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withahappyrefrain · 1 year

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3 is the Magic Number

For @wicked-blathers' Kink or Treat event! Yes I'm several days late, shhh, it's fine..

Summary: you and Peter decide it's time to start trying to expand your family

Warnings: strong breeding kink, soft dom Peter, overstimulation, creampies, daddy kink, choking, did I mention breeding kink? Also Peter having baby fever.

It all started when your cousin brought over her infant at Thanksgiving.

You couldn't help but coo over the baby, with his bright eyes and gummy smile and little fingers. When your cousin asked if you wanted to hold him, you immediately said yes and brought him over to Peter.

"Look at him! Isn't he cute?" You gushed to your husband.

"Yeah, he's quite the charmer already," Peter commented. But his eyes weren't on the baby, they were on you.

"You look like a natural holding him," He whispered as his arm wrapped around your waist.

You didn't think much of his comment at the time.

That night, your legs shook as he held them over his shoulders, thrusting into you deeply.

"Gonna fill ya up," Peter whispered, his eyes never leaving the sight of his cock entering you, "Ya want that?"

"P-please," you choked out. At the time, you were so focused on how he was hitting that sweet spot that you didn't realize this was the first time he talked about coming inside you.

In hindsight, you couldn't blame yourself for not picking up on the signs. It was difficult when his calloused fingers were rubbing tight circles on your clit.

You did notice how the following month, when your family had gathered together, Peter couldn't take his eyes off of your cousin's baby.

"I think Peter wants one too," Your cousin motioned over to the table.

You looked to find Peter was kneeling down at the table, causing him to be at eye level with Reid, who was currently lying down in the baby lounger.

It was a sweet sight, Peter offering one of his fingers to Reid, his honeyed eyes never leaving the baby. A soft smile stretched onto his face as Reid attempted to wrap his tiny fingers around Peter's.

Other relatives mentioned their theories on Peter's desire to have children to you that night. You knew he wanted kids, it was one of the first things you two discussed on your first date.

You had been married for several years, taking the steps towards having children: paying off student debt, finding stable jobs, buying a townhouse.

It came to a head when you received a reminder from your OBGYN one night.

"Fuck, I gotta make an appointment," you said out loud.

Peter looked up from the exams he had been grading, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, "For what?"

"My IUD. It's been five years and I need to get it replaced," you explained as you pulled the app up on your phone to look at the availability of appointments.

"Or," Peter started, his fingers toying with the pen, "you could…..not replace it."

You nearly dropped your phone at the comment, "What do you mean not replace it?"

The tips of Peter's ears were turning red, which was funny considering he was the one who brought it up.

"You could just… have it taken out," He mumbled, his long fingers fidgeting with the pen he had been using to grade.

"If you want to start trying for a kid, I need you to actually say it instead of beating around the-"

"I want to start trying for a kid. I've wanted to start trying since I saw you holding Reid at Thanksgiving."

There was silence after his statement as you processed your husband's words.

"I….I've wanted to start trying since I saw you sitting with Reid when we went to my family's for Hanukkah." You admitted.

His eyes widened. Peter knew you wanted kids just like him, but he honestly wasn't sure what to expect when he brought this up. He had prepared himself for "we're not ready" or "not yet".

"So….we should start trying for a kid," He stated.

You couldn't help but giggle, "Well, first I have to get my IUD taken out."

Peter joined you in laughter, "That is kinda important."

You wiggled your eyebrows, "Kinda?"

"Yeah, just a little." Your giggles erupted into full on laughter, filling the bedroom.

"So when can you get it taken out?" Peter asked as his laughter subsided.

"Eager, are we?" You grinned.

"I've been waiting for this since our first date, forgive me," Peter deadpanned. Despite his tone, the comment still brought heat to your face.

Trying to play it off, you looked at your phone, pulling up the app your doctor's office used.

"The soonest appointment is next Wednesday at two-thirty."

"Take it."

—---------------------------------------

To say Peter was excited was an understatement.

"Apparently taking prenatal vitamins before you get pregnant helps," He said as he held up the bottle.

"Who told you that?" You asked before taking a bite of your apple.

"May."

You nearly choked on the piece of fruit, "Did you tell your aunt we're trying to conceive?!"

Peter shrugged, "She outwardly expressed that she wanted to be a grandparent when I turned eighteen. I figured if anyone has any tips, it's the person who works in a hospital."

"Who else have you told? The latest villain you've been fighting?"

"We should also stop drinking now. And stop eating fish high in Mercury. Those things lower your fertility," Peter said as he read over the article on his laptop, ignoring your comment.

"You do realize that this won't happen overnight, right?" You were excited but didn't want Peter to be disappointed.

"I know. But you can also get pregnant as soon as you get your IUD taken out. So we might as well increase our chances."

"I also can experience cramps and slight bleeding when I get my IUD taken out. So it's unlikely we'll be able to start on Wednesday," you explained.

"Oh," Peter said, clearly having not thought about that, "Well, that gives us more time for the vitamins to take effect and to get all the alcohol and mercury out of ya."

—------------

The removal was far less painful than the insertion.

As you entered your apartment, a pair of strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist, pulling you into a broad chest.

"How ya feeling?" Peter murmured into your hair.

"Sore. I'm also bleeding."

Peter squeezed the flesh of your waist, "I'm sorry bug."

"I feel bad for you. You seemed pretty excited to start," you giggled. You couldn't help it; the slight pout on Peter's face was adorable.

Peter shrugged, "I've waited six years. What's a few more days gonna do?"

You couldn't help but lean your head into his chest, his arms wrapped around you. His lips pressed against your forehead, his beard creating a soft friction.

"I love you bug," he whispered against your skin.

"I love you too Tiger," you looked up, your chin against his chest, "you've really waited six years for this?"

Peter's cheeks became flushed, "Yeah."

"Pete, we've been together for six years."

Now the tips of Peter's ears were bright red, "I….I figured you were the one early."

A giggle escapes your lips, the one that always brought a smile to Peter's face because it was sweeter than any love song he had ever heard, "How early Pete?"

"First date," you heard your husband mumble.

—----------------------

Usually on Saturdays, you and Peter were up and running errands.

But today, you two opted to sleep in. It was nice to wake up and find that he had wrapped his arms around you, pulling you towards him.

"Hi bug," He whispered into your shoulder, his voice deeper than usual.

"Hi Tiger," you whispered back, your fingers brushing the hair away from his forehead.

"How ya feeling?" His nose brushed against yours. You couldn't help but admire the way his eye crinkles had become more pronounced over the years, along with the smattering of gray hairs throughout his beard and hair.

"Pretty good. Think my body has adjusted to not having something inserted up my vagina."

Peter grimaced, "When you say it like that, it sounds like some form of torture."

"Can't most of the things those with a uterus have to do, be classified as torture? Waxing, shaving our arms and legs, growing a human?"

"Growing a human isn't torture if you want it," He countered.

"I know, but it's not gonna be easy."

"I know," he pressed his lips against your temple, "and I'll be there for you every step of the way."

"Even if it's two in the morning and I'm craving pretzels and mint chocolate chip ice cream?" You asked.

"The bodega is just a few swings away," Peter assured you, bringing a smile to your face.

"What about when I cry over otters due to my emotions being heightened?" You asked, a light tease lacing your voice.

Peter rolled his eyes, "you already cry at otters."

"They're so cute! And they hold hands so-"

"So they don't get separated when they sleep," Peter finished for you.

"Have I cried over Otters before?" You asked, confused.

Peter chuckled as he stroked your hair, "when you're quite drunk. So I'd say I'm pretty prepared."

You rested your head on his chest, breathing to the rhyming of his heartbeat.

"I've also helped deliver several babies in the back of a taxi," Peter added, "So I have you covered there."

You shuddered at the thought, "I'd rather you swing me through the city than deliver our kid in the back of a taxi."

"Perhaps we should get you pregnant first before we decide on delivery options," Peter suggested, wiggling his eyebrows.

"I'm honestly surprised you didn't jump on me when I said I felt fine," you admitted.

"I wanted to be polite and say good morning first," Peter said, sheepishly. It was hard not to jump on you, but you were his wife after all, not some animal.

Your laughter was silenced by Peter's lips, his body now pressing against yours.

A whimper escaped your lips as you felt Peter's hips roll against yours. His large hands snaked underneath your Tshirt, squeezing your breasts.

Your hands tangled themselves into Peter's hair, tugging on the messy locks in an attempt to pull his lips away from your neck and back up to yours.

The removal of your clothes wasn't sexy or smooth. At one point, Peter had to get off you to pull down his sweats, huffing as he did so.

"Wanna be close to you," He mumbled as he got back on top of you. You continued to chuckle.

"I'd say you're about to be very close to me," Your chuckle turned into a gasp as Peter pulled down your shorts, your core now exposed to the cool air.

Peter's body shimmied down the bed, placing his head in between your thighs.

"That's n-not- oh- h-how babies a-are made," you gasped as his tongue began lapping up and down your slit.

"Gotta warm ya up," was all he explained before attaching his lips to your clit. In hindsight, it wasn't a bad idea. It had been close to a week since you two were last intimate.

The gaze of his honey-clouded eyes burned into your bare skin. He watched your face as his fingers filled you. You were beautiful as always, with your slightly parted lips and knuckles turning white from gripping the sheets.

But today was different. It wasn't that he didn't desire you all the time, wished to be consumed by you and make a home amists tangled bedsheets.

He just didn't think it was possible to desire you any more than he already did.

But then he saw you look at that baby, your big eyes filled with love, adoration, and care. And then you agreed to have his child.

He wanted to bury himself in you.

You were teetering over the edge when he pulled himself up and away from your thighs. A whine left your lips, your hips desperately bucking up as a desperate attempt to chase some friction, some type of relief.

"I-I know but, but if I keep going…." He shook his head as he chuckled at himself. Ironic that he was now slightly embarrassed at how close he already was to coming, considering he originally didn't want to go on a blind date with you.

Funny how things change.

Moans trailed past your lips, down your chin at the sensation of his hard cock slipping through your wetness. Fuck, you could hear yourself, hear how wet you were. The tip of his cock repeatedly brushed over your throbbing clit.

"I won't last much longer," Peter finished his sentence as he pushed himself into you.

He didn't mind the sensation of your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders. Your touch always grounded him. It was what he craved at the end of a long day, at the end of a strenuous night of patrolling.

Peter entered you slowly, bottoming out. For several moments, the bedroom was silent, apart from your panting. Your eyes couldn't leave his. It felt like your first time again, how neither one of you seemed to want to make the first move. But not out of hesitation, not out of fear of making a mistake.

You wanted to savor the moment. But you also wanted him to consume you.

So, you reached a hand up to push several strands of hair out his eyes, allowing him to see your reassuring nod. He pulled almost all the way out before thrusting back in.

The bedroom began to be filled with the sounds of his skin slapping against yours, your moans blending with his heavy panting.

Fuck you were gorgeous with your head thrown back against the pillow, back arched. It wasn't the first time he had seen such a sight. He had even taken a picture of it before, the polaroid tucked away in his wallet.

It was the fact that Peter was going to come inside you, without anything to prevent himself from filling you up. Chances were low you'd get pregnant right away, unless there was something new he was about to learn regarding the effects of a radioactive spider bite.

But it could happen, the fact that you two would continue trying to make it happen, drove him absolutely wild.

"Gonna fill you up real good, 'kay?" You nodded, the corners of your vision beginning to blur from the intense pleasure.

"Yeah? Is that what you want? To be full of me?"

The edge was getting closer and closer, making it difficult for you to form a coherent response.

"You wanna what?" Peter asked as one of his hands snaked down to where your two bodies met.

"W-wanna….I wanna…." His thrusts were getting harder, more purposeful. The circles he was tracing on your clit added to the pleasure he was submerging you in.

"Use your words pretty girl," He cooed, "C'mon, you can do it."

"W-wanna make you a Daddy." It was now Peter's turn to widen his eyes at your words. For a brief moment, his hips stilled.

Then they picked back up again, this time with a determined force.

"Come. Now. Come right fucking now," He grunted.

Peter was a lot of things, and sometimes that was dominant in the bedroom. But he had never ordered you like that.

"You heard me. Want you to make a mess on my cock before I fill ya up." He lifted up your legs, pinning them to his hips. The new position allowed him to fuck you even deeper, pushing you over.

You were incoherent as you came, only whines mixed with slurred chants of his name leaving your mouth. Peter followed quickly behind you; it had been tortured not having sex with you or masturbating for nearly a week, but he knew it would be worth it.

When your eyes opened, your knees were now pressed to your chest, Peter thrusting into you.

Fuck, had he not come yet? No, that was impossible. He had. You remember the feeling of warmth spreading through you, his hips stuttering, the raspy goans he let out- the telltale sign of him coming.

He had come, and by how full you felt, quite a bit.

Fuck.

Peter felt your eyes boring into his skin. Part of him felt guilty for not feeling guilty about continuing to fuck you.

But you just felt so good coming around his cock. And even though it was far from the first time he came inside you, it felt so much better now, now that he knew you wanted him to fill you up, you wanted his cum to take.

Peter needed it to take, it was an overwhelming desire he now had. His mind was clouded with thoughts of you, stomach round and your tits full. Thoughts of you holding a baby that had his eyes and your hair. Thoughts of a little one running around the place.

Your lips were engulfed in a sloppy kiss, jolts of pleasure lighting up your body with each thrust. His body pressed your hips further into the pillow he had placed underneath.

"Gotta make sure n-nothin comes out," he explained in between kisses, his voice breathless.

All you could do was nod and cling onto him. You were entirely at his mercy and it thrilled you. Maybe in hindsight you should be concerned about how your husband seemed downright feral for you. Maybe you should reflect upon how much you enjoyed it in your next therapy session.

Lots of maybes. But for once, you weren't concerned about them. They weren't creeping into your brain, slowly but surely taking over your thoughts until it consumed you.

You were in a good place. You had a steady job that you enjoyed at least half of the time, depending on the day. You had a roof over your head. You were with someone who loved you, all parts of you.

This was what safety felt like. This was security.

"I love you," you whispered so softly, you were surprised he was able to hear it.

"Love you too," He pressed another kiss ro your lips, "You're gonna look s'pretty, full of me."

That mouth of his was going to be the death of you.

"Y'gonna be such a good mama too," the sweet words were a stark contrast to his sharp thrusts.

You wanted to praise him, to give him words of encouragement. But all you could was just nod your head as he continued to thrust into you. The only sounds that came out of you were pathetic whines as he continued thrusting into you.

Peter loved how your whines increased in pitch as his cock brushed against that sweet spot over and over. A near scowl formed as he saw you bury your head into the pillow.

"What's the matter? Don't want the neighbors to hear how badly you want me to put a baby in ya?"

You clenched at his words, eliciting a groan from Peter that was so guttural, your legs began to shake.

Every little reaction your body had to him only pushed Peter forward. The coil in your stomach was tightening. Peter knew you were close, your teeth always dug into your bottom lip, your hands desperately clinging onto any part of him you could reach.

"C'mon bug, n-need ya to make a mess on Daddy's cock," He said before sinking his teeth into your neck.

His words, combined with the sudden pain of his teeth digging into your, drove you over that sweet edge. He was the ocean, pushing and pulling you under. Just when you thought you had reached the surface, you were pulled back in by his long fingers stroking your clit, prolonging your pleasure.

Peter only lasted a few more thrusts before he came inside you again. You felt spent, unable to move.

He acted quickly, pulling out of you and quickly replacing his cock with his fingers.

Peter's name came out as a strangled moan when you felt his fingers curl inside you.

"I know, it's sensitive," He moved his body down until he was in-between your legs, "But I'd hate for any drop to go to waste."

Your hands latched onto his hair as he closed his mouth around your clit. It was too much: your previous orgasms, Peter's current goal of keeping you full of him.

Overstimulation was kicking in, causing you to throw your head back. Your thighs wrapped around his head, your body going against what your brain was saying.

He fucked his cum back into you with his fingers, his tongue lapping at your swollen bundle of nerves. Peter grinded his hips into the mattress. He couldn't help it, you sounded so pretty when you chanted his name like that.

"Just one more, give me one more, 'kay Bug?" He said in response to your desperate whines.

Your next orgasm was intense, your walls squeezing Peter's fingers so tightly that you were surprised they were still able to move.

Your head rested against the pillow, the room filled with nothing but heavy panting. The bed creaked as Peter's body moved.

Suddenly, your back was no longer touching the mattress. Instead, you felt the cool air touching your skin, your head spinning from the sudden movement.

Peter's hands gripped your hips, holding you above his. A gasp escaped your lips upon feeling his cock slip through your folds.

The ache you felt as his cock entered you was familiar and warm. When you looked up, it was the first time you noticed that his eyes had darkened, almost black.

He looked hungry.

"I got ya, just hold onto me." Your hands gripped his broad shoulders as he thrusted into you.

Pleasure quickly overtook the pain. Peter was memorizing with his head thrown back, kiss swollen lips parted. His hands gripped your hips, driving you down on his cock.

God, you could stare at him for hours.

"H-how do y-you still have anything left?" You asked, breathless.

Peter let out a low chuckle, "Didn't jack off for a week. Been savin' up for ya."

Fuck. He had been planning this, planning to fuck you until you were reduced to nothing but broken whines and grabby hands.

And his plan was working.

You slouched over, your head hovering above his broad chest. The room felt hazy. It took everything in you to focus on Peter's chest, the smattering of hairs, freckles, and moles. His skin grounded you, having physical proof that he was safe and here with you, that he wasn't still out on patrol and you were just imagining scenarios to calm yourself.

You rocked your hips forward, grinding against his. The movement earned a lewd groan from your husband, one of his hands trailing up from your hips to clutch at your chest.

Peter was trying to hold out, was trying to be respectful and a considerate husband. But when your lips attached themselves to his neck, your teeth sinking into his flesh, he knew he couldn't hold out much longer.

He bent his knees, allowing him to thrust into you while his other hand snaked up to your throat.

"Touch yourself," he groaned, looking up at you like you were the eighth wonder of the world. Like he was looking up at a piece of artwork in The Louvre, and not you.

But that was one of Peter's habits that you fell in love with. He made you feel special, made you feel worthy enough. Made all the self doubt you held wash away in moments like these.

So you listened to him, a hand reaching down to where your two bodies met.

The pleasure ebbed and flowed into and out of sensitivity. Your walls clenched around his cock, pushing him closer.

Peter tried, he really did. But you felt so divine, so transcendent, he couldn't help it. He threw his head back as he came, slamming your hips down against his as he emptied inside of you.

The sensation of feeling him come inside, combined with how full you felt, pushed you over. You slumped forward, your head resting on his chest.

Peter's hands remained on your hips, pinning them to his.

"Just stay there baby. Soak me up." You nodded your head weakly at his words. It wasn't like you could move, given the grip he had on your body.

The two of you laid there in bed, your hearts racing. Once he realized you wouldn't move (you were far too spent), Peter's hands trailed up to your back, drawing comforting circles.

After a while, he wrapped his arms around you and gently switched positions, your back now against the mattress. You hissed as he pulled out.

"B-break," you mumbled.

"I got ya," He whispered in between pressing feather-like kisses across your forehead and temple.

"You think it took?" Peter asked after a few moments of silence.

You couldn't help but giggle, "Can't your Spidey sense tell?"

Peter moved down, pressing his ear against your stomach as if it were a shell from the ocean.

"Can't hear anything, guess we gotta try again," he smirked.

"You seem really broken up about it," you deadpanned. Peter's face broke out onto a grin.

"Darn," His voice was dripping with sarcasm and he even snapped his fingers for added effect.

"What happened to wanting it to take the first time?"

Peter shrugged, "I mean, I still want to put a baby in you sooner rather than later, but…figured it would be fun to try for a little bit."

Your fingers ran through Peter's hair, trailing down to his bearded cheek, "Peter Benjamin Parker, you're insatiable."

Peter's lips formed a mischievous smirk before they began nipping at your neck, making its way up to your jawline.

"Maybe you can help me?" He asked, his breath hot on your ear.

"I need a break, I don't have a super short recovery time due to a radioactive spider bite." You looked into his eyes, hoping your pout would be intimidating, or show your annoyance.

Instead, Peter laughed at your adorable expression. His eyes looked over your features as his fingers brushed against your cheek.

"I hope they get your nose," He said before placing a kiss to it. The comment brought warmth to your face and body.

"I hope they get your hair. And eyes."

Peter shook his head, "You have way better eyes."

"You have kind eyes. I want our kids to be kind," you admitted, your fingers gently threading through his hair.

"They will be," Peter pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, "Because you're their Mom, the kindest person I know."

"They also have you as their dad."

Peter didn't respond, focusing on tracing your features with his long fingers.

"I still want them to have your eyes," He admitted, a sheepish smile overtaking his face.

You rolled your eyes, "Can you use your Spidey sense to tell them that?"

Peter laughed, nuzzling his nose against yours, "Guess I'll have to wait until they can hear noises and recognize voices."

And he did. When you showed him the positive pregnancy test six months later, he talked to your growing bump every night. Sometimes he told stories, sometimes he whispered dreams and hopes. But always, he managed to make a reference about how your child needed to ensure that they had your eyes.

In true Parker fashion, Benjamin Richard Parker was born with honey-casted eyes, just like his father.

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pinkanonwrites · 1 year

Note

Thinking about how it would be to c0ckwarm Vash 🤤

I've been sitting on this post and haven't answered it for TOO DAMN LONG, so here's a treat.~ alien biology vash in this one, btw

NSFW Below the cut!

He's so bad at sitting still, cockwarming is the best kind of torture for him. He does his best but you feel so good and so soft and so warm that he doesn't even realize he's moving until you're gently scolding him again.

Put a towel down wherever the two of you plan on cozying up, cause his dick's gonna be leaking like a faucet the entire time he's nestled in you. Again, it's not like he can help it, you just feel too good. Translucent slick will be oozing out where the two of you are connected, soaking both of your legs and probably whatever's beneath you too.

Once you finally let him cum he damn near blacks out, it feels so fucking good. He's got a low tolerance for being denied orgasm, sniffling and tearing up and begging until you let him chase the relief he's so desperately craving and he dissolves into a blathering, tear soaked mess as he wrecks your hole.

"Vash, honey."

"....Mmmyeah?"

You knew that Vash knew that he'd been caught, and he didn't even need to remove his face from where it was nuzzled into your bare chest to see his 'hand in the cookie jar' expression in your mind's eye.

"I thought we agreed you were gonna stop moving around so much?" You cooed. A full body shiver coursed through him, and you could feel it at every point of contact where his body was entangled with your own. Especially at his hips which, despite himself, gave another unsteady little jerk and thrust his cock once more into your aching heat. You pinched the shell of his ear and he whined, hips falling still even as his inhuman cock continued to wriggle and twitch a bit within you.

"I'm trying." He whimpered, kissing wetly at the inner curve of your breast. "Can't stop it, it's got a mind of its own, y'know."

You cupped the back of his neck, threading your fingers in his soft hair and twisting just enough to make him gasp. "How about just a few more minutes then? Can you wait just a little bit longer for me, puppy?"

"Ohh.~" He groaned, low and throaty. You felt a trickle of sweat beading down the valley of your chest before Vash's tongue dipped to lap it away, moaning at the taste. "It's so good though, so warm. You're so wet, I can feel it dripping out…"

"I should be saying the same thing to you." With your fronts pressed together and your leg slung over his hip, it felt like all the excess slick from Vash's cock was pooling along your inner thighs, slicking the warm skin there to an obscene degree. Pressing a kiss to his temple, you dragged the fingertips of your free hand up and down the length of his spine in a soothing roll. "Just a little longer, then I promise. You can be good for me for just a bit longer, can't you?"

He all but sobbed, and you felt another gush of hot slick filling your core as his length swelled somehow larger. It pressed against all of your most sensitive spots, pleasure sparking behind your eyelids as he gripped your hip just tight enough to bruise. "I can, I can be good, I can. I love you. I love you- ohhh, I love you so much, please."

"I love you too, Vash." Another featherlight kiss against his skin left him whining, words trailing off into babbled nonsense. "So good. My good, good boy.~"

#vash x reader #vash the stampede #trigun #trigun stampede #trigun imagines #trigun x reader #alien biology vash #my writing #anon

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petcr3 · 7 months

Text

something to rely on | chapter one

series masterlist (coming soon!)

summary: despite being separated, bob floyd is there to support his wife and their son after she sustains some injuries in a car accident.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: separation/divorce, reader is frequently referred to by she/her pronouns, is called bob's wife/ex-wife, mrs. floyd, etc. bob and reader have a son, but i have tried to be as inclusive as possible with regards to appearance and the type of family! (meaning, if i've done my job correctly, charlie can have been adopted, not necessarily carried by the reader, etc.) non-graphic reference to a car accident, non-graphic description of injuries. chapter one is set entirely in a hospital. readers parents are present in the story, still married, and have a good relationship with reader because this is fantasy lol

a/n: lads, it's here. some of you have been hearing me blather about this story for fucking ages and chapter one is finally done. i'm proud of it, i think, but if nothing else i simply cannot keep sitting on it, so here it is! very excited for this story's future <3 i hope you love charlie as much as i do lol

It’s a rare occasion that one hears Bob Floyd before seeing him, but you suppose your getting into a car accident is a special enough occasion.

Things feel hazy–– with two broken wrists and a broken leg, you’ve been given quite the painkiller. You’re not sure how long you’ve been awake, exactly, but it can’t have been very long. There’s a digital clock on a small table next to your hospital bed, but your neck is too sore to turn far enough over to see it. A thick wooden door is shut against the buzz of the floor outside: the ringing of phones, the click of computer keys, and the clatter of patients being wheeled to and from scans and tests and specialists.

Even amidst all that, the sound of Bob’s words cuts through. He’s raising his voice, you realize. That’s not like him.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse says on the other side of the door, “but outside of visiting hours I can only admit family, and––”

“I am family,” he says, impatient.

“I understand that, but when a patient is separated––”

“Separated,” Bob interrupts, “not divorced. That is my wife and the mother of my child, so will you please let me see her?” It sounds much more like a demand than a question. The nurse sighs, clearly frustrated.

“Let me go speak to her.” She steps out from behind the counter and cuts Bob a severe look. “If she is awake, I’ll let her know you’re here. But given that rest is one of the most crucial things for her right now, I will not be waking her up. You can wait.”

“Thank you,” comes his clipped reply. The nurse approaches your room, only a few steps away from the front desk–– Bob would have just gone straight in, had he known— and when the door creaks open, he can be seen standing over her shoulder–– a respectful distance behind, at least.

“Ma’am, there’s someone here to see you,” she says. You can tell it’s taking everything Bob has not to run to you, but he’s smart enough to know that showing this nurse any more disrespect isn’t wise. “He says he’s your husband,” she continues, “but if you don’t want to see him, I can tell him to leave.”

“No, that’s okay,” you say, “he can come in.” She turns around only to discover Bob right behind her. He squeezes quickly past, murmuring a hurried thank you before practically flying to your bedside. All his frustration quickly dissipates as he leans over you, a deep furrow in his brow. Over his shoulder, you see the nurse shake her head, exasperated, and leave, shutting the door behind her.

“Hey honey,” Bob says, hand lifting to brush across your cheek, as if it’s two years ago and nothing has changed. “Are you alright? What happened?”

“I’m okay, Bobby,” you reply, tired. You surprise yourself, though, using his old nickname like that. Since you two broke up, you’ve only ever called him Bob. “Someone lost control of their car in the rain, apparently. You owe that nurse an apology.”

“And I’ll give her one later. First I need to know that you’re okay.”

“I just said that I’m okay,” you laugh softly. “Bob, I’m fine.” Reluctantly, he nods, leaning back to grab at a chair. He won’t even stand all the way up, refuses to take his eyes off you lest you run off somewhere else to nearly get yourself killed.

“How’s Charlie; is he with your parents?” You nod, heart clenching at the thought of your son, how distressed he must be right now.

“Yeah,” you say, voice getting a little watery. “Yeah, I got to talk to him a little while ago. He wants to come visit after my surgery tomorrow.” Bob’s brow furrows.

“Surgery?”

“Just my left wrist. The right one and the leg only need braces, but,” you sigh, “yeah, the left one took the door pretty hard, so.” He nods.

“How about your head? All okay up there, no bleeding?”

“I have a concussion, but that’s all. They know what they’re doing here, Bob. Don’t worry. I’m gonna be just fine.” He studies you for a moment, then sighs, nodding his head again. “Not so fun being on the other side of it, huh?” you say without thinking. It isn’t meant to be cutting, but blue eyes snap up to your face, a faint expression of shock on Bob’s features.

Still, you have a hard time feeling too guilty. How many times have the roles been reversed? How many times have you held your baby boy to your chest murmuring reassurances that you can’t promise are true? How many times has Bob been gone, unable to tell you he was okay or even alive? Or looked up at you under the harsh white light of a hospital room on base and told you there was nothing to worry about when you both knew that there was?

Bob schools his expression into something a little softer and gives a curt nod. You can’t decide if that was over the line. But that had always been the problem, hadn’t it?

Neither of you had known how easy it would be to push each other over their limits. You’d thought love and a thick skin would be enough to survive the looming fear of losing your husband. Bob had thought it would be easier to outrun the guilt he always felt leaving you behind, the way it weighed on his chest like an anvil. Eventually, your wounds were rubbed raw and his ribs began to crack beneath the pressure.

The times when he was home were supposed to be precious, but they had become tense, uncomfortable. It wasn’t good for either of you, and it certainly wasn’t good for three-year-old Charlie. Splitting up had been the best choice, even though it pained you both to admit it.

Bob had been adamant about a separation rather than a divorce. Ex-spouses of the military were still entitled to some benefits, but for Charlie’s sake and yours he wanted to remain legally married. You’d both agreed that if you met other people and got serious enough, a divorce would be back on the table. It hadn’t been the easiest decision, but now, laying in a hospital bed, you can’t help but feel grateful. And how many people can say their ex husband came rushing to their side in an emergency?

Regret is already creeping up across your skin.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, reaching to touch the back of his hand. Your fingers brush awkwardly against his skin where they protrude from your brace, but you can see the gesture means something to him–– his eyes shine a little sadly when he looks at you. He gives a faint shake of his head.

“S’okay. Me too.”

Despite your best efforts to persuade him otherwise, Bob stays the night in your room, sleeping with his legs slung across a second chair the nurses had been kind enough to provide for him. (He’d apologized to the nurse he spoke to when he arrived, and she’d taken it rather graciously, all things considered. In her place, you’re pretty sure you would have had him thrown out.) You fall asleep fairly easily, exhaustion having taken its toll, but you wake up in the wee hours needing the bathroom. You press the call button, hoping it won’t wake your sleeping companion, but Bob rouses when Jermaine, one of the nurses, comes in. The whole bathroom song and dance is a process you certainly don’t enjoy, but you’ve gotten used to it over the past several hours.

“Can’t get enough of me, huh?” Jermaine quips, walking to your bedside.

“I keep guzzling water when he’s not looking,” you say, nodding towards a still groggy Bob. Jermaine only laughs and pulls back the covers.

“All right, ready?”

“Yep.” You grimace as he braces his hands beneath your armpits to help lift you up enough to get into your wheelchair. You sigh as Jermaine rolls you to the bathroom and braces an arm around your waist to help you onto the toilet. The door stands open, but you’re too drained to care–– besides, this isn’t anyone’s first rodeo.

You don’t see the way Bob’s eyes widen with worry. How he watches each maneuver carefully, filing it away in the back of his mind. The decision had been made before he walked through the door, really, but seeing you struggle only cements it. He doesn’t say anything as Jermaine helps you back to bed–– only a quiet thank you as the nurse leaves the room. He can talk to you about his plan tomorrow.

A low murmur of voices filters into your consciousness as you wake that morning, your eyes flickering open to see Bob standing with Dr. Alvarado, who will be performing your surgery. She notices you shifting in your bed and comes to your side, Bob following suit on the opposite, returning to his seat.

“Good morning, Mrs. Floyd,” she says warmly, “how are we feeling?” Your mouth is dry and you swallow thickly before responding.

“I’ve been better,” you rasp, wincing at the scrape of your voice. Bob is holding out a cup of water before you even have a moment to think, and you start to reach for it before faltering. In the fog of waking up, you’d almost forgotten.

“I’ve got it,” he says quietly, bringing it to your lips. You drink, far too worn out to protest.

“Your procedure is scheduled for 12:30 this afternoon. It’s about 8:15 right now. That’ll give you some time to rest before pre-op. I’ve also been told you have a special visitor, if you feel up for it.” Your heart lifts, and you can’t help but look expectantly up at Bob.

“Charlie?”

The hopeful lilt of your voice splinters something in his heart. He smiles, tight-lipped but genuine all the same, and nods.

“Uh-huh. I know you said the plan was post surgery, but your mom called saying they were up and ready to go. I figured you’d want to see him.”

“Yeah,” you say, voice high and thin, “yeah I’d like that.” Dr. Alvarado smiles.

“I’ll let them know. They’re all very anxious to see you.” You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks. Ordinarily, you try not to let Charlie see you crying. With the separation, you’ve been doing everything you can to be his rock. You remember how scary it was when you were a child to see your parents upset, or worse, hurt. But today, you don’t know if you’ll quite be able to manage it. Gracelessly, you swipe at the tears on your cheeks, but before long, Bob is at the ready again, tissue box extended toward you. You nod your thanks and clasp one in between your fingers. Blotting is much easier.

You’ve just about gotten it together when the door opens again.

“Mommy?” Charlie calls, and you hate how you can hear the frightened tremble of his voice. He makes it a few steps over the door jamb when he sees Bob.

“Daddy!” For a heartbreaking moment, wide eyes dart between the both of you, unsure of where to run.

“Go say hi to Daddy, sweetheart,” you say, heart swelling to see the reunion. Charlie beams and runs directly into Bob’s arms.

“Hey, big man!” he says, scooping Charlie off the ground in a strong embrace. “I missed you so much, little bear.” He presses a big kiss to your son’s cheek and is rewarded with a delighted giggle that has you crying again. Hurriedly, you dab at your eyes once more.

Your parents enter the room behind Charlie, your mother’s smile wavering and your dad’s brow furrowed. The braces make hugs awkward, but your parents’ presence is an enormous comfort.

“Charlie’s been very brave,” your father informs you. “And we’re all very glad you’re okay.”

“Me too,” you say wetly, wishing you could hold their hands. “I love you guys.”

You cast a glance over to your left, where Bob and Charlie are engaged in conversation, faces close together and voices hushed. Watching Bob parent has always made your heart ache, even now when things have fallen apart. He was meant to be a father, plain and simple. People who don’t know him might expect a Navy man to be gruff, tough on a child, especially a son. But Bob is all gentleness when it comes to your Charlie. He is patient and invested and even though you two aren’t together, it’s difficult to imagine parenting Charlie with anyone else.

You tear your gaze away to talk with your parents, explaining what happened and asking about how Charlie has been coping over the course of the last few hours.

A few feet away, Bob has his son cradled close in his arms.

“I was really scared,” Charlie confides in him, “but I gotta be brave for Momma.” Bob’s heart breaks just a little, and he smooths a hand over Charlie’s hair. Perhaps this instinct to protect is just built into the little boy– knowing you and Bob, that’s a distinct possibility. But Bob can’t help but worry it’s a result of the split.

“You don’t have to be brave for Momma, honey,” he says softly. “That’s our job. Parents get to be strong for their kids, not the other way around. It’s okay to be scared when someone is hurt. And it’s also okay to express that. Especially with me and Mommy. And being strong doesn’t mean you can’t feel your feelings. In fact, being able to feel your feelings is a part of what makes a person strong, because some feelings are really hard.” Charlie listens to his father with rapt attention–– he always has. “But it’s important not to ignore them. Does that make sense?” He nods sagely when Bob is done talking.

Bob can’t help but smile, heart swelling with affection. It’s moments like these when he thinks he could leave it all if it meant getting to spend every second of every day with his baby boy.

“Should we go say hi?” he asks, bouncing Charlie gently against his hip. Charlie nods, his gaze flickering over to you.

Though you’re talking with your parents, you can’t take your eyes off of your son. Call it selfish, but ever since you’d been able to think straight you’ve wanted nothing more than to see him. You’re reaching out for him the second Bob starts towards you, but he gives you a look.

“With your leg?” he asks quietly, even though Charlie is right there in his arms.

“I still got one good one,” you quip,” and I think a hug is gonna help me get better much quicker. Besides, all my problems are below the knee— I’ll be fine.”

Bob has always had trouble saying no to you.

“Be gentle, okay bud?” Charlie nods.

Carefully, he sets Charlie down in your lap, positioning him mostly on your uninjured right leg.

“Hi baby,” you beam, the pain you’re in practically forgotten. “I’m so happy to see you!” Charlie snuggles immediately into your chest, eyes impossibly big when they look up at you. Tucking him under your arm is awkward, but you do it anyway.

“Hi Mommy,” he says quietly, like he’s afraid talking too loudly will hurt you.

“Hi,” you say again, matching his hushed voice, smile wider than it’s been for the duration of your stay. Bob stands slightly off to the side, feeling a little bit like an intruder. Still, he can’t help but watch the way your eyes sparkle when you look at your son. He’s never seen anything like it.

A gentle hand on his shoulder catches his attention, and he turns to see your mother, her expression warm. He counts himself incredibly lucky that your parents don’t hate him. Sometimes he hates himself for what happened, and yet they still treat him like one of their own. The three of them exchange hushed greetings, each thanking one another for taking care of the two of you.

Over in your hospital bed, you’re playing with the ends of Charlie’s hair. He’s been telling you about everything that happened between yesterday afternoon and now, cheerily informing you of how much he cried and how he got to choose what he and your parents had for dinner last night. You drink in every detail with enthusiasm, grateful as ever for his enormous heart and his resilience.

“I was really scared,” he says softly after a moment. You nod.

“I bet. I was scared too.”

“Daddy says it’s okay to be scared.”

“Daddy’s right, baby. It’s more than okay to be scared. It’s important— it’s how our brains keep us safe.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. You know how I’m scared of snakes?” Charlie nods. “Well, not every single snake is dangerous, right? But there are some that are. And because my brain remembers that some snakes are dangerous, I get a little scared when I see them. That fear is my brain telling me to be careful and stay safe.”

“So I was scared because it’d be dangerous if you got hurt?”

“Kind of! It can also be scary to not know what’s happening, right? Because if you don’t know what’s happening, it’s hard to get ready to deal with it. And it can be scary to know that something sad might happen, because it’s hard to feel sad.”

“I don’t like feeling sad,” Charlie says, nodding his understanding.

“Me neither, baby bear. But today I’m not even sad, because you’re here.” Your son’s cheeks turn pink and he hides your face in his chest. Heart swelling with fondness, you cross your arms over his back in an awkward embrace and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Is it okay if I’m a little sad?” he asks, voice muffled by your hospital gown.

“Of course it is, sweetheart. You gotta feel your feelings. And feelings don’t last forever; they change all the time, right?”

“Right.”

Out of sight, Bob swipes a few tears from his eyes. He’s always proud of Charlie, but he’s proud of you, too–– with three limbs freshly out of working order, you would be well within your rights to be out of sorts, but there you sit, still parenting admirably. Beautifully, even. Your father squeezes Bob’s shoulder and he looks up, almost a little startled. Your father smiles and the two men exchange a nod.

Your mother steps over to your bed and pets a hand over Charlie’s hair.

“I think me and Grandpa are gonna go home for a little while, honey,” she says to him before looking at you and resting a hand on your shoulder. “Someone gave us a good scare yesterday and I don’t think either of us slept very well. We’re both a little worn out.” Suddenly, she seems to catch herself. “Unless you want us to stick around and––”

You shake your head and reach out an appreciative hand to cover hers.

“Go get some rest, Ma.” She nods.

“We will. But we’ll be back when you come out of surgery. Bobby told us he’d keep us updated.” Too tired to even think that far ahead, you nod.

“Thanks for looking after Charlie,” you say, tangling your fingertips with hers.

“Well, that’s my pleasure,” she says, pressing a loud kiss to her grandson’s cheek. “And we can figure out next steps, we’ll find someone—“

“Mom,” you say softly, “let's just— can we take things one step at a time for now?” She nods–– the anxiety of it all reads clear on your face.

“You know, you’re right. Let’s get you through surgery first.” You nod, grateful. “We’ll see you soon, then.” Your mother smiles and turns to get her bag. Charlie giggles as his grandfather comes over to playfully jostle his shoulders.

“Be good for your mom and dad, okay kiddo?” Charlie nods eagerly.

“That’s my guy,” your dad says fondly, giving your son a hug before turning his attention to you. “You give ‘em hell in there.”

“What,” you laugh, “in surgery? Dad, it’s just my wrist; I’m gonna be fine.” He shrugs.

“Can’t hurt though, right?” he says lightly, but you can see a glimmer of anxiety in his eyes. He leans down to kiss your cheek and you return the gesture.

“Right,” you affirm, softening. “I love you, Dad. I’m gonna be okay.” Your dad gives a final nod and links arms with your mother as they leave the room.

It’s so easy to forget that to him— to both your parents— you are still a child. Charlie is still so young, it feels impossible that he’ll ever be as old as you are now. Of course, you still marvel at the fact that he’s as big as he is; that he can walk and talk and do math equations and paint pictures. But it’s easier to manage how much he’s grown because you can still bundle him up in your arms and count on one hand how many birthdays he’s had. Maybe if you were having less of an emotional day, you’d be able to imagine what it’ll be like when he’s grown up, but you can feel tears welling up in your eyes again so you push the thought out of your mind.

“Mommy?” Charlie asks, bringing your attention back into the present.

“Mm?”

“Did Grandpa use a bad word because he’s very stressed?” Laughter sputters out of you before you can help it, and Bob raises an amused eyebrow.

“Yeah, baby,” you say, “I don’t think he was thinking very hard about which words he was choosing. He just meant that he wants my surgery to go well, that’s all.”

“It’s like telling someone to give it their all,” Bob explains, coming to sit down at your bedside again.

“It’s what Daddy does when he’s on a deployment,” you offer, curling your arm into something akin to a flexed muscle, “he gives ‘em heck.”

“And that’s what Momma’s body is gonna do when she’s in surgery. It’s gonna do everything it needs to do to keep her safe while she’s asleep.” Charlie looks between you two, worry creeping back into his features at the mention of the surgery.

“Hey,” you murmur, “I’m going to be okay, Charlie-bear. I promise. Sometimes things can go wrong during a surgery, but the likelihood of anything bad happening is very, very low.” Charlie nods, wide-eyed. “So there isn’t anything to worry about sweetheart. But it’s still okay to be scared, right?”

“Right,” comes his hushed reply. Your heart aches not to be able to soothe his anxiety, but you know there’s no sense in trying to talk him out of it–– especially in the wake of what you’ve been trying to teach him. Still, it seems to you that the rules shouldn’t apply to Charlie, with his delicate soul and enormous heart.

Bob lays a comforting hand on your son’s back and his little form immediately relaxes into the touch. The three of you sit in comfortable silence for a little while, but soon the door creaks open and Jermaine enters with a wheelchair.

“Is this Charlie?” he asks brightly.

“It is!” you chirp. The boy in question looks up shyly. “Charlie, this is my friend Jermaine. He’s been helping me since I got to the hospital.”

“Your mom is a tough lady,” Jermaine says warmly, squatting to be closer to Charlie’s eye level. “I promise we’re gonna take very good care of her.” Charlie nods.

“Pinkie promise?” he asks, heartbreakingly earnest. Jermaine smiles.

“You got yourself a deal.” He locks his pinkie with Charlie’s and stands up. “I’ve gotta take Mom for a couple of tests before her procedure, and then we’re gonna take her off to surgery. But you’ll get to see her in a few hours when she wakes up, okay champ?” Charlie holds on to you a little tighter and peers up at his dad, who nods encouragingly.

“Okay.”

“Mom is very lucky to have people that care about her so much,” Jermaine says. “You should be proud.” A little divot of determination forms between Charlie’s brows and he nods. Bob starts to stand and Charlie clambers around to give you one last hug.

“I love you Mommy,” he says. You squeeze him as tightly as you can and press a big kiss to his cheek.

“I love you too, baby bear. I’m gonna see you so soon, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, a heartbreaking waver in his voice. You give him another kiss before Bob scoops him up again, and before you know it, Jermaine is wheeling you off into the hospital halls.

Back in your room, Bob has Charlie wrapped up in a tight embrace.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, baby bear,” he coos, “everything’s gonna be okay.”

#something to rely on #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd fic #top gun fanfiction #top gun reader insert #bob floyd reader insert #bob floyd x you #quinn writes #petcr3 writes #my writing #bruh im sweating #lewis pullman x reader #robert floyd x reader #ok fuck it we ball

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tyrantisterror · 10 months

Text

Still Buzzing About Beelzebub

I wanted to leave this at vague blogging but fuck, man, I can't leave it be. I have a special fondness for Beelzebub as a folkloric figure, and I can't help having very intense personal feelings about how he's adapted. So I'm going to blather about the Lord of the Flies for a moment, and there's nothing you can do about it.

Ok, so, extremely oversimplified spark notes version of Beelzebub's history as a demon concept: there was a god named Ba'al who was worshipped by a rival religion to the Israelites, with "Ba'al" meaning "lord." It's theorized the full name of the god was "Ba'al-zebul," which would roughly mean "Lord of the Heavenly Place." Like many other demons, Beelzebub began as a satirical take on a rival religion's god - in this case, Ba'al-zebul becomes Ba'al-zebub, which means "lord of flies." It's a pun, and, like, a grade school playground level taunt. "Haha, your god's not the god of heaven, he's the god of shit-eating bugs!" basically.

Ba'al-zebub eventually evolves through translation into Beelzebub, and by the point it does it's gone from a petty mockery of another god to a major figure of Biblical apocrypha. In fact, when it comes to figuring out the "real" name of The Devil, Beelzebub has probably the second best claim to it, being not only one of the first devils ever named, but also one of the first ones to be listed (by apocryphal sources) to being the leader of the fallen angels - his only real competition is Belial, who might beat him out in terms of seniority on these points, but with folklore this old it's kind of hard to say someone's a clear winner in this sort of thing.

While other devils would later gain more popularity for the position of The Devil (Lucifer and Satan being the frontrunners despite the former being a result of a translation error and the later being more akin to a title than a name proper - "Satan" isn't too far from "Prosecuting Attorney" in its original usage), Beelzebub has always remained pretty damn prominent, often being The Devil's close second in command or at least in his inner circle, such as in works like Paradise Lost and Marlowe's Faust.

Perhaps his biggest claim to demonic fame, especially in recent years, is his position as one of the Seven Princes of Hell, being one of the elite demons to not only rule Hell, but also represent one of the seven deadly sins. Beelzebub is generally placed as the ruler/representative of Gluttony, though occasionally he's repurposed as the demon of Envy instead.

Ok, cool, so why do I have my hackles up? Well, there's an internet cartoon that's set in Hell with a great deal of buzz about it in animated circles, and they've been dipping their toes into demonology now and then. And apparently this is their take on Beelzebub:

youtube

It's... it's a fucking fox. It's just a fucking fox. I mean, ok, it's got fairy wings and second set of arms and, like, a tail made of honey, but still... it's just a fucking fox.

Here's the thing about Beelzebub: the name "lord of the flies" is fucking unique as demons go. It's descriptive, it's different. Most stories that make Beelzebub distinct from The Devil take the opportunity to make his title very literal, because by doing so they make him distinct from his fellow devils - and as a result, Beelzebub tends to be really fucking memorable.

Like, here, look at some of his peers in the Infernal Dictionary;

They're all beautifully illustrated, but most (not all) of them are pretty much what you expect when you hear about a classical demon: hairy goat guys with some dragon features mixed in. But then you get the guys like Beelzebub:

And that hell-fly stand out. He still fits with his peers - the antenna evoke horns, he's got subtle reptilian features like scales and just a bit of a serpentine quality to his abdomen/tail, but in a sea of goat men, he stands out as the only big ass fucking bug guy.

Because that's his thing! He's the bug guy!

Now, this isn't a question of mythic accuracy, because that's a fucking laughable concept, because assuming there's one version of a myth that can be held above all others as "canon" is such a foolish notion in of itself, especially for a character who started as just a satirical nickname for another character and only evolved into his own entity later. Plus there's the fact that, historically, portraying Beelzebub as something other than a big buy monster has been done a lot of times. One early description of Beelzebub goes as follows:

"...a swollen face and chest, huge nostrils, horns, bat wings, duck feet, a lion's tail, and a covering of thick black hair."

Which might look something like this:

And you know, that's not unworkable. A lot of demons have similar depictions - hell, just look back at those Infernal Dictionary depictions. A guy like this wouldn't be out of place with them. But, like, he also wouldn't stand out. It's not that being a big bug is the "accurate" take on Beelzebub - it's that it's the interesting one.

Look at that video again. This is a setting that already has a metric fuckton of canine demons in it. That song and dance number is mostly filled with hellhounds. Why make Beelzebub yet another canine? What's the reason for it, other than laziness or, like, artistic cowardice? 'Cause, like, not to be judgmental of a subculture I'm not a part of, but there seem to be a prominent number of furry artists who, as creature designers, just cannot come up with good designs for non-canine creatures for the life of them. It just feels like a person who looked at the myths, wondered "how on earth can I turn that into an early 2000's deviant art OC covered in hot topic paraphernalia?" gave up after half an attempt and just drew a rail thin emo raver fox girl because that comes to them like swimming does to a duck.

But I think if "emo raver scene party girl circa 2003 Beelzebub" is your character design pitch, you can do that AND make the Lord of Flies look like a big fucking bug. Maybe even work in some body diversity into your series full of rail-thin Johnny the Homicidal Maniac knockoff fursonas. It's Beelzebub, dammit, she has a right to stand out a little!

...

Ok, all this said, one criticism I've heard leveled at the Lord of the Honey-Fox-Fairies here is that the representative of Gluttony should be fat, which a lot of people rightfully pushed back against as being fatphobic. Which, to be fair, it is. But it's also a misunderstanding of Gluttony as a sin, which this take on Beelzebub is ironically also guilty of.

Gluttony is not simply eating a lot of food. Gluttony is the waste of resources that others could use. A person who orders a shitload of food, takes one bite, and throws it all away so no one else can eat it is just as gluttonous as a person who eats every last morsel - perhaps even moreso, since even they don't get use out of the food in question. In recent years the Catholic church classified pollution as part of the sin of Gluttony - because by fouling rivers and bleeding farmland dry with fertilizers, you are wasting valuable resources the world needs. Gluttony is less about what you consume and more about what you keep others - specifically others in need - from having access to.

What's depicted in this song isn't gluttony, because no one in this song is starving. Nothing is being wasted, no one is kept hungry for the sake of the selfish. There's a scene where Beelzebub actually gives a person MORE food, which is... it's literally the opposite of what gluttony is! Gluttony does not feed the hungry - gluttony keeps them starving! That's why it's evil!

In many ways this song is more a depiction of the sin of Lust, which is similarly misunderstood. A lot of people reduce it to "wanting sex," but lust is specifically about pursuing pleasure so selfishly that you neglect your duties to yourself and others. Drinking to self-destructive excess is not gluttonous, it's lustful. Eating sugary candy that has no nutritional value and makes you less healthy is lustful. This whole display of gratuitous self indulgence that the song focuses on - and that fact that said self indulgence hurts the people choosing to partake of it - is the definition of lust.

It's all a very shallow and poorly thought out take on the seven deadly sins and Beelzebub himself, and that's pretty disappointing from a piece of media about Hell that's so strangely popular. But hey, at least Good Omens got the Lord of Flies right.

#Beelzebub #Demonology #The Seven Deadly Sins #Gluttony

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