coming. Sebek basically explodes. Because at first? he sees you as a rival to Malleus, but over time? he grows to respect you if not, just as much. He begs you to train him and share your ever so "godly discipline". He constantly screams and yells about your noble aura and your gentle heart.

You've never met someone who could be so loud, yet loyal at the same time. Still, you give in and hand him a sword and just tell him "strike"

It's like that meme where its the avatar's saying "I can't help you bro, you jus gotta feel it". He never gives up though, and continues even if hes failing your training regimen, you've began to respect that about him, despite his outlandish tendencies to basically preach your praises on campus.

IDIA

He has a total meltdown. He hides, he panics, he screeches. "THATS A LEVEL10000 BOSS?? BRO WHY ARE THEY HERE?". Whenever he texts you, he realizes that you're one of those people who just give simple responses. "Yes." "No." "Thank you." “Why are you like this”

Idia thrives online but when he actually has to meet you face to face? he's a little nervous. Scratch a little— He basically screams bloody mary when you slightly lift your hand. Yet, he still enjoys your company. Despite him referencing you to his many different video game bosses and being chronically online with his odd slang? He finds comfort in your humble yet demanding ways.

"you're highkey scary but..lowkey chill?" You blink at him. "yes?"

He turns you inner realm into a video game setting.

ORTHO

Ortho finds himself doing extensive research on you. Your powers, your limitations, where you're from, If it's possible for you to overblot, all of the above.

He cheers and zooms around you in excitement whenever he sees you. Maybe he's just attracted to the lightning you emit, who knows. He likes hugging you and such.

If he wants more research? he goes to you, hands over some dango, and starts scanning you for 6 hours straight. Idia wonders how its possible for you to stay still for that long.

It comes with the meditation you do in your inner realm ever so often, you explain, and ortho is just scanning you casually without a care in the world.

He really likes the little zaps that you give him, he finds it ticklish, and he cute little giggles fuel you even more. “That tickled, again!” You blink, sigh, and zap him again, listening to him squeal in glee.

“Again!”

You smile at his childlike wonder