#still feeling wobbly and not entirely settled in the stomach

[rainintheevening]

Made it to school today, but I'm not more than 80% recovered. This week isn't going to be easy. Thanks so much for your prayers darlings!

I did read all the way through Macbeth this afternoon though.👍

[robo-writing]

Logan with a virgin reader, expecting her to be this shy nervous little thing only to be met with a woman who’s spent too much of her life with only her imagination to keep her company. Suddenly he’s the one nervous because you’re so eager to fuck him and you’re begging him so nicely that it’s hard for him to remember you’ve never actually done this and he has to be responsible. You whine the entire time he’s stretching you out with his fingers, hands grabbing at him and pleading with him to replace his fingers with his cock and god damn it, you’re making it really fucking hard for him to focus.

You’re both bare, losing your clothes somewhere between the living room and the kitchen. The feeling of skin against skin drives you wild, makes you plead for the cock that’s throbbing against your thigh. You know he wants this just as bad as you do, you can feel how bad he wants this, but he settles for spreading you apart on his fingers.

You know you’re testing his patience but you don’t care; not when you grind against him, not when his cock glides against your bare pussy, not when he pins you to the bed as your back arches off it.

“Stop moving,” he begs, over and over. “Stop it, stop—stop fucking moving.”

You’re killing him; every time you look at him with those darling little doe eyes he can feel what little self-restraint he has left crumbling apart, every whine and moan and please Logan, gimme more testing his resolve.

“You need to stop,” he begs, head falling forward as your cunt wets his dick, sliding against his length but refusing to push forward and take you. You shake your head, pull him in for a kiss that’s anything but demure, lust pouring from your tongue as you lick at his mouth.

“Don’t wanna,” you gasp, pulling him closer by his shoulders. Between each kiss you see his control waning, feel his hands bruised your skin, taste the depravity between his teeth. Slowly but surely you see his mask slipping away, a beast in disguise of a man, one that desperately wants to claim you as his.

A sick part of you wants that; to submit yourself, bare your neck against its fangs and beg for more when its teeth pierce your skin. You want to give yourself to Logan—all of him, even the parts that he himself doesn’t want to show you. You want your first time to be just as enjoyable for him as it is for you—which is why you bring his hand to your stomach, to where his dick would leave an outline. You hold his hand firm as he stares with lust-blown eyes just imagining how full of him you’d be, in awe at just how willing you are to submit.

“I can handle it, you whimper, voice sweet like sin. “Fuck me, please.”

And like that, you’re no longer faced with your loving boyfriend. You’re now face to face with the Wolverine.

He pushes inside your velvet walls, still conscious enough to give you a moment to adjust. The feeling is new, full. Your voice wobbles when his thumb reaches down to circle your clit, just enough to get you to relax as he feeds your greedy pussy inch after inch.

“Y’gotta breathe for me baby,” he rasps into the side of your neck, releasing a breath you never knew you were holding. He rewards your obedience with more of his dick, slowly rocking against you as you start to adjust to the feeling.

“Feels good,” you whisper, stroking his hair. Your eyes are locked with his, lost in his pretty emerald eyes. “You can move.”

“Are you sure?” He asks. “Not sure I’ll be able to stop once I do.”

You know he’s telling the truth, it’s written all over his face. A need to possess you in body and soul, his eyes glued to where you’re both connected with a sickening fascination. You know the actual question he's asking, even if he can't bring himself to say it. Are you sure you want me? You realize he's just as vulnerable as you are, unsure of himself. It's a rarity that Logan ever talks about himself, always focused on you above all. You want to give him a break, want to make him feel as good as he makes you feel, want him to finally stop holding back and let go. So you kiss him, long and deep, and hope that gets the message across. His answer comes in the form of hands on your hips, the deep timbre of his voice radiating from his broad chest. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

[calypso-rt]

HONEYMOON

with Rafe Cameron

-> Rafe x F!Reader

📍 Amalfi Coast, Italy 🇮🇹

You knew honeymooning with Rafe Cameron would be an experience.

But as you step onto the sun drenched terrace of your private villa overlooking the endless stretch of the Mediterranean, waves crashing gently against the cliffs below, you realize nothing could have prepared you for this.

It’s breathtaking. The kind of view that belongs in a postcard, all golden light and soft ocean breeze, the scent of lemon trees lingering in the air.

And then there’s Rafe, grinning like he planned this entire thing himself (he didn’t), hands in his pockets, watching you expectantly.

“Well?” he prompts, shifting closer, voice dipping into something softer. “Worth marrying me for?”

You roll your eyes, but your smile betrays you. “Jury’s still out.”

Rafe hums, unconvinced. “Mm. Guess I’ll have to spend the next week proving you made the right choice.”

Before you can fire back, his arms loop around your waist, pulling you into him with that effortless ease, the kind that still makes your breath catch, even after everything. His lips find your temple, lingering just long enough to send warmth spreading through your chest.

And suddenly, you don’t care about the luggage still sitting by the door. Or the very long flight it took to get here.

Because Rafe is here. And he’s yours.

And if the next week looks anything like this?

You’re definitely in trouble.

☀️ Lazy Tanning on the Coast

The afternoon sun is warm against your skin, a lazy breeze rolling in from the water as you stretch out on the lounge chair. The sound of waves crashing against the cliffs below is almost hypnotic, so much so that you don’t even notice Rafe shifting closer until you feel his fingers graze your wrist. “You’re not even trying to tan,” he murmurs, lips curving into a smirk. You peek at him over your sunglasses. “Maybe because I don’t need to turn into a lobster like you.” Rafe scoffs, dramatically offended. “Lobster? Baby, I’m gonna be golden.” “You’re gonna be burnt." He ignores that, reaching over to steal your drink without asking, sipping lazily before setting it back down, closer to his side of the table. You huff, but before you can snatch it back, he shifts onto his side, propping his head up with one hand as he studies you. “What?” you ask, suspicious. His expression softens, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “You just look good. Happy.” The words settle warm in your chest, and for once, you don’t have a teasing remark ready. Instead, you reach out, threading your fingers through his where they rest between you. “I am,” you admit. And with him under the golden Italian sun, you really are.

🏍 Him absolutely renting a Vespa just to “impress you”

“You’re going to kill us.” Rafe scoffs, revving the Vespa like it’s a full blown motorcycle. “Baby, have a little faith.” You tighten your grip around his waist, already regretting this. “Last time you drove something this small, you ran over Topper’s foot.” “Okay, first of all, that was his fault for standing too close. Second, this is different. I’ve got it under control.” Famous last words. The Vespa wobbles as he takes off, and you let out an actual scream, clinging to him for dear life. Rafe just laughs, one hand way too casually gripping the handlebar. “Relax,” he says over the wind, sounding downright smug. “You’re in good hands.” You peek over his shoulder, past the stunning coastline, the rows of pastel-colored buildings, the winding cobblestone streets you’re probably about to crash into, and sigh. “Just try not to get us banned from Italy, okay?” Rafe chuckles, his free hand reaching down to squeeze yours where it rests against his stomach. “No promises, Mrs. Cameron.” And despite yourself, despite the very real possibility of disaster, you can’t help but smile.

🍝 Romantic candelit dinners where you can't keep your eyes off of him

The restaurant is tucked into the cliffs, candlelight flickering against white linen tablecloths, the sound of waves crashing below blending seamlessly with the soft hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place straight out of a dream: warm, intimate, effortlessly romantic. And yet, the only thing you can focus on is Rafe. He sits across from you, sleeves rolled up, tanned skin golden in the glow of the candles. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you, fingers idly tracing the rim of his wine glass. “You’re staring,” he murmurs. You roll your eyes, spearing a piece of pasta with your fork. “You’re imagining things.” Rafe leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “Mmm. Don’t think so.” His voice dips, teasing but quiet, like it’s meant just for you. “Starting to think you like me, sweetheart.” You hum, pretending to consider. “Well, I did marry you. So, I guess you’re not totally awful.” His smirk deepens, but instead of responding, he reaches across the table, fingers grazing your wrist before curling around your hand completely. The warmth of his touch sends a flutter through your chest, one you pretend not to feel as he rubs slow, lazy circles against your skin. For once, there’s no bickering. No teasing. Just him. Just this. And as the night stretches on, wine glasses emptied, dessert shared, his foot nudging yours under the table, you realize something for the millionth time. You don’t just like Rafe Cameron. You love him.

🌊 A boat ride that ends with both of you in the water.

The sun is high, the water impossibly blue as the boat drifts lazily along the coast. It’s quiet except for the occasional hum of the engine and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the hull. Rafe stands at the bow, arms outstretched like he owns the ocean, wind ruffling his sun-bleached hair. “See? Told you renting a boat was a genius idea.” You lean back against the railing, sipping your drink. “Mmm. I’ll be impressed when you actually do something.” He turns, raising a brow. “Is that a challenge?” You smirk. “More like a fact.” And then, before you can react, Rafe strides toward you, that dangerous glint in his eye as he sets your drink to the side. “Rafe—” Too late. His arms wrap around you, warm and solid, and in one swift motion, he dives off the side, taking you with him. The water is a shock, cool against your sun-kissed skin, bubbles rushing around you as you resurface with a gasp. “Rafe!” you splutter, shoving wet hair from your face. He’s already floating beside you, grinning so smugly you could throttle him. “You said I should do something.” “You’re impossible!” You flick water at him, but he just laughs, swimming closer. Then, his hands find your waist beneath the waves, tugging you against him effortlessly. His voice drops, lower, softer. “But you love me anyway.” You roll your eyes, but your arms loop around his neck, your legs tangling with his in the water. “Unfortunately.” He grins before closing the space between you, his lips warm despite the cool water, the sea carrying you both in lazy circles. And maybe his boat idea was kind of genius.

🛏 Mornings spent tangled in crisp white sheets, sunlight spilling through open windows, his lazy grin the first thing you see.

Morning comes slow, golden light spilling through the open windows, the soft rustle of the ocean breeze slipping through sheer white curtains. The sheets are a tangled mess, warm, wrinkled, wrapped around your legs and twisted somewhere between you and Rafe. You blink sleepily, stretching against the pillows, only to be met with the sight of him. Rafe lies beside you, arm thrown lazily over your waist, his bare chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. His hair is a mess, sun-kissed strands falling over his forehead, and when he stirs, just barely, his lips curve into a lazy, lopsided grin. “Morning, Mrs. Cameron,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep. Your heart does that stupid fluttering thing, but you roll your eyes anyway, fingers tracing absentmindedly along his jaw. “You just like saying that.” He hums, eyes still half-closed as he tugs you closer, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder. “Obviously.” You sigh, letting yourself melt into him, into the warmth of his skin, the steady press of his heartbeat against yours. Neither of you rush to move. There’s nowhere to be, nothing to do but exist here in this perfect little pocket of time where the world is quiet and love feels as easy as breathing. And as Rafe buries his face in the crook of your neck, mumbling something about five more minutes, you know, without a doubt, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

A/N: Inspo struck guys I'm on a roll

[thef1diary]

Omg di imagine crashing the car or a race doesn’t go as expected, so you blame the strategy and go off on the team on radio in rage and team principal carlos is NOT happy about it

— bon!! I love this so much! TP!carlos is not happy at all, and of course he’ll punish you for it…in front of the team and in your hotel room, with a lot less clothes. 18+ content below

The second you step out of the car, the tension is palpable. The garage is silent, all eyes darting between you and Carlos as you yank your helmet off, frustration still written all over your face. You’d gone off on the team over the radio after the race—an emotional, fiery tirade blaming the strategy for your poor result but it had majorly been your own fault.

Carlos is waiting for you, his arms crossed, jaw clenched, his dark eyes burning with restrained fury.

“Meeting. Now.” His voice is low, deadly calm, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

You follow him to the debrief room, where the entire team also gathers, their expressions varying from uncomfortable to outright nervous. Carlos doesn’t sit; he looms at the head of the room, his presence commanding, his gaze fixed entirely on you.

“Care to explain yourself?” he asks, his tone clipped.

You stammer out a half-hearted explanation, but it’s clear he’s not interested in excuses. He cuts you off with a sharp gesture. “No. You don’t talk to the team like that. Ever.” His voice rises, but only slightly—it’s the controlled anger that has everyone on edge. “This team works day and night for you, and you repay them by humiliating them on an open channel? Unacceptable.”

You shrink under his scrutiny, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. When the meeting finally ends, he dismisses everyone but keeps his gaze locked on you.

Later, when the hotel room door slams shut, the sound echoing through the space, Carlos immediately spins you around and pins you against the wall. His hand fists in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make you gasp, and his lips graze the shell of your ear as he growls, “You embarrassed me. Humiliated the team. And now, you’re going to pay for it.”

His hands are unforgiving as they strip you of your clothes, each piece tossed carelessly aside until you’re bare before him. He doesn’t bother undressing at all, only rolling up his sleeves to his forearms. His eyes darken as he takes you in, his tongue sweeping across his bottom lip.

“On the bed,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You scramble to obey, lying back on the cool sheets, but Carlos shakes his head. “No. Knees.”

You shift onto all fours, your body trembling as he moves behind you. His large hands grip your hips, holding you still as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. “You think you can act like a spoiled brat over the radio and get away with it? You think you deserve to cum after that display?”

Before you can answer, his palm cracks against your ass, the sting sharp and biting. You yelp, but he doesn’t let up, delivering another, then another, each slap punctuated by his scolding.

“Count,” he snaps.

You stumble over the numbers, your voice shaky as the punishment blurs into something far more intoxicating.

By the time he’s done, your ass is flushed and littered with his handprints, your knees wobbling from the intensity. But Carlos doesn’t stop there. He flips you onto your back with ease, his hand wrapping around your throat—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his control.

His mouth is on you next, biting and sucking a trail down your neck, your chest, your stomach. He’s relentless, leaving marks in his wake, a reminder of this night that you’ll feel tomorrow.

He spreads your legs wide as he settles between them. His fingers slide through your wetness, teasing your clit just enough to make you squirm.

“You’re dripping,” he taunts, his lips curving into a wicked smirk. “Pathetic. But you’re not cumming. Not yet.”

His fingers thrust into you, slow and deliberate, curling just right to make you whimper. But every time your hips buck, desperate for more, he pulls away, slapping your clit sharply. The sting makes you cry out, your body jerking, but Carlos just chuckles darkly.

“You’re going to apologize to the entire team tomorrow,” he orders, his voice low and commanding, “until then, you’ve lost the right to cum.”

He keeps you on edge, working you up until your thighs shake, your breath ragged, only to stop the moment he feels you getting close. Each slap to your swollen clit is a punishment, a reminder of your outburst, and the sadistic gleam in his eyes tells you he’s enjoying every second of your torment.

“Say it,” he demands, his fingers circling your clit slowly, teasingly. “Say you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” you gasp immediately, your voice barely above a whisper.

Carlos shakes his head, his fingers stopping entirely. “Louder. Like you mean it.”

“I’m sorry!” you cry out, desperation lacing your tone.

Satisfied, he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Good. And if you ever pull a stunt like that again, this will seem like mercy. Understood?”

All you can do is nod, your body sore and your mind already spinning with the anticipation of what he might do next time.

He pulls away entirely, leaving you aching and needy, your body trembling as he smirks down at you. “Rest up, nena. You’ll need it for tomorrow.” And with that, he leaves you there, completely wrecked, your pussy still throbbing for the release he’s refused to give.

want more team!principal!carlos? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[infamous-light]

All I Think About Is You

Wanda Maximoff x Natasha Romanoff

AO3: All I Think About Is You

Summary: Wanda’s growing crush on Natasha doesn’t go unnoticed.

Word Count: 3K

Warnings: Smut, G!P Natasha, PIV sex, blow jobs, dirty talk, light dom/sub, fingering, seduction

Wanda had always told herself it was just admiration. Admiration for Natasha’s skill, her composure, her sheer presence.

But deep down, she knew better. It wasn’t just the way Natasha could captivate a room with just a smirk or how she carried herself with effortless grace. It was the way she made Wanda’s chest tighten, her stomach flutter, and her thoughts spin wildly out of control.

Every interaction left Wanda yearning for more: a glance that lingered a second too long, a soft laugh that sent warmth rushing through her veins, or the casual brush of fingertips that felt more intimate than it had any right to. Natasha was magnetic, and Wanda? She was hopelessly caught in her orbit.

Wanda sighed, clutching her water bottle as she walked down the Avengers compound hallway, trying not to think about the way Natasha had looked earlier that morning at breakfast. Her hair was slightly tousled, a few strands falling in her face as she sipped her coffee, eyes still half-lidded from sleep. Wanda had stared for too long, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth, until Natasha glanced up and arched a playful eyebrow. Wanda had quickly looked away, heat rushing to her face, but the memory of Natasha’s teasing smirk lingered stubbornly in her mind.

Now, as Wanda passed by the gym, the rhythmic thuds and soft grunts broke through her thoughts, pulling her from her reverie. Her heart skipped a beat – she recognized that sound. It was Natasha.

For a moment, Wanda hesitated, her hand resting on the cool metal of the door handle. She shouldn’t go in. She should keep walking, leave Natasha to her training, and save herself from the inevitable spiral of emotions she’d feel watching her. Yet, her feet refused to move. The thought of seeing Natasha – seeing her strength, her focus, her raw energy – was irresistible. Wanda swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the handle more firmly.

Finally, Wanda pushed the door open just wide enough to peek through.

Inside, Natasha was sparring against a training dummy. Wanda couldn’t help but watch in awe as the assassin’s lithe form executed a perfect roundhouse kick, her body twisting with precision and power. The dummy wobbled violently under the impact, but Natasha was already in motion again, her chest heaving with exertion as sweat glistened along her collarbones.

Wanda continued to stare, mesmerized. Her eyes wandered, taking in the sculpted muscles of Natasha’s arms, the way her tank top clung to her, damp with sweat. Wanda froze when her gaze slipped lower, landing on a subtle yet undeniable bulge pressing against the fabric of Natasha’s workout shorts. For a fleeting moment, her mind seemed to shut down entirely.

Then, a wave of heat surged between her thighs, settling there. She shouldn’t stare, couldn’t stare, but her traitorous eyes refused to obey. Wanda bit her lower lip, and her imagination ran wild before she could stop it.

She pictured herself on her knees, Natasha’s fingers tangling in her hair as the tip of her cock pressed firmly against her lips. She imagined the warmth of it, the weight, and how Natasha’s soft groan might sound as she –

Wanda jolted back, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. She clenched her hand tightly around the water bottle, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to steady herself. This was not appropriate – not the time, not the place, not… anything. And yet, her heart hammered, and her thighs squeezed together involuntarily.

“You okay there?” Natasha’s voice snapped the witch out of her thoughts.

Wanda’s eyes darted up to find Natasha watching her, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She was standing by the water cooler now, toweling off her neck, her green eyes sharp and knowing. Too knowing. Wanda shifted awkwardly on her feet, suddenly aware of how red her face must be.

“Yeah, I was just… uh, passing by.” Wanda stammered, gripping her water bottle like it could somehow deflect Natasha’s gaze.

“Uh-huh,” Natasha drawled, her smirk widening. “Next time, you should join me. Staring doesn’t exactly burn any calories.”

Wanda’s face flushed a deeper shade of crimson as Natasha approached her with a confident stride. She struggled to maintain her composure, her eyes stubbornly avoiding the prominent curve of Natasha’s bulge. Natasha tilted her head ever so slightly, her gaze trailing up and down Wanda’s form, lingering on every curve.

“You seem tense, Maximoff,” Natasha said, her voice smooth and velvety, laced with a teasing undertone. “Perhaps you should come by my room later,” she paused, her voice dropping into a hushed whisper. “I think we should... talk.”

Wanda’s lips parted, but no words came out. Talk? About what? But the way Natasha’s green eyes glinted with mischief told Wanda it wasn’t going to be a simple chat.

“I – uh...” Wanda stuttered, her face growing impossibly hotter. “Sure. I mean – okay. I’ll come by later.”

Natasha chuckled as she brushed past her. “Good. Be there in an hour. Don’t keep me waiting.”

With a towel draped over her shoulder, Natasha walked away, leaving Wanda standing there, her heart pounding, thoughts racing, and a slow, unmistakable heat pooling low in her abdomen.

***

An hour later, Wanda stood outside Natasha’s bedroom door, her fingers twisting anxiously in the fabric of her short black skirt. The hem barely brushed mid-thigh, revealing more skin than she was used to showing. Her low-cut red t-shirt hugged her figure, the neckline dipping just enough to highlight the curve of her collarbone and the faint swell of her breasts. She had chosen the outfit with care, hoping it would catch Natasha’s eye.

Wanda smoothed her hands down her skirt for the tenth time, trying to calm the nervous fluttering in her stomach. Taking a deep breath, she raised her hand and knocked.

“Come in!” Natasha’s voice rang out.

Wanda stepped inside, and the sight that greeted her made her heart skip a beat. Natasha was lounging on the edge of her bed, her damp red hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders from a recent shower. She was dressed in a loose black tank top and navy-blue gym shorts that were so short that they left little to the imagination. The material hugged her thighs, accentuating every muscle, and the slight stretch of her legs revealed a large bulge that was impossible to ignore.

Though Natasha’s posture was relaxed, her gaze was anything but. The low-cut top Wanda wore drew Natasha’s attention, her eyes lingering before tracing the curve of her bare legs, exposed by the short skirt she had chosen. When their eyes met again, Natasha’s smoldering intensity sent a shiver coursing through Wanda.

“You came,” Natasha said, her lips curving into a slow smile. “Good.”

Wanda nodded, unsure of what to do with her hands or where to look. She lingered near the door, feeling both drawn in and overwhelmed by the tension growing in the air. Natasha rose slowly, closing the distance between them in a few unhurried steps. Wanda could barely breathe as Natasha came to a stop mere inches away.

“You look nervous,” Natasha said in a low voice. Her fingers grazed against Wanda’s wrist, a fleeting touch that sent a spark of electricity through her. “Don’t be. I don’t bite –” she paused, her smile deepening. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Wanda’s throat tightened, her breath catching.

“I’m not nervous.” She replied, though the waver in her voice betrayed her.

“Is that so?” Natasha’s gaze lingered on Wanda’s lips before flickering back up to meet her eyes. Her hand rose, fingertips tracing a slow, tantalizing path along Wanda’s forearm. “Then why is your heart racing?”

“I –” Wanda’s words failed her.

Natasha leaned in closer, her voice a whisper against Wanda’s ear. “It’s okay. I just want to… get to know you better.” She pulled back just enough to meet Wanda’s eyes again, the corner of her mouth lifting in a wicked grin. “Unless, of course, you’d prefer to leave.”

The challenge hung in the air, daring Wanda to stay. There was something in Natasha’s tone, something about the way her presence seemed to wrap around her like a silken thread, that made it impossible to walk away.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Wanda said, her voice steady now.

Natasha’s smile widened, her fingers lightly trailing down Wanda’s arm. “Good,” she said again. “Because I’ve been waiting for this.”

“I – Natasha...” Wanda moaned, her words faltering as Natasha’s lips began to move down her jawline, placing the softest of kisses there.

“Relax, Wanda,” Natasha murmured, her hands holding onto Wanda’s hips to steady her. “I’ll take care of you.”

Wanda’s knees nearly gave out at the promise in Natasha’s voice, her hands instinctively gripping Natasha’s shoulders for support. Any coherent thought fled as Natasha’s lips found hers – slow, tender, yet irresistibly intense – pulling her under like a tide she couldn’t resist.

Natasha’s lips were like a slow-burning flame, searing into Wanda’s with a heat that threatened to consume her entirely. Natasha’s hands moved with purpose, one threading through Wanda’s hair while the other slid down her back, drawing the witch closer until their bodies melded together. Wanda moaned as Natasha’s tongue swept against hers, teasing and demanding all at once. She could feel Natasha’s smirk against her lips, that smug confidence that never failed to send a delicious shiver down her spine.

Natasha’s hand drifted lower, fingertips brushing the hem of Wanda’s skirt before slipping underneath. The touch was delicate, feather-light, yet it made Wanda’s breath hitch, nonetheless. Natasha’s fingers skimmed along the curve of her thigh, moving higher until they brushed against the damp fabric of her lace panties. Wanda trembled, her knees shaking as Natasha’s touch grew firmer, rubbing slow circles over the sensitive clit hidden beneath.

“Natasha.” Wanda breathed, her voice a shaky whisper as she broke away from the kiss.

Her hips rocked forward involuntarily, desperate for more pressure, more friction, more of her. But Natasha only chuckled, the sound a low, sinful vibration in her throat. Her lips traced a path down Wanda’s neck, teasing, while her fingers maintained their maddening, deliberate rhythm.

“You’re so wet already,” Natasha said, her voice a husky purr that sent a jolt straight to Wanda’s core. “Do you even realize what you do to me? How much I want to ruin you right now?”

Wanda whimpered, her nails digging into Natasha’s shoulders as she tried to ground herself. Natasha smirked, the sound fueling her determination as her fingers tugged Wanda’s panties aside, exposing her. Without hesitation, she slid two fingers deep inside Wanda’s slick heat. Wanda gasped, the sudden, direct contact almost drawing a sharp cry from her lips. Natasha began to pump her fingers steadily, her knuckles brushing teasingly against Wanda’s walls with each thrust. Each stroke sent sparks racing through Wanda’s veins, igniting every nerve until her entire body trembled against Natasha.

The wet sounds of her pussy being fingered, the glide of Natasha’s fingers, and the warmth of her lips on Wanda’s skin were beginning to push her to the edge. It was too much, too consuming – until another force took over, an all-encompassing need to have Natasha.

Wanda shoved Natasha back, the force making her stumble slightly. Natasha's eyes widened in surprise, but before she could react, Wanda’s hands were on her again, firmly guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed.

An amused smile appeared on Natasha’s lips a second later, clearly enjoying the shift in power.

“Oh, are we playing rough now?” Natasha teased, leaning back on her elbows as she watched Wanda sink to her knees before her.

Wanda just smirked, her hands reaching for the waistband of Natasha’s shorts. In one swift motion, she tugged them down just enough to expose what she had been craving.

Natasha’s cock sprang free, thick, hard, and achingly perfect. Wanda couldn’t help but marvel at it, her gaze lingering, captivated. It was undeniably large, a 9-inch monster. For a fleeting moment, doubt flickered through Wanda’s mind – wondering if it would even fit inside her mouth or her tight pussy. Yet, she quickly dismissed the thought. She had wanted Natasha for far too long to let size be a barrier. She’ll make it fit.

Wanda’s fingers curled around the heavy base, testing its weight with an experimental stroke. Natasha groaned, the sound deep and guttural, her hips lifting off the bed in a wordless plea. A bead of precum glistened at the tip, catching Wanda's eye, and she leaned in closer, her warm breath ghosting over the sensitive head.

A soft hum of appreciation escaped her lips, low and sultry, as if relishing the sight of Natasha's growing need.

“You’re so perfect, Natasha. Every part of you... even this.” She gently stroked again, savoring the shape, the firmness, the way it filled her hand. A sly smile curled her lips. “Hm, I can’t wait to wrap my lips around this huge cock,” Wanda purred. “To feel you throb, give in, and come undone as I take you deep into my throat.”

She placed a tender kiss to the underside of the tip, her lips lingering there as she looked up at Natasha with half-lidded eyes.

“Fuck, Wanda,” Natasha rasped, her hand tangling in Wanda’s hair as if to guide her. But Wanda didn’t need guidance – she knew exactly what she wanted.

Wanda’s green eyes glimmered with dark amusement as her tongue darted out, swiping across the slit before she carefully took the head into her mouth. At first, the fit was tight, and Wanda struggled slightly, the resistance drawing a soft cough from her. Natasha swore under her breath, her grip tightening in Wanda’s hair as she encouraged her to take more, to relax. Slowly, Wanda eased her way down. As her head began to move, she started to gently bob up and down, taking more of Natasha’s length with each pass. The taste of her was intoxicating, salt and musk and something uniquely Natasha, and Wanda moaned around her, the vibrations drawing another sharp intake of breath from Natasha.

Natasha's thighs shook, her breaths coming in shallow, ragged gasps as Wanda's other hand slid up, cupping her balls. Her fingers kneaded them in perfect sync with the rhythm of her mouth. Every touch, every caress, intensified the mounting tension within Natasha, coiling tighter and tighter, like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

It wasn’t long before Natasha began to thrust into Wanda’s mouth, her control fraying as pleasure overtook her. Wanda hollowed her cheeks, sucking deeply, her tongue gliding over every sensitive ridge and curve as she felt Natasha’s cock twitch against her lips.

“I’m close,” Natasha warned, her voice strained. “Don’t stop.”

Wanda didn’t intend to. She fought to push just a few more inches past her lips, the strain drawing a gag from her throat. The sight of Wanda teary-eyed, her mouth stretched halfway down her spit-slicked cock, was the final trigger. With a deep, guttural groan, Natasha came, her release spilling into Wanda’s eager mouth.

Wanda responded with a soft, muffled moan, savoring the warm, intoxicating sensation of Natasha's come flowing down her throat. She kept her lips firmly sealed around Natasha’s cock, drawing out every drop, her hands holding her hips steady as Natasha rode out the rest of her orgasm.

When Natasha finally stilled, Wanda pulled back, swallowing everything as she looked up at the woman before her. Natasha’s chest rose and fell rapidly, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes shimmered with an intense, burning desire. Without a word, she stood up and hauled Wanda to her feet, guiding her onto the bed.

In the next breath, Natasha flipped Wanda onto her stomach. Wanda barely had time to comprehend what was happening before Natasha’s hands were on her once more, hiking her skirt up around her waist and yanking her panties down. Settling herself behind Wanda, Natasha took a moment, her cock still hard as she aligned herself with Wanda’s entrance. Slowly, she began to push inside. Wanda cried out, her hands clutching the bed sheets as she felt herself stretch to accommodate Natasha’s girth. The sensation was intense – painful yet deeply pleasurable – as Natasha continued to slide deeper, inch by inch, filling her completely.

Natasha paused for a moment, giving Wanda time to adjust, but she wasn’t having it.

“Natasha, I swear, if you don’t fuck me already…” Wanda demanded, her voice cracking with desperation.

Natasha obliged, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in with a force that made Wanda see stars.

The pace Natasha set was ruthless, each thrust driving Wanda closer to the edge. The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the bedroom, mingling with their shared moans and whimpers.

“God, you feel so good,” Natasha panted, her rhythm faltering as her own pleasure mounted. “So fucking tight,” she punctuated her words with a deep, sharp thrust, burying herself to the hilt. “Such a perfect little cockslut for me.”

Wanda could only nod, her mind consumed by the cock spearing in and out of her cunt. Her body quaked, teetering on the edge, every nerve alight. She was so close, so unbearably close, and she could tell Natasha was too.

Natasha’s movements grew erratic, her hips stuttering as she lost herself in the moment, chasing her release with reckless abandon. Wanda met each thrust with equal fervor, their bodies moving together in perfect harmony. Then, with a cry that bordered on a shout, Wanda shattered, her climax crashing over her like a tidal wave.

Seconds later, Natasha followed, her cock pulsing as she came hard, emptying herself deep inside Wanda. For a moment, they stayed like that, both shivering as the aftershocks rolled through them. With a soft, contented sigh, Natasha pulled out and eased down beside Wanda, her arm curling around the witch to draw her close.

“You okay?” Natasha whispered, her voice soft and soothing.

Wanda nodded, lifting her hand to rest against Natasha's cheek. “I’m fine.”

Natasha leaned into the touch, closing her eyes in comfort.

“Good.” She murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Wanda's palm.

They held each other close until they fell into a light, peaceful sleep.

[angelsuecult]

bundle of joy | s. crosby

warnings: none that I know of?

summary: Sid feels guilty about missing too much time with your newborn baby and is doing his best to keep up on a particularly restless night

wordcount: 4.6k

a/n: back with some girldad sid! I hope you guys like this one as much as i did writing it! also im going to try to post more often as long as i keep having ideas! anyway enjoy!

The house feels softer tonight, like it’s finally taken a breath. Sidney’s home, and the weight that usually sits in your chest—the one that settles in every time he’s away—has lightened. You’re both exhausted in different ways, piecing together this new rhythm of parenthood. There’s a quietness about the evening, a gentle peace, as you watch Sid watching her, mesmerized by the little miracle beside him. It’s almost like he’s studying her, absorbing every tiny expression, every noise and stretch.

The game’s over, the travel bags are set aside, and he’s finally here, laying with your daughter with the kind of admiration he once reserved for stepping onto the ice. Sid has this tenderness that makes him almost reverent, as if he’s still in awe that she’s real, that she’s his.

Dinner dishes are still in the sink, and a warm, sleepy atmosphere hangs over everything as you sit nearby, watching Sidney and your baby girl on the floor, her little cheeks pressed against her blanket for tummy time.

Sid is lying on his stomach, his head resting on his folded arms, totally captivated by her tiny features, the way she furrows her brow in concentration, her delicate fingers splaying against the blanket as she wobbles slightly. She’s getting stronger every day, her head lifting just a bit higher each time.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you know Sid has been feeling the weight of being away—the way he hovers around her every chance he gets, like he’s making up for all the moments he can’t be there. She’s only ten weeks old, yet his heart aches each time he misses even a second of her life.

As if sensing his thought, she makes a delighted little noise, her whole face lighting up, and he laughs softly. “Okay, okay, I hear you,” he says, reaching out to gently tickle her sides, watching her squirm with joy. “You’re just a bundle of joy, aren’t you?”

She kicks her chubby legs, her little hands pressed into the soft blanket as she lifts her head, wobbling slightly as she tries to hold her balance. And every time her gaze lands back on her dad, her face lights up in the sweetest smile.

“Look at you, so strong already,” Sidney cooed, his voice soft and full of pride. “You’re making Daddy look bad, you know that? I don’t think I was doing half of this at your age.”

She gurgled back, a happy, nonsensical sound, her wide eyes never leaving his face. Sidney felt his heart squeeze, a warmth spreading through his chest as he reached out to brush a gentle hand over her back, his fingers feather-light, reassuring. The start of the season had taken more time than he wanted away from his girls, but this moment — her looking at him like he was her entire world — was exactly what he’d been longing for.

Every few minutes, he would pick up one of her favorite toys, holding it out for her in an attempt to keep her entertained. But no matter how he waved the little stuffed bear or shook the rattle, her attention never strayed far from him.

“She’s obsessed with you,” you say softly, smiling from where you’re watching them. You’ve seen her go wild for her toys and the bright colors of her mobile, but nothing lights her up like Sid’s voice, his gentle touches, the way he looks at her with that unending awe.

Sid laughs, a warm, almost shy chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as he keeps his eyes on her. “I think I’m the obsessed one,” he replies, unable to stop himself from smiling as she wiggles her way closer, her tiny hands clutching at the blanket beneath her as she babbles at him.

“You’re not even gonna look at your favorite toys?” he teases softly, nudging one of the soft blocks with his finger to catch her eye. But she only giggles, her face lighting up at his voice, and he laughs, clearly thrilled she’s so focused on him.

She lets out a soft, happy coo, reaching her chubby little hand toward Sid. He beams, taking her hand in his much larger one, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. “You’re just the sweetest little thing, aren’t you, princess?”

She makes a delighted noise, all bright eyes and tiny, wiggling fingers, her whole little body lighting up at the sound of his voice. She watches him with utter fascination, her eyes tracking his every move as he leans closer, making a gentle raspberry sound that makes her giggle. The little coos and gurgles that follow are filled with pure joy, as if she can’t believe how lucky she is to have her dad right there.

He lifts a little plush penguin, giving it a soft shake to make it squeak, trying to get her attention. “Look, sweet pea, it’s Mr. Waddles,” he coos, giving the toy a gentle wave. But she just blinks at it once, then goes right back to staring at him with a look of pure adoration. He can’t help but laugh, warmth filling his voice as he lowers the toy.

“Oh, so I’m the favorite, huh?” he murmurs, leaning in close. “Sorry, Mr. Waddles, you’ve been replaced.” His voice is soft, tender, the same way he speaks to you in quiet moments. It’s clear she has him wrapped around her tiny finger.

Sidney grinned, scooting even closer, so his face was right next to hers. The two of them shared a silent understanding, a bond that needed no words. She reached out with one tiny hand, resting it on his cheek, her fingers barely grazing his skin, and Sid could feel his heart swell.

He lifts a soft, crinkly book to her, giving it a shake. “You don’t want to play with this one, either? This is a good one.” She gives him an adorable little frown before her eyes settle back on his face, and he can’t help but laugh. “Fine, fine,” he says, dropping the book and settling onto his elbow so he’s even closer to her. “I guess I’ll just have to keep entertaining you myself.”

He talks to her, telling her about the game last night, how they pulled through in the third period, even throwing in some dramatics, his eyes lighting up as he describes each detail in a gentle, funny voice. She stares up at him, her gaze never wavering, and every so often, he pauses to brush a finger over her tiny hand or to press a kiss to her head, whispering little things only meant for her.

He let her tiny fingers grip his finger, her little hand wrapping around it with surprising strength. “You know, I missed you guys this week. Daddy’s been gone too much, huh?” The guilt he’d been carrying all week melted away, at least for now. Being here, watching her, feeling her little fingers on his skin — this was exactly where he wanted to be.

When she seemed to tire a bit, her arms wobbling from the effort of tummy time, Sidney gently rolled her onto her back and scooped her up, bringing her close to his chest. She snuggled in without hesitation, a satisfied little sigh escaping her lips, and Sidney pressed a tender kiss to her forehead.

You laughed, shaking your head. “If she wasn’t overdue for a bath, I’d leave you two to your little love fest. But she’s getting a bit—stinky.”

Sidney pretended to gasp, looking down at her with an exaggerated expression of shock. “Stinky? You, my little angel? No way.”

Her eyes still fixed on him, clearly reluctant to leave her special time with him. Sidney chuckled, lifting her up into his arms with the same gentleness he always did. “Alright, stinky butt, it’s bath time. Let’s get you all cleaned up.”

He padded down the hall toward the bathroom, her head resting on his shoulder as he held her close. She gave a little sigh, already so at ease in his arms, and he couldn’t resist pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You smell like trouble, you know that?” he murmured, amused by the little puff of air she let out in response.

He took his time, cherishing every moment, his hands gentle and steady as he helped wash each tiny arm, each pudgy little leg. She never took her eyes off him, her smile wide and pure, her complete adoration for him clear in every happy babble, every soft coo.

As you dry her off, Sidney’s hands are gentle as they towel her tiny body, careful and tender in a way that only comes from a love he’s discovering more deeply every day.

You watch him with a soft smile, knowing he’s been missing moments like these more than he’d ever admit. With the season in full swing, he’s been away more often than he’d like, and though you always reassure him, he still carries the weight of wanting to be here for every second, every milestone.

He gently lifts her into his arms, cradling her close as he turns to you with a soft smile. “Come on, let’s get this little one to bed,” he whispers, carrying her to the nursery, dimly lit and perfectly peaceful, designed just for her. Her crib is tucked beneath a mobile that slowly spins with soft woodland creatures.

His movements gentle and careful as he laid her down on the changing table, her little legs kicking out as made tiny noises, those adorable baby coos that melted his heart. He grinned, running a thumb over her soft skin. “Let’s get you ready for bed, sweetheart,” he whispered.

He dressed her slowly, savoring every little wiggle, every soft sound she made. “You’re gonna try and sleep so well for us tonight, huh?” he cooed, securing her diaper and slipping her into the soft pajamas that you had picked out earlier. They were navy-colored, adorned with little stars—your favorite, and now his too.

You watched from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a sleepy smile. This had become your nightly routine: bath time, lullabies, and then watching Sid handle the last bit of getting her dressed and ready for bed.

Sid turned toward you, holding your little girl close to his chest, her tiny hand resting against his shoulder. “She’s perfect,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the calm of the moment.

“She is,” you agreed softly, stepping into the room. You rested your hand on his back, the familiar warmth of his body bringing you comfort. Despite everything, you had never once doubted what a good father Sid was, or the love he had for both of you. But you knew how much he hated missing out, and that guilt sometimes crept into moments like these.

She let out a soft, sleepy sigh, her little body snuggling further into Sid’s chest. You both fell silent, watching her drift off in his arms. These moments were precious—the stillness, the quietness that settled over your little family as the day wound down.

Sid carefully placed her in her crib, pulling her soft, knitted blanket over her. His hand lingered on her for a moment, watching the rise and fall of her breathing, as if committing every detail to memory. He turned back to you, taking your hand and leading you out of the nursery, quietly closing the door behind him.

In the dim light of your bedroom, the fatigue of the day began to weigh on you. Sid helped you slip into bed, pulling the covers up as he joined you. His hand found yours beneath the blanket, squeezing gently.

These days, Sid’s schedule seemed to pull him away more than either of you wanted, and though you hadn’t said a word, he could see it. The way motherhood clung to you—something beautiful but heavy. Sid hadn’t known it could be like this: the love, yes, but also the guilt, especially in moments like these when he could hold his tiny daughter, damp curls pressed to her head and sleepy eyes blinking up at him, feeling like he'd missed so much already. He was trying to make up for lost time, just as much for you as for her.

It had been a whirlwind since her birth, every day a blend of deep love, a bit of exhaustion, and a growing sense of awe at the little life together you had created. The guilt had slowly crept in, especially when he saw how naturally and constantly you tended to her. You never made him feel like he was falling short, never once said he wasn’t doing enough. But Sid felt the weight of what he could be doing — what he wanted to do for both of you.

He’d started noticing the little things, the way your shoulders slumped when you finally sank into bed at the end of the day, or how you’d stare off with a distant look as if you were running through a mental list of the million things you had to do. It struck him that you were tired in a way he hadn’t quite understood before becoming a dad. This was a different kind of tired — a kind that meant you were giving every part of yourself.

Sid had long made a silent vow to himself when she was born. Whenever he got the chance, he would take on the nightshift — he’d be the one to wake up whenever she cried, needed comfort, a bottle, or just to be held. Whatever it took to let you rest, he was committed to it.

The night was thick with stillness, save for the faint hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand. Sidney lay with one arm wrapped around you, listening to the gentle sound of your breathing, each rise and fall a comfort he’d come to rely on.

Just as he started to drift off, a faint cry cut through the quiet, little and insistent. It was that particular sound he was learning to recognize—It was just past 1 a.m. when he heard her. She stirred first, little whimpers escaping before her cry broke out, sharp and insistent, as if she were testing her strength. He could feel you stirring, instinctively moving to sit up, but he was quicker.

“Hey, hey, shh,” he whispered, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “I got it, baby. Go back to sleep.”

You murmured something, half asleep, but the warmth of his hand and his reassurance kept you in place. Satisfied that you were settling back down, he slipped out of bed, letting you settle back into the warmth of the blankets. The nursery was just down the hall, but as he walked through the quiet house, he felt his heart swell with excitement, knowing he’d get these next few hours with his little girl.

When he entered the nursery, he found her lying in her crib, tiny fists waving in the air, her face scrunched up in a way that was almost comical.

“Hey there, little one,” he murmured, reaching down to scoop her up. “You miss me already, huh? Can’t blame you. I missed you too.”

She wiggled slightly, her little face pressing against his chest as he held her close. Her cries softened, her tiny hands curling into his shirt. Sid could feel the small weight of her body, the warmth of her cheek against him, and it made his heart ache with love. These were the moments he’d missed, and he could feel just how much they meant to him now, holding her close in the stillness of the night.

As he swayed gently, he whispered to her, his voice barely above a murmur, ““What’s the matter, huh? You missing some snuggles? Or maybe you’re just checking in on me, making sure I’m still on duty?” He smiled softly, rubbing her back with gentle circles, just like he’d seen you do a hundred times. ““Well, I missed you, too, you know. Just because I’m over there with Mom doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about you.”

She let out a small, contented sigh, her face nuzzling into his shoulder, and Sid chuckled softly. “That’s my girl,” he whispered. “See? We got this.”

Once she settled, Sid carefully placed her back in the crib, watching her for a few long moments to make sure she was comfortable. Her little body relaxed, her face softening as she drifted back to sleep, and Sid let out a quiet sigh of relief.

After a while Sid slipped back into bed beside you. “She went down easy,” he whispered, a hint of pride in his voice as he kissed your shoulder again.

The second time she woke, Sid felt her cries before he fully registered them, his instincts kicked in before he was even conscious. He was almost up when he noticed you stir, your hand reaching out instinctively. Before you could lift your head, Sid’s hand was there, resting over yours.

“It’s okay, babe,” he murmured, squeezing your hand gently. “Stay in bed, I’ve got her.”

You opened one eye, looking at him, a mix of gratitude and exhaustion in your gaze. “Are you sure? You’ve barely slept yourself.”

Sid just smiled, brushing a hand over your cheek. “I don’t mind. She’s only this little once, right?”

You smiled sleepily, sinking back into the sheets as he stood, heading once more to the nursery. This time, her cries were a little louder, more insistent, and when he picked her up, he could feel her squirming, fussing against him. He rubbed her back, bouncing gently as he paced the room.

“Oh, I know, sweetie. You’re really mad this time, huh?” He chuckled softly, walking over to the window, showing her the soft moonlight outside. “Nothing like a good cry in the middle of the night to get all that extra energy out, huh? Are you working on your lung power?”

She hiccuped, her cries faltering slightly as she listened to his voice. Sid kept talking, the sound of his soft words seeming to calm her. “There’s my strong girl. You can tell me all about it, I’ll listen. I’m all ears. But maybe we could talk about it in a whisper? Just for now? Mom’s still sleeping.”

Her little head leaned into his shoulder, her cries softening to soft, hiccupy breaths as he continued to sway, whispering to her.

“There we go, that’s it. I knew you had it in you.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, feeling the warmth of her tiny body as she settled against him. “You know, sometimes Dad needs these little reminders, too. I miss you during the day, you know that? So I don’t mind these late-night check-ins. Means I get a little extra time with my girl.”

After a while, she was calmer, her breaths evening out, and Sid was able to settle her back into her crib. He brushed a hand over her hair, smiling as she nestled down, her tiny fist clutching her blanket. “Goodnight again, baby girl. Sleep tight, alright?”

As you both settled into sleep, Sid’s arm wrapped around your waist, you felt at peace. The challenges of new parenthood weren’t easy, but with Sid by your side, they felt just a little lighter.

It was the third time that night that Sid heard her cry. It was early—too early, the sun hadn’t even started to rise, and the world outside was still fast asleep. But inside, their baby girl’s cry pierced the silence, loud and insistent, the kind of hungry wail that signaled she was ready to eat now.

Sid blinked awake instantly, feeling the tiny pang of exhaustion in his body, but it didn’t matter. He could hear how deep you were sleeping beside him, finally getting the rest you so desperately needed. You didn’t stir, and he was relieved for that. He had promised he’d take care of everything tonight, and that’s exactly what he intended to do.

Sliding quietly out of bed, Sid moved through the hallway with practiced stealth, heading to the nursery. As soon as he entered the room, he found his baby girl squirming in her crib, her face scrunched up in frustration, those tiny fists waving in the air. Her cry was urgent but not frantic, a signal to him that she was uncomfortable, but also that she knew help was coming.

“Shh, I’m here, sweetheart,” Sid whispered, leaning over to scoop her into his arms. The moment she was against his chest, her cries softened a little, though her face still showed her impatience. He smiled, adjusting her tiny body against him, holding her close. “I know, baby girl, you’re hungry, huh? I’ve got you. Let’s go get your bottle.”

As if on cue, she let out another cry, and Sid chuckled softly, rubbing her back. “Okay, okay, we’ll get you taken care of,” he whispered. “Come on, let’s get you a nice breakfast, yeah?”

He walked with her through the house, each creak of the floor carefully avoided as he carried her toward the kitchen. The house was still so dark, but Sid knew his way around even without lights. Her little head rested against his chest, her soft whimpers filling the air as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

“It’s okay, we’ll get you fed in no time,” he murmured. He could feel her tiny heartbeat against his chest, the way her breath hitched every few seconds as she calmed down in his arms. It made his own heart swell with love. These were the moments he craved, the quiet, intimate times when it was just him and his daughter.

Sid carefully warmed the bottle, keeping one hand on her as she nestled against him. She was still hungry, still fussing, but being close to him seemed to soothe her just enough to stop the full-on crying. Once the bottle was ready, Sid tested the temperature before cradling her more securely in his arms.

“Alright, sweet girl, here we go,” he whispered, holding the bottle to her lips. She latched on immediately, those big, wide eyes locking on him, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

Sid walked them back to the nursery, her soft suckling the only sound in the stillness of the house. He sat down in the reclining chair, easing into it carefully as he watched her drink. His hand rested gently on her back, supporting her, while the other held the bottle steady.

“You’re getting so big,” he said softly, his voice full of awe. It was incredible how much she had grown in just 10 weeks. He couldn’t help but marvel at her every day—at her tiny fingers that clung to his hands, her soft cheeks that had filled out since the day she was born, and the way she gazed up at him, as if she already knew him completely.

As she finished the bottle, Sid wiped her mouth gently with a cloth before lifting her to his shoulder to burp her. “You did so good, baby girl,” he murmured, rubbing her back in slow circles. “I’m so proud of you.” It took a few moments, but eventually, a small, satisfied burp escaped her, and Sid chuckled quietly.

She was much more relaxed now, her body soft and pliant against his as he settled her back into his arms. He extended the recliner, shifting her to lay comfortably against his chest. Her head rested right over his heart, her tiny arm tucked under his, as if giving him a hug, while the other lay beside her face, curled into a little fist. Sid draped her small blanket over her, ensuring she was warm, then pulled a larger blanket around them both, tucking a pillow under his arms to keep her safe.

He looked down at her, her eyelids fluttering as she began to drift off, her breath evening out into soft little puffs. Sid couldn’t stop staring. The way her face softened as she fell asleep, the gentle rise and fall of her tiny chest—it was everything. These were the moments he’d been missing, the ones he craved.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice full of love. “You’re just perfect, you know that?” His lips brushed against the top of her head, his arms tightening around her as he rocked the chair ever so slightly. He could feel her settling into him, her tiny body molding to his as if she belonged there, right over his heart.

Sid let out a quiet breath, overwhelmed by how grateful he felt. In this moment, there was nothing else—no guilt, no pressure, just him and his baby girl, wrapped in the quiet of the early morning. This was what he had missed. Not just the milestones, but the quiet, in-between moments. The way her body relaxed against his, the soft warmth of her skin, the trust she had in him to keep her safe.

“You know,” he whispered, “I’m so lucky to be your dad.” His voice was soft, full of emotion, even though she was too young to understand. “I’m gonna be here for you, no matter what. I’m always gonna take care of you.”

Her tiny hand twitched slightly, her fingers curling against his chest as she let out a soft sigh in her sleep. Sid smiled, his heart swelling with an overwhelming sense of love.

“And your mom,” he added, his thoughts drifting back to you, peacefully asleep in the other room. “She’s the best, you know? She’s taking such good care of you—I’m just trying to keep up.” He chuckled quietly, brushing a finger gently along the curve of his daughter’s cheek. “But I’m getting there, baby girl. I’m getting there.”

The house remained quiet, the early morning still cloaked in darkness, but Sid didn’t mind. He would stay like this for as long as she needed, holding her close, listening to her soft breaths as she slept. He kissed her head again, inhaling the sweet scent of baby lotion and her natural warmth.

There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her, for you. In moments like this, it was easy to forget the worries and the pressures, the things that made him doubt if he was doing enough. All that mattered was this—being here, being present, and making sure his little girl felt loved and safe.

As he rested his head back against the recliner, Sid kept one arm securely around her, the other resting on her back, his fingers lightly tracing patterns along her tiny spine. He couldn’t stop watching her. Every little movement she made, every soft sigh, was precious. He felt a deep sense of gratitude, knowing that despite the hard days, despite the exhaustion, he got to be a part of this—these quiet moments, these little pieces of magic that made it all worth it.

He couldn’t help but marvel at how perfect she was, every little detail of her face, her tiny nose and delicate eyelashes, the way her mouth twitched slightly in sleep. She was his whole world, and in that quiet, early-morning stillness, he felt a peace he’d never known before.

“You’re my whole heart, little one,” he whispered, his voice full of warmth and love. “Thank you for letting me be your dad. I promise I’m gonna do my best to be the dad you deserve.”

With that, he settled back, letting himself drift off with her tiny heartbeat pressed against his body, her soft breaths filling the quiet of the room as the first rays of dawn began to light up the sky.

[yumeaoka-chan]

And They Were Roommates...

Made entirely because of the HC sent by 🎏 anon to @the-kr8tor . Teehee❤️

Pairing: Ekko x Reader x Hobie Brown/ Ekko x Reader x Spider-Punk! Hobie Brown

Tags: fluff, modern au (they're all in Hobie's universe, really), cursing, blood, injuries, no physical description of reader, can be read as any gender really, hurt/comfort (sorta??), sparse use of y/n, hobie gets bapped like twice cuz I think it's funny, can be read as romantic or platonic

Word count: 1.8k

Summary: Finding out one of your roommates is actually Spider-Man was not at all on your Bingo Card.

A loud bang startles you awake, thumps and thuds sounding outside your room. Blinking away the sleep from your eyes and scrubbing a hand over your face, you peel away the blankets with a groan.

“Fuckin’ hell”, a muffled voice huffs, making you scoff.

“That should be my line”, you mumble, stumbling across your room. You knew having more than two people living together would mean noises late in the night, knew that it was inevitable for disturbances. It hadn't occurred to you just how frequent it would be, however. This was the fifth night in a row this week that you've been woken up by them, nevermind it being almost five months since you started living here and you were tired of it. It didn't matter how nice they both were, how you cared deeply for them, how they'd apologize for it come morning. The fact that it keeps happening is enough to make you want to throttle them.

“It's three in the morning -”, you hiss lowly, wrenching your bedroom door open, “Three in the fucking morning..!” Fists balled up in frustration and annoyance painted on your features, you stomp your way into the small living room.

“I'd appreciate it if you both would…” The words die in your throat at the smell of iron as you take in the sight before you. The window behind the couch was wide open, cool night air blowing into the flat, bloodied handprints smeared across the windowsill. On the floor was the vase you had brought with you when you moved here, next to the toppled over coffee table and a banged up guitar littered with stickers. Your eyes drift over the couch speckled with crimson over to the man sprawled on the floor, masked head lifting up from the cushions. The white eyes of his mask seem to widen in what you think is shock at the sight of you and he lifts a hand up in your direction.

“W-Wait-”

“How the fuck did you get in here?!” You cry out, pointing at the stranger who you've come to realize is Spider-Man, the Spider-Man. What the hell is London's web head doing in your flat, on your floor?! The masked hero struggles to lift himself off of the floor and that's when you notice the ichor seeping past his fingers, palm pressed against the large cut on his stomach. The sight of more blood makes your pulse quicken, panic settling in your bones.

“Oh! Oh, God, you're bleeding..!” Legs wobbling, you trip over yourself and stumble as you inch closer towards the man, trembling hands hovering out towards him. “Fuck… W-What should I do? H-How do I help you…?” Spider-Man shakes his head, hand gently gripping your wrist once you get close enough to him. The way he rubs his thumb against your skin in a calming manner feels oddly familiar to you, though it does little to quell the anxiousness eating at your insides.

“‘S fine, mate, really-”

“A doctor…! I'll take you to a doctor..!” A hand gently rests atop your head just as you start to pull the masked hero up, making you freeze and stutter in your frantic rambling. Exhausted hazel brown eyes greet you as you look up over your shoulder, lips twisted in a small frown and twisted locs pulled back in a ponytail.

“It's all good, Y/N”, Ekko mumbles softly, voice still warm and laced with sleep, “I've got it from here.”

“W-What..?” You question as he kneels down in front of the injured man, a first aid kit already in his hands. He's too calm about this whole situation in your opinion, so much so that you're beginning to suspect that this isn't the first time this has happened. Your roommate clicks his tongue in slight annoyance, brows furrowing as he glares at the hero. And then he does something you never thought he would do to a hero of all people. Ekko raises a hand and smacks Spider-Man on the forehead. Jaw dropping at the scene, you watch as the web head curses, fingers shooting up to rub at the sore spot.

“Bloody wanker! Hell was tha’ for”, he grumbles, yelping as Ekko tugs at one of the spikes on his mask. “Stop! ‘M injured, remember?”

“This is exactly why I said for you to let ‘em know what's up. You never listen, man!” Your roommate snaps, frustration evident on the furrow of his brows as he helps the man out of his leather vest. Spider-Man lets out a noise and if he wasn't wearing that mask, you'd have sworn he would have been pouting.

“Give me some slack, ‘Ko. Slipped my mind, ‘s all.” The nickname leaves his lips almost naturally, and leaves you bewildered. Because, from your knowledge, the only ones Ekko allows to call him that are you and-

“You're shitting me… Hobie…”, you mumble softly, eyes as big as saucers at the sudden revelation. The masked man chuckles lowly before reaching up and pulling the mask off completely, the familiar warm russet brown eyes of your roommate greeting you. Small cuts litter his face and the area near his right eye looks slightly darker and swollen, as though he'd been punched repeatedly. Hobie gives you a lopsided smile, pain evident in the way the corners of his lips tremble just a bit.

“‘S me, darlin’. Meant to tell you sooner…” It all finally makes sense. The persistent weariness you'd see emanating from him at times, all the times he'd been late to your hangouts, the fact that he almost always looked like he'd gotten into a fight. Hell, the guitar he carries is the exact one Spider-Man was always lugging around. How could you have even missed this? Now that you knew exactly who was behind the mask and how close you were to him, your nerves slowly began to spike again. Was he always getting hurt this badly, to the point that the blood flow never seemed to stop, even now? An image of a lifeless Hobie laying deathly still on the floor of your flat flashes in your mind then and you can't help the shiver that runs down your spine.

“Mm, you got lost in my eyes there?” His words rouse you out of your musings and you glare at him, letting out a huff and trying to hide the way your eyes were beginning to sting with the threat of tears. Ekko snorts and smacks Hobie's forehead again, who in turn lets out a shout. “Oi! Nurses ain't ‘posed to hit the wounded!”

“Sure”, Ekko scoffs before turning to you, exasperation coloring his voice, “Can you grab a large bowl with warm water and a little soap?”

You're up almost immediately after he asks, quickly rushing to grab whatever he needs. You return shortly with the bowl and a clean washcloth, carefully placing it beside him, watching as he pulls out the tools needed to treat his patient who is already shirtless. You watch as Ekko begins treating Hobie, hands quick yet gentle in the way he cleans the wound. The silence stretches on as you move to sit next to him, your head inches away from both his and Hobie's. It's when he moves on to begin stitching the cut that you speak up, eyeing your two roommates.

“From the looks of it, you've been tending to him for a while. How long have you been doing this, ‘Ko..?” He chuckles and shakes his head, a few white twists slipping from the ponytail and falling over his eyes. Your fingers are quick to brush them to the side for him while Hobie gently fixes Ekko's hair into a bun, so that his hair doesn't get in the way of his work.

“It feels like forever, honestly, like I've known him for that long. It's probably only been about a year or two, though.” He mumbles, which makes the injured man in front of you chuckle.

“Been my saviour for a while now, yeah?”

“Yeah…” There's a look that crosses over Ekko’s face then, something akin to sadness and anxiousness. It goes away just as quick as it came but, unfortunately for him, both you and Hobie had already seen it. Fingers softly grazing his wrist, you silently urge him to stop for just a moment, Hobie following your lead by tenderly bumping a hand underneath the upset man's chin. Ekko closes his eyes for just a moment before looking up at Hobie and leaning his weight a little more against you, as if searching for comfort in your presence.

“I hate this… I hate having to patch you up after you get hurt like this”, he mumbles softly as his hands begin to resume their work, the real meaning behind his words reaching you almost instantly. Hobie sucks in a breath, glancing down at the hands working on his wound with a slightly guilty look on his face.

“...Sorry, mate… ‘S a hassle, I know-”

“He means-”, you interrupt him, hand quick to grasp his own, feeling the way the fabric of his suit rubs against your skin, "that it worries him. You getting hurt this badly is a little scary, Hobes. Makes a person think that if you'd gotten hurt anymore than you already had, that you might not come back at all one day…” You take a shaky breath, not even realizing the tears you'd held in from earlier were shining in your eyes right now. “I mean, look at how scared I was tonight. I just learned about you being Spider-Man and it already made me scared for your safety, seeing you like this. Imagine how Ekko has been feeling all this time.”

“We're not saying you should stop being Spider-Man, Hobie���, Ekko mutters as he finishes the last bit of stitches, hands moving to grab the ointment he laid out as he sniffles. “All we're saying is that we want you to at least come back to us in one piece. That's all we ask for.”

“Yeah. And don't make fun of us if we're a little shaken up at you being hurt”, you choke out, now wiping the hot tears dripping down your face. This was a little more than you'd expected to happen tonight, who could blame you for crying right now? Sleep deprivation and witnessing someone you cared about bleeding out could do it to you. You feel yourself being pulled into an embrace, Hobie wrapping you both in his arms and holding you close. You could feel the rapid beating of his heart beneath your palm as one of your hands rested on his chest, the other gripping Ekko's hand.

“I'll always come back to you lot. Promise”, Hobie murmurs softly, voice cracking just a bit as he tightens his grip on you both ever so slightly. Ekko chuckles and bumps his head against his affectionately.

“Better. Or we'll both hunt you down and knock some sense into you.” A sniffle leaves you as you nod your head in agreement. Hobie lets out a laugh at that, arms holding you ever closer.

“Got it, Boss Man.”

[cherubimcore]

golden bars, fragile hearts

pairing: caracalla x reader

part 1 | part 2 | this is part 3 !

the weight of your new role settled on your shoulders like an iron yoke as you stood at the threshold of the emperor’s private quarters once again. the scent of spiced wine and aged parchment clung to the air, mingling with the faint aroma of burning myrrh. servants hurried past you in silence, their eyes carefully averted as they placed trays of fruit, roasted meat and fresh bread on the long table.

your stomach was tight with nerves, your hands twisted and turned the fabric of your dress trying to ease your nerves, you had long bitten your nails to the quick long ago but still it didn’t help your nervousness.

your first morning as caracalla’s personal servant had been spent memorizing his schedule, learning his preferences, and understanding the unspoken rules that governed the palace, but nothing could have prepared you for the moment you would finally step into his presence as more than just another nameless servant in the background.

you entered his chambers with wobbly legs, trying your best to not fall on your face in front of the emperor of rome, the emperor that could decapitate you for something as simple as tripping. caracalla was standing near the large table where his meal had been laid out. his back was to you, broad shoulders covered in a deep crimson tunic, gold embroidery catching the light from the torches. his ginger hair was still damp from his bath, you noticed how it curled slightly at the ends.

he didn’t acknowledge you at first, his focus was on a series of documents spread before him that he was clearly not paying attention to.

you took a deep breath, steadying yourself.

another servant had already poured his wine, but no one dared to approach him directly yet.

that was your responsibility now.

you stepped forward, careful to not make a sound.

“dominus”, you said softly, thanking the gods your voice didn’t shake.

his head lifted slightly, but he did not turn. “you are late”

your fingers curled at your sides. you had arrived precisely when instructed, but you knew better than to argue. “forgive me”

a long pause.

then, he finally turned.

his blue eyes swept over you, slow and assessing, as if deciding wheter or not you were worth his attention. the air felt heavier under his scrutiny.

“you are to serve me now,” he stated, as if you were unaware. his voice was calm but carried the waight of authority. “that means you’ll anticipate my needs before i voice them. you will fetch my meals, clean my chambers and follow my orders without question. do you understand?”

you swallowed and nodded “yes, dominus”

caracalla’s gaze lingered for a moment longer before he took a seat at the table.

he gestured toward the plate in front of him, the movement almost lazy.

“serve me”

you hesitated only for a second before stepping forward, picking up the carved knife to cut slices of meat for him. your hands were not as steady as you would like as you carefully arranged the portions as you have been taught.

he watched you the entire time.

you could feel his gaze like a physical touch, studying your every movement, searching for anything that could be considered a mistake.

you moved next to pour his wine, carefully to not spill a single drop feeling his eyes on you the entire time, you wanted to snap at him asking why was he staring at you so hard, but you knew if you lost your composure it was the last thing you would say in this life.

“you are quiet”, he observed.

“i was told to be”

his lips curved slightly - something that was not quite a smirk, but now a smile either.

“and if i told you to speak?”

you set the wine jug down and met his gaze “then i would”

a beat of silence.

then, he laughed.

your eyes widened with the sound.

it was low and brief, but it was there, you remember seeing caracalla smile and yell at the gladiator fights but never saw him actually laugh like this. amusement flickered across his face, though his eyes remained unreadable.

“interesting,” he murmured, taking a sip of his wine.

you stood at his side taking a deep breath, hands clasped before you, waiting for his next command.

caracalla continued eating in silence for a time while the other servants left the room in a hurry, and you thought - perhaps - this would be easier than you had feared.

but then, without warning, his voice cut through the silence.

“by all means please talk”

“dominus?” you asked, confused, wondering if you had heard him properly.

“i would like to know what you are thinking” he looked back at you, his gaze darkened, curiosity sharpened into something more dangerous.

surely he was teasing you, you thought with yourself, but refused to back down.

“what do you truly want from me?”

“that remains to be seen” caracalla looked right into your eyes with a cold, calculating expression as if he already had plans for you in his mind but refused to share whatever it is that he was thinking “you intrigue me. few would dare to stand against me in my own arena. fewer still would survive it”

“i didn’t do it for you,” you snapped, regretting saying anything as soon as you finished the sentence.

“no,” he said softly after taking a sip of his wine, something that surprised you, you had heard of servants that had been killed for far less. “you did it for him. a noble act, but noble acts don’t last long in rome. you’ll learn that soon enough”

the scent of roasting meats and spiced wine thickened the air as you stepped through the palace corridors, walking just behind caracalla as you made your way toward the senate chambers. the usual quiet dignity of the imperial halls had been overtaken by a restless energy. servants rushed past carrying baskets of fresh fruits, their arms hurried with bolts of silk and gold-threaded linens, their footsteps muffled by the marble floors.

in the distance, you could hear the rhythmic clang of trays being arranged, but sharp bark of a steward chastising a cook, and the hurried whispers of palace officials ensuring every detail of the banquet was in place. a group of musicians stood in the corner of the hall, arguing over which instruments would be most fitting for the evening’s revelry.

caracalla, unfazed by the chaos, strode forward with his usual confident gait, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. you kept pace beside him, feeling the weight of curious glances from the passing servants.

as you reached the grand atrium, you passed a row of slaves arranging goblets of silver and gold, each one meant for a guest of high status. the senate would be there, the generals, the noble families - all called upon to indulge in the emperor’s excess. you couldn’t help but wonder if this feast was just another display of power, a reminder of rome’s decadence under its rulers.

caracalla suddenly glanced at you. “you’re quiet. i told you before i want you to speak freely in my presence”

you turned your head slightly. “just watching everything unfold.”

he smirked. “does it amuse you to see the city scramble at my whim?”

you hesitated. “it’s… impressive, how quickly they obey. but i can’t help but think - this much excess, all for one night?”

his smirk didn’t fade, but something in his gaze darkened. “luxury is a reminder. the people must see our power, not just hear of it. a hungry rome is a dangerous rome, but a rome drowning in wine and pleasure? that’s a city that forgets to rebel.”

you look away, your gaze falling on the golden torches lining the walls, their flames flickering in the midday light. you wanted to tell him that the senate and the nobles weren’t the only ones he needed to worry about, his people had been living with the bare minimum for years and you didn’t know for how much longer they would accept to live like that, the riots were getting worse for months now, it would come a time when gladiator fights wouldn’t be enough to placate the anger, but you tightened your lips and didn’t utter a word.

tonight, the palace would be a different place - filled with laughter, music, and indulgence.

but beneath it all, the weight of the empire remained.

the senate doors loomed ahead, their towering bronze surface marked with the scars of time. as the guards pulled them open, the sounds of hurried banquet preparations faded behind them, replaced by the solemn murmurs of politics and power.

the empire feasted tonight, but first it ruled.

for the rest of the day you followed caracalla between meetings with the senate, always pouring wine before his cup was empty to calm his nerves and anxious demeanor obviously excited for the feast, to his shared office with his twin brother.

the office was filled with the scent of ink and parchment, the air thick with the weight of unfinished work. scrolls and wax-sealed documents were stacked high on geta’s desk, a sharp contrast to the clear space on caracalla’s side, where only a goblet of wine sat untouched. the afternoon sun streamed through open archways, casting long shadows across the marble floors as you stood quietly to the side, awaiting instruction.

caracalla, sprawled in his chair, drummed his fingers against the armrest, his thoughts nowhere near the office matters at hand. Instead, his blue eyes gleamed with restless anticipation. “the feast will be grand,” he mused, his voice thick with satisfaction. “the best wine, the rarest meats… people will talk about it for months.”

geta, hunched over a document, let out an exasperated sigh. “yes, brother. we have already established that. perhaps now, we could actually do the work required to keep this empire from crumbling beneath us?” he gestured to the untouched stack of decrees “or is your mind too occupied with indulgences?”

caracalla scoffed, waving a dismissive hand “indulgences keep rome entertained. a distracted people do not plot rebellion”

“they also do not run an empire” geta pinched the bridge of his nose before shooting a glance toward you, who had remained silent, observing the exchange “how do you tolerate him talking about this damn feast all day?”

you blinked in surprise, caught off guard by the question.

“it is not my place to comment, your highness”, you answered carefully.

caracalla smirked.

“a wise response” he turned back to his brother. “besides, the banquet is important. there will be generals there, senators - people who need reminders of where their loyalty should lie.”

geta exhaled, clearly at the end of his patience. “and what of these orders from the provinces? we have shortage of grain in the east, uprisings in germania-”

“handled,” caracalla interrupted, his tone growing sharp. “the legions have been sent. the governors will do as they are commanded”

geta gave him a long, scrutinizing look. “you are playing a dangerous game, brother. you indulge yourself while the world waits for an opportunity to strike”

caracalla merely leaned back, tilting his head towards you. “tell me, do they look concerned?”

you stiffened under their attention, but caracalla’s gaze remained unwavering. “they are quiet because they listen unlike half the fools in the senate,” he mused. “they observe, weights the worth of words before they speak. a trait more valuable than most realize.”

caracalla smirked and turned towards you.

“tell me,” he mused, “would you not enjoy such a sight? music, dancers, the kind of celebration that reminds people why we rule and they serve?”

you hesitated, considering your words, caracalla had told you before he wanted to know what you got to say, but what if he doesn’t like your words? would he throw you in the coliseum and laugh while you fight for your life? but there was an expectation in his gaze, as if he truly cared for your answer.

“i think… grandeur has its place,” you said carefully, “but there’s more to ruling than feasts”

geta chuckled, finally looking up. “they have more sense than you, brother”

caracalla waved him off. “sense is for men with dull lives. i prefer to live as the gods intended - without restraint.” he turned to you once again “you’ll see tonight. this will be a banquet worthy of rome.”

geta sighed and resumed his work, muttering about wasted resources and the absurdity of last-minute preparations, but caracalla was relentless, continuing to revel in his own plans, detailing every extravagant element of the evening.

not long after that the discussion shifted. geta brought up matters of state, affairs of war, and the ongoing tensions in the senate. his tone grew more serious, and with it, so did his expression.

“this is not a discussion for servants,” geta stated, still looking at the papers in front of him. “leave us”

before you could move, caracalla’s voice rang out.

“they stay”

geta’s eyes narrowed, as if he couldn’t believe his brother was against him in this matter. you froze in place.

“they are my personal servant” caracalla continued, emphasizing the word ‘my’ in a way that left no room for argument. “they hear what i hear, and they speak to no one but me.”

there was a finality in his words, an unspoken warning that even geta would not challenge in this moment. but it did not go unnoticed.

geta’s eyes flickered between his brother and you, studying caracalla carefully, his sharp mind piecing things together.

the possessiveness. the attention. the way caracalla’s eyes softened when he looked at you.

it was subtle, but geta had always been the more perceptive of the two. and now, he saw something caracalla had yet to recognize himself.

‘interesting’ the younger twin thought.

geta did not speak his suspicions aloud. not yet. instead, he merely gave a small smirk, a silent promise to himself.

he would be watching.

[knubbfeedeesspace]

Imagine this:

You and I start to date and eventually move together, we're having fun, eating out and going partying, as well as having nights home with pizza and a bottle of wine.

One morning, you watch me get up and get dressed for going to work, and you notice something peculiar. My once pretty flat stomach had developed into a round pot belly, you could even see it peek out a bit from under my t shirt, my jeans also looked tighter, "did he always have pants that tight?", you think to yourself.

Clearly, you've been blind to how much food not only I, but you yourself have consumed.

Sitting up in bed and looking down on your own body, you see that your once toned stomach has gotten a few gooey rolls, your small perky tits were larger and ever so slightly sagged downwards. Your thighs have gotten bigger and your thigh gap is just a memory now.

"Well, it's just a bit of relationsship weight for both of us, it will go away once we settle down"

Boy how wrong you were.

Settling down didn't mean less food, in fact, the dinner dates out at restaurants increased, as well as another thing: At home gourmet cooking.

Handmade big hamburgers fried in tallow, at home chicago deep dish pizza, stews that used copious amounts of butter and cream.

Needless to say, but both our clothes kept 'shrinking'.

The months passed by until the same but different scene appeared a morning.

You looked on me whilst I got up from bed and dressed in my clothes to get to work, what was once a round pot belly, had only increased outward and downward, now covering almost the entire belt buckle, which was on its' outest notch. It hung out from under t-shirt, and gently wobbled as I took steps out of the bedroom. My chest size had also increased, now with a solid pair of moobs.

Doing the same procedure as last time, you look down on yourself, your breasts which sagged only a tiny bit months ago, now layed drooped on each side of your large flabby gut, many cup sizes bigger than before. The gut covered your gentialia, as well as partially hided your large thunder thighs who had now developed, they started to pooch a bit above your somewhat hidden kneecaps, the same way your now pillowy upper arms have pooched ever so slightly over your elbows. Standing up and walking towards the mirror, you could feel your soft body jiggling and quivering as the momentum of your walk made all the new fat shake. Looking at yourself in the mirror, it was hard to recognize the fit and toned girl you were once before. Even your face was hard to recognize, as were once there were defined cheekbones, there were now poofy cheeks with a succulent double chin hanging from underneath it, were there once was nothing.

Your brain was in top gear, thinking about things to do to reverse this, to go back to that sporty girl, and for me to go back to a normal built.

But you kept coming up with the same answer.

"Eeh, I don't really need to do it, we both still love each other".

It was not only that, but you loved this life in fact, to eat food with your boyfriend, and just laze about all day, this was basically what you wanted to do with your life, even if you before lied to yourself that you wanted to be fit or sporty, you wanted to be a lazy pig, and have a lazy pig boyfriend.

"Meh, whatever happens happens" you told yourself and went back to bed.

This, was the final nail in the coffin for your, as well as mine, thin selves.

The food portions, which were already almost ridiculous, only got larger, as well as the food stuffs only getting greasier, with creamy and sweeter desserts.

Getting fastfood delivered, which in the beginning of the relationship was a once a month occurence, now happened thrice a day, and each order was meant for 6 people, this was on top of the greasy, sloppy food we already made for us in a day.

Buying larger clothes was now a weekly occurence, I started working from home, which did not help to burn all the tens of thousands of calories consumed between the 2 of us.

Weeks turned to months, months turned the years, some procedure every day.

Now looking upon us two, it would be a suprise for people we ever were thin.

You sat in the sofa and scanned my body as I sat in my extra wide, heavy load computer chair, working at my desk, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, as regular clothing as become too hot to wear during the days.

My gut had expanded outward, sideways and downward, not only resting on top of the computer chairs armrest, but also resting on the seat between my thighs, atleast the part that didn't hang down from the front of the seat a few inches. My thighs had gotten treetrunk like and had developed rolls on the inner, but that was always obscured by the large belly that I carried. My moobs, which were once just large, was now permantly rested on top of my belly, even when standing, splayed and flattened by their own weight.

Well, you weren't much better yourself.

Your breasts were now huge melons, hanging down on each side of your belly, to right around were your navel once was. Your navel, now hidden by rolls, was located somewhere between your knees and your genitalia, not that one could see any of them, your genitals were by your belly apron, and your knees were hidden by the roll over of your cellulite ridden thunder thighs. They rolled and obscured your kneecaps the same way your ankles rolled and obscured your chubby feet, your toes even had rolls on them.

Your fat lower legs wasn't the only thing that obscured parts of your body, your elbows were kept away from the light by inches of upper arms fat drooping over, the same way your big fat slab for a chin covered your neck.

Not that non of our bodies have seen any light other than that from the television and the computer, non of us had been outside for months, usually taking sub 100 steps a day, just waddling from the bed to our places, you on the couch and me on that computer chair, only I taking a few steps more to get the deliveries of groceries and takeaway by the door, which was a chore. None of us could even get up without getting winded, back pain, knee pain and feet pain, so our days consisted mostly of eating, whilst I worked for a bit during the day, roughly 6 hours of sleep, and 18 hours of eating.

You gazed a bit on your naked, neared immobile body slumped on the couch, and then looked upon me, your near immobile boyfriend seated in a computer chair, and could only feel one feeling:

Contentdness

[fourmoony]

hiiiii! so i was thinking you could write something about the boys bringing drunk james home and him and reader live together and when he sees her he's so happy and lovey. he just keeps muttering "you're so pretty" and she gets him to drink water and eat something and then gets him to bed. i feel like it would be sooo cute, him being all obsessed w reader!

thanks for requesting, lovely!!

james potter x f!reader | masterlist - 727words

cw - alcohol consumption, smoking, drunk james

James is three sheets to the wind when Sirius drops him off at the front door. Like, literally drops him. Sirius is slim, sleek like a cat, and James is all broad shoulders and brick-like muscles, so you're not surprised when the smaller one huffs a relief when you swing the door open, and then promptly allows James to collapse in a giggling heap right in the door way.

Remus is half-way down the garden path, cigarette to his mouth. He waves half-heartedly, not looking the least bit sorry that he's been less than helpful in aiding James home. It's clear Sirius has carried his best friend the entire way from the Leaky - a ten minute walk from your house.

"He's all yours," Sirius tells you, heaving breaths as though he'd run all the way here with James on his back, "Enjoy."

With that, he turns on his heel and drags Remus off into the night, still smoking his cigarette. You look down at James, who's got a warm hand wrapped gently around the exposed skin of your ankle. He's still giggling quietly to himself, a joke he's yet to let you in on, lying face up over the door jam. It can't be comfortable. Heaving a sigh, you place your hands on your hips and attempt your most stern look, "You need to get up, James."

James groans, his merry giggling coming to an end. He looks petulant, like a child, "Can't."

"Jamie, I can't carry you. Like, physically, I cannot carry you." You worry your lip, James' thumb takes up stroking gently against the ball of your ankle. It's warm, feels nice. Feels like home.

"Okay," He heaves a sigh, rolls onto his stomach and uses the door handle to pull himself up.

He wobbles, almost takes a tumble, but with a hand on the wall behind your head, you steady his balance. You walk rather clumsily to the sofa, your arm around James' waist and murmuring silent prayers that he doesn't topple over because you'd truly have to leave him there for the night, and you'd feel rotten about it.

James collapses onto the sofa with enough might to send it pushing against the wooden floor, an awful scraping noise followed by his murmured, half asleep apology. You leave him with the promise of returning with water, but you think he barely registers it. The door closes with a soft click, and you make your way to the kitchen. James has managed to turn on the television by the time you return, and is clumsily pressing buttons, eyes squinting even with his glasses on.

You make a mental note to scold Sirius for returning him to you in this state.

"Here, swap." You hold the glass out for James, voice soft.

Your boyfriend smiles, giddy and elated, as though he'd forgot you were home, "Thanks, pretty girl."

Even in his inebriation, James Potter is able to bring a flush of pink to your cheeks. You click your tongue, eyes focussed on the TV as you put on James' favourite show. He settles in to the couch, half the glass of water gone, most of it dribbling down his chin. You bite back a laugh, settling in next to him. He smells like beer and cigarettes, but under it all, he still smells like sea foam and bergamot, like your Jamie.

Instantly, his arm wraps around your shoulders, pulling you into him and you go. You'll always go where James pulls you, ever trusting, ever loving. His lips press to the side of your head, movements jerky and sloppy in his state, but he murmurs so softly into your head, you swear it's engrained in his soul to remind you, "You're so pretty, baby."

Your head shifts, gentle eyes meeting his. They're a little glassy and unfocussed, but the love-sick look is there. You press your lips to his, soft and gentle, careful not to move too quickly lest James become nauseous. He returns the kiss with equal gentleness, though his lips taste like beer.

Your nose is wrinkled as he pulls away, his right index rather harshly trying to smooth out the lines. You laugh.

"Love you." You whisper, lips against his cheek.

You feel his lashes flutter, his hand rubbing at the skin of your hip, his lips upturn, "Love you, too."

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

HELLOOOO your peccoluca changed me as a person, 4 or 15 for the ask game with them? maybe both?

pecco/lucca: 4 (multiple orgasms/overstim) + 15 (pain)

“Hurts,” Pecco whines.

Luca looks up at him through his lashes, eyes horribly blue and burning. He hums around the cock in his mouth, and it’s like he’s jamming a nail into all of Pecco’s nerve endings. He lurches, warbles a please that’s barely a word, syllables clumped together.

He pulls off, though. Pecco’s cock falls limp on his stomach, spit-cool, sore. Pecco himself falls boneless on the bed.

“Hm?”

“Hurts,” Pecco says again, eloquently, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. His entire body is still shaking, those fine tremors he can’t seem to control.

Luca lets out this considering hum through his rough, scratchy voice, shoves his fingers into the hinge of his jaw with a frown to loosen it. If Pecco could make sense of numbers, or any-fucking-thing, he’d try checking the alarm clock on Luca’s bedside table. Figure out how long they’ve been at this, how much is Luca’s jaw hurting.

He can’t even get his head off the pillow. There’s this molasses-thick, unresponsive buzz in his limbs.

But he knows—at least three orgasms, Luca swallowing down his cock like a metronome, like he was testing the set-up on a tough weekend. It feels like ages ago, knocking on Luca’s door, Sepang dust in his mouth days after flying out, sleepless, angry and fucking done with advice, racing, everyone.

“Is it bad?” He asks, smooths down his hand over Pecco’s sweat-slick thigh.

Even that makes him ache, skin prickling wherever Luca touches, a few sizes too small. Once, when Pecco was young, he touched a live wire by accident. Stood there wobbling and clinging to it until Carola pushed him off. That comedown was a little easier, less bits of himself to wrangle back in place. He thinks he has sand scraping and itching along his joints, cotton in his head.

“Too much,” Pecco says. Words slip like soap in his mouth—no, no, no, no, it’s good, I promise, except it stopped being good ten minutes ago and also, can you please, Christ.

Luca raises his eyebrows. “But is it bad? Should I stop?”

Pecco could cry on him, lashes wet and heavy each time he blinks towards Luca’s nondescript, tasteful, pearl gray ceiling. He pants instead, into his shaking, sweaty palm, through a sound that echoes an awful lot like a sob.

“I won’t get hard again.”

Honestly, just thinking about it makes him tired. He’s probably a few years off setting a record, or something ambitious like that. Pecco wishes it didn’t leave him cold and jittery, though, shutting down Luca’s plans. It settles in his stomach leaden and frizzing, a champagne high gone wrong.

Luca taps against the seam between his thigh and hip. Pecco’s leg jolts.

“I really won’t,” he babbles out, in a rush, sorry, sorry, sorry, I want sticking to his teeth.

“You weren’t hard the last time either,” Luca cuts in.

Pecco was a little too busy dying to notice, two of Luca’s elegant, birdboned fingers shoved inside his ass, Luca’s nose pressed against the thatch of hair on his groin, the bed liquid under him. He can’t even summon embarrassment, though he thinks that maybe he should.

“I’ll let up if you really think you can’t,” Luca offers, very gently.

Luca’s gentleness doesn’t mean anything, never does. He’s bent low again, cheek resting on his stomach, staring straight at him. Unmoving, sure, but Pecco can feel his cock, hard and needy and wet when it bumps against his leg. Can feel—oversensitive and boiling—those small twitches of his hips.

Pecco nods once, tries to work his way through speaking—

Luca’s mouth is on him immediately. He’s trying to choke on something mostly soft, sloppy, drooling. Pecco howls, tries to curl into himself, away.

Pecco keeps—sobbing, yes. He keeps sobbing, fingers buried in Luca’s hair, pulling so hard he feels some strands stick to his hand. The word shatters into a kaleidoscope of too much, too soon, nerves firing in the wrong directions, his limbs spasming.

He might as well have been set up wrong, wires crossed somewhere low in his belly. Time trickles by, laced with this white-hot, pitiless pain. Pecco doesn’t get hard—he said he wouldn’t, he did. But Luca only tugs at his wrist until he gets to lace their fingers together, stops with his limp dick held inside his mouth. A question in his fine, arched eyebrows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Pecco whimpers, hears it through this cottony staleness plugging his ears.

And so Luca keeps going, mostly sucking, his tongue laving attention over his tip. He rubs himself against the hair on Pecco’s leg, and Pecco settles on it—tries to, at least. Lets the ache on his dick, on all of his nerves, ebb and flow like it does halfway through a long race. His thought scatter, scamper.

He’s half asleep, dead tired, raw around the edges. Distracted.

Luca gets mean. Of course he does.

It’s just—just a flash of teeth, scraping down his cock, Luca’s nails raking over his balls lightly. Pecco can’t even scream. Chokes on something wet and quiet, tears on his cheeks, and comes, barely a trickle. Doesn’t quite fall out of his body as much as he stops feeling it entirely, systems fried, vision whited out for a blissful second.

Luca pulls off, sucks in air hungrily—it breaks into a gutted noise that brands itself into his mind. “Fuck, Pecco,” he hisses.

He works his hand over his cock in those ugly, desperate twists, staring at Pecco slack-jawed, awed, vaguely hysterical, drenched in sweat.

It barely takes anything. One, two, three, four grinds against his own calloused, dry palm, deep and desperate like he’s fucking a cunt, and he spills all over Pecco’s stomach, over his spent, aching dick. The heat of his gaze prickles like a needle, makes him feel everything again. It hurts, hurts, hurts, so sweetly that he closes his eyes and lets it lull him to sleep.

[velvetm00light]

Rescue: Spencer's POV

gif: pinterest dividers: @benkeibear, @mariariley, @haerinism

Chapter Three of Save Me in SPENCER'S POV

Y/N'S POV: here

Previous Chapters: one, two

Word Count: 3.5k

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader

Summary: You're abducted by a brutal serial killer who's been stalking you. Spencer and your entire team work tirelessly to find you. But Spencer is fighting with more than just his worry for a friend, he's finding over the guilt he feels for not telling you how he felt beforehand.

Warnings: Torture, kidnapping, dead parents, suggestions of sexual assault, knives and cutting torture, sense deprivation (sight), emotional manipulation, fear, grief. In future parts, will mention PinV, oral, domxsub situations, grief, bondage, physical harm, etc.

A/N: I feel like I don't see a lot of writings from Spencer's POV because technically it's all in the "you" perspective but I thought this would be a cool twist for ya'll to be able to read what's happening in both of their heads during the same time period! This chapter is also written in Y/N's pov so you can read that instead or skip both all together (there is a big detail at the end of Y/N's chapter so you can avoid the rest of the chapter and just read the end if you want:)). The chapters after this will be tamer but as always, warnings will be listed before the chapter!

PANIC BEGINS TO SETTLE in his stomach as your phone rings and rings, and he only keeps getting your voicemail. "Something's wrong," Spencer chokes out, fighting back the tears threatening to spill across his cheeks. "She's not picking up. She didn't text Hotch back for her hourly check in and didn't pick up for him either."

Seeing the look plastered across Spencer's face, Morgan doesn't waste any time comforting with false hopes. They both immediately jump out of the car they've been cooped up in for the past 12 hours. Spencer's legs wobble beneath him, half from sitting in the same position for so long and the other half from the fear he feels coursing through his blood like poison.

He and Morgan race up your apartment stairs, taking them two at a time until they're face-to-face with your intact apartment door. Morgan tries the handle first, but when the door doesn't budge he ignores all other conservative options. The door gives easily under Morgan's heavy kick, and both men rush into the apartment.

The first thing Spencer notices is the blood splattered all over your living room carpet. He lets out a defeated whine and feels himself frozen in place, unable to go any further. It's obvious that whoever has been stalking you has finally grown the balls to abduct you and he begins to worry that when he finally finds the guy who took you, he just might actually kill him. Fuck that, he will fucking kill him.

He barely registers Morgan on the phone with Hotch as he slowly begins to analyze the scene before him. Your blood and spit ruining your carpet, the balcony door curtains thrown carelessly to the side, all your hidden gun compartments open and guns missing from each of them. He quickly wipes the tears that escape down his face before Morgan can notice.

"We're going to stay here and learn everything we possibly can from her apartment while the rest of them get back to the office to find this son of a bitch," Morgan explains to Spencer. "Reid, we're going to find her." Morgan lays a comforting hand on Spencer's shoulder as Spencer stays motionless, staring at the fresh blood from your face on the floor.

"If you don't think you can handle this, it's okay, Reid."

"I can handle this," Spencer breathes. He straightens his spine and goes through your entire apartment painstakingly slow. He tells himself over and over again not to miss a single detail or else he might never forgive himself for missing something that could possibly save your life.

His heart begins to hurt more and more as he notices all the locked windows, the coffee pot still sitting on the kitchen counter, the blood starting to dry on your bedroom floor, and your phone and empty gun holster resting on your nightstand. His chest constricts at the fact that he was the one who told you to rest, that he would protect you. He's unsure if he'll ever begin to forgive himself for it.

At the round table, Spencer can't help but tell his team every single detail he noticed around your apartment. It was almost just as hard to go through your entire life as seeing your blood on your apartment floors. He and Morgan practically trashed every room, going through photo albums, your phone, and anything else they could get their hands on. Your entire team felt icky about diving into your life to such an extent but they knew you would forgive them if it meant they found you alive.

Garcia bursts into the conference room with her laptop in hand. "He hacked into the surveillance system."

"What?" Everyone's voiced echoed in unison.

"He-He hacked into the cameras. I have no idea how long he's had access or how he even managed to do it. He's gotta be mega good because I'm the best of the best and to get past all of my alarms...God, this guy is frustrating."

Spencer's breath caught in his throat. "So, he's been watching her everywhere she goes?"

"Most likely. If he can hack into our cameras I don't doubt he has access to all the cities traffic cameras, businesses security cameras.."

"We have to assume he's watching us now. We give him no indication that we know who he is," Hotch commanded. The team nods and silently resumes their work.

Random names are written on the board, random case files are scattered on the table, assuming they're all being watched.

Spencer stands frozen in front of the whiteboard, staring at your picture underneath with the word "abducted" written in angry, uppercase letters under it. He doesn't realize the entire team has gone off to do whatever Hotch has demanded of them until a gentle hand is placed on his shoulder. "We're gonna find her, Spence."

He snaps his attention to JJ, who stands tall beside him. The tears attempt to betray him again and it's almost impossible to hide them. "I..I don't know what I'd do with myself if I lost her."

"I know. We're all scared, and we all want to find this son of a bitch. But, I know, Spence. I see it."

He looks at her puzzlingly, his brain mush from the lack of sleep and the intense stress and guilt he's been drowning in.

"Spence...we all know. You two think you're so great at hiding it, but we see it. The longing, the love, the care. Just focus on getting her back so you finally have a chance to tell her."

This brought the tears flowing from his eyes and coating his cheeks. JJ wraps him in an embrace and runs a motherly hand up and down his back. "I'm afraid that I'll be too late and she'll never know how I feel," he chokes out, his tears soaking into JJ's blazer.

"You won't be, we're going to bring her home, you're going to bring her home. But, you need to focus. We need your brilliant brain more than ever right now."

He backs away from JJ's embrace, wiping his slick cheeks on his cardigan sleeve, and nods.

Their attentions are forced to the team entering back into the conference room. "Everyone look normal, we've got something to talk about," Hotch declares as your team takes their seats at the round table once more.

Garcia sits with her back away from the camera to ensure nothing on her computer can be seen, and then she begins.

"Our unsub is Blake Rixley, he's (y/n)'s foster brother. A picture of him and all his details have been sent to your phones."

"Foster brother?" Prentiss asks, her brows knitting together.

"When her parents died, she was sent to a foster home with Blake and a few other kids. She ran away when she was 11 from her foster home and from what I can find, stayed with a distant aunt until she was 18."

"Why did they send her to foster care if she had a family member she could have lived with in the first place?"

"Her aunt lived in Canada and under a different last name. Y/n managed to contact her and made her way over the boarder. How, I have absolutely no idea. But that's why I can't find anything from the age of 11-18 on her," Garcia explained.

Spencer's blood runs aflame as he imagines you at 11, a mere child, sneaking across the boarder by yourself, trying to survive on your own.

"Why did she run away?"

"I'm not sure.."

"Maybe it was because of her foster brother," Prentiss suggests. "Maybe he tried to take advantage of her, or maybe flirt with her or something and she rejected him because even though they weren't related by blood it felt wrong."

"He's also 8 years older than her..." Garcia pointed out. "He was 14 when she came into the house."

"He could have easily used his position in the house to manipulate her into doing things. Garcia, is Blake the son of the foster parents?"

Garcia types furiously on her laptop and her eyes go wide. "Yes."

Spencer's heart just about cleaves in two. He can't help but picturing you as a small child, losing your parents and being taken advantage of on top of it. Unable to bare any more information, he abruptly gets out of his chair, swinging the conference door room open, and slamming it shut behind him.

He decides to get some air to ease the bile rising in his throat.

As he makes it outside, he finally lets the pent up heartache free. He stumbles to a bench and throws himself down onto it, his body shuddering with his sobs. His thoughts come fast and heavy, suffocating him in his grief. He begins to wonder if you'll ever forgive him for suggesting you go to sleep, for not being there to protect you, for not doing enough to make sure you weren't taken in the first place, and worse of all, for not telling you how he felt from the start. He can't help but weep harder at the possibility that you might never know how he feels, how the curve of your lips distracts him just about every day of his life. How no matter how many times he sees you and even when you're together for days on end working on a case, he is still awestruck over your beauty and itches to be with you when you're apart. How he could listen to you talk about the most boring subject on earth for hours on end. How he has been completely and utterly in love with you since the day you accidentally fell asleep on his shoulder on the jet coming home from a case, shortly after you joined the Bureau.

Spencer and Prentiss sit in a strained silence on the way back from surveying a few farms and abandoned buildings on the prospect list. After each place that turned up empty, the hole within Spencer's heart felt as if it was growing bigger and bigger, becoming a void threatening to destroy him.

Spencer has never been so frustrated in his life, and he would know. He was frustrated when he didn't even notice when one of the suspects he interviewed had Dissociative Identity Disorder and switched right in front of him. He was frustrated when an unsub kept crossing state lines and it look the team almost a week to catch up to him. He was frustrated a million times over when a new victim was found and they were not fast enough to stop the killer. But this...This really takes the cake.

The tension feels almost like a wire tethered from Spencer to the entire world, taut to almost it's breaking point. That wire of tension loosens a bit when Emily's phone rang and he allows a small bubble of hope to begin to stir.

He attempts to listen to the conversation, his body aching to rip the phone from her hand and demand to know if they've found you. Emily glimpses at Spencer for a moment, then turns her attention back to the road. "We'll be there in 5," she says as a goodbye.

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself before explaining to Spencer what she heard. "Reid, before I tell you anything, you have to promise me something."

His stomach basically fell into his ass at her tone. He wonders if sometimes people assume he's normal, and not someone who can basically detect the mood of someone like some sick sixth sense.

"We're on our way to an old farm that the unsubs father used to live on when his father was a child. I'm not going to guarantee you this is where she is. But if she is there, don't be stupid."

Emily eyes him again, judging the tells on his face. She knows better than anyone that he would love to watch the life exit this guy's body at his doing, preferably with his bare hands. If circumstances were perfect, Spencer would love to do exactly what he's done to her and worse, to the sick bastard.

"I hope he gives me a reason."

Emily doesn't have to ask what he means. She gains her composure and schools her features as they pull down a winding, dirt road. A farm looms up ahead, a sizable, wooden, red barn stands tall behind smaller disheveled shacks and barns - some sunken in on themselves, others with caved in roofs, wood slats missing off the sides. The farm looked worse for wear, and that was being generous.

Emily comes to a stop at the edge of the farm, and they are met with the rest of their team. Everyone is already adjusting their bulletproof vests, checking their guns, and discussing any last minute details to whatever plan they cracked while Spencer and Emily were away.

"Prentiss, Reid, take that cabin on the left. JJ, Morgan, take the small blue barn to the right. Rossi and I are going to stake out the parameter and we'll meet together at the big red barn in the back," Hotch explained. The entire team split up into their groups and wasted no time getting to their respective buildings.

Spencer just about jumps into a sprint towards the cabin, his heart screaming at him to go. Emily hauls after him, not judging or chastising him for his urgency. They stalk the perimeter first, peeking into the dirty windows. "I'll go in through the back, you go in through the front," Emily orders. Spencer quietly makes his way to the front, peeking again into all the windows as he passes, trying to find the son of a bitch.

They open their respective doors in unison, bursting into the small cabin. Spencer enters what appears to be a dining room and kitchen, a semi-rotten wooden table just a few feet away from a stove and countertops that probably haven't been changed out since Christ himself was born. There were empty cans scattered across the countertop and dirty dishes in the sink.

A living room sat just beyond, a half wall the only thing separating the rooms. The hardwood under his boots turn to carpet as he slowly makes his way through the house towards Emily. His attention snaps towards the sound of Emily's voice.

"Put the gun down, Blake."

Spencer picks up his pace, trying his best to stay as quiet as possible. He turns a corner and spots Emily, her gun raised and pointed at the man standing in between them, oblivious to the other agent directly behind him. He holds a shotgun, one powerful enough to probably make a hole deep enough to reach the Earth's damn core.

Emily lifts her hands up in surrender as she spots you, holstering her gun. "I just want to talk, that's all."

"It was a mistake coming here by yourself," he snarls. Spencer couldn't see his face but he was damn sure this sick bastard was probably smiling.

"Put the gun down so we can talk," she tries again.

"I'm not a fucking fool! Of course you don't want to just talk," he growls. Spencer almost pulls his trigger just by the way the man in front of him begins to shake with anger, his shotgun rattling softly in his hands.

"If you cooperate we can help you, we know what she did. She hurt you, Blake,"

Spencer's fingers tighten around the grip of his gun. He isn't sure he can stand to listen to Emily blame you for all of this. He knows she doesn't mean it, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

"Unlucky for you, I promised a certain someone I would teach her lesson for that specific reason," he says smugly. All too quickly, he cocks the shotgun and takes aim and before Spencer can even hesitate, he squeezes the trigger.

The man slumps to the ground between them. His chest heaving in small, shallow breaths as a pool of blood begins to form underneath him. Spencer leans down to the mans face and whispers, "I would kill you a million times over again for what you took from her, but I guess once one time is just going to have to be enough."

The man's eyes swell in rage until they hold nothing inside them at all. Spencer stands up slowly and meets Emily's gaze. "You did the right thing," she claims, patting his shoulder as she walks by him and out of the cabin.

After one last look at the man who within a few days has taken everything from the women he loves and the woman he loves from him, he follows Prentiss out of the cabin and toward the red barn.

After a short walk, they reach the looming barn doors. "I think we should wait," Emily starts but Spencer cuts her off. "He's already dead. I'm not letting her be here a moment longer, she's suffered enough."

Before Emily can argue, Spencer swings open the barn doors and just about falls to his damn knees at the sight. "She's here!" He calls. He and Emily rush to you, instantly grabbing at the handcuffs around your wrists. As you're released, he falls to the floor along side you, trying to avoid a hard impact with the floor. "(Y/n)?" He whimpers, feeling for a pulse.

"Take it off.." you whimper. His heart cleaves in two. The sight of you battered, sliced open, and isolated inside a metal mask makes him want to crawl into the depths of hell just to kill the fucking bastard again.

"I'm trying.." He fumbles with the straps on the mask, his hands trembling so terribly he can barely grip the straps.

"Take it off!" you cry, ripping at the mask with your fingernails. His hands pick up speed.

"(Y/n), please, I'm trying. Hold on.."

The mask finally releases and he lets out a relieved sigh. You curl up into him and let out shuddering sobs that pain him to the ends of the Earth. All he wishes is to be able to stop the grief and pain you're experiencing. "I'm here, you're safe now," he coos, running a gentle hand through your hair in comforting strokes.

When your cries begin to quiet, he softly grabs the sides of your head and lifts your eyes up to meet his face, slick with tears and battered to hell with stress.

"Spencer.." you choke out, throwing your hands around his neck. "I'm so sorry..."

Rage courses through him, "(Y/n), why? You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about." It kills him to hear you apologizing for this. He wants to do nothing more than you spill out his whole mind to you, but he isn't sure it would even help in this moment.

"He..he told me he would hurt you, all of you, if I fought back."

Tears well up in his eyes and he embraces you again, attempting to hide the fact that he's been crying this entire time. "I'm here."

You lift your gaze to his as you whimper out, "Spencer..."

"Yes, love?" He responses, cupping your wet cheek with a calloused hand.

"The only thing that got me through...what he did, was you."

He truly didn't think anything could have made this worse. He should be ecstatic that he's the reason you survived, that he was able to help you get through it even though he wasn't there to save you originally. But..he just can't find it in himself to be happy about it. You should have never had to go through this in the first place, and worse, you had to go through things he can't even begin to fathom probably thinking everything will always just be a fantasy. "I am so sorry."

"You found me," you smile sadly up at him.

As paramedics rush into the barn, Spencer lays you on the floor so they can reach and treat all of your wounds. He couldn't help feeling hollow and empty pulling away from you. "Don't leave.." you whine, and he greedily grabs your outstretched hand. He continues to hold your hand in comfort the entire walk to the ambulance and as they continue working on you on the way to the hospital.

"I love you," you whisper and he can tell you've already fallen asleep, using the last of your energy doing the one thing he wished he was man enough to do before.

"I love you, too." He whispers back, kissing the back of your hand. He felt the need to say it back right then and there whether you heard him or not. He aches to tell you everything he feels about you and can't wait to finally tell you to your face rather than keep everything in his brain this time.

He stares at you the entire ride to the hospital, monitoring your breathing, his eyes roaming from each cut on your body, the bruises forming on your abdomen, and the exhausted look on your face. He is grateful this part is over, but a whole new difficult journey lays ahead. But, he's not afraid. He's ready to be at your side every second of the day possible, and he's ready to be your savior.

TAG LIST: @qatiee @dottirose @thisaintredwine @jay-2s-world @ruziazyn

[autisticlancemcclain]

Everything is burning.

For too long he doesn’t move. His limbs are leaden, pulled heavily to the ground, and his neck is too weak to keep up his head. Smoke curls in the air and settles sleepily into his lungs. Shredded metal and broken glass glint and shine under the full moonlight, and through his half-lidded eyes it looks like stars. Every inhale is laborious, but the churned earth feels shaped to the contours of his body, like a mattress designed specifically for him. He could close his eyes, just for a moment, and rest, recover from the strain of the crash before moving forward. It would be easier. Just a short rest, a moment to sleep, to heal. 

Sounds of a forest surround him. A steady chirping that must be crickets, a hooting that can only be an owl. If he strains his ears farther, there’s the chittering of something scurrying up and down trees, and the heavier thumps of something bigger stomping about. Behind that, there are voices. 

Shouting. And the bark of what has to be dogs, and the ever so faint revving of vehicles, slamming doors.

Get up, urges a voice in the back of his head. Get up now.

He tries to comply. He cracks open his eyes – when did he close them? – and hisses at the onslaught of light, of beams of searching torches and painful flashes of red and blue. All of a sudden he’s made aware of the flames inching closer to his legs, and the wing of his ship, torn off the body, pressing him into the ground.

“Not good,” he croaks, trying to wiggle his toes. Thankfully, he can, although movement reminds his body of itself, and the aches and pains start to come alive – his entire head pounds, and nausea coils around his stomach, and something burns and pulses in the meat of his calf. 

But still he can move.

Forcing his arms to function, he grounds his hands under him, pushing upright. His body feels heavier than it has ever felt before; the task feels herculean. The unrest in his stomach becomes violent, swirling, and he has to stop before he’s even sitting upright, eyes stinging, teeth clenched, breathing deliberately and sharply through his nose until the nausea settles again. The world spins, when he’s finally sat upright, and he has to give himself a moment for that to pass, too, but the shouting voices and stomping feet get louder, and he knows he doesn’t have much time.

“Okay,” he whispers to himself, praying that Perseus and Ursa and Leo guide him. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

He curls his gloved fingers under the ruined edge of the wing, careful of the sharp shards of torn metal, and heaves, pushing and biting back a loud cry as the effort of freeing his legs tears something in his shoulders, hurts something in his back. The wing is heavy and he’s lucky he’s merely trapped under it rather than pinned; if the ground wasn’t supporting so much of its weight then the onus would be on his legs, and he’s sure he would lose them. His body is sorer than it has ever been in his life, and everything hurts, but he is grateful for that at least. 

With the freeing of his legs comes the hard part. He doesn’t trust them to hold them, at least not at first, and he’s scared of what might happen if his brain tells them to move on their own. So he wraps his hands around his ankle and pulls, so his foot slides close to his rear and bends his knee, and does the same with the other, so he is sitting with his knees nearly pressed to his chest and his feet flat and steady on the floor. 

“Okay,” he whispers again to himself, shaky this time. He bites off any other words, snapping his mouth shut, focusing on breathing. Okay. He braces his palms on the cracked and sparking remains of the control board the pushes with all his strength, steadying himself on wobbling legs and knocking knees. He holds himself steady, breath held in his lungs, for the count of fifteen ticks, carefully testing with his hands still steadying himself, the ability of his legs to hold him up. 

Carefully, nervously, he lifts up his hands. He sways, for a moment, but manages to stay upright. On the high of that success he straightens to the best of his ability and surveys the smoking remains of his crashed ship. It’s not very salvageable. Scrap metal, maybe, but everything else…

He swallows. It has been two deca-phoebs since he left home. Six pheobs since he last passed a satellite up to date enough to talk to his family face-to-face. He hasn’t seen home in so long that sometimes he struggles to remember what it felt like to lie in his bed, not just the nest he built in the cab of his ship. The ship, with its purple glowing lights and well-worn buttons and weird old sounds and familiar walls is the only piece of home he has left. Maybe forever, now.

He shakes himself. The voices are closer, now, the barking of dogs closer still. He doesn’t have time to dwell. He forces himself to shift around some of the ruins, digging through cracked polymer and cracked glass to find anything salvageable and portable; anything he can find in under thirty ticks. He manages – thankfully – to find his pack, half-burned as it is, that he knows holds some clothes and supplies. He finds his comm, too, although it’s cracked clean in half. He brings it anyway. 

His head swivels to the treeline as he hears a barked order that sounds like it’s barely out of eyesight. He has to go. He doesn’t have any more time. 

Choking back tears from two different kind of pain, he stumbles his way out of the wreckage and sprints for the trees, as far away from the voices as he can manage. He only hopes that he’s not trailing blood – and that the humans aren’t faster than he is.

———

Keith grew up on stories of Earth.

His father told him hundreds. It’s like a hundred planets in one, he liked to say, and when Keith was young and still fit in the crook of his father’s arm he’d look at him with wide eyes and try to imagine it. Dozens of nations all trying to coexist in one space. All the culture and language you could ever dream of, naui jag-eun tamheomga, everywhere, at once.

When Keith was a kid he couldn’t get enough of it. When he was a teen he couldn’t, either; he’s never not been fascinated with the heritage he’s never shared with anyone he’s ever known. His bedtime stories were of scientific discoveries his father witnessed in real time, of athletic feats of which Keith could barely conceptualise. And when he ran out of real stories, he told Keith stories of thousands of years of myths, of gods and angels and monsters. And of course when Keith had the first inkling of an opportunity he packed a ship, kissed his mother goodbye, and flew off on a several hundred million lightyear journey, his field journal blank and begging to be filled and his father’s voice echoing in his head.

His father prepared him for everything. Keith knew every star on the journey, recognised the curve of every planet in the solar system. Upon sight of the Great Blue Dot he could barely contain his excitement, thrusters at full force.

His father told him everything. As far as Keith knew and has always known, his father knew everything.

His father didn’t tell him that the second his ship showed up on government scanners, he’d be shot out of the sky.

Keith found that one out the hard way.

———

There’s a light up ahead.

It’s yellowed, and old. The bulb has not been changed in a long time, and dead moths pile inside the class lamp cover. Cobwebs wrap delicately around the iron frame. The light seems out of place with the cottage it guards; not in appearance, but in liveliness: the cottage is dark and well-maintained. The ancient beckoning of the lamp post seems at odd with the sleepy youth of the red-bricked little house.

Keith is starting to get a little delirious, maybe. 

Stumbling, he approaches the cottage. He has long since lost the voices and hunters, if that’s what they were, distracted no doubt by the remains of his ship. He hasn’t heard them in hours. 

But the moon crests higher and higher overheard. And the torn flesh of his leg – cut deeply by a shard of shrapnel – bleeds sluggishly with no sign of stopping. And he is tired, and every step is harder, and the adrenaline only continues to fade, and the point in which he will no longer be able to go on is rapidly approaching.

And, most damning. Humans are pursuit predators. As far as he goes – if he is not sheltered, they will find him. Now or days from now, he cannot stay hidden. 

He’d like to choose the terms in which he is discovered. 

He forces himself to the cottage, injured leg dragging behind him, vision getting blurrier with every step, breaths getting shallower and shallower. The steps are real wood, cured and stained and worn, and Keith mourns for a moment that he is about to ruin them with the spill of his own blood and the tracked mud and grease on his clothes. His father wore a necklace, every day of his life, a leather cord with a rubbed-smooth charm of carved wood. In all the many planets Keith has visited, he has never seen real wood. Dried plant matter, in abundance, and every kind of polished stone, polymers created from nothing and glass melted from every kind of sand, but wood is, at least as far as anyone knows, completely unique to Earth. Keith has always been fascinated by it.

His strength leaves him at the door. Like his strings were cut, he falls to his knees with a heavy thud, and must claw his way close enough to knock. The tap of his fist against the worn green door is hardly loud enough to be audible, but it is all he has strength to do. He slumps against the doorframe and mentally apologises to whatever old lady lives in this house, because she is going to have the fright of her life seeing his corpse on her doorstep when she wakes up in the morning. That, or a trail of blood from where the people who shot him down are going to drag him away. 

Either way, not good.

He’s sad, as he lay there dying. That is of course not a revolutionary feeling to have, but it’s of no consequence. He wishes he saw more of Earth. He wishes he got to stop at all the places his father talked about so fondly. He wishes he was able to tell his mother goodbye. He wishes, perhaps most urgently, that dying hurt less. He had been too shocked to hurt, when he first crashed, but it’s been hours now and his body won’t let him forget it. Everything hurts, and his throat is dry. He hates it when his throat is dry. The wooden doorframe digs into his back, at least, and it’s not a pleasant sensation but he reaches out and strokes the grain of the wooden door anyway, feeling the chipped away pent, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending he’s running his thumb around his father’s pendant. 

The texture of the wood suddenly disappears, and his back hits the ground. His eyes flutter open, whole seconds after he is laid flat on the ground, and hovering above him is the blurry silhouette of a man glowing gold; curls of hair shining flinted silver in the bright light of the moon, stars dotting the apples of his cheeks and bridge of his nose, mouth curved like the arm of the Milky Way, and eyes the deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul.

“Oh,” are Keith’s dying words, faint and echoing and awed. “Dad was wrong. Angels are real.”

———

The tips of cool, uncalloused fingers brushing under his hairline rouse him from slumber, frowning. Mom must be wearing – gloves? But that doesn’t make sense. He’s never seen her wear gloves before, even when he’s been sick. Her claws tear right through the fingers. It doesn’t make sense.

“Mom?” he murmurs, voice scratchy, trying and failing to force open his heavy, heavy eyelids. 

“Go back to sleep,” she whispers, not sounding like herself at all. She must be sick, too. “You’re still all fucked up. You need it.”

Keith’s eyebrows furrow. He wanted to talk to her. There was something he wanted to say to her. There’s something faint and muted pulling at the back of his mind; something about his mother, about talking, about pain and sleep and sorrow. He needs to wake up.

But he’s so tired. And his eyelids are so heavy. And sleep pulls, at every corner of his mind.

“Okay,” he sighs, and sinks back into it.

———

“Whatever the hell you are, you’ve made a mess of yourself. Dumbass.”

———

There are voices again. Arguing. Fear pricks at Keith’s veins, and it’s enough to propel him out of whatever blackness he’s been resting in, enough to force his eyes open. He squeezes them shut again on reflex, hissing at the onslaught of sunlight pouring in from the wide, open window, counting to three before opening them again under the shield of his hand. 

He doesn’t recognise the room he’s in.

It’s strangely shaped. Almost cave-shaped, really, with rounded edges instead of sharp corners. Except the window is so big it bleeds light into every single crevice of the room, leaving no room for any cave-like impressions. The walls are painted with soft, muted murals, of hanging vines and falling leaves and ants marching a line on a tree. Dozens of shelves are filled with more rocks than Keith has ever seen in one place, even in his godfather’s labs and archives. The bed itself is huge, taking up half the room, enough so that Keith could sprawl if he pleased and not touch any edge. The comforter is huge and thick and almost stiflingly warm. The door is contrasting to the energy of the rest of the room, covered in vibrant stickers and sprawled in messages and almost graffiti-like lettering. It’s cracked open slightly, and through it Keith can hear two voices arguing: one stiff and demanding, the other angry and shrill.

“I have no idea what the hell you’re on about,” hisses the angry voice, defensive. “No one has shown up at my door. I’ve seen nothing strange. Everything is as normal as it always is. The only odd thing is the slew of trespassing assholes dressed in uniform who won’t leave me the fuck alone –”

Keith’s head lolls backwards, strength seeping out of his body. The sunlight is warm and smells good. The fear that had dragged him awake has ebbed, somewhat, because the voice – the angry voice – is protective. There is someone guarding Keith’s six. 

He lets sleep swallow him again.

———

He dreams, finally, of flying on wings of hollow bones and stretched skin, and being shot out of the sky. And of a bright yellow canary, snatching him from his freefall and floating him gently to the earth.

———

“If you woke up soon I’d appreciate it, you know. I’m running out of excuses to buy saline bags. Shit is getting suspicious and if the local town thinks I’m a vampire trying to keep my personal bloodbag alive, I’m fucked.”

———

Keith awakes, finally and fully, in the middle of the night. A half moon shines bright into a bedroom that feels unnervingly familiar, like the watercolour memories from a dream. The cloudiness that’s been ever present in his head has finally faded, and the only thing rolling in his stomach is hunger. There’s still a heavy ache in his leg, but it’s manageable. It’s dark enough that his eyes don’t sting.

His mouth tastes like something died, then was revived, then shat on his tongue. It’s unpleasant. 

Nervously, fully expecting a half-movement to crumble his body to dust, he peels back the disgustingly fluffy comforter, slowly pivoting his half-upright body until his feet are planted on the rug-covered floor. He rests there a moment, frankly a little breathless, but braces on palm on the nightstand and one on the bedspread and readies himself. Teeth grit in determination, he pushes, leaning on shaky arms until he trusts his legs to hold up his body.

They do. His one leg aches in a pain he’s only felt in Marmora training, but it holds him, and when he tests a tiny step forward, it holds him then, too. 

Slowly, conscious of his space and his body, Keith inches forward. 

It takes him longer than he would like to cross the minimal space between the bed and the door, but he does it, and he ignores the sardonic voice in his head that wants to do anything but celebrate. He rests again at the door frame, hand clutched at the top of it, stretched out in a way that feels unbelievably good (well, as stretched out as he can be with his head brushing the doorframe). His lips quirk up when he realises it’s made of wood, half-remembering his dying internal rambles. He wonders if building with wood is a common Earthen practice, or if whomever owns this cottage is just unbelievably wealthy. Maybe all Terrans are. 

Once his breath has evened again and he thinks he’s good to go, Keith peeks down the hallway, nerves dancing down his spine. The two rooms branching off are dark and soundless, but there’s a small light on at the end of the hall where it opens up, and the soft sound of clinking glass. Someone is awake.

He closes his eyes, pulling back from the doorframe and closing his shaking hands into fists. “Just do it,” he whispers to himself. It’s not like they don’t know he’s here – someone has been keeping him alive, after all. He didn’t just recover – well, half-recover – from a massive crash by himself. That kind of thing kills a person, actually. “Stop stalling.”

Jaw set and shoulders square, Keith stalks forward. It’s hard to stalk with a heavy limp, but he thinks he manages. His cousin has always told him that power comes from audacity, and she has plenty, so. He should be fine so long as he emulates her, which he would rather crash from space again than admit but he does often.

He turns the corner at the end of the hallway and it opens up into an open kitchen and living space. There are no overhead lights but lamps and candles litter the space, making everything glow quietly. A light floral scent fills the air, but Keith isn’t sure if that’s from the candles or the bouquet of purple flowers that might be lavenders placed carefully on the centre of a – wooden – table. More shelves line the walls, filled with more than just rocks this time, and the walls are painted with bright swatches of colours; muted in the low light but visibly more sunshiney and abstract than the bedroom. The fridge is covered in photos so thickly that the door isn’t even visible. The counters are a mess of opened ingredients, some of which Keith recognises, and a slew of utensils and bowls in various states of disarray.

A man stands at the centre of it all, back turned to Keith. 

Keith clears his throat.

The man whirls around, startled, and when he sees Keith he screams at the top of his lungs, mixing bowl clattering to the ground and splattering batter all over the floor and half the cupboards. Keith steps back, heart pounding in his ears, hands held defensively in front of him, mind screaming with various iterations of oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck. He’d thought he was safe, that his presence was known, that –

“Oh my shitballs,” the man wheezes, hunching over slightly. “Oh Joseph and Mary and Sweet Baby Jesus. Fuck. My heart just clawed its way up my esophagus and threw itself out of my mouth, actually. Holy shit.”

“What,” Keith croaks, still frozen in fear.

For a moment there’s silence. Then the man still stands crookedly, but straightens enough to look Keith in the eyes. And Keith – 

Keith stops breathing, because he knows those eyes. 

The deepest, darkest, widest brown he has ever seen, like two glowing black holes boring into his soul. 

“I am. So sorry,” he says, “for yelling. That is my bad. That is On Me. Probably freaked you out good.” He sighs, bending back down and scooping up the mixing bowl. He stares for a long moment at the mess of batter, weighing, then sighs again and more deeply and reaches for a rag. “I don’t mean to be xenophobic, promise. I swear I knew you were there. I just. Haven’t slept. In so many days. Would’ve screamed if anyone popped out, promise.”

“What,” Keith repeats, a little desperate. 

The man doesn’t seem to pick up on his tone, though, continuing to work on the rapidly drying mess and rambling. 

“– and it’s not your fault, anyway. Been a rough couple of weeks. You really freaked the hell outta the military, huh? I’m glad you’re up now because there was only so much I could do to keep them away. I’m sure they’ll come knocking again eventually, but we’ll figure it out then. Or you’ll go home? I’m honestly not sure. Whatever works. You can stay. I dunno. My brain’s on three percent at this exact moment.”

“You’re…not sleeping?” Intentionally, Keith avoids the whole military thing the man mentioned, because. Well. That freaks him out, if he’s being entirely honest, and he really doesn’t want to hear it. Right now he’s pretending that’s a problem for someone else. He has enough shit to deal with. 

The man sighs. He looks dejectedly at the mess. Slowly, so as not to startle him again, Keith walks over to the sink, careful to avoid smears of whatever the man was making, and wets a rag to help him. 

He figures it’s the least he can do. 

“Yeah, well. I’ve never slept great outside of my bed. It’s cool, though. Sometimes I blink for a few seconds longer than usual and it’s like a micro-nap.”

Keith looks at him in concern. He’s staring off into space, rubbing at a spot that’s been clean for at least two doboshes now. Keith’s not even sure if he’s noticed him beside him. “That seems bad.”

“Eh. Now that you can move around, I can sleep if you’re ever up. All is well.”

“...Wait.” Keith shifts so he’s deliberately in the man’s space, which makes him startle, proving Keith’s earlier guess. “I’m sleeping in your bed?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious.

Keith flushes purple. “I didn’t know I was in your bed!” It’s not that he’s…you know…never slept in anyone else’s bed before, but usually he knew he was doing it. And never a stranger’s, as evidently kind as this stranger has been. 

The man blinks. “I have a guest bedroom, but you’re too tall for it.”

“Still!”

“Dude. You showed up at my door in the middle of the night after crashing into the woods so hard the trees shook, bloodied to hell and back and near death. I couldn’t just – shove you in a bed too small for you. It was my bed or the floor, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to make an injured person sleep on the floor.”

“That’s…fair, I suppose,” Keith concedes. But he’s still a little troubled. “But I’m good, now. I can – sleep in the guest room?”

He trails off a little as he suggests it, realising, abruptly, how absurd this whole thing is. He doesn’t know this person. He’s shown up as an unexpected guest to his home – hell, to his planet. And now they’re…making sleeping arrangements? Arguing about sleeping arrangements? Is Keith even planning on staying? What are his other options? How is he going to get home? What happened to his ship?

His head starts to pound again. The man must notice, because he softens. 

“Man, just sleep in my bed,” he says. “You’re still hurt.” He gently pries the rag out of Keith’s hand, tossing them both into the sink and standing. Hands still gripped together, he pulls Keith up too, careful of his hurt leg and generally aching body. He begins to tug Keith back to the bedroom, guiding him around the mess on the floor.

Keith squares his shoulders stubbornly. “No.”

“Oh, for the love of –” 

The man pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at Keith in exasperation. 

“This is what I get,” he says, shaking his head. “For not listening to Hunk about the light. I deserve this. This is Karma.”

“I’m not just going to steal your bed and let you be sleep deprived,” Keith insists. 

“Well, I’m not going to let you not steal my bed! And it’s my house, so checkmate!”

“Not doing it.”

“I’ll drag you,” the man threatens. “I did before. I will do it again, do not test me.”

“You dragged me when I was a deadweight,” Keith points out. He straightens to his full height, ignoring the screaming burning in his leg. He has a Point to make. “Go ahead and try when I’m actively resisting.”

The man glowers at him, arms crossed over his chest and fingers drumming on his bicep. He has very long fingers, Keith notices. Kind of – elegant. In a scrawny way. Keith kind of gets those vibes from him as a person.

“Oh,” the man says triumphantly, standing to his full height, too – although he still has to look up to meet Keith’s eyes. “I’ll just sleep on the floor. So you’ll have to use my bed. Ha.”

Keith shrugs. “I’ll just sleep on the floor, too.”

The man glowers at him for several doboshes. Keith stares right back, eyebrows raised. 

“Are all aliens this annoying?”

“Are all humans this stubborn?”

A smile twitches at the corner of the man’s mouth. “This is stupid.”

“It is,” Keith agrees, smiling back. 

“Just – sleep on the bed.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“What if I sleep in it, too? Compromise.”

Keith’s cheeks heat again, although this time he doesn’t look away. That would be – embarrassing. Far more embarrassing than simply sleeping in someone else’s bed – sleeping with them in it.

But it would get them both to sleep faster. Plus, Keith would be unconscious, so how embarrassing could it be, really? And the bed is huge, so double plus! They probably won’t even be that near each other.

“Compromise,” Keith relents, finally. The man beams, but notably there’s a bit of a flush to his ears, too.

“Come on,” he says, reaching down to grab Keith’s hand again. He does it very easily. Keith tries not to notice. “God, I’m so pumped. I love sleeping. This is going to be the best.”

“...Right.”

Keith follows him, meekly, down the hallway, straight through the second door on the left, and into the bedroom. It has remained unchanged – the comforter is turned over as Keith left it, and the light curtains are swaying, slightly, in the breeze from the open window. The man wastes no time crawling right in, on the right right, sighing loudly as he sinks into the soft mattress. Keith is much more hesitant. 

“There,” the man says, as they’re finally settled side by side. “Hopefully it’s not – the worst.”

“It’s not,” Keith tries to assure, voice strangled. He lies as stiffly as he can, careful to keep his limbs to himself, not to crowd. He doesn’t want to – suffocate the man, or something. Who knows. This is a real-life human. Mom says they are largely fragile.

“Goodnight,” the human whispers, several doboshes later. His voice is hushed, sleep-thick. Keith chances a look, and finds him melted into the pillows, eyes closed, face lax. He doesn’t seem to be – bothered. By Keith. By his clawed hands, or big ears, or height. Or proximity.

Keith exhales, and lets himself relax. 

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, and sinks back into unconsciousness. 

— — —

next

later in the universe

[dreamywriter143]

My Dearly Detested

Status: Part Three (7 part Mini-Series, 3/7)

Genre: Enemies to Lover troupe, Angst, Rude Neteyam, Comforting Lo’ak, some fluff, Romance, violence.

Warnings: Depictions of blood, Battles and cursing. Rude Neteyam😭. Reader is older then Neteyam by 1year.

Parings: Neteyam X Y/n (Reader)

Summary: Neteyam hates Y/n. He never liked how she always bested him in everything and never once sought the praises he was accustomed to. She had no one, yet she had everyone in the palm of her hand. He despised her, and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. The but happens when the RDA threat comes and Jake tasks her with watching his sons? Neteyam can’t help but grow a newfound hatred.

Word count: 4.5k

A/N: Sorry it took so long! I hope ya'll enjoy!

_________________________________________

Y/n’s Ikran lands beside Lo’ak’s Ikran with a screech of alarm, occasionally glancing back at her rider out of concern.

The entire ride back to the base she was able to feel her rider's pain through Tsaheylu. She was able to feel her suffering and the numbness that spread throughout her. Y/n bites her lips harshly to hold back a whimper, her hand shakily reaching out to rub her Ikran in reassurance as she quickly disconnects her kuru.

She hops down from her Ikran, who nudges her head against her shaking body to help her stand. “Thank you” Y/n whispers, clenching her hands into fists to ignore the pain.

She rounds her companion stopping in her tracks as her legs wobble beneath her. Her eyes trace over to where Jake stood in front of his sons and mate, Tuk hugging her mother tightly as Kiri worriedly assessed the damage on her brother.

Y/n quietly trudges towards the group, her ears pinned against her head realizing the lecture she would be in for. She had disobeyed orders just like his sons, she was on the same boat as them.

Y/n catches how Neteyam shifted uncomfortably, and how he blinked rapidly as if to keep himself from crying.

“You're supposed to be spotters, you spot boogies and call ‘em in-from a distance! Does any of this sound familiar-get here!” Jake roars with anger, gesturing for Lo’ak to step closer. His eyes stop momentarily on Y/n, his nostrils flaring in anger. Turning back to his sons he shakes his head in disappointment.

“Jesus I let you two geniuses fly a mission and you disobey direct orders!”

Y/n looks over at Kiri who examines her brother in worry. The stinging feeling of fear settling deep within her stomach. She felt her heart sink as she noticed the traces of blood over his chest, her fault for not taking care of him. For not protecting the sons of her leader.

“Kiri, can you help your grandmother with the wounded? Please?”

Kiri reluctantly turns her attention to her father, “My brother is wounded”

Seeing Jake grow more impatient, Neteyam raises his hand in a stopping motion, his eyes still trained on the ground below him. “It's fine” Neteyam whispers, stepping away from his sister who sighs in reluctance.

“Babygirl please. Tuk go with her, go”

Kiri huffs, pulling away from her brother to head for her grandmother's tent.

Neteyam lifts his head to face his father, noting movement from his peripheral he takes note of how Y/n had joined them. Her stance wobbled as she stood near Lo’ak. He bites down the hiss that threatened to break through knowing she was getting an up close and personal view of him getting chewed up by his father. How humiliating.

“Dad-sir, I take full responsibility” Neteyam turns his attention back to his father, ignoring her gaze that he felt hot against his skin. Lo’ak who was beside Y/n turns to face her, his face contorting to look of concern seeing her face look pale as she limped to stand by his side.

“Yea you do, that's right. ‘Cause you're the older brother you gotta act like it.” Jake growls, his mate stepping forward to intervene. Neytiri stares deep into her mate, her eyes holding great disappointment, she opens her mouth to speak only to be caught off by another.

Feeling a bit of courage Y/n speaks up, her voice small compared to her leader's booming tone.

“S-sir your son is bleeding” She says softly, her concern for the male outweighing her own pain at the moment. As much as Neteyam irked her, she couldn't help but worry.

At the sound of her voice the family turns to face her, Jake glaring into her tiny figure as Neytiri and Lo’ak both scrunched their eyes in concern. She didn't look well, she could barely stand properly, and Neteyam had also taken notice. His tail flicked behind him in alert, his heart dropping when he caught how her breaths came out ragged

“And you? I gave you a task, an important mission to fight alongside Neytiri and you blew it! You disobeyed my orders and left her alone-”

“Ma’Jake” Neytiri interjects her tone dangerously low. She felt worry pang through her as she gazed at the girl in front of her.

“-What if she had gotten hurt? Huh? The point of you being there was to assist her! if you stayed at your post you could have spotted the enemy ships…. I had higher expectations for you Y/n. You've disappointed me today”

“I’m-m s-sorry sir…”

Y/n looks down, blinking rapidly to suppress her tears as well as clear eyes of the black splotches that invaded her vision. Neytiri hisses at Jake, her tail swishing behind her stiffly.

Neteyam took a tiny step forward, his heart hammering against his chest. He thought watching his father belittle Y/n would bring a sense of happiness or accomplishment through him but it did the opposite.

He felt the need to shield her from his father's eyes as she looked down at the ground, her head hung low. His eyes trail down her form, eyes blowing wide when he catches the sight of crimson that nearly stops his heart.

“Ma’Jake, what she-”

“Y/n?” Lo’ak calls in alarm, stepping closer to the wobbly girl in concern . At his tone Jake's eyes soften looking over at Y/n. He feels color drain from his face as he notices the metal piece lodged into her thigh.

A gasp escapes Neytiri as she stares at her in horror, and the pool of blood that surrounds her.

It's as if Neteyam lost control over his body for a moment when he had registered where the blood was coming from, his legs carrying him towards her with no regard to his own injuries.

“M’sorry” Y/n mumbles, her body losing all strength as her vision blacks out. She goes limp falling towards the floor. The only thing she remembered before she was sucked into the abyss was a warm pair of strong arms catching her just in time, and a sound of someone calling for her with urgency.

“Y/n!!!”

~~~~~~~~

Y/n groans, her eyes fluttering as she tries to adjust to the dimly candlelit room. She frantically looks around as the previous day's events flash across her mind.

“Y/n” Tarsem’s soft voice calls, causing her eyes to snap to him. Y/n first notices that she is in the comfort of the Tsahik’s medical tent, surrounded with helpful gear and tools Mo’at would use for healing.

“T-Tarsem?” Y/n croaks, the pain from her leg stinging like crazy. She glanced down to her bandaged up thigh, the pain had subsided greatly but she was still able to feel it. Especially the numbness around the thigh rendering her immobile.

Tarsem rushes to her side, kneeling beside her with his eyes creased in concern. Y/n tries to sit up to which he gently pushes her back into the comfort of the cot she laid upon.

“W-what happ-”

A violent fit of coughs racked her body, her throat feeling dry as she tried to speak. Tarsem pulls her up half way, bringing a cup of water to her lips which she greedily gulps down. Her breath heaving as she tried to compose herself,

“What happened?” Y/n asks as she was able to settle down, with his aid she was able to sit up, her hand reaching down to gingerly trace over the heavily bandaged wound. Her eyes dance over to the bowls that were set up beside her, rags filled with blood placed in the bowls of water, staining the blue water crimson.

“You fainted due to blood loss. The injury-the wound was terribly deep. You’ve bleed so much you…you could have died!” Tarsem winces through clenched teeth, his hands forming fists by his side. Now that Y/n was sitting up right and up to his level she was able to see the tears stain along his cheeks.

“H-how long was I out for?” Y/n whispers, noting how it was only Tarsem by her side. She cursed herself for feeling a bit saddened that Neteyam wasn't present, but who was she kidding? She knew he hated her, but why did her heart want him there?

“Two days. Mo’at wasn’t sure if you’d wake. Your wound kept bleeding and she had to change your dressings many time” he informs, making Y/n wince at the news.

“That must have been awful, I’m ashamed to have put that much burden on her” Y/n mumbles to herself. Tarsem’s eyes snap to her face, his soft eyes squinting in anger.

“Are you kidding? You are worried about Mo’at taking care of you and not over that fact you almost died Y/n? What the hell were you thinking coming onto the battlefield like that?” Tarsem growls, his brotherly instincts taking flight as he keeps glancing at the bandaged wound.

“I had to! Lo’ak and N-Neteyam were there. You know it’s our duty to-“

“No! It’s my duty! I should have done something about it. I shouldn’t have given Lo’ak that gun in the heat of the raid. If I had been more alert you wouldn’t…you wouldn’t have..” Tarsem chokes on his words.

He felt responsible for Y/n, always has. The moment she started living with his family, he knew she would become the sister he never had. When she wanted to become a warrior like him he had mixed feelings, a part of him was ecstatic to have such a devoted student. The other half was afraid of having his baby sister out there in danger.

He knew the consequences of making her a warrior, but when Y/n stressed how she wanted to respect her departed parents by becoming a strong warrior, he knew he had no room to argue.

“Tarsem, it’s not your fault” Y/n says sternly, her voice trembling under the weight of her current state. Tarsem shakes his head. It was his fault, he felt it. This wasn't becoming of him as a future powerful warrior to serve the Olo’eyktan. Mistakes were made he would make sure it would never happen again. He would protect what was important to him.

Some rustling outside the tent caused the two to turn towards the entrance. Lo’ak’s head pops into the tent, his eyes widened with happiness seeing Y/n awake and alert. He quickly rushes in followed by Kiri who is carrying a basket filled with herbs.

“Y/n, you're awake!!” Lo’ak exclaimed, he crouches down to her level, his hand reaching out to carefully stoke her cheeks. He desperately wanted to pull her in for a hug, but the guilt in his heart prevented him from doing so.

“I’m fine! I’m not that fragile, guys” Y/n teases, Kiri takes a seat on the other side to inspect her wound. She smiles to herself noticing how the blood didn’t seep through the new bandage. Proving her prayers had been answered.

“Y/n” Lo’ak calls softly, retracting his hand a to sit cross legged on the cool floor. His ears folded against his head, his tail twitching nervously knowing Tarsem was watching him like a hawk.

“I’m sorry for…everything. Neteyam wouldn’t have come after me if I didn’t disobey orders and you wouldn't have gotten involved. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt saving Neteyam,”

Y/n flushes dark purple at his words.

“H-how” Y/n stammers, her bashful eyes landing on each Na’vi who nods.

“Yes, mom saw you from the air. She saw how you put yourself in harm's way as the bomb went off. You saved Neteyam.” Kiri informs, grinding some of the herbs she had bought with her, Y/n nods, forcing a smile. She couldn’t help but wonder if Neteyam knew.

“Neteyam knows” Tarsem says quietly, making the blush on Y/n face worsen and the knot in her stomach grow. Not only did the Na’vi who hated her guts, got lectured by his father but he also knew Y/n saved him. How mortifying. Y/n sighs knowing that this would only strength his hatred towards her,

“Don’t worry about it Lo’ak. What matters is that we’re all fine and that you learned from your actions . Best not repeat them, yea?” Y/n says softly, making Lo’ak smile in appreciation.

“I won’t!”

“Good, now can you please get out, you skxawng! I need to asses her!” Kiri butts in with an unimpressed roll of her eyes. Lo’ak chuckles before placing his hand over Y/n’s resting hand over her lap, giving it a light squeeze he quickly walks out to let Kiri do what she came here to do.

“I’m glad you ok” Kiri whispers, adding the herb paste into some water, Y/n slightly cringed at the bitter smell that engulfs her senses as she passes over the cup which she reluctantly accepts.

“Thank you and Mo’at for helping me. It was stupid of me for being so careless” Y/n chuckles, her eyes landing on Tarsem who still paced around in the tent. She looks back at Kiri who acknowledges how odd Tarsem had been acting.

“Let him be, he has been worried sick over you the past few days” Kiri whispers, noting how Y/n slightly furrowed her eyebrows as she recalled the words Tarsem had sent her way before the Sully siblings arrived.

‘He was worried, he even blamed himself’

“Y/n” Tarsem calls, coming to a halt.

“Yes?”

“For the next few weeks you’ll be land bound no more flying until you’re fully healed-“

“Bu-“

“No buts! It’s Tsahik’s orders. Right Kiri?” Tarsem glances over at Kiri who agrees enthusiastically at his words. Y/n groans in annoyance, taking a sip of the bitter liquid Kiri had supplied to her, a disgusted shiver going down her spine.

“I’ll let mother and father know that your awake. In the meantime rest, I’m being serious. If I see you out of this tent, there'll be consequences ” Tarsem hisses the last part, his tail thumping behind him to convey how serious he words were.

“Yes, I understand” Y/n murmurs, her ears folding in defeat. Seeming happy with the response Tarsem nods to Kiri before quickly exiting the tent.

“Don’t worry, he is just acting like that out of love” Kiri whispers, seeing the firsturated look on Y/n.

“I know….I just feel useless not being able to do anything”

“We’ll, get used to it. Mo’at knows how stubborn you are, she’s going to have someone in this tent over the course of the night to watch over you. Make sure you don’t…escape”

Y/n hums, glaring at the remaining medicine in her cup. Letting out one sigh of defeat she drowns the entire drink in one go, gagging as the thick liquid travels down her throat.

“H-how’s Neteyam?” Y/n asks after a while. Sticking out her tongue in disgust at the taste of the medicine.

Kiri frowns at her words. Cleaning up her equipment she brought with her. “He’s ok, Mo’at was able to treat him right away after he was able to catch you-“

Y/n flushes in embarasembt at her words.

“But other than that, he hasn't come by once to check if you’re ok.”

‘Well….that’s not a surprise’

~~~~~~~~~

Over the past couple of days Y/n’s days mull together as her boredom reaches a new high.

With a constant eye on her she was unable to escape the tent under any circumstances, much to her dismay.

During the day Mo’at would be in the tent tending to warriors while watching over her, and overnight Y/n would be under the watchful eye of either Kiri, Lo’ak or Tarsem’s parents. They would always alternate but not once didn’t Neteyam step into the tent.

A couple of hours after she woke up, Jake and Neytiri rushed into the tent. Jake expressed how furious he was over Y/n when she disobeyed orders but he stressed how he was glad that she was safe. Neytiri didn’t let go of Y/n’s hand the entire time she was by her side. Thanking her for protecting her son.

Kiri and Tuk were the best company Y/n had, they always kept her busy with engaging conversations not related to her injury so she didn’t have time to sulk over it.

Lo’ak was also great company but his constant stories of what he was able to do in his free time now that he was grounded from flying, only made the older female Na’vi feel envious each time.

And despite loving Tarsem, Y/n disliked when he was in charge of her the most. He seemed to worry over her more then his parents. Always blaming himself despite what Y/n assured of him. The man tortured himself with his regrets. Never seeming to want to live it down.

“Drink this, and don’t think of getting Lo’ak to throw it out for you. I’ll figure it out and I’ll double your dosage for next time” Mo’at threatened, placing the cup by her bed. Y/n forces a smile, her stomach dropping at the threat that held malice.

After the current day Mo’at was getting ready to leave for the comfort of her own tent.

“Don’t worry, I’ll finish it. I want to be able to leave as soon as possible” Y/n says softly, glaring at the green liquid that seemed to taste worse day by day.

“Good” Mo’at grumbles before heading out and leaving her alone.

The tent falls silent with the occasional sound of the wind hitting the chimes placed above the entrance, Y/n shuffles herself around for a comfortable position, not bothering to look up when the entrance ruffles, indicating that someone must have come inside.

“Hi Lo’ak, I’m sorry for-“

Y/n freezes once her eyes land on yellow orbs that stare into her own. She felt tiny under the gaze, the Na’vi’s posture stiff as he closed the entrance behind him. Y/n gulps in slight fear, looking down to her clasped hand that began to sweat.

“Y/n” Neteyam calls sternly, stepping closer to her.

Y/n chooses not to look up, waiting for him to speak again. After recalling that Neteyam knew about her going out of her own way to protect him Y/n was glad he didn’t make the effort to visit her. And now that she was alone with him she felt her stomach churn.

“Why….why did you save me?” Neteyam asks gruffly, causing the smaller girl to flinch.

After moistening her lips she peers up slightly. Her lips part as she tried to find her voice, clearing her throat in the process.

“I don’t know what you mean. The explosion was so severe that we ran into one another” Y/n didn’t know why she thought of lying, maybe it was the embarrassment she felt or the way Neteyam clenched his jaw in anger.

“Y/n I’m not stupid. I was there, I felt you go out of your way to cover me. I don’t need anyone to tell me when I was aware the whole time”

“It was in the heat of the moment”

“You always do this!”

Y/n furrows her eyes at his raised voice, his veins on his neck protruding out due to his anger. Y/n found it harder to respond to him as she watched him sigh out, bringing his fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

“You always go out of your way for others putting yourself in danger. Does it please you to feel superior? Do you like feeling like a hero?”

Y/n flares her nostrils at his words, her eyes twitching in anger.

“What the hell Neteyam?! I do what I must for my clan. For my people…for my leader. I don’t do it for glory or fame. Like you” Y/n seethes, her fangs poking against her mouth. Neteyam’s eyes glow in anger in the dimly lit room. His own fangs breaking through with a hiss in response.

“Hah, well, it doesn’t seem like it when you are always praised for your actions.” Neteyam laughs dryly.

Y/n’s ears fold against her head, cursing at herself for even worrying for a boy like him who couldn’t get his head out of his ass due to his ego.

“I’m done with this conversation. I’m sorry I saved you, I’ll make sure no one acknowledges what I’ve done-“

“That’s besides the point!!”

Neteyam paces around the tent, his steps carrying him closer and closer towards the entrance.

“You….you”

Neteyam’s back faces her when he comes to a halt, heaved gasps of anger escaping through him as he recalls something of the past.

~Flashback~

“Wow you’re so cool Y/n!”

Y/n smirks triumphantly as her finger working over the arrow head she was busy carving at the moment. Neteyam sat in front of her, his eyes drinking in the way her finger worked tirelessly against the sharp edge, sharpening it with precision. Great precision for a 10 year old.

“Really? Thanks! Tarsem taught me, you'll learn soon enough and I’m sure you will be better than me!” Y/n encourages which only widens Neteyam’s smile. His eyes shine with admiration as he glances between the girl and the arrow.

For as long as he could remember Y/n was always a part of their clan, always wandering around and trying to learn something new everyday. He couldn't help but feel drawn to her carefree yet strong spirit. He wanted to be like her, as a 9 year old, Y/n looked like a perfect idol for him. Other than his father and Tarsem who had been the hot topic amongst the clan for a while now.

“You think? You’ll help me, right?” Neteyam asks, his eyes gleaming with hope. Y/n chuckles, turning up to meet his eyes. He felt his heart rate quicken, he felt his stomach erupt with a fluttery feeling as they looked into each other's eyes. She was the prettiest female Na’vi he had ever seen, and seeing her in such a light only made him feel this weird feeling more and more as days progressed.

“Of course! But I don't know everything. You’ll have to ask Tarsem.” Yn says making Neteyam frown.

“No! I only want to be taught by-”

“OW!”

Neteyam flinches at the sound of Y/n yelping in pain, his eyes widened, his breath hitched in fear at the sight of crimson dripping onto the forest floor. Y/n clutches her finger, shakily clutching the wound tightly. It wasn't a large cut, but it was deep enough for blood to come pouring out, scaring the poor boy.

“Y/n!!”

Neteyam reaches out to clutch her hand, fear and worry blinding him. Just as his fingers brush against her she quickly pulls away, evading him while smiling nervously.

“I'm fine! It's fine! I'll just go the Mo’at to get patched up!” She says reassuringly, making Neteyam frown at her words.

“Let me see it, how bad is it? Neteyam asks, his voice shaky, he reaches out again only for Y/n to stand up, him following her mom even in confusion.

“Neteyam it's fine, really. You of all people should not worry over a minor cut! It nothing”

“What do you mean? Why can’t I worry over you?”

Y/n rolls her eyes playfully, taking a step away from Neteyam who watches her with furrowed eyes.

“Because you are like my baby brother. How would I feel if I let my baby brother worry about me?!”

Neteyam’s ears flatten against her head. He didn't know why but the term ‘Baby brother’ sent a sickening feeling through his gut. He didn't like it, not one bit.

“Baby brother? You see me as a baby brother? What's that supposed to mean?”

“C’mon Neteyam, you're younger than me. And I should be looking after you! Not the other way around dummy!” Neteyam’s head dropped at her words.

The first feeling Neteyam felt surge through him was anger, the feeling of being incompetent sitting deep with his tiny form.

Was this her way of saying he wasn't worthy of her? That he wasn’t good enough for her? That she didn’t believe he could protect her?

“Is…that all I’ll ever be to you? A ‘Baby Brother’ who has to be protected by…you??”

“Is that wrong?”

~Flashback end~

“You've always been like this” Neteyam whispers , his back still facing Y/n as she fiddles around with the cloth draped over her legs to prove warmth. Feeling confusion ring inside her as she clears her throat.

“What?”

“You've always been like this. You always acted like it was you against the world, you never wanted anyone's help or anyone to care for you. You made me feel….you made others feel useless…”

“Neteyam. I don't know what you mean?”

Neteyam laughs dryly, still refusing to turn around and face her. The way he clenched his hands into fists, his veins protruding along his arms in anger didn't go unnoticed by Y/n who gulped nervously.

“Nothing, forget it. It doesn’t matter to you how anyone feels as long as you are covered. And that…makes you the most selfish person in the room”

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n couldn’t seem to get the argument she had with Neteyam over her head for the next couple of days. After that day he never came around again and Y/n tried not to focus on that. She didn’t know why he became so cryptic near the end but the fear from his words stung deep making her question herself.

“So that’s why I be late, is that ok?” Lo’ak says, tilting his head as he waited for Y/n’s response.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said Spider and I have an adventure planned in the afternoon tomorrow. I might be late coming in tomorrow,”

Today Y/n had finally gotten some good news regarding her injury. It has healed splendidly, but Mo’at still wanted her in bed rest for the next few days for observation.

“Just you and Spider? Where will you be going?”

“I don’t know, we’re going to do some tracking” Lo’ak says nonchalantly. Y/n frowns, something in her stomach didn’t sit right at his plan.

“Lo’ak, I’m dying of boredom just by sitting here all day. Can I come with?”

Lo’ak smirks, his eyes lighting up at her rebellious words.

“Now, that’s what I’m talking about!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Netayams scowl didn’t leave his lips as he rode beside his parents. Though he got all the duties Y/n had prior to her injury that left her bed bound, none of it made him any happier.

He didn’t get anything out of accomplishment , only due to the fact she wasn't here to do them herself. And she was in her current state due to him, it sent a bitter taste along his tongue the more he thought of it.

The com around his neck buzzes to life as Lo’ak whispers on the other side. Neteyam internally frowns as he listens into what Lo’ak informs, his father answering back gruffly. He knew that Lo’ak would disobey rules and venture out to the old shack. So typical of him to get bored just to do the very thing they were warned about.

“Who’s we?”

Neteyam listens carefully, his eyes scrunching with worry for his family.

“Me, Spider, Kiri, Tuk…and Y/n”

Neteyam felt his heart drop, his mind drawing blanks. There were avatar soldiers near them and Lo’ak had their baby sister tag along with them. That alone got his blood to run cold, what caused his heart to beat painfully was the thought that Y/n, who was still very much injured, was also with them.

The girl Neteyam hated seeing hurt.

__________________________________________

A/N: I’m so sorry for the delay! I hope you guys enjoy and Breathing Pt3 will be out soon!

Taglist:

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[hoonvrs]

ICE ICE BABY — p. sunghoon

PAIRING sunghoon × fmr

DESC. skating date with hoon gone wrong??

GENRE est. relationship, fluff

WARNING swearing

W. COUNT 1.2k

S. NOTES HAPPY BDAY TO THE LOML AND MY BOYFRIEND ILY BF MWAH

pulling some strings to rent out a whole ice rink after closing wasn't easy.

thankfully mrs. park kept most of her connections from sunghoons skating days and came to the rescue when you told her your date plans for his birthday.

safe to say sunghoon was beyond confused when you pulled him around with so much excitement it was rolling off you in waves. he could almost see it through the fabric on his eyes, “is the blindfold really necessary?”

“yes, don't want to spoil the surprise, duh,” you kept pulling him hoping he wouldn’t notice the sudden drop in temperature walking past a set of doors.

as soon as you had him standing directly in front of the entrance to the rink, you walked behind him carefully taking off the blindfold, “ta-da!”

it took him a few blinks to adjust to the harsh lighting above, looking around in confusion when he starts to realise where you’d taken him. suddenly, a pair of white skates is shoved into his hands, “how did you even get these?”

you put a finger up to his lips, shushing him with a little shake of your head, “no time for questions. put them on, let's skate!”

a lightbulb turned on in your boyfriend's head, you could see it in the way his eyes lit up with an ominous smile spreading across his face. he wasn’t oblivious to the copious amount of fan fiction his fans have written about him — maybe he’s read one or two here and there — so he wasn’t entirely new to the ‘figure skater park sunghoon takes his girlfriend on a date where he teaches her how to skate’ trope.

the idea of seeing you wobbling on the ice like a fawn learning how to walk sent butterflies to his stomach, leaving him no option but to be your knight in shining armour as he approaches and takes you by the hand as he glides you both around the room as a love song starts playing in the back.

sunghoon should really stop reading those fanfics.

he couldn’t hide his excitement. rushing to put on his skate, even having to start over lacing it a few times because he kept messing up but as soon as they were both on and secure, he made a beeline for the ice.

getting on the ice was like meeting an old friend. something warm and familiar, comforting in a way only he could feel, and he couldn’t wait to introduce his first love to his last.

except he constantly forgets that throughout your whole relationship, nothing has ever gone the fairy tale way his fans have depicted, feeling the giddiness in his belly drop dead when he turns to see you getting on the ice.

the issue wasn’t you joining him, but how you did. knitting his eyebrow watching you trying to familiarise yourself with the new footing, “why aren’t you shaking?”

”what,” you looked at your boyfriend puzzled. you should’ve prepared yourself honestly, sunghoon has a track record of saying the weirdest things at odd times.

“why are you good at this? aren’t you meant to be falling and holding onto the board for dear life?”

now it was just two idiots staring at each other at a loss, “hoon, babe, i can skate.”

a pout settles on his lips, casting his eyes down before skating off at an ungodly speed, “hey! don't leave me!”

your skating skills were average at best. i mean, you can walk and maybe speed up a little but nowhere near your athlete boyfriend who was doing rounds around the rink like a hamster on crack.

huffing under your breath you decided to just let him tire himself out a little as you tried to find your footing correctly, so you didn’t fall and break your back.

once you got to the centre you heard a pair of blades skim the layer of ice right behind you, “are you done with your little hissy fit, babygirl?”

“don’t call me that,” he scowled. he walked straight into your line of sight, remnants of the pout still there. slowly he grabs both of your hands into his, interlacing your fingers together as he starts to pull you along.

“want to tell me why you’re sulking?” 

“i’m not sulking.” sunghoons ‘cold ice prince’ image must be a big rumour that got out of hand because how could someone so cute be intimidating?

once he slows down his pace you slip out a hand, gently placing it on his cheek, “tell me.”

you can see him trying to avoid eye contact as a rosy hue starts to creep up from his neck to his face that he’d probably try to blame on the cold if you mention it knowing that both of you know he’s practically immune to the cold at this point, “i just, i kind of wanted it to be like those books where i try and teach you how to skate cause you’re shit at it but it’s okay cause i’m here but i can’t even do that.”

surprise isn’t even the word to describe what you’re feeling. how could such a small confession make your heart flutter and your cheeks warm?

“i mean, i’m no professional. guess this means we're skipping the basics and you have to teach me some tricks, live out your coaching dream through me.”

seeing his demeanour instantly change should’ve been a warning in itself.

“first lesson, triple axel! get some speed and momentum then when you’re ready quickly push off the ice and life your knees but make sure to—“

a hand covering his mouth interrupted his rambling as you look at him as if he’s suddenly grown a second head, “how about we start with some spins then get around to the jumps, hm?”

nodding his head enthusiastically he doesn’t waste any time. it takes you a minute to get the hand of spinning on literal ice without feeling like you would fall fat onto the ground, but you soon got the hang of it.

you managed to convince your boyfriend that was enough learning knowing if you tried anything else you would run your battery straight to zero before you could do what you planned for the rest of the day. now you were back hand in hand, gliding around the perimeter together.

sometimes you think that sunghoon does things without thinking, this for instance.

once you guys are both safely skating, all two feet on the ice then next thing you know you find yourself colliding with the ground, the fall softened by your boyfriend's body below you because something possessed him to believe he could pick you up mid skate like he’s seen with skating duos even though the man himself has never done it before, never mind with a amateur skater like yourself.

“oh my god,” you screamed, not being able to hold back from laughing straight into his face. sunghoon looks at you, fondness swirling in his eyes watching you struggle to catch your breath, “are you stupid? why would you do that?”

he ignores your question choosing instead to scan your face, noticing your nose has gotten red at the tip and your lips a little pale, “your lips look cold. want them to meet mine?”

“shut up,” before he could respond you pushed your lips against his, sharing soft kisses to stop whatever other cheesy pickup line he could come up with to escape.

and although the air around you nipped at your skin and could barely feel the tip of your fingers you felt warm inside.

just you, sunghoon and his first love.

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[mlmvoreconfessionals]

Hi! Can we get some M.onty g.ator vore where he digests his bandmates and maybe a few visitors to gain muscles?

I'm always up for some M.onty vore!

With a flick of his head and a wet gulp, M.onty sends the last pair of kicking legs down the hatch. He slurps wetly over his teeth and huffs out a deep, sated sigh. He can feel the human sink into his gut, bulging it out another notch and making his casing groan. He gives his stomach a few harsh pats and lets loose a deep roar of a belch.

“This has gotta be enough,” M.onty rumbles, looking down at his middle. His stomach is hanging down to his knees, sticking out by several feet. It bulges and shifts all on its own, a decent gaggle of humans packed deeply inside. Their muffled screams overlap, making it hard to pick out any particular voices, especially through the thick material of his gut and the harsh gurgles coming out.

M.onty is sick of being anything but top dog. B.onnie and F.reddy are bigger than him. They’re more popular. They’re always calling the shots. But M.onty plans on changing that. He just needs to get bigger. Once he towers over both of them, they won’t dare to say a thing! But to do that, he needs fuel for his mass…easiest way to get a load of that at once? Mulch a few guys! He’s cleared out his golf course completely of drunk college students and bored dads, and it’s gotta give him what he wants.

“Y’all ready for this?” M.onty roars out, smacking his gut again with a laugh. He still can’t understand what anyone in there is saying but he didn’t care. “Time to get mulched! Let's rock and roll!” Baring his teeth, M.onty focuses all of his energy on his middle, flexing down with everything he could muster. And being a robot, his stomach might as well be a trash compactor.

Snaps and crunches and screams ring out in a grisly cacophony of noise. M.onty’s stomach visibly flexes down, crushing the many people inside together. Limbs and terrified faces stretch out his gut as everything is squeezed, only for those shapes to get squished and crushed down into unrecognizable shapes. M.onty roars out as his stomach wobbles and shrinks several inches, then more, and more. Each time more messy squelches and wet crunches echo out as a couple thousand pounds of human meat is puréed and pumped through his system.

M.onty’s entire body groans and vibrates with energy. Then there’s some creaks and whines as he starts to grow, his muscles developing further. His arms bulge and ripple, his pecs swell with strength, and his legs and tail grow thicker and stronger. M.onty’s stomach flattens out with a deep, harsh rumble, showing off far more defined abs than before. A deep, heavy sigh rolls out of M.onty as his body settles. And then he blasts out another meaty belch.

M.onty looks over himself and flexes his arms a bit. He frowns, tail flickering with annoyance. “What the hell?! That was, like, twenty people, and this is all you could do?! I’m not even any taller! Agh, I’m gonna rip you all to…oh, right. Already dead.” He huffs and rubs over his stomach with a frown. He could spend all day snacking on people and not get any bigger. What should he..?

An idea comes to M.onty and he smirks. “If you guys aren’t worth any meat…maybe those other jerks are.” Going right for B.onnie and F.reddy could be a problem. But…there is someone in the band that’s actually smaller than him. That’ll be just the boost he needs. With a grin, M.onty stomps off, already stalking his prey.

F.oxy is easy to find. He’s at the newly installed bar, his favorite place to be since it lets him drink rum and tell his stories to drunkards. Though, right now, the bar is barren other than the fox and the bit serving drinks. It makes it easy for M.onty to stomp in unbothered. F.oxy doesn’t notice until the gator bumps into his back and makes him spill his drink.

“Yarg, watch where yer goin’ ya—“ F.oxy turns around to keep talking, just for M.onty to grab him by the throat. The pirate squeaks as he’s yanked up into the air, seeing M.onty’s wide, toothy grin in his face.

“Hey, Captain,” M.onty rumbles. “I need your drunk ass to help me out for a second. Don’t worry, it’ll be quick.” Before F.oxy can try to respond, M.onty shoves the fox’s muzzle right between his pecs. F.oxy starts to wiggle pathetically, but M.onty keeps him pressed up against the bar. There’s nowhere for him to go other than further in, with the back of his head being pushed down and squeezed further between M.onty’s pecs.

“Aaaah yeah,” M.onty huffs, pulling his fingers out from his own pecs. F.oxy’s neck deep in them now and M.onty can feel his muffled voice vibrating inside of him. “You’re gonna look way better on me, Captain. So you better…nngh…thank me for it!” M.onty cups his hands under F.oxy’s ass and pushes hard, grunting and huffing as he forces even more of the fox into his chest.

F.oxy’s arms get pinned down fast, his shoulders, chest, and stomach all squeezing into M.onty’s chest with ease. It makes the gator’s chest start to bulge out as it’s filled. F.oxy’s legs kick around, hanging out comically. M.onty squeezes F.oxy’s ass before shoving it into his chest with a huff. Then he grabs F.oxy by the ankles and starts pushing his legs in. His chest swells more and more, until only F.oxy’s twitching feet are poking out. M.onty chuckles and pushes down with a finger, getting knuckle deep in his own pecs before pulling away.

M.onty admits his chest, crudely groping over it as he feels F.oxy struggling inside. Muffled yelling just barely makes it out, bulges shifting around as the pirate struggles inside. “Heh…my chest is already so thick, I can’t hear a damn thing you’re saying! So I’m just gonna assume you’re begging me to crush you into pec meat. And I’m happy to help out!”

M.onty flexes his chest, getting a clearer—though still muffled—scream out of F.oxy. “Hff…alright, let’s try that again.” Another flex, this one with more effort out into it. Something inside crunches and F.oxy thrashes with a howl. “Ugh, c’mon, F.oxy! You’re already stuck in there! Just…let me kill you already! You’re…pec…meat!” M.onty flexes again with a snarl. F.oxy’s scream warps with the sound of crunching metal, the Pirate’s body finally giving out and being compacted down in M.onty’s body. The gator’s pecs twitch and bounce as they smooth out with instantaneous effects.

M.onty’s muscles swell again, mass and power flowing through him to give him more. At the same time, his body groans deeply as he suddenly grows a few inches. His body gets wider, muscles thicker and stronger, and his pecs especially ballooning in size as a lot of F.oxy adds to them. Red hair also begins to cover M.onty, coming from his chest and under his arms, as well as over his abs. A slight scent fills the air, a thick musk that’s emanating from the gator.

M.onty takes several deep breaths, his chest rising and falling with each one. He rumbles softly and flexes over his new muscles a few times, feeling the tingling sensation in them slowly fading. “Haa…see? Wasn’t that hard, was it, pec meat? You look way better like this.” M.onty squeezes his pecs, grinning. “And I…look way better, too! Heh, let's see those two jerks try calling the shots now. In fact…I bet I can get even bigger. And if I’m in charge, who even needs those two?” Chuckling to himself, M.onty returns to his hunt, this time with new prey in mind.

B.onnie and F.reddy were just too predictable. The two of them are spending their time together between major performances, being all lovey-dovey between B.onnie Bowl. It’s a private space just the two of them can go so they can enjoy their time together. Well, until M.onty comes in, interrupting the two of them.

F.reddy gets flustered and pulls away from B.onnie, who doesn’t seem as bothered. He’s moreso surprised by M.onty’s new look. He gets to his feet, finding himself just slightly shorter than the gator, not including his ears. “Woah, Mont, you get a redesign or something?”

M.onty grins, tail flicking back and forth. “Something like that. Jealous?” He flexes his arms and bounces his pecs, shamelessly showing off to the rabbit. “C’mere, cop a feel. I don’t mind.”

B.onnie does step forward, putting a hand on one of M.onty’s arms. “Wow, that’s definitely something. What’s with that smell, though?”

“What, you like it? Lemme help ya get a good whiff then!” He grabs B.onnie by the back of the head, lifting his right arm up and planting the rabbit’s face right into his furry pit. B.onnie lets out a muffled cry, trying and failing to push himself away.

“M.onty!” F.reddy practically jumps to his feet now and rushes over. “That is not funny, let him go at once!”

“Don’t be jealous~” M.onty says, lowering his arm on B.onnie’s head. “You can get a smell, too!” He grabs F.reddy by the scruff, overpowering the bear with ease and shoving his face into the other pit. “Yeeeah, that’s it. That’s the smell of a real leader! Go on, get a deeper smell!” M.onty lowers his other and over F.reddy and squeezes down on them, grunting as he wedges their heads into his pits.

M.onty’s muscles flex and bulge as he starts to pull his bandmates in deeper. Their muffled voices get harder to hear as they start to disappear, shoulders squeezing into M.onty’s pits, followed by their chests. M.onty lifts his arms up now, continuing to flex them to drag more of their bodies in. F.reddy and B.onnie keep trying to thrash, pushing and pounding on M.onty’s body up until they get pinned down by their stomachs sinking in.

Their legs start kicking now, lifting off the ground and steadily sliding upward. M.onty’s arms keeping swelling outward, muscles bulging and shifting as F.reddy and B.onnie get squished into his biceps. M.onty growls lowly, enjoying the sensation and relishing in each flex he gives as it sucks in several more inches of his bandmates. Their legs steadily disappear, kicking and twitching, all the way to the end. Two pairs of feet sink beneath the red fur of M.onty’s pits and he lets out a deep, satisfied sigh.

“That’s…the…stuff,” M.onty huffs out, flexing over his arms with each word. His biceps are bulging around F.reddy and B.onnie, their faces or hands occasionally stretching him out. “This is it. I’m in charge now. You two are just going to make me even better! So hurry up, I wanna feel you two die!” Month flexes his arms down tightly again, feeling the bodies of the two animatronics straining under the pressure.

“C’mon…hurry up!” M.onty demands, flexing his arms again. “I’m bigger and stronger than both of you!” Another flex. He can hear B.onnie lot out a particularly loud yell and something inside his arm gets crushed. “You’re already inside of me, there’s nothing you can do!” Another flex makes F.reddy yell out Month’s name, just barely audible, as something folds and the bulges shift. “Make me better…make me bigger…and get outta my way! Just die!” M.onty roars and flexes down with all his might.

Screeching, warping metal overpowers M.onty’s roar. B.onnie shrieks as his body folds and compresses, and F.reddy tries to plea as he’s crushed and flattened. Both of their voices fade with wet crunches as their heads cave under the immense pressure, and Month’s arms round out and shrink down as their bodies are reduced into nothing.

And M.onty grows. His body ripples and shifts, groans and creaks, as everything changes. He shoots up inch after inch after inch, becoming a full foot taller. His body swells, arms and legs thickening with muscle, looking like tree trunks. His pecs shoot out a couple of inches, more mass adding to him. His stomach is rock hard, abs twitching and flexing involuntarily. Even his tail grows in length and thickness, whipping around dangerously. More body hair covers his body, blanketing his pecs in a thick red and peppering the rest of his torso. He even grows a five o’clock shadow. The stink of musk is now a thick, constant presence he has that would likely be suffocating from its source. Even his voice gets deeper, his roar making the room rumble around him.

And then it’s over. The tingling, burning sensation fades as quickly as it came. M.onty pants and huffs, his muscles still flexing slightly on their own. He’s a walking wall of muscle, far bigger than any of the animatronics had been. He slowly feels over his body, a grin curling onto his muzzle as he does.

“That’s better,” M.onty growls, voice rumbling deep from his chest. “No one needs you guys. You’re just more of me now! That’s better than whatever pointless lives you had before!” He laughs, turning to stomp out of the room. He has to duck to squeeze out the doorway. “Better go out and show off the new bod. Gotta make sure everyone forgets about you jerks. Don’t need you cramping my style again.”