How Fallout Characters Like to be Touched...(Fallout Show Request)Â
Pairing: Maximus x Reader (fluff), Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Reader (fluff), Norm x Reader (fluff)
Author's Note: The men of fallout once again have me in a chokehold so here we are! Send me your thoughts on all these post-apocalyptic heartthrobs, and as always if you want to support my writing then treat yourself to my original novel, a romantic thriller you will love if you enjoy my fanficđ€Â It's full of romance and thrills and it's only $3 for the e-book or $9 for the paperback!
Maximus
- Since the brotherhood found him in the crater that was once his home, Max has mostly known touch when it comes at him violently, something he needs to defend himself against. So when you let your fingers gently land against his skin, slowly and patiently letting him open up to you, it's almost enough to make him fall to pieces then and there. The way you give him time to prepare for every slight graze, testing the waters before you shuffle your body closer, it makes him feel safer than he could have imagined possible.Â
- Touching Max has to go slowly; his holding his hand eventually moves to a gentle hug that he can feel himself struggling to accept for fear of repercussions for letting his guard down. Then you can let your hand cradle the back of his neck as he starts to melt against you, realising this feeling is worth anything that may follow it. And finally when your lips land against his, he almost collapses against you, so overwhelmed by the strength of his own feelings that he almost forgets that he ever wasn't kissing you. He thinks nothing of kissing you in the middle of the brotherhood base, so euphoric at the sensation that nothing else even registers for him, dopey smile spreading across his cheeks every time he pulls away from your lips.Â
- He craves your touch from that first moment he starts to relax against it, searching you out for a quiet moment of contact any chance he gets, feeling more like the man he wants to be when he's in your arms. He hopes his strong hands firmly grasping at your waist give you the same feeling of support, pulling you tightly against his broad chest until he's certain you can feel the way his heart is only beating for you.Â
Cooper Howard/The Ghoul:
- In his new decaying form, Cooper shies away from your touch for as long as his willpower will allow. He can see the way you look at him like he's still the man he was before the bombs hit, like nothing has changed in the centuries he's spent wandering alone, like he still deserves to be treated with kindness and love even though he's sure that isn't true. He wants to accept every hand you extend towards him as you two navigate this new, terrifying world together, but some part of him thinks the moment you feel his twisted flesh against yours that the spell will be broken and you'll suddenly see him for exactly the kind of creature he has become.Â
- Until one day he comes a little too close to losing you and when slowly rise to your feet after what feels like a lifetime he can't help but throw his arms around you, pulling you in and letting his cheek rest against yours, the warmth of your soft skin making him feel like he can somehow still blush. All his fears melt away when you nuzzle your face more deeply against him, letting him cradle your injured form until you both reluctantly accept that you can't dwell in that spot any longer.Â
- With that invisible barrier crossed and your gaze towards The Ghoul still warm and forgiving, Cooper finds himself initiating far more affections. When you two are exploring alone, the hand not resting on his rifle will inevitably find yours, grip firm as if daring the world to try and part you. And when it's time to make camp he finds himself laying beside you without asking, letting your fingertips trace shapes across his skin until your eyes flicker shut and he can hold you through the night. Cooper knows what it is to be in love, and he knows that this time he's never going to let you out of his sight, or his grasp.Â
Norm Maclean:Â
- Given the limited options for fraternising in the bunker, Norm grew up without experiencing the slow growth of affections that he noticed others were lucky enough to find. So when he finally has you in his life, he can't help but want to make up for lost time and feel your hands against his touch-starved skin. He doesn't know how to initiate any of this with you, but he's not afraid to try, being the first to place a hand on yours in a quiet night, even if he can't bring himself to look at you until he feels you squeeze your palm against his.Â
- His smaller stature means Norm is often underestimated, so he doesn't want you to handle him like some delicate, fragile thing. He likes feeling you lay your weight on him, or pull him tightly into your arms, no matter where his head reaches on your form. When you sit near him, he wants to find the seat closest to yours and let his thigh press firmly against you, a physical reminder that whatever you two are doing, you're facing it together.Â
- Norm doesn't want to leave anything unsaid in the way he feels towards your touch, so when he starts to think that you might feel the same, then he'll be the one to kiss you first, waiting until he can steal you away from prying eyes for a moment alone and pressing his lips firmly against yours until he starts to feel the undeniable curve of a smile form against them. He might not be the most outgoing when it comes to public displays of affection, but when it's just the two of you he'll make sure he's always touching you in some way, your company becoming the safe haven and home he always knew the vault couldn't provide.Â
Thank you to everyone sending in Fallout requests - you can commission your own request from me at Kofi or just support my writing đ
Thinking about how Barb was holding Cooper I'm the latest episode after he went a Lil too hard on the liquor.
Wonder how the ghoul would react if he was held like that again. Maybe while hurt so he couldn't shy away.
I can see him trying his damnest to not get teary eyed as you gently rub his brow. Bro is not doing greatđ
I definitely didn't cry a little writing this. We've seen this man suffer so much this season, and we're only at the halfway point! I just want to see him let himself be cared about, but I think we all know he'd resist it as much as possible, so I went with hurt and intoxicated. You'd need a lot of help getting through those defenses of his. Thanks for the submission.
Cooper's sustained more than his fair share of mortal wounds over the centuries he's been wastelandingâendless bullet holes, massive puncture wounds, shrapnel buried so deep inside him that it never came back out, digging eternally into twinging flesh and aching bone. He's very well acquainted with physical suffering. That familiarity, though, never prepares him for said suffering.
The shitty, half-collapsed little shack isn't much, but it's sturdy enough and remote enough that he allows himself to close his eyes for a few minutes, fairly certain no one will stumble across him in his vulnerable state. Still, his hand lies resting on his hip, finger resting near the trigger of his pistol, ever ready.
Med-X is something he's not one to reach for often, too encumbering and too likely to force dreams he'd rather not have upon him. More often than not, it makes him pass out, something he avoids no matter how close he may come to it. But the pain from his injuries is too severe, causing his stomach to churn and his vision to blur, so he drags his bloody saddlebag towards him with a pained groan and digs through it until he finds one of the thin syringes and jams it into his arm.
He desperately wants to dig the mostly full flask of whiskey out of his pocket, but he resists the urge. Alcohol will only make the bleeding worse, and he's not sure how much he can spare.
The round of explosive ammo had torn a hole more than twice the size of his fist in his lower flank, a now-crusting blood stain blooming around it, black and heavy with the smell of iron. One un-gloved hand feels around the tender strips of skin that cling to his flank, trying to determine how much longer he'll be healing through his quickly fogging consciousness.
It's taking you longer than expected to fetch the supplies you'd gone out for, he thinks to himself as he lies sprawled across a filthy mattress on the floor. The slowing, numbing affect of the opiate does nothing to dull his fixation, and he's unsure if he's more annoyed or concerned at the delay. Fortunately, he doesn't have to ponder for long, as you give an identifying knock before reappearing through the crooked front door.
"Sorry." you murmur as you quickly shuck your outer jacket, digging through one of the pockets. "Some asshole followed me out of the depot trying to chat me up, so I had to walk him in circles for a bit so I could lose him. Didn't want him seeing you."
Smart. he thinks, unable to do anything more than continue to lie there and breathe heavily as he watches the blurry shape of you dart back and forth around the small, dirty space. You avoid making direct eye contact with him, trying to seem nonchalant, but he can feel the anxiety radiating off of you in waves, see it in the way you whale-eye him from the side like a scared pup.
There's something between you. Something small, but significant. At first, he'd written it off as him struggling to become reacquainted with human company, too eager to share a connection with someone again once he'd sort of opened himself up to the possibility. Then he'd thought it was his ancient white knight syndrome flaring up, ego stroked every time he was able to protect you, properly guide you.
Now, he's too afraid to admit to himself what he thinks it might be.
"Gimme stimpack." he manages to grunt, angrier sounding than he'd like. You don't seem to noticeâor, at least, you don't seem to let his harsh tone get under your skin, obediently kneeling down onto the dusty floorboards beside the mattress. There's a split second of hesitation from you, but you're careful as you lean over him and search for an intact piece of flesh close enough to the site. As gently as he can manage, he takes you by the wrist and guides you to a better spot, pretending to ignore the way you tremble ever-so-slightly with nerves.
It's not unexpected. Contact does this to both of you equally, since both of you have been too petrified to make a move of any sort, even the most entry level sort. Though you've had a number of lingering gazes, "accidental" touches, and thinly veiled comments between you, that's all you've had. Besides, you'd tried to pull his coat off of him to look closer at the gaping wound when you'd first settled him down, but he'd refused to let you, yanking the thing closer around his waist.
Now, it hangs open, and he offers no fight as you cautiously jab him with the stimpack needle.
Again, he allows his heavy eyelids to slip shut for a beat, studying the small chaos of you when you pull yourself back up to your feet. There's a tripping sound, some fumbling, a splattering as if you'd spilled something. He lacks the energy or mental clarity to give you the same shit he usually would for it, but the smallest glimpse of a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth.
Cooper tries his best to shift to the side when he hears you closing in, eventually settling yourself carefully at his shoulders on the mattress. Your legs jut out awkwardly, brushing the back of his head. He jumps at the sudden feeling of a cool rag against his temple, your warm fingers tracing down the other side of his jaw to gingerly hold him in place. Despite being rather shocked by your temerity, he doesn't snap at you for the over-familiar gesture like he usually would.
"I know it's kinda smelly, but this water's pretty rad-high." you say quietly, dabbing the road grime and blood spatter from his face. "I figured it would help."
The stuff does, indeed, smell like rot and stagnation, but the warm thrum of the rads against his skin immediately begins to settle his queasy stomach. He desperately wants to wriggle away, to deny himself this expression of kindness, closeness. Every nerve ending in his body feels raw, chafing against even the slightest movement or breeze, and it has nothing to do with his massive wound or the substances coursing through his system.
"Shouldn't be touchin' that stuff." he slurs, forcing his eyes open and trying his best to focus them.
"Oh, hush." you reply, none of the expected guff in your tone as you continue on with your work.
Once you seem satisfied, you rest the now lukewarm compress against his forehead and sit in silence, your eyes flitting all around his face. Cooper can't tell if he's catching bits of microsleep out of pure exhaustion, or if he's tiptoeing closer and closer to full-on passing out, but he repeatedly loses time; a few seconds here, a minute there blanked out as if they never existed.
"How are you feeling?" you ask after a long while of silence, taking another swipe at his temple that feels more like affection than business.
Your fingers are so soft against his brow, your visage cast in an angelic, drug-induced aura as he gazes up at you. For a moment, you look like Barb, the room around you transformed into a suite at the Lucky 38 as you hover over him, that protective look shining in your gaze. His vision is starting to narrow into smaller and smaller points, and it's all he can see as he gives a heavy, lingering blink.
"Kiss me." he says, soft as a whisper.
He's not sure who he's talking to, but he knows whose lips touch his. Despite how warped his sense of time feels, you don't seem to hesitate, the angle a bit awkward as you crane your neck so your mouth can meet his. His limbs are too heavy for him to lift his hand to your face the way he wants to, but the ungloved one manages to find your own, settling on top of it. You turn your palm skywards, intertwining your fingers with his in one smooth move.
The sharp pain in his gut has quieted, likely thanks to the heavy mix of painkillers and healing agents, but a new ache has kicked up in his chest. The bitter tang of guilt coats the back of his tongue as he studies your face when you finally pull away, and for a beat he's looking past you. His vision's gone blurry again, but this time it's thanks to the line of tears he quickly fights away. You look like you want to say something, but you keep mum as his vision starts to narrow into nothing.
Despite the ugly feeling of suspicion that's starting to grow into a hard lump behind his breast bone, whispering in his ragged ear that he'll regret what he's done when he wakes, he can't bring himself to pull his hand away from where it rests. He thinks he feels your warm, full lips against the crown of his head as he slips into full unconsciousness, but it could easily be a dream. Maybe a drug-induced hallucination born of desire.
The first Black male Doctor and the first female Doctor: both plagued by terrible writing, inconsistent characterisation (or barely any at all), shortened runs, and they regenerated into actors from a more popular era of the show (David Tennant and Billie Piper).
Summary: You never wanted to be what Remmick is, and you made him promise not to change you under any circumstances, but when death comes for you, he makes his own selfish decision.
Notes/Warnings: Lots of blood talk.Â
Words: 2500
Sinners Masterlist / Main Masterlist / Tag List
Heâs always known you didnât want it. You told him so the very first time you heard the offer leave his mouth.Â
âIâd make it quick, darlinâ,â he said, an uncharacteristic dash of hope in his blue eyes. You bit your bottom lip, pretending to consider the possibility of agreeing because you didnât want to hurt him with your pre-primed rejection. He smiled as he waited for your response. Your heart plummeted into your stomach, knowing you were about to wipe that smile from his face.Â
You were anticipating it, had been for a whileâit was only a matter of time before heâd askâbut in all your preparation, you never once mulled over what your answer would be. It was a firm ânoâ. You loved him, youâd always love him, but âI am not meant to be what you areâ is what you told him.Â
Despite his poorly hidden disappointment, he nodded, and it was never brought up again. It didnât need to be. He accepted your decision on the matter, and ever since, you've believed with your whole heart that regardless of what may come your way, he would never betray your wishes.Â
â
He proves you wrong when you are struck by a stray bullet from a duo dueling over a petty theft in town one night. The metal pellet sinks into your abdomen before you even have a chance to see it ricocheting off the steel rim of a nearby vehicle's tire.Â
You look down. Your shaky palm pulls back red. You stumble, and as your body gives out, you fall into Remmickâs arms.Â
A wave of blood is coating, drenching, staining you. It pours and pools under your clothes, not ceasing even when the fabric of your dress can soak up no more. Townsfolk are too preoccupied with the two-man battle to bother noticing. Only Remmick is by your side, the both of you trapped in your own little world of horror. Â
His arms sneak under your knees and behind your back, and he lifts you against his chest. You whine in protest. Itâs too much, like heâs digging into your skin and plucking your sensitive nerves the way he would the strings of his banjo.Â
When you cry out again, he softly shushes you. âI know, darlinâ, I know,â he coos as he carries you behind a building and sets you down onto the dusty ground out of othersâ sight.Â
Youâre fading fast, blackness edging into the corners of your vision, breaths becoming shallower by the second, skin clammier. You can feel your life draining as your blood rapidly evacuates. Remmick brushes your hair out of your face.
âDarlinâ, look at me,â he says. Thereâs a shakiness to his voice that you donât recognize. âLook at me.â You try, but you canât turn your head. His hands on your cheeks force you to meet his eyes. âOn me.â Then he says, âItâs gonna hurt.â
Your brow pinches. âW-Whatâs gonââ
âIâm so sorry.â He leans down and presses a kiss to your lips and repeats, âIâm so sorry, darlinâ,â before he gently eases your head to the side and buries his fangs into your neck.
He was right. It hurts like hellfire. Like the repercussion of sin. Like the world is opening up so the devil can swallow you whole. Whatever life you have left in you does not slip away naturally as God intended, but is instead yanked from your body in one swift motion. Stolen. And only darkness remains.
When you awaken, you are you, but you are not you. You see the world and her scenery in vivid colors that should not exist. You trace the scents and sounds of creatures too far away to be hunted with honor. You crave flesh and iron and thick liquid to fill your mouth until itâs spilling down your chin.Â
In your mind, you see what he has seen. There are flashes of your face, memories of your features molded in ecstasy as he moves in and out of you. Then those memories shift, and you are suddenly flooded with the image of your eyes and brows and mouth twisting unflatteringly from the pain of moments before.Â
You feel what he has feltâlust, desire, loveâŠthen fear. The kind of fear that the victim has no control over. The kind that slips like sand through your fingers before you have a chance to take hold of it and cast it aside. You feel the panic. He was about to lose you. Surely you werenât expecting him to let that happen.
He did what he had to do. So, just before the last golden grain of that fear tumbled off of Remmickâs palm, just before your lungs released their last exhale, just before the last red droplet expelled from your body, he acted in his own self-interest. And now your life is irreparably changed.
â
You refused the doe, you refused the fox, you refused the hare, the squirrel, and now, as Remmick sits in front of you, you refuse the mouse.Â
âDarlinâ,â he sighs for the hundredth time in two weeks. Leaning forward in his chair, his elbows brace on his knees as his head falls between his shoulders. âI know, alright? I know youâre strugglinâ, but you gotta eat somethinâ.â One hand runs down his face before sifting through his toffee-tinted locks. âPlease. I need you toââ
His words die on his lips when he glances up at you. You know youâre a sight; one youâre sure no one could get used to, no matter how many times theyâve already looked at you. Sunken eyes, cracked lips, ashy skin. Remmick struggles to contain his wince at the reminder of what he did to you. He manages, but just barely. Then his eyes soften, the same as theyâve always done, with the same love, the same adoration.Â
He sets the mouse aside. His hand settles on your cheek, thumb stroking along your cheekbone. You try not to lean into his touch.Â
âJust have a little,â he whispers.
Your eyes flick back and forth between his. When you donât respond, he reaches for the mouse again, bites into its stomach, and holds it out to you. Rivers bleed through his fingers, beads of crimson splashing onto the wooden floor of the shack youâve been living in.Â
The smell is unbelievable. So intoxicating it almost has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. Youâre desperate to take the innocent creature from him, slide your fangs into the punctures he already made and drain the tiny body dry, but you canât bring yourself to do it.
Turning your head away, you swat the mouse out of his hand. It lands on the floor with a light thump, and Remmickâs chair pushes back as he stands and goes to pick it up. He wipes the dirt from the body but gives up when he realizes it has infiltrated the holes his teeth inflicted.Â
Moving to the window, he tosses the mouse into the night. Then he twists around, crosses his arms, and leans against the wall. You still wonât look at him. You donât want to see the anguish on his face.
âDarlinâ, I know you hate me,â he continues. Your lungs seize in your chest at the broken, melancholy tone. âBut you canât do this to me.â
A frown lowers the corners of your lips. Your eyes whip to his. âTo you?â you snapâthe first youâve spoken in days. Fueled by anger, you muster the energy to rise unsteadily from your seat. âIâm doing something to you? Youâre the one who ruined me.â
Remmickâs features rapidly mutate into the epitome of fury. Irises darken, the low candlelight in the room pulling forth a ruby glint from the pit of blackness.Â
âI didnât ruin you,â he grits out between clenched fangs.
âYou killed me.â
âThey killed you!â He points his finger in the direction of the town that sits about a mile away. âThey did! I saved you!â
âFor yourself!â you bite back.Â
Remmick lets out a deep groan, a crease forming at the center of his brows as his palms press against his closed eyelids. Youâve been through this before, the first run-through of the very same conversation ending in the last time you would speak to him for close to four days.Â
âYou were selfish!âÂ
His hands drop from his face. His eyes are wild when he shouts, âBecause I love you!â
âIf you loved me you wouldâve respected my wants, my choices!â you tell him.Â
In the dead air that lingers, you take a breath, inhaling deeply through your nose, exhaling out your mouth.Â
âBut you couldnât do that, could you?â you continue. âIt was only a matter of time anyway, wasnât it?â
Remmick huffs. âWhat the hell are you talkinâ about?â
Shaking your head, you say, âYou were never going to let me go. You werenât going to let me grow old without you. Die without you. Being shot gave you an excuse, not a reason.â
As your words settle over him, the tension in Remmickâs shoulders releases. He stares at you, unblinking, like heâs been caught red-handed and is now lost for a reply.Â
Perhaps he assumed you werenât smart enough, that you would never figure out how he thinks, or recall the mischievous glint in his irises that screamed he would agree to your wishes in the meantime, but in the end, he would take what he wantedâsomething you foolishly ignored. Perhaps heâs spent the last two weeks believing that concealing from you the piece of his mind where his true intentions reside would keep you in the dark. But you donât need to see into his head to know the truth.
However, doling out the truth has its consequences in more ways than one, and you have to take responsibility for your part in this, perhaps a part larger than his. You must accept that this is a disaster of your own making. Remmick is not a mystery. You know him inside and out, that he takes more than he gives, and yet, from your own selfishness, your own need for him, you stayed. The anger, for as much as it festers for him, burns for you.Â
âLove means saving. It means sheltering. It means protecting. And thatâs what I did,â he says. âI ainât losinâ you. Ever. Not for anythinâ.â
When you swallow the dryness on your tongue, it strains your throat. Your eyes fall to your feet.Â
âYouâre lyinâ to yourself if youâre thinkinâ you wouldnâtâa done the same,â he says. The floorboards creak from the weight of his steps. With a knuckle crooked under your chin, he tilts your head back up. ââCause you love me, too.â
Your jaw ticks. More of the truth. A fair punch to the gut. You hate that, how you still love him despite the broken trust. But you canât help yourself. Something inside you shuns so much as the simple proposal of continuing lifeâor whatever your existence is nowâwithout him. Â
Remmickâs thumb rubs over the split in your parched bottom lip. He tsks. âAnd this is gettinâ real stupid.â
Before you can question him, he puts his wrist up to his mouth, stabs fangs into his flesh, and sucks the nectar of his own body. Blood dribbles over his chin to his neck to the collar of his shirt. The same hand then fists into your hair to hold you in place as the fingers gripping your chin pull down, opening your mouth.Â
He kisses you. The first kiss since he turned you.Â
You push against his chest, but the fight dies once the thick liquid begins to flow across your taste buds. Itâs surprisingly sweet and hearty. And yet, at the same time, thereâs a distinct essence of earthiness to it. You expected sour and death and rotten insides, but instead, he tastes as if he were assembled and born from nature, from dirt, from roots, from trees. He tastes as if he is not some abomination, a mistake in Godâs formation of man, but rather an intentional creation thatâs a little more connected to the soil than humans ever could be. You donât understand it. Maybe itâs because his kindâyour kindâspend so long traversing this planetâs terrain that it starts to seep into their bodies. Whatever the reason, it brings you a twinge of comfort, however minuscule, to think you might taste the same.
Tongue exploring his, you search to claim every bit of that sweet earthiness. The blood races down your throat into your stomach, where it spreads, warming and reawakening each shriveled organ one at a time. The rough patches of your skin start to soften. Suppleness returns to your lips. Your muscles shed some of the weakness that accompanies starvation.Â
Remmickâs hands slide around to cup your cheeks. Now that he knows you arenât going to pull away in disgust or rebellion or both, his touch is gentle. He kisses you how he wants to, with tenderness instead of force.
When he breaks the kiss, he nudges his nose against yours. âLook at you,â he says with a grin full of red teeth. âGettinâ all healthy again.â
Itâs impossible to deny that you feel significantly better. Even at half-strength, you can already tell youâre stronger than the average human. You sense what youâre capable of, and what you could be capable of if you drank more. You understand for yourself the power that comes with vitality and the night, and yet find strangeness in knowing that in a few hours, that power will cower and hide within the shadows in the face of the sun.Â
âYouâre so beautiful like this, darlinâ,â Remmick says, interrupting your thoughts.Â
âI wasnât beautiful before?â
âOf course, you were.â
His words, which have a history of melting you, donât mean much at the moment. With a sigh, you back out of his reach and wrap your arms around your middle.
Remmickâs eyes narrow. âWhatâre you doinâ?â
âIâm still mad,â you mutter.Â
Recollection dawns over Remmickâs face, his mouth parting as if to say, âAh, right, that.â An insignificant detail heâs already forgotten about.Â
âI can outlast your stubbornness, darlinâ,â he replies.Â
A smirk curls his lips. Walking forward, he backs you up until your bottom hits the edge of the table in the center of the room. His hands plant on the surface on either side of your hips, and he leans down, bringing you face to face, eyes to eyes.
âBe mad,â he says. âBe as mad as you want, for as long as you want. But be alive.â He catches your lips in a kiss that comes and goes so quickly, you donât have time to reject it. Not that you would have. âYou ready for more?â
You gulp. That smirk of his returns as you glance lower at his already-healed wound. Reaching down, you grab his wrist and run your thumb over the slightly shimmery skin of the scars, the only indication that the punctures ever existed.Â
Remmick stands upright as you bring his wrist to your mouth. His eyes are locked onto you, patiently awaiting your next move. Inhaling his scent, your brain swirls with pleasant dizziness. Your canines elongate. Your tongue flicks in anticipation. You part your lips, and then you break through the thin barrier of skin.
---
A/N: thanks for reading <3. If you liked it, let me know. It always makes my day :)
Dean was in the middle of the sentence, but Cas didn't care. He walked away as soon as you entered the room. His cobalt blue eyes were narrowed and fixed on the cut on your cheekbone and the bruise surrounding it.
"Cas! What the hell? I was talking tâ"
"Shut up, Dean," Cas growled over his shoulder, not pulling his eyes away from you. You were peering at him in vague confusion, your eyes a little wide and surprised.
"Cas, what'sâ?"
"Who did this to you?" he asked, studying the injury to the side of your face.
"What?"
"Who hurt you?" he growled in a low voice. "No one hurts you and gets away with it. Tell me what happened and I'll deal with it," he said, determined.
"Oh. No, no one. It's from a tree branch when we were running back to the car after the last case. It's nothing," you said.
Cas' head tilted slightly. "Are you sure?"
You laughed. "Yes, I'm sure. It's really from a branch. I'm fine."
Cas relaxed, his shoulders dropping. He lifted two fingers and gently pressed them to your forehead and the cut and bruise vanished instantly.
"Thanks," you said, giving him a small smile.
"Of course. I'm sorry I didn't know about it sooner."
You shook your head. "It was nothing. Really."
"I never want you to hurt," he insisted.
You gave him a fond look. "I appreciate that but, uhhâI'm not sure it's practical in our line of work," you said.
"Perhaps. But that's why I'm here."
Prompt: "No on hurts you and gets away with it."
Can you please reblog if your blog is a safe place for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, asexual, aromantic, pansexual, non binary, demisexual or any other kind of queer or questioning people? Because mine is.
what do you mean elon musk did a nazi salute on live tv at the united states presidential inauguration twice and is now erasing the evidence off the internet by replacing the footage with the crowd cheering instead?
would be a shame if people reblogged this, wouldnât it?
S for Seven of Nine ? (Thanks for being like the only blog that still writes for her :) )
S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)
when seven gets protective, she doesn't really realize that she's being protective. for everybody else, it's a purely emotional response that comes about when you love someone and are worried for their safety. for seven, it's more framed as "ensuring the continuation of her collective" or something like that - and that attitude comes about more and more the longer you two are together. so does the emotions that seven feels, which she eventually has to face and conquer because a protective seven can sometimes be a controlling seven.
as for being protected, she never even considered it. seven doesn't have much experience with others caring for her safety - when you first start showing your protective side towards her, it's more confusing than anything. even when you explain that you care for her and want to make sure she's safe, her walls come up a little.
protectiveness is a vulnerability that seven has yet to fully show. but with you, it begins to feel natural. seven understands that she wants you safe and alive - and suddenly, this unfamiliar feeling comes naturally.
