#no matter what you keep finding something to fight for

[writeriguess]

heyy hope you're well! i love your writing, if possible, could you write bakugou thanking his wife when he wins an award for his hero work? thank you x

The Real Reward

The bright stage lights glare down on Bakugou Katsuki as he stands behind the sleek black podium, a polished golden trophy in his calloused hands. The weight of the award is nothing compared to the battles he’s fought, the villains he’s taken down, or the lives he’s saved—but still, it feels heavy. Heavy with meaning, with gratitude, with everything he’s never been good at saying.

The crowd watches in hushed anticipation, thousands of eyes locked onto him. Cameras flash, recording this moment for history, for the next generation of heroes to look back on. And yet, none of that matters to him. Not the reporters, not the sponsors, not even the high-ranking heroes sitting in the front row. No, his crimson gaze seeks out only one person—his wife.

You’re standing off to the side, close enough to the stage that he can see you clearly, but far enough that you’re not in the limelight. But that’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? You, supporting him from just beyond the glare, always within reach yet never demanding the spotlight for yourself. You who stayed up on sleepless nights, waiting for him to return. You who patched up his wounds when he was too stubborn to go to Recovery Girl. You who kissed the scars he earned from throwing himself between civilians and danger. You who, despite everything, never stopped believing in him.

Bakugou exhales sharply through his nose, gripping the trophy a little tighter. He’s never been good at this kind of shit—expressing what’s in his heart. But for you, he’d try. Always.

“Tch,” he huffs into the mic, making the audience chuckle lightly. “Dunno why I gotta say somethin’. I did what needed to be done, that’s all.”

Another wave of quiet laughter, but there’s nothing amusing about the way his expression softens when he finds your eyes again. He swallows thickly, his grip on the trophy loosening slightly. “But… this ain’t just my win.”

The room is silent now, hanging onto his words. Heroes give speeches all the time, but when it’s Ground Zero—explosive, rough-around-the-edges, no-nonsense Ground Zero—giving one, people listen.

“This job ain’t easy,” he continues, voice gruff but steady. “We don’t just fight villains—we fight exhaustion, self-doubt, the weight of every goddamn life that’s ever been put in our hands. It ain’t just the battles out there that wear us down—it’s the quiet moments, the aftermath. When the dust settles, and all that’s left is the question of whether we did enough.”

He lets the words hang in the air for a second before pressing on. “And through all that… there’s only one person who’s been there for every moment. One person who saw me at my lowest and never looked away. Who didn’t give up on me, even when I was too much of a stubborn bastard to let myself lean on ‘em.”

You press your fingers to your lips, trying to keep the emotion from spilling over. You knew he loved you—you never doubted that. But to hear it, to witness it, to feel it in the weight of his words, was something else entirely.

Bakugou clears his throat, looking away for a moment like he needs to gather himself. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, but no less firm. “To my wife,” he says, staring straight at you. “Thank you. For every damn thing.”

A murmur runs through the audience. Some people smile, some glance at you with admiration, and a few reporters scramble to jot down the rare sentimental words from the number one hero. But none of that matters to you. The only thing that matters is the way his eyes soften, the way his mouth quirks in the smallest, barely-there smirk meant just for you.

He lifts the trophy slightly. “This? This ain’t just mine. It’s yours, too. ‘Cause I wouldn’t be standin’ here without you.”

The applause is deafening. The roar of the crowd, the whistles, the cheers—they’re all for him, for the hero they adore. But the look in his eyes, the words left unspoken between you, tell you the truth:

His heart, his victory, his everything—

Those are for you.

[pupkashi]

a/n: some more jinwoo headcanons #needthat :P

boyfriend!jinwoo who absolutely melts under your touch, any stress he’s harboring in his shoulders dissipates the second he comes home to you

boyfriend!jinwoo who is so smitten with you he finds himself wanting to come home to you every hour of the day, even finding himself at your job at random times because there was an ‘urgent matter’ he needed to discuss with you, even pulling the s rank card at times to get to you (he just wanted to see you and ask if you needed anything from the grocery store)

boyfriend!jinwoo who didn’t mind you teasing him, always having a small smile on his face when you tried to playful fight or wrestle with him, he was always gentle with you, making sure to keep his strength in check

boyfriend!jinwoo who would flip you under him and pin your wrists to the ground in the blink of an eye when you were being too bratty for his liking, his eyes glowing as he hovered over you, “you done sweetheart?”

boyfriend!jinwoo who blushes SO profusely anytime he finds you staring at him shirtless or in his boxers, he gets so shy under your gaze and his face flushes a deep pink color “w-what? do i have something on me?” he asks, trying to catch a glance of himself in the mirror only for you to shake your head no, “you’re just good to look at” you tease

boyfriend!jinwoo who picks you up and carries you around like you weight nothing, especially when you’re being stubborn about something he’s not above simply picking you up and throwing you over his shoulder

boyfriend!jinwoo who is too attractive for his own good, not realizing just how hot he was and flashing a smile out of kindness to a girl at the bar, you roll your eyes at him when he turns around, grabbing your things and walking out of the bar

“doll what’s wrong?” he’s quick to follow after you, when you don’t stop he’s standing in front of you in a flash, causing you to walk into his toned chest. before you can walk around him he’s got both your hands in his, “don’t walk away from me, talk to me my love”

boyfriend!jinwoo who leaves beru with you when he has to be far from you, beru quickly takes a liking to you after seeing how happy his liege was with you, when jinwoo summons him back he feels a little sad, telling jinwoo he would be more than happy to keep guard of you again, even managing to slip in how you were the only one fit enough for someone such as his highness

boyfriend!jinwoo who loves cooking for you, making you your favorite dishes and comfort foods. he loves having you sit on the counter next to him in one of his t shirts, letting you try everything and getting your input (you always think it’s perfect)

boyfriend!jinwoo who seems so stoic and emotionless in public, but is a ball of happiness and softness with you behind closed doors, warm eyes and soft gentle touches reserved just for you

the world would never know that sung jinwoo practically purrs when you run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching his scalp. only you would ever know the quiet whine he lets out when you kiss his sharp jawline. only you would ever know the sound of his giggles when you place a flurry of kisses on his face. only you would get to see the love sick look on his face when you catch him staring at you randomly during domestic moments.

boyfriend!jinwoo who reserves the sweetest part of himself for only you <3

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Eldritch Ex-Husband ///////

Your now ex-husband is incredibly surprised when the authorities are dispatched to your new house when he enters. Thinking nothing of it he broke the knob of your new home, thinking after all that time talking with the judge over some foreign topic you’d both be settling into the new place. Turns out this ‘divorce’-thing and ‘restraining order’-stuff meant something after all. That he couldn’t be with you and the baby.

“Wait, the dee - force means I don’t get to come home? What–?”

“Sir, if you give me trouble it’ll only hurt your chances of seeing your kid more.”

“Wait I can’t see him? (Y/n)! (Y/n)-honey, please!”

“Sir, please put your hands behind your back.”

The only reason he doesn’t suck their brains out through their noses+ fight more is because he’s so devastated as he thinks about how in the dark about cruel-human-practices. Only now does it register that when you were oh-so cutely crying about leaving, you weren’t talking about a late night run to the store to satisfy your cravings. That the word he had dismissed as something you wanted to buy was actually an action. An action that meant he’d be deprived of the most important person in his life.

“Hello?”

“......I did not understand before….but I understand now.”

“Kilton? You know a restraining order extends to calls, right?”

“IM nOt LetTInG yOu go—”

Click.

“Creep.”

As he reluctantly uses the resources proposed to him, to argue for custody he has time to think about when you first mentioned the word. But the more he replays those heavenly moments with you he realizes how often your brow was scrunched and a vein was popping from that kissable forehead. It’s then that your ex-husband begins to realize just how little he was actually listening to you. Ashamed, he’s realized that while he finds all your actions absolutely irresistible it didn’t mean you were happy. And he really had no one to blame but himself.

“Hello this is Kilton (L/n) if you have a message leave it at the tone….beep.”

“Hey I hope I got the right number but I need your help with the baby….there’s stuff going on that I have no idea how to deal with. I won’t call the police or tell anyone..I just need….some help. And you're the only one who can give it to me.”

“OF COURSE i’LL BE RIGht oVER!”

“Wait you never set up your voicemai—”

When you left your husband, you were tired of being so confused all the time. Your husband, your best friend was keeping you in the dark for a long time now. Starting from the occasionally odd behavior you’d witness him do, that he’d brush off as if it were nothing. Like the doors in the house that have begun to open to alternate dimensions (that’s what you believe but your husband will not explain in any way) ignoring your concerns and calling you being ‘silly.’ It was annoying but you hadn’t died yet so it wasn’t that bad…until you got pregnant.

“How can this be?”

“Yippee I told you, that one took!”

“No, I literally can’t.”

“Of course, you can babe, you already are look at your little bump.”

“No like I literally can’t this is unbelievable.”

Whether you physically can and were vigilant in prevention or you physically should not be able to conceive matters not. You are pregnant. Or you were. And while dealing with the intense hormones and birthing pains and gravity-defying phenomena happening in your home, your ex-husband would explain nothing. Doing nothing but smile wistfully at you while you demanded to know why the fridge was inching closer every time you turned the corner. Any sane person could only handle so much of his pretend assurances that you were just losing your mind. 

But hindsight 20/20 you should’ve known you couldn’t get rid of your eldritch ex-husband with your eldritch baby. 

“Hey you left the door unlocked, so I let myself in. Babe, you can’t be doing that it’s really unsa–the furniture doesn’t look at all like it did before.”

“Of course it doesn’t! Because your son has decided to rearrange it with his humming!” 

“That’s not a hum, Love. He’s singing a hymn of Utter Chaos–”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT IT IS MAKE HIM STOP.”

As you suspected the root of all the inexplicable happenings in your life were because of your ex-husband and by extension the little bundle that has been doing all sorts of things a normal baby shouldn’t. Like humming the ‘utter chaos song’ or making supplies float over to you while changing him or how at the end of his bath the water turns red and evaporates in an echo of screams. It’s just a little alarming.

“Where is the baby?”

“In that other dimension.”

“Excuse me?”

“Isn’t that something familiar to you? Every now and then he just goes into this other dimension that let’s his laugh morph the walls a little.”

“Oh my. That’s new for me too.”

Surprisingly despite your husband’s now-confirmed-eldritch-heritage he’s not an exact expert on everything his son does. Apparently no one from his world/dimension/atternate plane of existence does everything your son does and is blissfully writing off as something from your side of the family. He’ll shrug and use the opportunity to listen to you list the observations you’ve made about your darling offspring and maybe compliment you on your vigilance as a new unfortunately single parent. Don’t worry it won’t be that way for long!+

“So the blood water thing. It happens whenever he interacts with water.”

“Oh I know that one it’s an old habit of mine, for storing water for later!”

“What about the metal-eating?”

“Metal eating? With no teeth? Beats me must have gotten a taste from all those utensils you’re so fond of. By the way parenthood looks good on you have I told you that?”

As he becomes more of a constant presence in your home, there's a startling change in your baby boy’s behavior. It doesn’t stop but it’s a lot less destructive. Finally, you could have the delivery crew enter the yard without them being swallowed by the portal to your son’s crib. Finally, you can afford to have a couple-hour meet and greet with your family without anyone inexplicably sprouting horns. So reluctantly you let him back into your life with very specific conditions.

“You can’t stay the night.”

“Aww but aren’t you worried about me going home in the dark?”

“I know you’re not just some helpless human, so no. Second rule no kissing or lovey dovey things with me.”

“Got it. So vague I can work with that.”

“And finally–”

“EEEKK! WHAT DID HE DO TO MY BABY!?”

“Oh guess someone’s up from their nap.”

“I’ll distract her with a ring to her doorbell, you change back the dog.”

“As always, please try to turn down her invites for dinner this time. I don’t think I can spare her if she upsets him again.”

“No promises!”

Kilton realizes that what he has with you doesn’t mean he’s equally let back into your life, especially since so many other couples ailed by this (dee)force co-parent more or less the same so he’s got his work cut out for him. He’ll have to finally get over his listening issue while worming his way back into your heart! And don’t worry he definitely will!

[starsinthesky5]

what about joe? is he mr. possessive too?

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

oh, absolutely. joe is just as possessive, if not more. i mean, look at who he's with? millions of men and women had their hearts broken the moment the first photo of joe and her surfaced. plenty of people want her, but they just can’t have her…and joe makes sure of that ;)

the difference is that while she wears her possessiveness and jealousy like a statement piece--subtle but unmistakable--joe’s possessiveness is quieter, more controlled. but don’t get me wrong, it’s there, bubbling just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to show itself. he was always, and i mean always calm, cool, and collected. on and off the field.

like when some random guy gets a little too comfortable in her space, touching her arm when he laughs at something she said, or leaning in just a little too close. joe doesn’t make a scene, doesn’t immediately pull her away, but his hand finds the small of her back, fingers spreading wide across her skin. he does that to not only calm himself, but calm her in case she ever felt uncomfortable from any of the attention she received, and sometimes she did. sometimes the looks would linger a second longer than they were meant to, sometimes a touch felt more forceful than playful, and sometimes she could sense the unspoken intentions behind a seemingly harmless gesture.

and when joe noticed (which was always) his eyes darkened, his jaw tightened, and anyone paying attention would know--he was warning them.

nobody is about to mess with his girl while he’s right there. nope. not happening. her comfort, safety, and happiness was his number 1 priority at any given time.

but he wouldn't always become possessive because he felt the need to protect her, there were some moments when she wore something that makes her look so good it physically hurt, and he believed that only he was meant to see her looking like this. he won’t tell her to change--he loves when she looks good, loves when she feels confident--but his hand stays on her, a silent reminder to everyone else that she’s his.

doesn't matter where, her hip, her thigh, her back, her arm...his hand is there.

and then there are moments when it’s just them--when the world fades away and all that’s left is heat and hunger and him. when he’s pressing her into the mattress, hands everywhere, touch burning and possessive. his breath is hot against her skin, sending shivers down her spine as he murmurs, "mine. say it."

but it’s not just a request--it’s a demand.

his fingers tighten on her hips, holding her there, keeping her exactly where he wants her. his lips trace a slow path down her neck, his teeth grazing over sensitive skin, making her whimper. he knows exactly what he’s doing, how to push her to the edge before he’s even inside her. she’s breathless, dizzy with need, but he won’t move until he hears it.

"joe--,".

his grip tightens. "baby, say it,".

his voice is rough, wrecked, on the edge of losing control. she arches into him, nails raking down his back, eyes hazy with desire as she gasps, "yours. i’m yours, i promise,".

and that’s all it takes.

—

so, yes--mr. possessive is very much alive and breathing. and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

he never took it too far, never made it feel intimidating or aggressive. he was protective over her, and she was extremely grateful for that (mostly because her exes could never come close to how joe was so...man. does that even make sense? like 6'4, muscles for days, piercing blue eyes, and a smile that shined brighter than the rarest jewels in the world. like he was so man. so knight-in-shining armor coded). you know those tweets asking if a celebrities ex could fight because their significant other looked so damn gorgeous and the fans want a piece of that? well, prior to joe, her exes, no matter which one, would easily be mauled by the heard of fans that rode for her. they didn’t stand a chance.

but joe? oh, joey b knew how to fight.

oh, and he knew how exactly lucky he was to have stolen her heart, and she loved knowing that he never took that for granted. he was honestly wrapped around her pretty little finger, but in the best, most precious way possible.

his possessiveness came solely from a place of love, because joe burrow was not keen on the idea of sharing the best thing that quite literally had ever happened to him, with the entire world.

for example:

mr. possessive™ at paris fashion week.

—

she looks stunning. like, jaw-droppingly, heart-stoppingly, paris-just-declared-her-a-national-treasure stunning.

joe knew she would, duh. he’s seen her in everything, and more importantly, in nothing, but there’s something about the way she carries herself tonight--graceful, confident, walking beside him like she belongs on the cover of vogue--that has him feeling some type of way.

or maybe it’s the way everyone is looking at her that's affecting him--because everyone is looking at her.

the event is a who’s who of the fashion world, and they’re here as guests, dressed to the nines, mingling with designers, models, and celebrities. but no matter where they go, no matter who they talk to, joe can feel eyes on her. the cameras flashed like crazy when they arrived, the crowd buzzing with excitement as they made their way inside. she’s a star in her own right, and joe loves that. loves that she’s not just known as his girlfriend--she’s her.

multi-platinum, award-winning singer-songwriter. the pop princess herself.

like, hell yeah. he's her boyfriend if anything.

but with that title and prestige, those looks and eyes came naturally. one guy in particular--some too-pretty-for-his-own-good european actor type--has been looking at her a little too long.

joe notices it when they first arrive. then again during cocktail hour. and now, as they make their way to their seats for the show, pretty boy is back, standing just a few feet away, sipping his champagne and watching.

joe clenches his jaw, his fingers flexing slightly where they rest against her lower back.

she hasn’t noticed yet, too busy talking with the designer of the show they’re about to watch, laughing softly at something she says. joe loves her laugh, loves that she’s having fun, but it’s hard to focus when this guy is still looking at her like she’s up for auction.

and then--get this--he actually makes his move.

what a stupid, stupid mistake.

the guy steps forward, a confident smile on his lips as he says something to her in french--because of course he does.

joe doesn’t even give her a chance to respond. before she can turn to acknowledge him, joe is there.

his arm loops around her waist, pulling her close against his side, his hand splaying possessively across her hipbone. the move is effortless, smooth, like it was always meant to happen, but it’s intentional as hell.

she tenses slightly, finally catching on, and oh, she loves this. she doesn’t get to see jealous, possessive joe be so bold like this, but when she does?

it’s hot.

the actor’s smirk doesn’t falter, so either he was oblivious as hell or he had a death wish. "i was just telling her she looked stunning tonight,".

joe lifts a brow, expression unreadable but voice smooth. "yeah? you and half of pairs,".

the guy chuckles, clearly unbothered by the comment. "can you blame us?".

joe doesn’t answer him, because he's still seething about his smooth, buttery, alluring french accent (even though it did bother joe a teeny bit because of how he remembered her saying she thought accents were cute).

instead, he tilts her chin up and kisses her.

not just a quick kiss--a statement.

it’s sluggish, deep, possessive. a conscious show of who she belongs to. his hands slid up and down her sides, his lips mashed closer to hers, the soft sighs started coming from her mouth. damn.

when he pulls away, the actor is just...gone.

and she? she’s breathless.

joe smirks, brushing his thumb over her lips before murmuring, "you’re mine, baby. and i don’t share,".

she hums, pressing a teasing kiss to his jaw. "mmm. you like when they want me, don’t you?".

he exhales sharply, because she’s not wrong. "i like reminding them they can’t have you,".

[delulustateofmind]

Cult Leader!Geto, who's devoted to his perfect lamb—even if he had to break you to make you play the part.

You weren’t born for this. You didn't ask for this. Instead, he shaped you, carved you into what he needed, into what he knew you were meant to be. You are his, after all. His soft little lamb, his guiding light, his reason, whether you accept it or not. Never letting you inside the sermons. Not because he wants to protect you, no—because you wouldn’t understand. The sound of wet, meaty thuds beyond the doors, the gurgled cries, the scent of burning flesh, these things are beneath you.

You are above them, untouched and unsullied, preserved like something sacred. Except the blood still finds you, clingging to the hem of your sacred white robes, smudging on the floor where he’s walked before gathering you tightly in his arms.

Oftentimes, finding you dozing in the hall curled in on yourself like a wounded animal. There’s something pitiful about the way you sleep—uneasy, your body tense, even in unconsciousness. A sigh leaves his lips, almost disappointed. Carryung you while whispering sweet things as if you asked to be in his arms, as if you weren’t forced into them.

The cold bite of shackles, heavy around your wrists, wake you from slumber. They aren’t meant to hurt you.

They’re meant to keep you.

To keep your wandering hands from opening doors, from reaching toward things you shouldn’t. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear before pressing a soft, gentle kiss to your forehead, breath warm, lips pressing kisses adorned with devotion.

"You make this so difficult, my love." His voice lulled in soft exhaustion. "I hate having to be the villain in your eyes."

You don’t respond. You never do. Though he sees the way your throat bobs, the way your fingers twitch against the sheets, the way your chest rises with restrained breaths.

He oftentimes wishes you were a curse. If you were, there would be no need for locks, for shackles, for the endless battle of taming you when you insist on resisting what’s inevitable. If you were a curse, you wouldn’t fight. You wouldn’t doubt. You wouldn’t dream of things beyond him.

"One day, you’ll understand." Those thick, calloused fingers trail down your arm, leaving shivers down your skin. "You were never meant to leave me. There is no world where you exist without me."

His big arms tighten around you, his breath warm against your skin as he exhales a breath of comfort. Pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, down the line of your jaw, gentle, indulgent - but there’s something feverish behind the action, along the lines of desperation.

His lips brush against your ear, voice dripping with convicted devotion that feels like a noose tightening around your throat.

"No matter how much you run, my lamb... I will always bring you home."

[drtanner]

This is a terrific addition, thank you! Wool and other natural fibres are a marvel and it's high time we got back to them. Did you know that wool stays warm even when it's wet? That's why sailors and lighthouse keepers wear it! Did you know that wool is fire resistant? That's why blacksmiths used to wear wool trousers! Wool is great, and for the sheep, it's just like getting a haircut. It grows back! And the happier and healthier the sheep are, the better quality the wool will be and the more of it they'll grow, so even from a purely profit-seeking standpoint, it's in a farmer's best interest to take the very best care of their animals. Getting blood on the wool ruins it and causes it to lose value, so they won't even nick a sheep during shearing if they can help it.

Even for meat, leather and other products that require the death of an animal, imho what matters is that the animal had a good, happy life and died humanely, which is something that we can fight for as people who buy and use those products. Animals in the wild struggle to survive all day every day and usually die traumatic deaths, still struggling; a well cared for animal that lives a comfortable life and dies a painless death before being processed into things that improve my life, keep me healthy and make me happy is having a much better time, and that is very acceptable to me given the enormous variety of benefits it provides to human society and culture!

Vegan objections to all of this seem very superficially focused on things they can see, e.g., animal death, which in their simplistic view is always wrong regardless of the circumstances, whilst completely disregarding anything that isn't immediately obvious, e.g., the hidden costs of vegan "alternative" crops like quinoa and soy, or literally everything to do with plastics. They're not interested in nuance or material reality. They care about making themselves feel good without thinking very hard about it and very little else - if you ever wanted an actual, real example of virtue signalling, there it is! And all of this is before we get into more indirect benefits, like the ways in which properly managed animals can benefit the land they live on and help us grow crops with fewer chemicals, even!

As it is with most things, the meat industry isn't inherently bad. We just need to find better, more considerate and less wasteful ways to make it work, and if pressing for its reform is important to you, that's something you, personally, can focus on and organise for. 💜

Genuinely delighted to see the real vs. fake leather discourse kicking off in earnest on this fucking website. Too many of the kids on here don't know that fake leather or "vegan leather" or whatever the fuck the grifters try to call it is literally just plastic or that leather is just a byproduct of the meat industry that gets thrown away if it isn't used for anything, and now they're learning about it!

The meat industry certainly has its own problems and needs serious reform, especially in the US, but it isn't going away, and wasting huge amounts of the extremely useful materials it produces is not the fucking solution, especially when you're simultaneously constantly complaining about how everything is cheaply made plastic shit that breaks instantly these days. Leather is what you are looking for! It makes shoes and jackets and hats and handle grips and all kinds of wonderful things that last for fucking decades if you take proper care of them, and that maintenance is not expensive or difficult! You too can have a collection of items that stand a halfway decent chance of outliving you! Isn't that the ideal? Isn't that what you want?

Even from a purely feelings-based moral standpoint, is it not more respectful to the animal that died to feed you (or me) to use every part of its body and to avoid letting any part of it go to waste?

I doubt it was the OP's intention in starting that one stupid poll that saw them getting dragged six ways from Sunday that it should end up with the youth getting educated about every non-animal leather actually being plastic trash that falls apart in 18 months and poisons the earth just by existing, but that is certainly what they did, lmao.

[jane-the-good]

Wander In Wonder: CALEB

WORD COUNT: 3.7 K

SUMMARY: Fantasy AU! You escape the confines of your life in search of one that is your own choosing. Caleb finds you along the path he was destined to keep and offers to guide you to live a life of safety and peace

AN: Caleb wasn’t here for Wander in Wonder, so I made it happen ◡̈ I love piecing the tiny details of the Caleb we know and love into things like this. I really wish this was real for him!!

CONTENT WARNINGS: smut, oral sex, mentions of explosions, combat fighting, death ♡

AO3

The cold is a living thing, curling around your skin, creeping into your bones, burrowing deep. It does not simply cling—it seeps, sinking past flesh and sinew, winding itself through your ribs with roots breaking through it’s cracked stone. You press your back against the rough bark of a tree, but there is no shelter here, no warmth. The wind howls through the trees, a mournful, unrelenting thing, whispering through the hollows of your ears, stealing what little breath you have left.

Your limbs are leaden, heavy with exhaustion, your breath thin as if the air itself refuses to fill your lungs. Every step that brought you here was a battle—against the waves, against the cold, against the weight of your own survival. You left the island behind, the place you once called a sanctuary. Now, with distance stretching between you and that lonely shore, you see it for what it truly was.

Not a refuge, but a cage.

Not safety, but solitude.

In the vast, endless dark of this unfamiliar land, you wonder which was worse.

The night presses close, the wind a whispering thing, threading through the trees. You clutch at your chest, fingers digging into the skin above your heart. The sacred gem pulses beneath your ribs, its light faint against the cold that has turned your body to ice. Someone is coming. Someone who will carve it from your flesh, who will steal its power and leave your corpse in the dirt.

Your vision wavers, your eyelids too heavy to hold open. The cold is a tide, dragging you under. You let it take you.

Firelight flickers, carving shapes into the dark. Warmth surrounds you, strange yet soothing, pressing against the cold that had seeped into your bones. The scent of burning wood curls through the air, and the dull ache in your limbs is softened by a heat that is not your own. You shift, barely, and realize—your body is pressed against bare skin.

Your eyes snap open. A man sits beside you, his chest bare, his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to the present with his warmth. His grip is steady, his touch so careful. He does not flinch when you meet his gaze. He only watches, calm and unreadable, his dark eyes deep as an ocean.

“You were close to death,” he says, voice low releasing embers still holding heat. His eyes flicker with something unreadable—not pity, not fear, but understanding.

You do not fear him. There is no greed in his expression, no shadow of the hunger that has chased you across land and sea. The gift within your heart reveals truths, and in him, you see something rare—something safe.

“Who are you?”

He exhales through his nose, as if already tired of the question. “My title is Protector of the Sacred Path.” The words come out stiff, almost begrudging, in a role he never truly chose, “But my name is Caleb.” His voice softens, as if that’s the part that actually matters. “And you?”

You hesitate. The question shouldn’t be difficult, but it is. You’ve spent so long being something to someone else—a runaway, a target, a vessel for the thing inside you—that you never stopped to consider who you might be if given the choice.

“I don’t know yet,” you admit.

Caleb studies you, and for a moment, you think he might press further. But he smiles—small, understanding. “Fair enough.”

A silence settles between you, broken only by the distant crackle of the fire. He speaks again.

“If you’re running from something, you’ll always have an eye looking over your shoulder.”

You let out a breath. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

His expression flickers in thought but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he nods. “Okay. I’ll help where I can.” His voice carries a quiet certainty, holding a promise he doesn’t expect gratitude for.

Gentler, “Where can I take you?”

You swallow, feeling the weight of your answer. You are exhausted, frayed at the edges. Your entire life has been spent fleeing, surviving. Safety has always been an illusion, a concept dangled just out of reach.

And yet, when you look at him, the thought doesn’t feel so impossible.

“To safety,” you whisper at last.

His gaze holds yours for a moment longer, something knowing in his eyes. He nods.

“Then that’s where we’ll go.”

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips, not mocking, not dismissive—just quiet, understanding exactly what you mean. "I know the perfect place. A place to live a life. one that’s yours.”

You study him, searching for deception, but there is none. Only patience. Only quiet resolve. The fire crackles between you, warmth reaching into the empty spaces you had long stopped trying to fill.

“And what do you call this place?" you ask, tilting your head slightly.

His smile deepens, though it still holds something wistful, something you cannot yet name. "You'll see."

A beat of silence stretches between you, but it is not uncomfortable. It is something else entirely—something fragile, gasping for the first breath after nearly drowning. Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you have to.

Instead, he stands. A pause, a breath, a choice. He offers you a hand, and you take it.

Through tangled forests and winding roads. Through ruined cities swallowed by ivy and the bones of bridges long since collapsed. He moves as a shadow at your side—constant and unwavering. He is sharp edges and quiet loyalty, a presence carved inbetween heartbeats. He does not ask for explanations. He does not flinch from the weight you carry. When danger rises, he meets it with steel and certainty. When the cold creeps in, he presses closer. He is a promise of warmth.

At first, it is survival. A necessary truce. Two souls moving in the same direction simply because neither has anywhere else to go. But the road is long, and silence is a fragile thing. It breaks in small, stolen moments.

Awoken so thirsty in the middle of the, you feel him shuffle from beside you. The cold winds slipping between the gaps of what was, just a moment ago, guarded by his chest. He hands you your shared vessel of water. “There’s not very much left, but it’s warm.” Your fingers brush his as you take it. You both still, as if waiting for something unspoken to surface. But it does not. Not yet.

A day beneath a sky stretched wide and endless, the hush of wind through empty fields. He finds an overgrown orchard and plucks a piece of fruit, tossing it to you with a half-smile. “They taste ancient, in a really bad way.” You take a bite. It tastes like dust. He was right. But it also tastes like laughter held too long behind teeth.

A moment at dusk, when the world is painted in shades of dying light. The fire between you flickers low, casting long shadows, stretching time thin. You remember the first moment you saw him. The silence is not heavy, but fragile glass on the verge of breaking.

You feel his gaze before you meet it, a pull as inevitable as the tide drawn to the shore. He’s watching you—not like a question, but like an answer he hasn’t yet learned how to say.

“Didn’t know you hummed,” he says, voice quiet, rough from the long day of hiking.

You blink, caught off guard. “I didn’t either.”

His lips twitch—almost in a smile, but something softer. “Why?”

You hesitate, fingers curling around the worn fabric of your stolen cloak. “I think…” You exhale, shaking your head. “Maybe —for the first time in a long time—I don’t feel like I have to be quiet.”

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let you fold into yourself the way you usually do when words feel like too much. Instead, he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, the short depth between you shrinking with each breath.

“I really like it,” he murmurs.

The words settle deep, an unexpected warmth blooming in your chest. It’s terrifying, how easily he gets past your walls—how his presence has become something steady, something certain, and necessary.

The fire crackles. The wind stirs the trees. And still, neither of you move.

When he reaches out, you’re not surprised, you know he isn’t either, yet he is still slow and careful, as if giving you time to pull away. He cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, tracing a path so light it could be mistaken for hesitation. But there is no hesitation. Only the unbearable tension of something long overdue.

You tilt your head, barely a breath between you now. His eyes search yours, and you don’t know if he’s asking for permission or waiting for you to break first.

You break.

The moment your lips meet, the world exhales. It is not desperate, not rushed. It is quiet, steady—the kind of kiss that doesn’t demand, but simply is. His fingers tighten against your skin, as if grounding himself, as if making sure you’re real. You thread your hand into his shirt, holding onto him using the weight of the moment as an anchor.

When you part, the absence is almost unbearable. He lingers, his forehead resting against yours, breath unsteady.

“Seizing what’s yours looks gorgeous on you.” He speaks without even thinking about processing his words. “I’m so proud.”

You climb on to his lap, to make him more proud. Enjoying how the sounds of the leaves fade when his mouth is on yours. His arms hold you with treasure and care, not wanting to let you go but giving you the freedom to move as your please. The rock under your bent knees scrapes each time you grind on his lap, but he will take of any wounds later.

You pull away from his lips to better worship is jaw and his neck and his collarbone and his chest.

“It was very kind of you to save me that day.” Your hands caress the sides of his torso with care before you guide his blouse over his head. “I thanked you many times, but I don’t really know if you felt it yet”

You pull at the laces on his pants.

He exhales a quiet laugh, but there’s something raw in his expression, something that flickers between restraint and surrender. “Should we slow down?” he asks, and there’s no reluctance in his voice—only care. One of his hands finds yours, stopping your movements with a featherlight touch.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I really don’t want to.”

You both know how hard he is, the inevitability of it, the way you’ve been circling each other for so long that stopping now would feel like denying gravity.

“We don’t have to go to the stars,” you murmur. “We can just explore the path.”

You shift his hand from yours, guiding it to rest at the crown of your head, before resuming the deliberate task of unlacing his pants.

His fingers curl at the nape of your neck, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. “I can never deny you,” he breathes.

The sound that escapes him when he’s finally freed from the constraint of his pants is nothing short of beautiful—raw, helpless, edged with relief and want. It ripples through you, sinking deep, settling low. And in that moment, you understand—this must be how he felt when he told you he liked your humming. Like hearing something so unexpectedly intimate, so undeniably yours, that it becomes a song he never wants to forget.

You gently grasp his base with both of your hands so you can kitten lick the tip, trying to discover what he likes the best. You lift your gaze to meet his eyes, searching for a flicker of reaction. He stands frozen, caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. You slide one long lick along the underside of the base before wrapping your lips around him.

“Darling, you are an other worldly treasure.” His head falls back.

You hum in response while sliding him in and out of your mouth. His hand on your hair tightens when you swirl your tounge around his tip. His moan settles between your thighs and climbs up your spine.

You glide one hand to cradle his balls and he involuntarily thrusts forward, sending him to the back of your throat, forcing you choke.

“I’m sorry, love, are you alright?” And when he pulls away just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing against your cheek, his voice is nothing but devotion.

You swirl your tongue again and his head leans forward in blissed defeat. His breathing picks up and you feel him pulse against your tongue. His moans are so encouraging, you feel them in your own core. He is so close.

and just when you think you have him in the palm of your hand,

His hand pulls—swift, sure—from your hair to your shoulder, guiding you away with a touch that is both careful and desperate. And then he is on you, over you, pressing you down beneath him. The tide pulling the shore into its depths.

His lips find yours in a hunger that has been simmering beneath the surface, now set free. It is not a question. It is not hesitation. It is the inevitability of gravity, of two bodies drawn together, of something too long restrained finally breaking loose.

“I have never actually thanked you, for falling into my life” He grinds against you

His hand slides up your thigh, a slow, deliberate ascent, before guiding your leg around his back—anchoring you to him, as if you could ever drift away. His mouth maps its way down, pressing reverence into fabric, into skin, into the space between breaths. And when he finally stops, his breath is warm against your pulse, against the place where need and anticipation blur into something electric. Your leg drapes over his shoulder in a claim.

His voice is barely a whisper, but it hums through you like a vow.

“Please, let me make it up to you.”

You would do anything for him.

“Anything you desire.”

His mouth finds you almost instantly, a breath, a press, a kiss through fabric that leaves you unraveling beneath him. The sensation is so consuming, you barely register the hand ghosting up your hip, the slow, practiced tug of your underwear slipping lower, lower. Only when he pulls back do you realize—he’s peeling them from your legs, his gaze dark, reverent. Drawn by instinct alone, he lifts them to his nose, breathing you in like something sacred before leaning down once more, intent on finishing what he started.

You already knew his tongue is divine at teasing you with words, this is so different.

“Caleb.” You arch in bliss.

One hand finds your clit, teasing, circling, setting you alight, while the other wraps around himself, stroking in time with the rhythm he’s building between you. His moans are a melody against your skin, low and reverent, vibrating through you until you can’t tell where you end and he begins. When you breathe, it barely feels like breathing at all—just a sharp, shattered thing, like air caught between want and oblivion.

“Come with me darling.” He is desperate and demanding.

You see the stars—but not just the ones you expected. There are infinitely more, stretching vast and endless, and for the first time, you’re not just looking at them. You’re feeling them. You’re part of them. And the only thing more breathtaking than their glow is the quiet, steady presence of him with you.

You return to earth in gasping breaths, your body still singing with the echoes of him. He shifts, gathering you into his arms, pressing you, cherishing how precious and irreplaceable he has known you to be.

“I’m so grateful for you,” he murmurs, his voice rugged with something deeper than exhaustion.

Your fingers trace your name onto his chest. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

He hums, pulling you onto him, wrapping the cloak from beneath you around both of your bodies, cocooning you in warmth. His hand moves in slow, absent strokes along your back, grounding you, soothing you. The weight of the day settles over you both, but for once, it doesn’t feel heavy. It feels safe. Because you are here. Because he is holding you.

It would be easier to call this survival. Easier to blame the loneliness, the way time and distance have frayed you both down to something raw, and searching. But the thought lingers, soft and certain between words. Was it not someplace I left for, and instead someone? What if it was always meant to be this?

You do not know the answer. Perhaps you never will. But as you walk beside him, step for step, heartbeat for heartbeat, you know this: you are not alone. Not anymore. And for the first time in a long, long time—maybe never again.

The sanctuary is within reach when they come for you.

They strike as wraiths in the dark, wrenching you from Caleb’s grasp before you can scream. His warmth vanishes in an instant, replaced by the crushing grip of your captors. Rough hands pin you down, the cold press of steel against your chest. Then—pain. White-hot, searing, as they carve toward the gem buried within you. You thrash, but their hold is unyielding. Your own screams rip through the night, swallowed by the clash of steel, the guttural cries of men falling—falling to him.

Caleb fights as a man possessed. His voice cuts through the chaos, raw with fury, desperation—his only focus is you. He carves a path through them, reaching for you. He’s almost there. Just a little more—just a moment longer—

Then—an explosion. The world tilts. A shockwave tears through the field, slamming into you in a tidal wave. Sound collapses into a void. The night turns to ruin.

When your vision clears, the world is unrecognizable. Ash hangs in the air, thick as fog. The ground is littered with bodies—lifeless. Your stomach twists as you search for him. The second you see his body, the breath is stolen from your lungs.

Caleb.

He lies amidst the fallen, a broken thing in a world still reeling from battle. His body—too still. His arm—mangled, ruined, the ruin of it staining the earth beneath him. No, no, no— The word thrums through you, a desperate, useless plea. Your limbs barely obey as you pull yourself toward him, the ground unsteady, your breath shattering in your chest. Your hands find his face, trembling violently, as if trying to will him back, as if trying to anchor him here—here, with you.

"Caleb," you whisper, in a voice that is barely there.

His skin is so cold. You didn’t know that was even possible for him.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were so close. For the first time in centuries, you let yourself believe—truly, foolishly believe—that you could have something safe, something real. That you could be more than a shadow passing through time. Caleb made you feel like a person, like you could live, not just endure. Like you deserved to. And now—now he’s slipping away.

The cruelest part is that you can’t follow.

And now he’s gone.

Tears blur your vision as you clutch him. You should have been the one to fall. You should have saved him. But you weren’t given that choice. You were cursed to endure, to outlast everyone—no matter how much it destroyed you.

A sob rips from your chest as you press your forehead to his. "Please," you whisper. "Please, don’t leave me."

But the night gives no answer.

“No,” you whisper. “Not you. Not after everything.”

Your vision wavers, grief turning the world to nothing but shadow and ruin. You press your forehead to his, breath unsteady, heart aching in a way no magic, no curse, no wound has ever made it ache before. “Thank you,” you whisper, the words fractured, breaking apart as they leave you. “For everything. I never would have have experienced what living could be, without you.”

A sob tears through you more jagged than his broken dagger. Only one regret lingers—one thing left undone before fate rips him away. Your hands shake as they cradle his face, as you press your lips to his, soft and lingering, a farewell etched in sorrow.

Your heart clenches.

And then, it beats.

Once. Twice.

A pulse tears through your chest—light, warmth, and something else. Something ancient. Something eternal. The gem hums, its vibrations spilling outward, threading into his skin like tendrils of life. They wrap around his still form, caressing, binding, as if pulling him from the abyss with unseen hands that have always known him.

A gasp shatters the silence.

Caleb jerks upright, breath torn from his lungs as though ripped back from the brink. His fingers dig into your arms, grounding himself in the shock of existence. His eyes—wild, disoriented—lock onto yours.

"Why are you crying?" Are you hurt?” he asks, voice thick, oblivious.

A breathless laugh shakes through you, disbelief and relief tangling in your ribs. He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t realize he was gone. That you are the reason for his living.

Your heart beats again, but this time, not just for survival.

This time, it beats for him.

He pulls you into his arms, as if to shield you from a danger already past. Concern flickers in his gaze, as if the tears in your eyes are the only thing that matters..

The protector of the sacred path was destined to protect this path that you walked upon to seek understanding.

The power within you—the eternal blessing of the gem—was never meant to be stolen. Never meant to be wielded through blood and sacrifice.

Amplifying the reason it beats through unwavering, selfless, boundless, tender and unconditional devotion.

A heart cannot be ripped out, and divided to be shared.

It can only be given freely.

[kistnlads]

𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕

Zayne x FemReader | Short Fic, 2.7k Words | Anonymous Fic Request

Hintofthescene/Moans/Groans | Likes and reblogs are appreciated

⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆⋆⋅•⋅⊰∙∘⋆ ❆ ⋆∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⋆

You are his greatest distraction, the one thing he can never tune out. He’s memorized the rhythm of your heartbeat, sketched its shape in the margins of his reports, felt its pulse beneath his fingertips more times than he should. And when you remind him that he is tending to his patient, he loses another piece of his restraint.

He wants you.

Zayne exhales slowly, pressing his fingers into his temple. His mind should be focused on the neatly written reports before him, but instead…

Your heart.

Not metaphorically, not in some poetic, lovesick way. No, it’s your actual, anatomical heart. The one he’s listened to countless times, the one that flutters when you’re nervous, steadies when you’re at ease. The one that once faltered after an injury, forcing him to fight to keep it beating. He remembers the sound, the rhythm, the pulse beneath his fingertips.

And so he draws it.

Over and over. In the margins of reports, between scrawled medical notes, on the edges of prescription pads. It’s not just muscle and vessels to him. It’s yours. He knows it, could sketch it from memory, engraved into his mind like something sacred.

His pen scratches against the paper, outlining the delicate chambers, the intricate arteries, the pulse points where life surges through your body. But as his hand moves, the lines shift, detailing not just a perfect textbook heart, but something softer. 

A heart entwined with his own.

The thought sends a heat curling in his chest, but before he can tear the page out, a voice shatters the quiet.

“Still working this late, Dr. Zayne?”

His fingers tighten around the pen. He doesn’t need to look up to know it’s you.

But he couldn't help but wonder how you slipped in so silently—no creak of the door, no knock to announce your presence. Not that it mattered now. 

You stood by the closed door, arms crossed, a teasing smile playing on your lips. You’re tired, he can see it in the way you shift your weight, the faint haze of sleepiness clinging to your eyes, yet you’re here. And suddenly, his focus on the medical reports feels utterly pointless.

“Should you not be resting?” he counters, voice steady despite the warmth creeping into his collar.

You huff, stepping inside. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

You step closer, gaze flicking down to his open journal. Before he can close it, your fingers dart out, flipping the pages back to reveal his sketches.

And then—silence.

You start to take in the countless drawings. Some clinical, detailed, precise. But others… others are different. It was a secret he never meant to reveal.

“What’s this?” Your fingers brush the edge of the page, tracing the inked lines. “You seem to have drawn this a lot.”

Zayne swallows. Deny it. Say it’s just a medical habit.

Your gaze lifts, locking onto his, searching. And he sees it, the slight hitch in your breath, the same racing pulse he’s memorized.

“Zayne…” Your voice is different now as his pulse thrums in his ears.

He exhales.

“I find myself thinking about it more often than I should.” His voice is low, edged. “Your heart. The way it beats. The way it—” 

His jaw tightens. He should take the journal back. Should laugh it off, tell you it’s nothing. But he doesn’t move. 

“How long?” Your question sends a bolt of panic through him. “How long have you been drawing my heart?” 

He can’t answer. He thought he shouldn’t. Because if he does, if he gives even the slightest inch then you’ll know everything.

“When you check my pulse, when you listen to my heartbeat, do you picture this?”

Zayne clenches his teeth, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His instinct is to pull away, to put distance between you and him before he does something reckless.

But then—

You take his hand. Press it flat against your chest, fingers splayed over the smooth fabric of your white dress, right over where your heart beats for him.

Your fingers tighten around his wrist, keeping his hand right where it is. “Tell me… what do you feel?”

His breath is slow, measured, but he can feel it. Your pulse beneath his palm, the delicate but insistent rhythm of you. It would be so easy to pretend this is just another examination. Just another routine check.

But it isn’t.

He spoke your name, his voice was strained, barely holding together, and you tilt your head, lips curving in the faintest ghost of a smile. 

“That doesn’t sound like an answer.”

Damn you.

Zayne could lie. He could tell you he hears nothing unusual, that your vitals are fine, that this is meaningless.

But the way you’re looking at him—curious, knowing, waiting—he knows you won’t let him get away with it.

And then… he pulls away.

The loss of contact is abrupt, but he doesn’t let himself hesitate as he tries his best in ignoring the way his fingers still burn from touching you.

“This is inappropriate.” His voice is clipped, controlled. 

You didn’t move.

Instead, you study him, slow and careful, as if trying to piece him together.

“Why do you always do that?”

His brow furrows. “Do what?”

“Run.”

The word hangs between the two of you, heavy and unrelenting. Zayne’s lips press into a thin line. His shoulders square, arms crossing over his chest in a practiced display of distance.

“I do not.”

You huff, shaking your head. “You’re doing it right now.”

You take a step forward, and Zayne forces himself to hold his ground. He won’t retreat again. 

“You think I don’t notice? The way you look at me when you think I won’t see? The way you touch me just a little longer than necessary? And now this—” You gesture to the journal still open on the desk, the evidence of his obsession laid bare.

His heart slams against his ribs.

“I want you to say it.”

He knows what you mean. And you want him to admit it. To say the words he’s kept locked behind clenched teeth and medical reports and foolish sketches in the margins of his notes.

Zayne swallows hard, forcing himself to meet your gaze. It would be easy—so damn easy—to close this distance. To grab your wrist, to pull you against him, to press his lips to yours just to see if you’d melt against him the way he’s imagined too many times.

So instead, he exhales through his nose, and responds, “You are asking for something dangerous.”

“I can handle danger.”

Of course you can. That’s what terrifies him the most. You’re not someone fragile, someone he can keep at arm’s length forever. You’re relentless, unyielding, just as stubborn as he is. And if you made up your mind about something—about him—then there’s no stopping you.

Your lips curl, amusement flickering in your eyes. “How about you, Dr. Zayne?”

“This is a mistake. You do not know what you are asking for—”

“Then tell me to leave.”

Zayne’s teeth grind together. You’re giving him another out, a way to escape before he ruins everything. But you don't realize—he’s already ruined.

His control is slipping, unraveling piece by piece, and the more you look at him like that, like you’re his, the more he feels himself cracking.

He spoke your name again, but you cut him off.

“Tell me to leave, Zayne.” Your voice is steady. “And I will leave—”

Just like that—he snaps.

His fingers curl around your wrist, flipping your positions in a single, fluid motion. In a breath, you’re against the desk, and he’s in your space now—caging you in, pressing your back until there’s nowhere left to run.

His other hand comes up, gripping the edge of the desk beside you, effectively trapping you between his body and the cold surface.

Your breath catches, eyes wide, but you didn’t pull away. You don’t want to. And that—that—is what breaks him most of all.

“Do you truly believe that I do not want you?” His voice is low, rough, and dangerous. His grip tightens slightly, his pulse a wild, erratic thing in his throat. “Do you think I do not—” 

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. Your lips part, breath uneven.

You’re everything—too close, too warm—and Zayne has spent too long pretending he could live without this. Without you.

Your gaze searches for him. “What are you so afraid of?”

His throat works, his entire body burning from the inside out. Then, slowly and painfully, he brings his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling in the sliver of space that remains between the two of you.

“You.”

Zayne’s lips crash against yours, fierce and unrelenting, as he presses you against the desk. His hands grip your waist, fingers digging in like he’s afraid you’ll slip away, but you’re not going anywhere. Not when his body is flush against yours, not when heat coils between you like a live wire.

You push off his lab coat, letting it slide to the floor, and your fingers work at his tie, loosening it with impatient tugs. He groans against your mouth as you make quick work of his buttons, exposing the warmth of his skin beneath your touch.

His breath is uneven, his restraint fraying at the edges. Then, without hesitation, his hands slide down, parting your legs as he steps between them. But you barely notice, not when he’s kissing you like this, like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Zayne’s grip tightens on your thighs as he presses in closer, his breath hot against your lips. His half-unbuttoned shirt hangs open, the tie loosely draped around his neck, forgotten. 

He’s never been like this before—never let himself want like this. Yet, your body is so damn willing beneath his hands, and he knows there’s no turning back.

“You drive me insane,” he rasps against your skin, his lips trailing down the curve of your jaw, nipping, tasting.

You shudder, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him down to you again. “Zayne—”

A low growl rumbles in his chest, and then his hands slide up your thighs, gripping firmly as he tilts your hips toward him, his body slotting between yours in a way that sends heat pulsing through every inch of you. His lips find yours again, demanding, greedy, and swallowing every gasp.

The desk creaks beneath you as he presses you down against it, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your top, brushing against heated skin. You arch against him, pulling at his shirt with desperate fingers.

Zayne, for the first time, curses against your skin. His mind is clouding with need. He should take you. Right here. Right now. And he almost does.

But then—

Reality slams back into him.

This isn’t some dark alley, some hidden corner of the world where he can abandon every rule that’s been drilled into him. This is a place of work. A place meant for professionalism. 

This is an office. His damn office.

And here he is, about to take you on his desk like some reckless fool.

Zayne was a man of control. He had to be. 

A doctor who let his emotions interfere with his work was a liability. A mistake waiting to happen. 

And yet, he almost lost about any of that now. Not when you’re right in front of him, lips parted, skin burning against his touch.

Zayne stills. 

His muscles tense, his hands freezing where they rest against your body while your brows furrowed in frustration, lips kiss-swollen and tempting, so tempting.

“Why are you stopping?” You murmur, voice thick with want, fingers still buried in his hair.

His grip on your waist tightened for just a second before he forced himself to step back, though every fiber of his being protested. His shirt was open, his coat discarded somewhere on the floor, and you—you were still sitting on his desk, legs parted just enough to make him ache.

“Because this—” He exhaled sharply. “We cannot proceed with this here. It is unethical. This—this is not the appropriate place for such matters.”

He shut his eyes, inhaling deeply. 

“I must have some self-control.”

“Self-control?” You push off the desk slowly, purposefully, closing the space between the two of you in a way that makes his heart stutter. “You’ve been doing so well, haven’t you?”

You are testing him. And God help him, it was working.

Your fingers brushed over his collarbone, trailing lower, slipping beneath the fabric of his half-unbuttoned shirt.

Shit.

“We—” He exhales sharply, trying to ignore the way you’re still clinging to him.

“It’s late.” Your voice is light, breath fanning against his lips. “No one’s going to walk in.”

“I… I have patients,” he grits out, hands twitching where they rest on your waist.

You lift a hand, cupping his face with a gentleness that nearly undoes him.

“You’re always looking after everyone else. Always tending to someone. Always taking care of others.” Your fingers then trail down, brushing over the rapid pulse at his throat. “But aren’t you already tending to your patient?”

Zayne stiffens.

“P–Patient?”

You lean in, lips grazing his lower lip, and fuck, you know exactly what you’re doing to him.

“Dr. Zayne,” you murmur, voice sultry, and taunting. “Are you really going to leave your patient unattended?”

A sharp, amused breath escapes him, somewhere between a chuckle and a curse, then his grip tightens, dragging you back against him.

“You—” His voice is strained, his self-control crumbling all over again. “Are going to be the death of me.”

I smile against his lips. And just like that, the doctor abandons all reason.

OUTSIDE DR. ZAYNE’S OFFICE

Yvonne hummed quietly to herself as she approached Zayne’s office, her steps light. She didn’t knock, she already knew she wouldn’t be getting an answer. Instead, she reached for the sliding status sign on the door, smoothly shifting it from DOCTOR IN to DOCTOR OUT.

Just as she was about to turn away, a voice behind her made her freeze.

“What are you doing?”

Yvonne sucked in a breath, schooling her face into something innocent before turning to face Greyson, Zayne’s ever-diligent assistant. He stood there, arms crossed, an eyebrow raised in suspicion.

“Oh, you know,” she said breezily, clasping her hands behind her back. “Just… helping out. Thought I’d take something off Dr. Zayne’s plate. He’s been so busy, after all.”

Greyson narrowed his eyes. “Uh-huh. And that required switching his status to ‘Out’ when he’s clearly still inside?”

Yvonne laughed, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe he just wants to be out for a bit, you know? Doctors need breaks too.”

Greyson didn’t budge. “Nurse Yvonne…”

She sighed dramatically, shaking her head. “You really ask too many questions, Dr. Greyson.”

“It’s my job,” he deadpanned.

Yvonne opened her mouth, ready to spin another excuse when suddenly, a very distinct sound cut through the quiet hallway.

A muffled thump.

Then another.

Greyson’s brow furrowed. “What was that?”

Yvonne laughed a little too quickly. “Oh, uh… probably just Dr. Zayne knocking over some books. You know how he is. Always juggling too many things at once.”

And then—

“Zayne—ahh—!” A voice rang out, breathless, followed immediately by a low, husky groan.

Yvonne winced.

Greyson blinked.

There was a beat of absolute silence before the sound of the desk creaking again, followed by another deep groan.

Yvonne pressed her lips together, trying very hard to pretend she wasn’t hearing this.

Greyson, on the other hand, was frozen. His face was carefully blank, but there was no mistaking the realization dawning in his eyes.

“They’re—” he started.

“Yep.” Yvonne didn’t even let him finish.

“In his office—”

“Uh-huh.”

“Right now—?”

“Sounds like it.”

Another moan. Louder. Longer. Breathless. Followed by a muffled whimper.

“Zayne… don’t stop—”

Greyson opened his mouth, then closed it, then scrubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I was.”

He turned to the door, his hand twitching like he was about to knock. 

“Nope! No, no, no, we do not need to check on that!” Yvonne lunged, grabbing his wrist before he could ruin whatever was happening inside. 

He exhaled sharply through his nose, pulling her hand away. “This is highly unprofessional.”

“So is eavesdropping,” Yvonne shot back.

“But, I’m his assistant, and I need to—”

“Yeah? You wanna assist him right now?” Yvonne arched her brow. “Wanna walk in and ask if he needs a goddamn clipboard?”

Greyson opened his mouth, then shut it, looking vaguely horrified. Yvonne smirked. 

“That’s what I thought.” She patted his shoulder. “Now come on, doctor. Let’s go before they finish, and we have to make eye contact later.”

And as they walked away, another muffled moan echoed behind them—loud enough that even Greyson, despite his best efforts, winced.

He groaned. “I’m taking the rest of the night off.”

“Good call,” Yvonne agreed. “You’ll need therapy after this.”

[vanilladollette]

Can you please write part 2 of yandere headcanons for Jae Jun and yandere headcanons for do yeong?

(If it's comfortable for you can you please write nsfw headcanons for them too?)

Yandere Jeon Jae-Joon, Ha Do-yeong Headcanons

Pairing: Jeon Jae-Joon x reader, Ha Do-yeong x reader (Separate)

Author's note: I had to go back and edit it because I forgot it was a gn reader 😭🙏🏻

Jeon Jae-Joon

Jae-joon is insanely possessive of you. You’re not just his spouse—you’re his everything, and he makes sure the world knows it.

If another man so much as looks at you, Jae-joon is already sizing him up, deciding to beat him senseless.

He doesn’t believe in boundaries when it comes to you. Where you go, who you see, what you do—he wants to know everything.

Jae-joon thrives on control, but he’s not subtle about it. If he wants something from you, he’ll demand it.

He hates when you disobey him or try to push him away—it makes him desperate, and desperation leads to dangerous actions.

If you ever tried to leave him, expect him to hunt you down, drag you back, and make sure you never think of leaving again.

“You’re mine. I don’t care what it takes—you’ll always be mine.”

If he sees someone flirting with you, he will immediately react, whether it’s throwing punches or making sure that person loses everything.

He has zero remorse about ruining lives for your sake. If someone tries to take you from him, they’ll simply disappear.

He’ll remind you that no one else can love you the way he does.

Soft for You Only

You are his only weakness. He can be a monster to the world, but to you? He just wants to be loved.

When you hold him, when you kiss him, he melts. He lives for your affection.

The only time he lets his guard down is when you're with him, safe in his arms.

NSFW

Jae-joon doesn’t hold back in bed.

He’s aggressive, passionate, and absolutely obsessed with making you feel owned.

He grips your hips so tightly they bruise, bites your skin to mark you, and growls into your ear, reminding you that you belong to him.

He hates the idea of anyone else even imagining you this way.

The only name you’ll be moaning is his, and he’ll make sure of that.

He forces eye contact, making you say his name over and over.

After he’s absolutely wrecked you, he pulls you into his arms, running his hands through your hair, pressing soft kisses against your skin.

Ha Do-yeong

Do-yeong isn’t loud about his yandere tendencies—he’s silent, patient, and suffocating.

He watches you closely, controlling every aspect of your life without you realizing it.

You’ll never escape him, not because he’ll chase you, but because he’s already planned so far ahead that there’s nowhere for you to go.

Do-yeong doesn’t rely on threats—he uses guilt, persuasion, and logic to make sure you stay.

“Why would you leave, my love? I’ve given you everything. Are you unhappy?” His tone is gentle, but the message is clear—you can’t leave.

He makes you feel like you need him—even if deep down, you know he’s the one trapping you.

He doesn’t get violent—he doesn’t need to. If someone tries to take you from him, they’ll find their entire life ruined overnight.

He ensures that no matter what, you always end up back in his arms.

“You don’t need to fight me, sweetheart. This is for your own good.”

Do-yeong worships you. You’re his perfect spouse, his greatest treasure.

He doesn’t love you normally—his love is overwhelming, inescapable, and eternal.

No matter what happens, he will never let you go.

NSFW

He takes his time, building you up slowly, whispering how much he loves you, how you’ll never belong to anyone else.

He makes you beg for him. He’ll tease you endlessly, dragging out pleasure until you’re pleading for release, making you say, “I’m yours, only yours.”

He never raises his voice, even in the bedroom. But the way he commands you—low, deep, and unwavering—makes you shiver. “Let me hear you, sweetheart. That’s it….”

He decides when and how you come. He holds your wrists, keeps your legs open, making you take everything he gives you.

He decides when and how you come. He holds your wrists, keeps your legs open, making you take everything he gives you.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your forehead, and holds you close. But his grip is firm, his touch lingering—a silent promise that you’ll never escape him.

Taglist: @petersasteria

[electrikworm]

Lula

Relationships: 99 & Wrecker, 99 & Clone Force 99

Content Warnings: Clone Trooper dehumanization, Nightmares, Crying

Summary:

When Wrecker comes to 99 crying after another nightmare, 99 starts looking for a solution to the bad dreams that are keeping the young clone awake.

Written for the @wrecker-week Bingo prompt "Lula"

Word count: 1,497

Read on Ao3

Work Text:

99 wakes to a knock on his door. Nobody comes knocking if he's needed to clean, 99 usually just getting a message on his comlink. This must be something else, likely not anything work related. 99's guess is it's a vode needing help in some way. With a groan, 99 pushes himself upright. The person at the door knocks again, more insistently. "Be right there!" 99 says, not sure if they can even hear him from the other side of the door. 99 doesn't change into his work clothes, just slipping on his boots. Body still adjusting to walking again after laying, 99 makes his way to the door, activating the panel that makes it slide open. He hadn't expected to see someone so small on the other side.

Wrecker, freshly named a few weeks back, is standing there, tears rolling down his young face. He's shaking, clutching at his shirt with unsteady hands. His sleeves are soaked through, proving that he'd been crying for a long while already. 99 wonders if he'd walked the entire way from the experimental squad's barracks to 99's tiny sleeping quarters whilst crying. He probably did by the looks of it.

“What's the matter?” 99 asks, carefully placing a hand on top of Wrecker's head. Wrecker's face scrunches up, then he bursts out in a sob, grabbing hold of 99's hand. It's hard to tell any of the mumbled words that burst forth from Wrecker apart, but from what 99 does understand, Wrecker's had another bad dream.

It's far from an uncommon occurrence. If anything, the dreams have been getting worse. But for Wrecker to be here, alone, something has to be wrong. He always goes to his brothers first and they can usually calm him. Wrecker tells 99 about the dream later during the day, since he finds it hard to forget the disturbing images his brain bothers him with.

“Are you and your brothers fighting?” 99 asks. That's the only option that 99 can think of. Wrecker shakes his head.

Wiping at his face, sniffing quietly as he tries to control his tears, Wrecker looks up at 99. “Don't wanna wake them,” he gets out, scrubbing hard at his face to rid himself of the tears. "They have to sleep," Wrecker sniffs. "They have training tomorrow!" 99 ducks into his quarters quickly to grab a tissue for Wrecker, handing it to him. As Wrecker wipes his face, 99 crouches down in front of him, ignoring his aching leg and back. "You need to sleep too. How about you tell me about your dream whilst we walk back to your barracks?" Wrecker nods, putting the wet tissue in his pocket before taking 99's hand. They don't walk very fast, 99 already slowed down by his bad leg and Wrecker walking slow because he's crying. 99 listens carefully as Wrecker talks, trying to offer ways Wrecker can push the bad thoughts aside. The dream sounds like it was confusing, but seems to boil down to the Kaminoans taking Wrecker's brothers away, then taking Wrecker away too because he was too weak. There's not much 99 can say to assure Wrecker. Those are both things with a real possibility of happening, as much as 99 hates to admit it. He just tries to tell Wrecker that they're too good at training to be taken away. It only works somewhat. At the barracks, 99 has to leave Wrecker, not wanting to wake his vode by entering. The young clone hugs him before he goes, clinging on to 99. 99 almost can't leave, wanting to stay and make sure Wrecker can sleep again. But he's not even supposed to be up, let alone staying here with Wrecker and his brothers. Walking back to his own sleeping quarters alone feels long. 99 spends the entire time worrying about Wrecker. By not waking his brothers, he gives them a better chance at doing well during training, but what about Wrecker? The dreams are only getting worse, meaning he'll get less and less sleep. 99 needs to think of something and he needs to do so fast, before Wrecker's performance drops enough to warrant decommissioning.

-

An idea finally comes to 99 when he finds Hunter, Tech and Crosshair arguing about the very thing 99 is looking for a solution for. He bumps into them on the way to his sleeping quarters, Tech loudly declaring that stunning Wrecker would make him sleep but likely wouldn't be very good for his health.

“Don't say that,” Crosshair hisses. “We're not stunning Wrecker!”

“I was merely saying that it technically would be an option,” Tech says, holding his datapad to his chest.

“I'm going to have to agree with Crosshair, Tech'ika,” 99 says, repressing a laugh. He'd be worried, but at their age, they're not allowed real blasters anyway, so there's very little risk of any of them actually stunning Wrecker.

Hunter's face scrunches in concentration. “There has to be something we can give Wrecker to stop his dreams! He's falling asleep during training.” Despite only being a little older than the rest of the batch, Hunter already feels responsible for his vode.

“Nothing that hurts or involves doctors,” Crosshair spits, glaring at Tech. Tech in turn rolls his eyes.

“It was a hypothetical suggestion.”

Then 99 remembers a conversation he'd had with an injured trooper a while back. 99 had been cleaning the medbay, purposefully doing so late as to not disturb anyone. One of the troopers sleeping on one of the uncomfortable medical cots startled awake when 99 passed him. He was in his mid teens by the look of it.

After greeting 99, he seemed to look for something, coming up empty.

“Have you seen Dusty?” he'd asked. 99 thought he was asking for one of the medics at first, so he offered to get someone for the trooper.

A peculiar expression crossed the clones face as he clarified that he had been talking about a stuffed animal, a bantha to be precise. 99 still wasn't sure what the man was talking about, but when he spotted something furry on the floor he picked it up. It really did look like a bantha, just gray.

When 99 hands it to the clone he smiles. “Thanks. These narrow beds keep making me drop her,” he says, placing the bantha toy on his knees to brush her fur down with his hands.

99 ended up asking the trooper what the stuffed bantha was for. He explained that she helped him feel more comfortable falling asleep. 99 never got the clones name, but the chance encounter may just help out Wrecker. There's no guarantee it'll work, but it's certainly worth a shot.

“Do you know what stuffed toys are?” 99 asks the boys. Hunter and Crosshair shake their heads, whilst Tech starts typing on his datpad.

“They are usually animals sewn from fabric and stuffed with something like cotton wool. These animals act as comfort items, often aiding in sleep or stress reduction,” Tech reads out loud.

Hunters eyes go wide. “Do you think something like that could help Wrecker?”

“There's no harm in trying,” 99 says.

“Where are we going to get one?” Crosshair huffs.

“We won't. We're going to make one,” 99 smiles.

-

“99, 99, look!” Wrecker exclaims running towards the janitor as he works. He's got the stuffed animal 99 and Wrecker's brothers have been working on all week clutched to his chest.

“What have you got there?” 99 asks. He'd collected all the materials for the stuffed tooka and had done a lot of the sewing, but 99 hadn't seen it as necessary to take the credit for making it. She'd likely mean most to Wrecker coming from his brothers anyway.

“This is Lula,” Wrecker says, holding it up so 99 can see it. He briefly wonders if Wrecker or his brothers named her. 99 found the fabric in various places, but always made sure what he chose was soft. “She's a soldier, like we're going to be! But she fights bad dreams,” Wrecker explains.

99 smiles. “Is she good at her job?”

“Mhm,” Wrecker nods, hugging Lula to his chest again. “She's amazing.”

“I'm glad to hear it Wrecker,” 99 says, ruffling Wrecker's short hair.

“Hunter won't tell me where he got her, but I don't care,” Wrecker continues.

99 laughs. “Where ever she came from, I'm sure she's glad she found her way to you.”

Wrecker beams up at 99. “I'm going to take really good care of her,” Wrecker announces seriously. 99's sure he will. Standing there with a pleased look on his face, Wrecker just holds Lula for a while, then realization crosses his face. “I have training!” he exclaims, saying goodbye to 99 before running off.

99 laughs again, glad he could at least help Wrecker a little bit. He's not sure how long this will last, but even if it's just a little while, the effort will have been worth it.

[blasphemous-lies-and-deceit]

From the touches prompt list, "touching their elbow to get their attention" with any pair you want? That prompt gets me right in the emotions cause it's such a gentle way to touch someone without getting too far into their personal space, especially if the character is skittish and the character reaching out knows and wants to make them feel safe.

"A month, Elias! And you did what, nothing?"

"I was doing everything in my power to locate you." Jon snorted at Elias's response, drawing his arms closer across his chest. He hated the way Elias was looking at him, cold and calculating, in contrast to his faux-comforting words. To think he had ever had any faith in Elias, had ever once believed his superior had his best interests in mind. Even so, it still hurt. "Everyone was working on-"

"Everyone was distracted, you mean," Gerry interrupted with a snarl, positively trembling with rage next to Jon, a black column of barely-contained fury at his side. "You knew, and you didn't tell anyone. You tried to stop me from finding him-"

"Your skills were better used elsewhere," Elias interrupted cooly, eyes darting to Gerry then back to Jon. There was still a faded bruise around his eye, a lingering reminder of Gerry's wrath. "I must remind you both that stopping the Stranger's upcoming Ritual is first priority, and I had enough faith to believe Jon wasn't in immediate danger."

"Immediate-" Jon choked on the word, feeling the rest of his words strangling in his throat. It wasn't...he hadn't been hurt, that was true, but it...it felt just like almost knocking on a door. Something awful had happened, he wasn't injured in any way but...his skin was slick with lotion and his hands were sticky with webs and he couldn't stop shaking. He couldn't explain what he was feeling and couldn't focus on what was happening and he couldn't...he couldn't...

A touch on his elbow startled him badly. Gerry didn't move his hand at all, seeming not to notice how Jon had flinched away from his touch. He was still too focused on glaring at Elias, a look of absolute hatred and betrayal on his face. "Come on Jon," he said stiffly, offering his hand again. This time, Jon didn't flinch away, letting Gerry take hold of his elbow. "We're not getting anything else out of this prick, and if I have to listen to one more excuse I will kill him." That was not a light threat, and Elias seemed to know it too, sitting back in his seat and giving Gerry a look.

"There is still more to discuss-"

"Send an email," Gerry snapped, drawing Jon towards the door. "That's all you're good for. Come on." Despite his anger, his touch was gentle, barely any force against Jon's elbow as he guided him down the hall and away from Elias. Jon focused on that one solid point connecting them, his overstimulated mind latching onto Gerry's touch, the way his fingers and palms were warm and dry, not clutching or clinging, just barely there but just enough. Jon remembered how hard Gerry's hands had been shaking when he was untying him from the chair, and their brutal cold efficiency when he'd used a crowbar to decapitate the mannequins that had tried to block their escape. No matter his rage, or his vicious strength, he was so, so careful when he touched Jon.

After stopping Melanie's latest assassination attempt on Elias, they made it back to the Archives, where the reception was...unwelcome. Jon bit his lip, trying not to take it personally. If he was in Tim or Basira's position, he probably wouldn't care if he'd been kidnapped either. Gerry coldly ignored them, steering Jon back to Document Storage and settling him on the cot before fetching the well-used first aid kit.

"Can I have your hands?" Gerry asked, kneeling on the floor next to him. "I should get bandages on your wrists, at least."

"You don't have to," Jon forced out, fighting to keep his voice steady. He felt ready to fall apart completely, to break down so he could put himself back together again, but would rather not do that in front of Gerry. He'd already been exposed too much to him, given the state he'd been found in, the shivering, naked, half-mad wretch Gerry had found in that basement. No need to make himself worse in Gerry's eyes. At the edge of his vision, he saw Gerry's hands hovering over his own, but he didn't touch.

"Jon," Gerry whispered. The rage was gone from his voice, but it still trembled slightly. "I won't touch you if you don't want me to, but...I want to take care of you. Please."

He hadn't slept in three days, Jon realized distantly, studying the deep bags under Gerry's eyes. He'd come off the plane from the States, heard Jon was missing, and hadn't stopped until he'd found him. That information was...it wasn't from him, but Jon could barely bring himself to care about that right now. All he could focus on was Gerry kneeling at his feet, asking to take his hands, wanting to help him, despite his own raggedness, despite everything. Gerry had found him.

Gerry was still there.

Gerry...

"I can't-" Jon choked on his breath, holding on by his last scrap of sanity. "I can't be touched right now, I can't-" he couldn't explain it, but he ached to touch Gerry, to comfort him as he so badly needed. It wasn't fair, he thought hysterically, that what he wanted and didn't want was the same thing, and he shouldn't be acting like this, nothing had happened, he hadn't been hurt but he couldn't explain what was wrong-

A weight settled next to him on the cot. Gerry was watching him, his eyes piercing in his deep sunken face. He wasn't reaching for Jon, was in fact sitting on his hands to keep them to himself, but Jon wanted to fling himself at him, or away from him, or...something. He wasn't sure.

"Whatever you need, Jon," Gerry whispered, aching and heavy. "Whatever you want, whatever you need from me, I'll do it. Anything."

Jon sobbed out a laugh. How could he have what he wanted from Gerry when he could barely stand the thought of being touched? He wanted to comfort Gerry, but he had no idea how. He wanted to be comforted, but he didn't deserve it. Everything was caught in his chest like webs and his skin felt slick with lotion, his wrists stung in the cold air and his fingers shook as he reached towards Gerry.

Gerry didn't say anything when Jon pulled his hand from beneath his leg. His hands were warm, and dry, his long artist fingers moving easily under Jon's. Jon breathed and shifted Gerry's hand onto his arm, feeling the weight of it against his skin. It was nothing like cold heavy plastic, didn't force itself into his space and slather him with moisturizer. Gerry was trembling with exhaustion, just as overwrought as Jon felt, but he didn't push, didn't demand that Jon get ahold of himself and get over it. He was crying too, it seemed.

"Just this," Jon whispered. "Just this, for now." Gerry nodded and shifted, leaning back against the shelf behind him. Leaving space for Jon to join, if he wished. Jon closed his eyes and let himself focus on his breath, deep and slow. His hand, warm and dry. His presence, a strong protective comfort. Gerry had found him, when no one else seemed to care. Gerry was the one who had pulled him free of that particular hell and had guided him to where it was safe. Gerry was letting him take the time to process everything, no judgement or demands. Some part of the tight feeling in Jon's chest finally loosened.

He was safe with Gerry.

[ficfield]

Chris Redfield finding out you’re pregnant headcanon

Can you do headcanons of vendetta Chris finding out AFABreader! Is pregnant?

Another cute one, god I adore this man 🥺 Enjoy my lovelies

Initial Reaction:  - At first, Chris is stunned. He just kind of blinks at you, processing your words like they don’t make sense.  - “Wait… pregnant? like, we’re having baby?” his voice is a mix of disbelief and cautious excitement.  - You might have to repeat it or even show him the test before he fully absorbs it.

Emotional overload: - The moment it truly sinks in, his expression softens, and you see a rare, vulnerable side of him.  - He smiles, not just his usual confident smirk, but something real, warm, almost disbelieving.  - “We’re having a baby,” he repeats, this time with absolute certainty, and then he pulls you into the tightest hug.- If you’re emotional about it, he’ll cup you’re face gently, wiping away any tears. “Hey, we’ve been through worse, right? We can handle this.” 

Protective instincts go into overdrive: - The moment he processes that you’re carrying his baby, his protective nature cranks up to 11. - Suddenly, he’s monitoring everything, your diet, how much rest you’re getting, even who you’re spending time with. - “Are you drinking enough water? Did you eat today? No missions. That’s final.” - He’s 100% starts researching prenatal care like he’s preparing for a bioweapon outbreak. 

Fear & doubt (but never about you): - Deep down, Chris worries about the world his child will be born into. He’s seen too much, fought too many monsters, can he really raise a kid in this kind of reality? - There’s also a part of him that wonders if he’ll be a good father. He never really had a normal life, and he’s terrified of messing this up. - But when you reassure him, maybe placing his hand over your stomach, telling him he’s already someone strong, selfless, and has a heart of gold, he breathes out a shaky laugh. - “I guess we’re in this together, huh?”

Excitement kicks in: - Once the initial shock and worries pass, Chris is all in. - He’s surprising soft when he talks about the baby, already wondering whose features they’ll have, what their first word will be. - If you let him, he’ll talk to your belly when he thinks you’re asleep. “Hey, kid. It’s your old man. Just wanted to let you know, you’ve already got one hell of a ‘mom’.”  - If you’re struggling with symptoms, he does whatever he can to make things easier. Back rubs? Check. Late-night snack runs? Absolutely. 

Telling the team: - When he tells Leon, the guy just smirks and claps him on the back. “you? A dad? Hope that kid doesn’t inherit your temper.” - Jill is so happy for you both, probably the first to buy baby stuff. - Rebecca tears up a little, hugging you tight. “You’re going to be amazing parents.”

Final thought: No matter what happens, Chris is dedicated to keeping you and your child safe. He may still his burdens, but now he has something new to fight for, a family of his own.

[smallestapplin]

Transformers animated has me by the neck, enjoy my somewhat Ultra Magnus rambling with his little human.

-

-

Ultra Magnus never once thought he’d have an interest in organics, being a busy bot himself it really doesn’t give him time either. Even going to Earth he wasn’t expecting to engage with them much, but you certainly love proving him wrong.

Cute little thing you are, small and squishy though much bigger than the smaller organic you are helping. From Optimus, you are their older human friend, but to Magnus you are something more.

You show such curiosity over the ship, yet you are polite, offering your own help over these decepticon matters. Originally he never thought someone so small could aid them, but it seems that just what you wanted cons and bots alike to think, using it to your advantage.

You’ve peaked his interest.

He even ignores Sentinal’s loud squaking at the sight of you on Ultra Magnus’s shoulder.

You are certainly sweet, perched on his shoulder and keeping him comapny, asking non-private questions and answering his about Earth and your life. The stoic leader’s expression always softens when you are around, it nearly breaks his spark to leave his little human, but Cybertron isn’t safe for an organic, certainly no fuel your body could handle either.

But that doesn’t stop him, not by a long shot.

Your eyes wide as Optimus hands you a box, its small for his but it’s nearly the size of you! Opening it, you’ll find a rather expensive gift in it, at least back on Cybertron it is.

A beautiful multicolored steel, as if different metals were melted together to create such stunning patterns. Inside next to it, is a note from Ultra Magnus himself, telling you about his day, how you somehow manage to even make basic protocol seem more lively.

You brought joy back into this old bots life.

You try to offer the same, to use communications to contact him and send him something in return, but it seems things are down, seems to have went down just after he sent you this item.

You show it to the others, gushing about this long steel like staff, just for Ratchet to choke on nothing.

“Don’t ya know how expensive that is!? Put that down before you whack someone with it.”

Not only does it cost more than half this planet, but it’s also a stasis staff, shocking whoever you were to hit it with into stasis, perfect for protecting yourself and fighting cons.

You are Ultra Magnus’s human, not many get the honor to see him so tender.

Treasure it well.

[airconditionertm]

Aemond x daemon’s ward reader part 2

Summary: the ward of daemon Targaryen y/n is constantly wrapped up in his schemes but having to get aemond Targaryen to propose to her had to be the hardest

Word count: 2499

Read part 1

Y/n was once again eating breakfast with daemon. “Things have been going well aemond he escorted me back to my chambers yesterday and asked me to call him by his first name” she reported to the daemon. “ good well then everything is going to plan, “ he said placing down his goblet. “Do not forget the purpose of your marriage don’t get caught up in your feelings dear”.

——————————————

Y/n walked in the garden considering how to further wo Aemond when she suddenly overheard voices coming from one of the gazebos. “ you are so dramatic brother”,“ mother he cannot be allowed to continue like this stumbling drunk through the castle harassing lady’s “,” I’m not harassing anyone I don’t even remember what you’re talking about “,” yeah because you where too drunk to remember”, ”just because your a boring repressed fuck doesn’t mean everyone wants to live like you “. It was Aemond and Aegon arguing. “Boys there’s no need to fight so early in the morning” Alicent tried to scold them however Aemond started yelling in high valerian his brother only replied in Broken sentences. Y/n stayed standing on the path too scared to move and be discovered eavesdropping. But she suddenly heard footsteps. She tried to sneak away but Aemond saw her . “ what are you doing here “ he asked. “I was taking a walk in the garden I didn’t mean to hear I’m sorry Aemond, “ she said . “ it’s alright y/n,” he said. “Was the argument caused by what I told you yesterday?” she asked looking at the floor. “Yes but it’s not your fault he’s been behaving like this for a while it was just the straw that broke the camel’s back, “ he said gesturing for her to walk with him. “ I see I’m glad I don’t have siblings like him “ she replied he let out the smallest chuckle. “ certainly, “ he said. A silence fell over the two while they walked.

Y/n looked over the wall of the garden at the beach below stopping Aemond stopped with her. “ is that Vhagar “ she said pointing at the dragon flying over the sea. “Yes it is she’s probably hunting “ he explained. “ she’s waiting for a whale to surface right and then she pulls it out and eats it I remember seeing her do that on Dragonstone it’s impressive yet terrifying.” She asked leaning on the wall to look at Vhagar.” yes I suppose it is a little terrifying if you're not familiar would her,” he said looking out at the sea with her. “ I suppose so” They both look out at the sea for a while until Aemond speaks up.

“Can I ask you something which may be rude,” he asked. “Of course you can what is it” she replied looking over at him. “Daemon said you're here to find a husband but I have hardly seen you socialize with any men at court,” he asked.

Fuck y/n had not considered having to keep up the ruse that she was looking to marry any man but Aemond. “ if I’m honest I…” 7 hells why couldn’t she think of anything “ I’m not the most social, I find it hard to talk to people especially when the result of that interaction is anything as important as marriage “ she spoke rushed. “You speak to me and I’m considered less approachable than most” he retorted. “ well I already know you in a way Aemond from childhood and royal events even if we haven’t spoken much, it is also that you happen to be everywhere I go “ she replied rubbing her hands nervously. “I know I should socialize more but being hiding in the library and talking to you is far more enjoyable, I know if I don’t find a husband soon I might never find one “She looked at him trying to gauge his reaction. “You will find a husband you just need to talk to men” he replied matter of fact. y/n chuckled “What makes you so sure of that “ she asked him. “ you’re a noble lady with close ties to the royal family, you’re beautiful, you’re polite and kind and surprisingly smart and analytical any man would be lucky to marry you y/n ” he looked straight at her and back at the sea. “You are too kind ” she spoke moving closer to him and placing her hand above his which rested on the top of the wall. “ I am not too kind I am speaking the truth, “ he said.

" so this is where you have gone off.." the two instantly jumped apart at the sound of Alicents voice " To Aemond.. y/n?". " I should go " y/n

blurted out walking away. It was good for Alicent to see them together but it might be too early she wanted to talk with Alicent first before being caught together in a garden holding hands. For some that may not mean a lot but among the nobility, it was practically like being caught naked together on a roof. Oh no, would people gossip would they give her weird glances?

——————————-

Alicent had invited y/n to tea. She had spent a while choosing her dress and readying her hair. Though she likely knew what Alicent wanted to speak with her about, tea with the queen was never to be taken lightly. She waited outside the door to be let in.

” Come in sit with me “ Alicent commanded. Y/n sat down across from her. “ I want to know what I saw in the gardens yesterday “ she got right to the point. “ we met each other when he walked off from his argument with his brother. We walked together for a while until I spotted Vhagar above the sea and we stopped and started talking.” Y/n stated matter of fact. “Well you’re talking seemed quite intimate what did you talk about “ she asked. “ well first we spoke about Vhagar but later he asked me why I didn’t socialize with many men at court when I was trying to find a husband and we spoke about that and I started to get a bit distressed worrying about not finding a husband and he reassured me” Alice wasn’t convinced yet. “ you placed your hand atop his “ she said. “ I did yes“. “What are your intentions with Aemond you're supposed to be finding a husband at court yet you have been focusing on my son instead, “ she asked. “ in truth, I may have developed an infatuation with him at first I was simply curious to see the boy I knew grown up but then I discovered he is quite handsome all grow up I know it’s immature and inappropriate ” she tried to explain. “ so you only like his appearance than “ Alicent accuses her. “No no that’s the difficult part if it was just about his appearance it would be easy to get past if that was the case but he’s dedicated intelligent dutiful and he’s closed off in a way that makes you feel so special when he opens up to you “ y/n tried to seem as genuine as possible which wasn’t to difficult since all she was saying was technically true.

“So you truly care for him not his looks or his title “Alicent asked looking straight at y/n . “ yes I do Your Majesty “ y/n shifted in her seat. “ I do think that it is time for Aemond to find a wife I think it would be good for him but alliances are also important in royal marriage if he loves you and he comes to me I will not deny him but I will not help you “ she explains. “I understand Your Majesty “Y/n couldn’t help but smile a little at the queen's lack of disapproval it wasn’t quite an approval yet but it was close.

———————————-

“Your mother invited me to tea yesterday,” y/n said looking up from what she was reading. Aemond groaned “Yes she spoke with me too, about us holding hands in the garden it was…”. ”indeed it was strange she asked me what my intentions with you are” y/n replied. “ well what are your intentions with me y/n,” Aemond said smirking. “ genuine “ was all she said. “ my mother talked to me about marriage I’ve been trying to avoid that conversation I blame you, “ he said. ”well I’m sorry aemond, she spoke with me about marriage too, I felt like she was interrogating me“ y/n broke eye contact. “what did she say to you, “ Aemond asked. Y/n wasn’t sure if telling him might feel too forward but she knew she couldn’t avoid his questions. “She expressed her lack of disapproval if the two of us would marry…. I think it’s a bit of a dramatic reaction to people holding hands to start talking about marriage “.

“ it isn’t dramatic truly, we aren’t even officially courting technically we should not even be anywhere alone together and generally when a young man and lady interact it has something to do with marriage, also think my mother assumes something else may have happened,” Aemond explained looking more serious than before. “ I suppose we have not been following court procedures I don’t want to cause any scandal for you Aemond but I still enjoy spending time with you, “ y/n said. “ I suppose we could officially court to allow us to continue our time together “ Aemond at this point paid no more attention to his tomb.

“If we were to officially court would it be to simply continue spending time together or would it go towards a possibility of marriage I cannot court multiple men so officially courting you would not do well for my plans of finding any other husband ” y/n explained, of course, she didn’t care about courting other men but it was a good excuse to ask whether he would marry her. “as I’ve already said any man would be lucky to marry you, however, I am a prince so my marriage has to be considered more carefully, but what is more important is do you want to go towards that possibility, “ he asked reaching his hand across the table to meet hers. “ yes, “ she said quietly. “ why is it you wish to marry me is it my title, my house or do you feel you can not refuse me “ he rubbed her hand gently. “ I cannot say that your position has no part in the appeal however to speak truly I first started seeking you out because well .. you are quite handsome…. And then I grew to realize you are quite intelligent and we like similar things and I quite enjoy your company so I think you would be a suitable companion for me and maybe in a way it is also that by marrying you I would finally be officially part of the family I have spent my whole life with and this marriage does provide security for me and with a guardian like daemon security would be a nice change “ she looked at Aemond for reassurance he did not give her any. “I will discuss the topic with my mother I’ll tell you by tomorrow so you must not worry about it too long, “ Aemond said. Y/n already worried was she going too fast had she messed everything up bringing up her meeting with Alicent she hadn’t expected Aemond to start seriously talking about marriage. This was it she thought everything could fall apart all the research the planning and the scheming she never thought it could make her this anxious. She felt like her heart might explode.

————————————

She walked to Daemon's chambers knocking on his door. “ who is here so late “ he opened the door “Oh hello is everything alright “ he asked. “ I don’t know Aemond he started talking about the possibility of officially courting” she spoke breathlessly.” Isn’t that a good thing dear why don’t you come inside” daemon gestured inside the room and closed the doors. “ yes it would be good if he had decided then and there but he said he needs to speak with his mother about it and I don’t think Alicent likes me particularly much I mean at the tea she practically interrogated me, and it wasn’t supposed to happen this fast, god why did I have to bring it up I I I don’t even really get if he wants to marry me he said that any man would be lucky to but that’s a thing people just say right and he w-“daemon cut her of “ dear you need to calm down alright we won’t know until tomorrow even if this plan fails you know I always have a plan b alright “.

————————

Y/n awoke forgetting for just a second what she was so worried about the night before it was a beautiful second before it all came crashing down on her again.

——————

The day was almost over and Aemond hadn’t spoken to her yet she was sure this was it she had failed. She sat on her bed sketching something in her sketchbook. A sudden knock disturbed her “Who is it” she called out. “Aemond” shit she got up trying to fix her hair and smith her dress. ”Come in,” she said. Aemond stepped into the room “ I wasn’t able to find you I spoke with my mother “ he said standing at the door. “What did she say “ y/n asked trying not to sound too desperate for the answer. “She agreed that we might court,” he said. “ gods are why didn’t you just say that I was certain you were going to give me bad news” y/n looked at him. “My apologies y/n I didn’t mean to worry you”. He said. “ it is alright “Y/n replied taking his hands he recoiled a little at first but let her hold his hands. “We must announce that we are courting officially.” He said. “Yes, we must when should we do that “ y/n replied. “Where having dinner together my mother makes us at least once a week we can announce it then if you and daemon would join us ” he was silent for a moment “Does daemon approve “ he asked unsure. ” Yes he does I spoke with him about it,” y/n said. “ that surprises me in truth, he doesn’t seem particularly in favor of me ?“ Aemond questioned. “ I can be quite convincing Aemond “ y/n replied smirking hoping he bought that she convinced him.

[midnightwind]

okay tumblr decided to be Funny with me so I'm coming back to this outside of the tags because apparently I have too many thoughts about the Crows for my own good

so, cracking my knuckles because it's been a hot sec since I've sat down to be insane over the Crows and their politics! (god fuck sorry just looked up the 'cast list' for 8LT again and wdym Dante was Second Talon wtf- that feels wild okay sorry I thought Emil was Second Talon for some reason) ANYWAYS I think it's entirely possible that Caterina did not push on having Houses Balazar and Valisti vacate their spots, I would find it Highly unlikely that a Talon would not have a successor lined up should something happen to them. Caterina cannot be the only Talon thinking about Legacy and What Comes Next and even if there wasn't an obvious heir to the seat in Houses that lost their Talon I think someone would have stepped up, esp with Caterina looming over them being like “figure your shit out we have to save the country.” (internal fighting still very real, but unless a Knife tried to fight for the spot, I doubt they'd change Houses esp since we haven't heard of a Knife taking a seat recently [we don't know if Teia was Cantori before taking her seat or not to my knowledge])

although there is also a real discussion to be had about how much communication can happen between the Talons post invasion... Viago's letter to Rook mentions that writing letters to Minrathous will be almost impossible because of the Antaam (which I take with a grain of salt because why would the Assassin's Guild use mundane mail that has to be screened... and maybe he just means “they're annoyingly apt at spotting our messages so it's not worth it unless it's Important” idk, it would be on brand for him to also be like "and nothing you write is ever very important so fix that or stop trying to write me") but I think the Second and Third seats are at least still within their initial Houses from 8LT just because of the invasion looming. I do think Caterina might have gone scorched earth on House Kortez however (I can't remember if we have a Codex or dialogue citing this, I know we had a few references to fallen Houses but I read 8LT after finding those and don't want to open the game rn lmao) very much “can't know how deep the betrayal goes so burn it all to save us the trouble” you know?

so maybe Viago did become Fourth Talon after 8LT given he solved the murders and ensured Emil was caught, but then Rook happens. Rook ruins an important strike against the invaders and Viago spares them over it. Caterina understands doing anything for your family (and Rook is set up as his family and potentially his successor even!) but that can't be allowed so he has to be punished! But he's a clever Crow and a good Talon and an important piece on the board (esp when it comes to the Crown of Antiva!) so why not just take that promotion away and ensure he does better next time? scare him, ensure the Problem (Rook) is dealt with, and keep that hard worker under your thumb! I don't know if another House stepped up to fill that role or if there just currently isn't a Fourth Talon (Illario did have a full spread when he tried to take over as First Talon but maybe he just had stand ins or supporters mixed in with Teia and Viago, I don't think all the Talons are in Treviso or should all be there or could all be there that fast) I foresee Bolivar getting ousted by his own House upon his return from 8LT honestly so House Nero may still hold the Sixth seat under a new Talon, and well poor Arainai might still be 8th Talon (never rule out Zevran coming back to run chaos) but it's the weakest seat so I doubt Caterina really worried about solving that with the Antaam happening. and so as long as the House still answers and fights for the Talons in Antiva I doubt it matters who's name has the title, anyone in the House could have taken over for Giuli.

I think bare minimum that Teia should have been promoted to Sixth Talon tho she was core to finding Emil as the killer and it's esp weird considering Caterina very openly favors her. maybe they thought bumping Teia to Sixth but leaving Viago as Fifth would be too confusing? but only people who read 8LT would even find it odd (and even then, would we??) but maybe they had the seats already decided for Veilguard before Tevinter Nights was finished and things stayed the same between...

anyways, the whole of Antiva is primed for a Huge wave of reform at end of the events of Veilguard, esp if Rook is played as a Crow. the heroes of the world (this time) are all decently high ranked or highly respected assassins within the order and one of them even has ties to the crown! I think, if we had gotten to see a little further, glimpsed the road Antiva is on with ousting the Antaam, there would be a decent chance of the Crows becoming proper god damned heroes of legends to the country and Viago making a real move to take the crown from his father (with full backing from at least 2 Houses if not most of the order) and who even knows if having a full 8 Talons would even be needed then? the entire order of Crows could be going through some insane changes at the end of all this

also one other thing that was bothering me. even if we chuck it up to teia's influence and viago being super generous by not overtaking 2nd and 3rd talon (house balazar and valisti) after what happen in eight little talons, house kortez is pretty much done and gone. it makes no sense that a cuchillo house is jumping immediately to the vacated 4th talon position, viago should be a 4th talon now and teia 6th. the setup where they remained at their previous positions would only make sense if they for some reason kept 4th talon vacated, but that makes no sense, it's been years. i think it's just a slipup and by all means viago should be 4th and teia 6th at least. i would even expect more changes in the hierarchy, but on the other hand maybe caterina penalized infighting somehow now that they should be focusing on the antaam.

[p0tasiu]

Nimeni nu poate intelege relatia dintre o fata si personajul fictional pe care l a ales ca father figure la 10 ani