#I feel like for the past year it’s been a constant battle to find time and energy to make art lol

[x-enocyon]

Fighting for my life to participate in Yeehawgust this year <- guy who is moving in a week

[goosewriting]

The Aftermath

summary: reader visits Joaquín at the hospital as he wakes up from surgery.

relationship: Joaquín Torres x gn!reader

warnings: established relationship, spoilers for captain america: brave new world, mention and description of injuries and medical procedures, mention of accident and explosions, brief mentions of PTSD from events in Infinity War/Endgame, self-doubts and guilt

word count: 2.2k

A/N: i started writing this the moment i came home from watching BNW. can't believe it took me this long to write for him,, he's been rotating in my mind ever since tfantws <3 we really need more fics for joaquín, he’s so blorbo coded like cmon!! 🥹🥹 if you have any recs pls send them my way!

[all masterlists] 🪶 [mcu masterlist] 🪶 [ao3]

(english is not my first language. constructive criticism and grammar corrections are very appreciated!)

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

Sitting by Joaquín’s hospital bed, you bring your hands to your face as you remember his accident on the Indian Ocean. You had watched the broadcast in horror, your heart in your throat as his figure fell from the sky into the open water. 

At that moment, you couldn’t help but remember the video from all those years ago, where you saw how Rhodey had fallen as well, like a rock, everyone watching, unable to do anything to stop him. Just like War Machine, Joaquín had turned uncontrollably on his descent, one of his wings ripped from the suit by the missile exploding right in his face.

You’ve been in the Avengers’ orbit since a little before the battle against Thanos on Wakanda, where you had also fought with everyone, but then got blipped. The transition back to society with a gap of 5 years had been very hard on you, and while you stayed in contact with everyone who remained, helping out whenever you could, you didn’t really have it in you to go back out to the battlefield. Even after all this time, you still have nightmares about the snap and the Battle for Earth. 

Bringing your hands back into your lap, you let out a trembling breath, clinging onto the constant soft beeping of the machinery to tether yourself to reality and not fall down a spiral of despair. Every time your eyes roam over Joaquín’s injuries, you close your eyes, pressing the base of your hands over them, then open them again. Your sight is momentarily sprinkled with dots, and as it clears, you hope for everything to have been a horrible nightmare. But once your view clears up, he’s still there. Unconscious. Hurt.

The surgery he’d been in last night had felt like it was never going to end. Still, you had stayed the whole time, and once he got out, you stayed at his side. 

It’s been several hours since Joaquín got wheeled into his room, the head medic saying he was still unconscious but stable. You shift in the armchair by the bed where you sit. One of the nurses brought you something to eat earlier since you refused to leave, the wrapper of your sandwich still in your hands as your eyes start feeling heavier and heavier, and you can’t find it in yourself to fight the welcome embrace of sleep, slowly spreading through your limbs. You’ve almost completely dozed off when you hear a groan, and immediately your grogginess dissipates. You straighten up in your seat, the wrapper falling to the floor as you scoot closer to the bed, tears stinging behind your eyes. How you still have tears left, you have no idea, given how much you’ve cried in the past hours, terrified of losing the love of your life. 

Joaquín blinks several times, scrunching his face, eyes trying to adapt to the light. He lifts his good arm, looking at the tubes attached to it, and his gaze roams the room and down his body, face contorting in pain lightly. Then his eyes land on you, and his face immediately softens.

“Hey, there,” he croaks out. 

“You’re awake,” you whisper, holding his hand in your trembling ones. “I was scared you wouldn’t.”

“Pfft, it’ll take more than a meagre explosion to defeat the Falcon,” he retorts with a pained smile.

Normally you’d laugh at his jokes, enjoying his silly side, but right now you have no humour left in you. Another wave of tears rolls down your cheeks, and his smile vanishes.

“Please don’t joke about that,” you plead, giving his hand a squeeze. “You were hit by a freaking missile. From a fighter jet. While up in the air between two armies about to start a war with each other.”

“Well, if you put it like that…” He sighs. 

There’s a moment of silence where you again study his bruised face, your gaze landing on the massive burn covering his whole shoulder, streaks of red raw skin visible on his jaw and throat. Your brows furrow in frustration.

“I should have been there,” you mumble, angry at yourself for letting this happen.

“What?” he asks, craning his neck to fully look at you.

“I should have gone with you,” you say, bringing your eyes to look up at him. “Then I could have helped and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

Joaquín exhales through his nose in disbelief.

“We were in the air, and I went head to head with the missile even after Sam told me to back off,” he retorts, shaking his head. “There was nothing you could have done.”

His tone isn’t scolding; he’s telling the truth and you know it. Still, you can’t help but feel like the outcome could have been different, if you had just been better, braver. You try to choke back a sob, unsuccessful, and his hold tightens around your hand.

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” He speaks your name softly. “This isn’t on you. Please don’t cry.”

You grimace, biting the inside of your cheek.

“For a moment I thought you died, Joaquín. I was so scared,” you say with a shaky breath, bringing his hand to your face, and he cups your cheek. You place your hand over his, holding onto it and leaning into his touch like it was the last time you could hold him like this.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

Your heart shatters at the thought that even after getting hurt, after getting blown up, he’s the one apologising to you. He’s about to add something when the door opens and a nurse comes in. You back off a bit and hastily wipe your face with the back of your sleeves as she does some check-ups, both on Joaquín and the machines, taking some notes on her clipboard. She then takes one of the tubes attached to his arm, and places a syringe at the other end.

“What’s that?” you ask, suspicious. She gives you a quick look with a raised brow, but when she sees the state you’re in, her face relaxes again.

“Painkillers and antibiotics. He’ll need both of them,” she explains.

It doesn’t take long for the fluids to reach Joaquín’s blood system, and he visibly relaxes against the pillows and closes his eyes.

“Oh, hell yeah. That’s the good stuff,” he sighs, and the nurse chuckles softly. You still can’t get yourself to let go of your worry. Once she’s done with everything, she leaves the way she came, exiting the room. As the door closes behind her, your eyes land on the wrapper on the floor, and you pick it up with a sniffle, crumpling it up further.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? Can I get you anything?” you ask as you throw the trash into the bin from where you sit, to your surprise making the shot. He doesn't answer, eyes still closed.

“Joaquín?” you ask softly, not wanting to wake him in case he fell asleep again.

“Huh? Wha?” His eyes open and he turns to look at you, his face visibly relaxed now.

“You okay?” You take his hand again, and he gives you a squeeze.

“Hmm-mm,” he hums with a nod, blinking slowly as he tries to focus on your face. “I just think I’m… kinda high right now.”

That’s when you finally break, unable to hold back an endeared chuckle, shaking your head. Joaquín’s eyes are filled with warmth and then concern as they land on your face, brows furrowing as if he just noticed something. His hand comes up to wipe away the remaining streak of tears. He also playfully pinches your cheek for good measure, eliciting another smile of yours.

“That’s better,” he concludes, a smile spreading on his face as well. The smile that could light up any room he’s in, in your humble opinion. 

You prop your elbow onto the edge of the bed, head in your hands as you look at him, and he looks back at you with a silly grin. The beeps on the machine speed up a bit, and you look up at the screen, then back at him with a brow raised in amusement.

“Usually you can’t tell because I’m smooth as hell, but it’s true,” he notes, like a huge secret was just uncovered. “You still make my heart race.”

Heat prickles on your cheeks at his words and you avert your gaze with a snort. As long as your heart is still beating, you think, remembering that they had to resuscitate him after the accident, but you shake those thoughts away, preferring to focus on the fact that he’s still here, alive.

“I know that the moment you’re back on your feet, you’ll be out there again, suited up,” you start after a moment, shooting him a serious look. “So I won’t ask you to stop. But promise me to be more careful next time?”

“Pinky promise.” Joaquín lifts his hand, fingers curled except for his pinky, and you can’t help but chuckle as you mirror his gesture, curling your finger around his. He shakes your hand like that side to side for a bit, then drops it back down onto the bed. A strand of hair falls into his face as he leans back, and you brush it back, caressing over his bruised cheekbone gingerly. 

“When was the last time you slept?” he asks suddenly.

“Hmm.” You look at the timestamp on the muted TV in the corner, currently playing some movie or other. It’s only then that you realise you’ve been intermittently awake for almost two full days now. “Can’t really remember,” you lie.

“You need to rest. You look exhausted,” he remarks, gesturing to himself. “I’m taken care of.”

“No, I’m not leaving you,” you say, putting as much finality into your voice as you can in your state.

He says your name softly. You look away. He sighs.

“Well, if you insist on staying, then at least I can get pampered a bit, yeah?” he starts, and you narrow your eyes at him in feigned suspicion. He asks with a playful pout, “You know what would make me feel better?”

“Hmm?” 

Joaquín turns his head, offering you his cheek. You can’t help but laugh. 

“I thought you were high on painkillers already?”

“Even the best medicine holds nothing against your kisses.”

“Pfft, is that so.” Now it’s your heart’s turn to speed up. You two have been together for a while now, but he still makes you feel warm and fuzzy, and gives you butterflies in your stomach, when he isn’t on the brink of death, at least. “Well, in that case, I better get started on your dose.”

You lean forward, placing a kiss on his cheek, and he hums pleasedly. He doesn’t move, though, clearly waiting for more. You’re more than happy to oblige, placing kiss after kiss on his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, being especially careful around his injuries. Finally, you hold his chin to turn his face towards you, and kiss the corner of his mouth, then his lips. It's chaste but sweet, and he smiles into it. When you lean back, his eyes are filled with love, slightly unfocused because of the meds, a goofy grin on his face. As you hold his face, you consider saying something cheesy, hoping he won’t remember it. But before you can speak, there’s a knock at the door, and someone steps in. It’s Sam. He looks surprised to see you.  

“Damn, you’re still here?” he asks with concern, then turns to Joaquín. “How’re you feeling?”

“Splendid, really,” he replies, leaning into your hand still cupping his face.

“He got a decent shot of painkillers,” you explain, looking up at Sam with a tired smile. “He’s high as a kite.”

Sam chuckles, then looks at you worriedly. 

“You need to rest. Both of you.” He places a hand on your shoulder. “Go home, I’ll take it from here.”

You hesitate, looking between the two, and Joaquín nods, his eyes pleading for you to also take care of yourself. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Joaquín says, taking your hand from his face and giving it a squeeze. “I’ll be here when you come back.”

“Right,” you sigh and rise to your feet with wobbly legs now that the exhaustion is finally kicking in full force, and Sam holds you up when your knees threaten to give in. 

“Whoa there. You need a nap, ASAP.” 

“Yeah, yeah I do,” you say with a sigh, steadying yourself as he lets you go, his hands still hovering over your arms for a moment in case he has to grab you again, but you manage to stand straight. You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, and turn to Joaquín. “I’ll come back this evening, okay? I’ll bring your favourite snacks too. Don’t tell the nurse, though.” You wink at him with a knowing smile.

“You’re the best.”

“No, you are.” You lean over him to kiss him goodbye, whispering ‘I love you’ against his lips, and pecking him once more for good measure. The machine’s beeps speed up again.

“Love you too. See you later.” Joaquín brings his hand up to caress over your cheek one last time, then you leave the room.

Sam is still standing there, hands in his pockets, looking down at his friend as the beeps slowly start decreasing back to normal.

“Very cute,” he remarks, unable to bite back a teasing smile. 

“Don’t even,” Joaquín says and rolls his eyes playfully, knowing perfectly well that Sam will never let him live that down.

○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○ ○

🐥 taglist: [link to join in my pinned post!]

[aethon-recs]

40 Tomarrymort Recs for 2024 — Longfic Edition (Part 3)

Part 3 of 2024 recs! See below for a round-up of some of the most engaging multi-chaptered works/longfics that I came across in this ship in 2024 🤍

As with last year, I found each of these fics, in their depiction of the ship, to be a fresh or surprising take on our familiar beloved characters of Harry and Tom|Voldemort, with an emphasis on underrated fics and/or fics that made me think about the ship in some new way. It's amazing to me that even after 20+ years of writing in this ship, there are still so many new themes and tropes and angles to explore. 

Criteria for this list: multi-chaptered, Tomarrymort-centric, with at least 1 update published in 2024. 

Overall, for 2024, I've split up my year-end recs into 3 parts: (1) Completed Multi-Chapter Fics, (2) One-Shots, (3) WIPs. Here’s the link back to Part 1: Completed Multi-Chapter Fics with 30 fics and Part 2: One-Shots with 30 fics. And with these 40 fics, this wraps up 100 recs for Tomarrymort for 2024!

*

a cool drink of water by @zolpidem105 (E, 10k, WIP)

Harry Potter, an apprentice at Police Scotland, wakes up to find he’s not in his bed.  "Awake? Excellent. We should get going," Tim?—Tom—says from the side, sounding far, far too alert for what Harry feels is catastrophically early in the morning.

A Simple Request by @shyinsunlight (E, 70k, WIP)

Harry can't sleep because of his neighbours' constant fighting, and he ends up falling asleep at work. Tom Riddle, CEO, is not particularly happy.

Accidents happen by @themothatyourdoor (T, 51k, WIP)

Harry must have been London's first accidental sugar daddy.

And the Living Will Envy the Dead by @k-s-morgan (M, 114k, WIP)

When Tom looks at Harry, he feels nothing. Until he does, and then Harry’s world starts drowning in blood.

Anytime, Anywhere, Always by @moontearpensfic (E, 30k, WIP)

Tom expects to feel victorious at his greatest enemy's confession. Instead, he develops a crush on him.

Auror Potter by @albondiguilla007 (E, 21k, WIP)

Harry Potter is done. He's been in the past for months now, working undercover. Enter Tom Riddle. Impulse control has never been a strong suit of Harry’s, and this mission is proving to be the most difficult one yet.

By Any Means by @corpium (E, 101k, WIP)

Harry Potter will do anything to protect his little brother, whether that means facing the Dursleys' wrath, dogging his brother's footsteps, or taking down the Dark Lord himself. Absolutely anything.

Crush by @chiocchi (T, 4 chapters, WIP)

Tom Riddle doesn't know what it's like to have a crush. So when his heart starts beating fast every time he sees Harry Potter, it can only mean one thing: His instincts are telling him that Harry Potter is a threat that must be eliminated.

Do It Over by @marrythemonstersao3 (T, 57k, WIP)

Harry wakes up on the morning of his eleventh birthday, ready to do things differently this time. He has no grand plans, just the instinct to be close to the man whose soul he shares.

draw me after you (let us run) by @toast-ranger-to-a-stranger (E, 287k, WIP)

“Harry Potter,” comes the soft, sibilant hiss of a voice he has heard in his dreams, in his nightmares, in his waking hours for years. “It seems I have finally caught you.” 

Echoes by @dracomort (M, 4k, WIP)

Across a thousand worlds, Harry and Tom find each other.

Embryo by @cannibalinc (NR, 112k, WIP)

This is Tom’s destiny, a King among men. No—a god. He need only rise to that which is his for the taking… if only one strange boy weren’t so determined to get in his way.

Hole in the Wall by @elddrmot (E, 77k, WIP)

Voldemort survives the final battle and is imprisoned in Azkaban. After a series of unfortunate events, Harry Potter ends up in the cell next to him.

Ills of Murder by @shadow-of-the-eclipse (M, 90k, WIP)

Harry Potter is a time-travelling, furious mess, and he is going to kill the Dark Lord. Like most of his plans, things do not work out. Tom should not be so obsessed with his would-be murderer.

Liquida Tenebris (Remastered) by @dymis (E, 595k, WIP)

When Harry Potter cast his first Cruciatus Curse, he was successful. In doing so, he awoke the darkness in his head. It whispers, and it's never wrong. The darkness is hungry, and won’t be denied.

Moon Rite by @isalisewrites (E, 15k, WIP)

Voldemort learned the truth: Harry was his horcrux. With a sudden offer of a ceasefire, the decades long war could be over - lives saved and protected - if Harry swore to one agreement: a magically binding marriage contract with Voldemort himself.

No Glory by @obsidianpen (E, 313k, WIP)

The Dark Lord divines what Harry Potter is in the Forbidden Forest, and revelations lead to incomprehensible consequences. Lord Voldemort has won... and the dystopia is damning.

Of Kings, of Pawns, and of Men by @ambivalens999 (E, 166k, WIP)

When Harry succumbs to dementors in Little Whinging, the last thing he expects is to wake and find Tom Riddle’s face staring back at him in the mirror. It only goes downhill from there.

of various storms and saints by MaidenMotherCrone (E, 36k, WIP)

“I am the last Lector. I am my people’s very last hope,” Harry bites out through the teeth of his fury. He is done throwing curses and spells. He is reduced to this, divine rage.  And then, Voldemort is there, looming and dark and great and terrible. “And I will stamp it out.”

One Year In Every Ten by @saintsenara (E, 207k, WIP)

A decade after the final battle, just when the wizarding world thinks itself safe, a serial killer emerges, leaving a trail of dead women in his wake. Each of the bodies bears a gruesome message for the Aurors. A message which claims the Dark Lord has risen again.

Reckless Cartography by @meles-merrivale (M, 39k, WIP)

Featuring Harry and Tom attending Hogwarts together and slowly ruining each other’s lives.

Revolution of Configured Stars by @tollingreminiscentbells (E, 162k, WIP)

In another world, Harry Potter was spared. Raised in Lord Voldemort's Britain, he enters his seventh year wanting to keep his head down. But after a chance encounter with ‘Marvolo Gaunt’, it looks like it may not be so simple.

Saint Harry by @alenablack @chaos-bear (E, 70k, WIP)

The moment Harry is struck by the killing curse, it’s not death that awaits him, but ascension. A story of faith, obsession, and the burden of divinity.

Seaforth by @kippipies (M, 10k, WIP)

For as long as he can remember, Harry's had a normal life, looking after a precocious child named Tom on an isolated island. But everything in his normal life is shattered when he finds out a terrible truth: that a powerful leader called Voldemort is after him.

Seeing Sand by @valkyrie-chemist (T, 95k, WIP)

Anticipation bubbled in Tom’s stomach as he imagined fear and shock Harry’s green eyes. Eyes that snapped open the instant Tom's hand touched the frame of the hospital bed. Eyes that burned gold.

some like it hot by @duplicitywrites (E, 12k, WIP)

When Tom Riddle applies for an internship at the Ministry of Magic, he is assigned to the Department of Magical Fire Control and Containment, a department that boasts a very impressive headcount of one: Harry Potter.

Strings of Fate by @solelyseeking (E, 58k, WIP)

“When I touch you,” Tom says, bitterness clinging to every syllable, “I feel whole.” Harry might just be the first interesting thing that Tom has ever encountered.

Stygian by @crowcrowcrowthing (E, 71k, WIP)

There's a book in Voldemort's private library that can explain this kind of magic. The cover is black and shiny and looks like it's breathing. Harry really wants to take a look at chapter three, no matter what it takes.

Tender Reigns Our Night by noumena (M, 103k, WIP)

Sent on a Ministry mission to fight for magic's survival, Harry goes back in time with two simple objectives: find and destroy any existing Horcruxes, and stop Tom Riddle ever evolving into Voldemort. Harry thus finds himself working alongside Riddle at Borgin and Burke's.

The Longing by @aglassroseneverfades (M, 41k, WIP)

What is possibly most damning of all is that Harry is not thinking of his parents right now as he trudges alongside his companions up to Voldemort’s eerie castle. He is thinking instead, as he often does, of a name that burns too brightly on his wrist in the pre-dawn light.

The Runemaster by @kazisstillawake (E, 43k, WIP)

Harry trips on a rock and leaps through time. 1940s Hogwarts is very different from the home he is familiar with. To make matters worse, he is dumped into Slytherin – Riddle’s territory. But it’s hard to be invisible when you’re a novelty, a new student that knows too much for your own good.

the stars, my destination by @milkandmoon-ao3 (E, 47k, WIP)

Harry is sent through time to the relative safety of 1963 and adopted into the Potter family. Now he’s entering his sixth year at Hogwarts in 1976, with a war brewing just outside the school walls. The last thing he needs is to catch the attention of the rising Dark Lord.

The Unintentional Consequences of Prison Reform by @badluck (E, 28k, WIP)

Harry Potter, newly licensed Mind Healer, puts personal history aside to take on his hardest job yet. “Talk to me, please. Give me a chance to make you better.” Lord Voldemort looks downright murderous.

The Word of Your Body by @ictyn (E, 7k, WIP)

“Have you heard from him?” Albus asks. He only means one person when he asks Harry this question. He’s asked it five times in twenty years, and the answer is always the same. The only thing he knows about Tom is that he’s not dead. Harry would know if that happened. He’d feel it beating inside his heart, inside of his very soul.

Timeless by @perhaps-sunlight (E, 3k, WIP)

In which Master of Death Harry Potter time travels to the 1940s, only fixing Tom Riddle isn’t quite what he had in mind.

To the Hilt by @izharmilgram (E, 28k, WIP)

Voldemort had trusted him with the task of bringing Prince Gryffindor under his control, thus securing the future of Gryffindor within their hands. Tom would do so easily—the prince was a mere omega, docile and sweet, easily swayed—and then Gryffindor Kingdom would be folded into the Slytherin Dynasty. He would prove himself undoubtedly useful, and Voldemort would finally let him rule at his side.

Venom or Valor by @lightningant (M, 52k, WIP)

20 years old and unemployed, Harry decides to use a time turner to travel to 1946. But what he finds isn’t the proud, charismatic Dark-Lord-To-Be, but a neurotic 19-year-old Tom Riddle living quietly in the tiny flat that his retail job barely pays for, isolated and addled by chronic illness.

we made universes out of bitten lips and broken hands by @boyneptunee (M, 68k, WIP)

Seer Harry who tries to write his own future, fuck prophesies and mastermind darklords and evil teachers. He will live his life, and he will enjoy it, dammit. Oh, and there's also Tom Riddle.

What In Me Is Dark, Illumine by @telelli-writes (M, 80k, WIP)

There was a new transfer student, Tom observed at the Start-of-Term Feast as he idly twisted the Gaunt ring around his finger. Featuring a schoolboy on the precipice of becoming a monster, a powerful and mysterious newcomer to Hogwarts, and an initial spark of interest that becomes an obsession.

With a resolute heart by Act_Naturally (M, 243k, WIP)

Triwizard Tournament, but Hunger Games: Tom Riddle needs to win to fulfill his plans. Cedric Diggory wants to make his family proud. Hermione wants her friends to survive. Harry wants a lot of things, including Tom Riddle. 

you speak of the devil (like he's not your friend) by @amuria (M, 64k, WIP)

When Harry wakes a seventeen-year-old Tom Riddle from the Gaunt's Ring, it is to a world where his future self has achieved none of their goals except one. Harry is proof that he's a great wizard after all.

*

[stylesispunk]

'Merry christmas, please call me' day 1/3

no outbreak! Joel Miller x f! reader

summary: one year after your breakup, joel is pleading to his phone for a call from you. 🌲

w.c: 6k>

warnings: age gap (joel is fifteen years older than reader) angst as usual and fluff with a happy ending like in the Christmas movies.

a/n: welcome to the first day of my joel's fic christmas version event. I want to remind you that i'm from south america and my christmas has always been hot because of summer, so i'm feeding my dreams. I hope you like this one and see you again on the second day of my mini event! Happy reading 💌

The smell of burn cookies made Joel nauseous. The lights of the Christmas tree in the corner of these four walls seemed to gave him a migraine.

A night like this where everyone was celebrating around a table full of food and loved ones. He was lonely with his thoughts drifting away to you. You were on his mind, day and night for the last 365 days that he had been without you.

It was his fault.

He recalled, this exact same night a year ago when he broke up with you out of the blue, due to poor excuses nor even him believed.

Your age gap, that you were childish, that you deserved someone better, he’d said. Someone whole. A ridiculous justification that even he couldn’t stomach now. At the time, he’d convinced himself it was for the best. He had no right to drag you into his mess of doubts and guilt, into his constant battle with the ghosts of his past. But it didn’t stop the ache from settling in his bones, lingering there like a wound that refused to heal.

His thumb hovered over your name in his contacts. It had been a year since you left, a year since the fight that had left him standing alone in the doorway, watching you walk out with tears in your eyes and a suitcase in your hand. He hadn’t dared delete your number, which now stared back at him, mocking him in the silence. How many times had he replayed that night in his head, hoping he’d wake up and find that it was nothing more than a cruel nightmare?

Call her, the voice in his head whispered.

But what could he say? What words could possibly undo the damage he’d caused?

A sigh escaped him as his head dropped back against the old couch, the springs groaning in protest. The soft hum of a Christmas song playing from a neighbor’s apartment felt like salt in the wound, each note a reminder of what he’d lost.

You were his person. You’d been his anchor through the storms, the one who never let him drown, even when he tried to push you away. And he had pushed you, hard enough to make you leave for good.

But Joel still hoped. Pathetically, desperately. Every buzz of his phone made his heart lurch, only to drop moments later when it wasn’t you. He hated himself for it, for waiting on a miracle he didn’t deserve.

Finally, with trembling hands, he let his thumb tap against your name. The call button loomed there, so simple and yet so heavy. He stared at it, his pulse pounding in his ears.

“Merry Christmas,” he muttered, voice rough. The silence of the house swallowed his words. “Please call me... God, just call me.”

He closed his eyes, pressing his palms to his face. You were out there somewhere, probably laughing, surrounded by family or friends. Did you even think about him? Did you miss him the way he missed you? The unanswered questions gnawed at him, the kind of pain he’d learned to carry in his bones over the last twelve months.

When he finally looked at the phone again, he couldn’t stop himself. He typed out a message, the words simple but raw:

Merry Christmas. Please call me.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, the soft whoosh of the message sending feeling louder than it should have. Now, all he could do was wait.

You won’t reply, he thought bitterly. Why would you?

But just as he began to put the phone down, it buzzed in his hand.

The sound of laughter echoed around the room, your cousin telling some exaggerated story about their vacation as everyone leaned in, caught up in the humor of it all. You tried to smile, to focus on the holiday warmth and cheer, but it all felt distant, like you were watching it from behind a thick pane of glass.

For the last four Christmas you had had someone by your side, holding your hand and making you feel a whole in the room.

Now he wasn’t here.

Now it had been a year since he pushed you away from his life.

You excused yourself for a moment, slipping out to the porch where the cold December air stung your skin. It was quieter out here, the twinkle of Christmas lights from neighboring houses reflecting off the snow. You wrapped your arms around yourself, breathing out slowly, your breath a cloud in the chill.

And then you felt it. The buzz of your phone in your pocket.

Sliding it out, your heart stopped when you saw the name.

 Joel.

The message was simple, just four words Merry Christmas. Please call me.

You stared at the screen, your mind racing. You hadn't heard from him in months. The last time had been his birthday three months ago, a tentative text you’d sent just to say you hoped he was doing well. He’d thanked you, but the conversation died before it could have started. You thought that was the end of it, that Joel had moved on, just like everyone told you he would.

But now... this.

You sank onto the porch steps, your fingers tightening around the phone. The memories came flooding back: The past Christmas, when he’d held you in his arms by the fire, murmuring promises you’d believed in so completely. And the fight that tore it all apart, the anger in his voice masking the vulnerability he was so terrified to show.

You swiped at your screen, opening the message again.

Call him, a voice in your head urged. Just call him.

But another voice whispered fearfully

 What if he’s just lonely?

For a moment, you hesitated, your thumb hovering over his name in your contacts. Then, with a deep breath, you pressed the button. The phone rang once, twice, each second stretching into eternity.

“Hello?” His voice was low, rough, like he hadn’t spoken in hours.

You closed your eyes, the sound of him unraveling something inside you. “Joel,”

….

You’d spent hours making everything perfect. The table was set with Joel’s favorite dishes, the candles were lit, and soft Christmas music floated through the air. The snow outside created a picturesque view through the windows, and for the first time in days, you were excited. Joel had been distant lately, his long hours at work bleeding into your evenings, but tonight would be different. It had to be.

“Joel, you’re late,” you said softly as he walked through the door, his shoulders slumped, his face tired.

He barely glanced at the table as he shrugged off his jacket. “Got caught up at work.”

“I made dinner.” You gave him a small smile, trying to meet his eyes. “I thought maybe tonight—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut you off, his voice sharper than it needed to be.

Something in his tone made you flinch. You watched him sink onto the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing. The weariness in his face didn’t feel like exhaustion; it felt like resignation.

You walked over to him carefully, sitting on the edge of the coffee table so you could face him. “But it’s christmas eve.”

“I know.” he muttered, but his eyes wouldn’t meet yours.

Your stomach twisted. This wasn’t the man who used to pull you into his lap and kiss your worries away. This was someone locked behind a wall you couldn’t reach. “You’ve been different lately. Talk to me. Please.”

He let out a long breath, his hands running through his hair. “I don’t know what we’re doin’ here.”

The words slammed into you like a physical blow. “What?”

Joel looked up at you finally, his expression hard, guarded. “Us. This. It doesn’t make sense anymore.”

Your heart pounded. “What are you talking about?”

He stood up abruptly, pacing the room like he needed to get away from you, as if your presence burned his skin. “You’re too young for this—”

“Don’t.” Your voice trembled, but you stood too, following him. “Don’t do that. You’ve never cared about the age gap before.”

“You should be with someone who can give you what you want, not some old man who can’t figure his shit out.” He turned, finally meeting your eyes, and his were cold, deliberately so. “Someone who isn’t afraid for what people say.”

The words hit like ice water, sharp and cruel. You took a step back, shaking your head. “Joel, that’s not fair. I don’t care about any of that. I love you.”

“Don’t,” he said again, his voice a low growl. “You’re just sayin’ that because you don’t know any better.”

The tears you’d been holding back spilled over. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He swallowed hard, his jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t be what you need. And you deserve better than what I can give.”

It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt the most, it was the way he said them, like he’d already decided this for you, like he’d been carrying it around for weeks, months, without telling you.

“Don’t you dare decide what I deserve,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

Joel looked at you then, really looked at you, and for just a moment, you saw it: the regret, the pain, the fear he was trying so desperately to hide. But then he turned his back to you, his shoulders rigid.

“Go,” he said quietly.

Your breath hitched. “What?”

“I said you should go.”

The room went deathly silent except for the sound of your soft, choked breaths. Joel didn’t move, didn’t turn around as you stared at him, waiting for him to say something, anything, to take it back. But he didn’t.

“We had been together for five years, Joel” you sobbed “Are you throwing away?”

Joel's jaw tightened, his back still turned to you as if he couldn't bear to face what he was doing, what he had already done. His hands gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles white as if he were holding himself together by sheer force. The dim light from the Christmas tree glowed faintly in the reflection of the window, mocking the warmth and love that should've filled this night.

“I’m tired.”

You couldn’t stop the tears, couldn’t keep the crack out of your voice as you pleaded. “Tired of what? Of me?”

He flinched at the sound of your voice breaking, his shoulders drawing tight. “It ain’t just that,” he muttered, the words coming out strained. “It’s everythin’, me, us—” He finally turned to face you, his eyes dark and distant, as though he’d already started pulling himself away long before tonight. “You deserve better.”

“Don’t do that,” you snapped through the sobs, pointing at him, your whole-body trembling. “Don’t you dare try to make this about me, Joel. This is about you. You’re the one running away, you’re the one who—” You swallowed hard, the pain rising in your throat like a wave. “Who’s giving up.”

Joel's face crumpled for just a second, but he smoothed it out quickly, replacing it with that familiar mask of stubbornness. “I am tired,” he admitted, his voice low, hoarse. “Of fightin’ every damn day with the parts of myself you don’t see. I can’t—I can’t drag you into that. Not anymore.”

You shook your head, your tears falling faster now. “I knew what I was getting into when I chose you, Joel. I chose you! Over and over for five years. So don’t you dare tell me I can’t handle it, or you.”

His gaze flickered toward the floor, like he couldn’t stand to look at you. “It ain’t enough.”

Those words cut deeper than anything else he’d said. “What’s not enough?” you whispered, your voice breaking as you stepped closer. “Me? Or us?”

Joel looked back at you then, and for a moment, you thought you saw his resolve crack. You thought he might say he was sorry, that he’d been lying, that he still loved you the way you loved him.

But all he said was, “You need to go.”

Your heart shattered.

“No,” you choked out, shaking your head violently, refusing to believe this was happening. “I’m not leaving. I’m not walking away from you.”

Joel’s face hardened, though his eyes betrayed the storm inside him. He took a step back, deliberately creating distance between you both. “I already did, darlin’.”

A sob escaped you, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe. Your chest ached; your lungs empty despite the cold air filling the room. It felt surreal, like you were living a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

“Fine,” you whispered, your voice ragged. You wiped angrily at your tears, glaring at him through the blur. “If you want me to go, I’ll go.”

“I hope you know what you’re losing.”

Joel didn’t respond. He didn’t move. And when you finally stepped out into the cold December night, suitcase in hand, the sound of the door closing behind you felt like the final nail in the coffin of everything you had built together.

It wasn’t until you were gone—until the silence swallowed the room whole—that Joel let his mask fall. His knees buckled, and he sank onto the couch, his head in his hands as tears slipped through his fingers.

Because he knew.

He knew exactly what he was losing.

And he left you walk away with nowhere to go.

“Hey,” he said, clearing his throat. “I—I wasn’t sure if you’d...” He trailed off, unsure how to finish.

There was a pause, and then you spoke. “I wasn’t sure either.”

His heart clenched. He wanted to say a hundred things, to tell you how much he missed you, how every day without you had been a slow, aching torture. But all he managed was: “Thanks for calling.”

“I wasn’t sure I should,” you admitted, your voice almost a whisper. “Joel, why?

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because it’s Christmas. And because...” He ran a hand over his face, forcing the words out. “Because I’ve been a damn fool. I didn’t fight for us when I should’ve. And not a day’s gone by where I don’t regret it.”

The silence on the other end felt unbearable. “I know I don’t deserve this,” he added quickly. “But I just needed to hear your voice. Even if it’s just this once.”

His words cut through the cold night air, stirring something deep inside you. Joel had never been good at talking about his feelings, and hearing him now, his voice raw and unsteady, you realized just how much this call meant to him.

“You hurt me, Joel,” you said quietly, your voice trembling. “I gave you everything, and you... you pushed me away.”

“I know,” he said, his voice thick. “I know I did. I was scared, alright? Scared of messing up, of losing you... and I ended up doin’ just that.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes stinging. “And now? What’s changed?”

“I have,” he said without hesitation. “I’ve had a year to think about every mistake I made, every time I let my pride get in the way. I’m not sayin’ I’ve got it all figured out, but... I know I can’t go another year without you, darlin’.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

“Joel,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“Just tell me if there’s a chance,” he said, his voice breaking. “Even the smallest one. I’ll do whatever it takes, I swear it.”

“Are you alone?” you asked, feeling your voice trembling.

Joel froze for a second, caught off guard by the question. He exhaled softly, his breath shaky. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice low and rough. “It’s just me and some burnt cookies.”

Your heart ached at his words, but a small, broken laugh escaped you at his words. Burnt cookies. Joel had never been much of a baker. That was your thing. And yet, every Christmas, he’d insist on helping or more accurately, on getting in the way, while you made batch after batch of cookies.

“You burned them?” you asked softly, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips through the tears.

“‘Course I did,” Joel grumbled, though there was no bite to it. “Turns out, I’m no better at bakin’ now than I was then.” He hesitated before adding, almost shyly, “Guess it’s not as fun when you’re not here to yell at me for sneakin’ the dough.”

“Joel, I swear to God, if you eat one more spoonful of that dough—”

He grinned, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, before scooping up another bite and popping it into his mouth. “What? I’m just makin’ sure it’s good, darlin’. Quality control.”

It was like that every single time, you’d roll your eyes, only for him to pull you into his arms and press a kiss to your lips, soft and lingering, tasting of sugar and butter.

You’d tried to scold him, but he always made you laugh instead, his hands sneaking around your waist to pull you close. The cookies always took twice as long as they should’ve, and more flour ended up on the two of you than in the dough. But those moments had been yours—sweet, simple, and full of a kind of love you didn’t realize you’d taken for granted until it was gone.

“Do you remember?” you whispered, your voice trembling.

Joel’s breath hitched on the other end of the line. “Every second of it,” he admitted softly. “I remember how you’d get that little crease in your brow when you were concentratin’, tryin’ to make everything perfect. And how I’d ruin it all just to get you to look at me instead.”

You smiled through your tears, the memories making your chest ache. “You never helped. You just kissed me the whole time.”

“Well,” Joel said, his voice thick but warmer now, “you didn’t seem to mind too much.”

You swallowed hard, pressing your hand to your chest as if it could stop the way your heart ached for him. For all of it. “I didn’t,” you admitted quietly. “I loved that.”

There was a pause, heavy and delicate all at once.

“I miss you,” Joel said finally, his voice low and rough. “I’ve missed us. Not just the cookies, or the traditions... but you, darlin’. I miss seein’ you smile. I miss hearin’ your laugh when I did somethin’ dumb. I miss... kissin’ you in the middle of a mess we made together.”

Your throat tightened, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. How was it that Joel always managed to say the exact words you’d been afraid to admit to yourself?

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you whispered. “It makes it harder.”

“What?” he asked, hopeful somehow.

"To hate you" you said, bluntly.

Joel went quiet on the other end of the line. The soft crackle of the connection was the only sound between you, filling the heavy silence where words struggled to exist. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, as though he was afraid saying it out loud might break you both.

“I don’t want you to hate me, darlin’.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressing the heel of your palm against your forehead to stop the tears. “Well, it would’ve been easier if you’d stayed away.”

“I tried,” Joel admitted.

You could picture him sitting there, in the same living room where you’d spent so many nights living together. You imagined the empty house around him, quiet and cold, without the warmth the two of you used to fill it with.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence on the line felt heavier now, like it was holding both your hearts in its grip.

“I thought—” you started, then stopped, the words catching in your throat. I thought you’d moved on, you wanted to say. But you couldn’t. You weren’t ready to admit that fear aloud, not yet.

Joel seemed to understand anyway. “There’s no one else,” he said softly. “There never could be. I—I didn’t want to make you think I was waitin’, like I was hopin’ for somethin’ I didn’t deserve. But I couldn’t... I couldn’t bring myself to move on. You’re it for me.”

Your breath hitched, tears welling up as his words sank in. You’re it for me. Joel Miller, stubborn and guarded as he’d always been, was laying himself bare in a way he never had before.

“Why now, Joel?” you whispered, your voice cracking. “Why tonight?”

He let out a heavy breath. “Because i'm in love with you” he said, leaving no room for doubting “And because I couldn’t let another month pass without tellin’ you what’s in my heart. Even if it’s too late... I needed you to know.”

The line went quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t the kind of silence that felt heavy with regret. It felt different—like a small flicker of something you weren’t ready to name just yet.

“Get some sleep, Joel,” you murmured softly, surprising even yourself.

He chuckled lightly, a sound you hadn’t realized you’d missed so much. “Alright, baby. I will. You too.”

“Goodnight,” you whispered.

“Goodnight,” Joel replied, his voice soft and warm.

You hung up the phone and let it rest against your chest as you lay back on the couch, tears still wet on your cheeks.

You stood up to go back inside the house and the room felt still, like the world had paused just for you to breathe, to take in everything that had happened. The faint glow of the Christmas lights cast soft, colorful patterns on the walls. It felt bittersweet, like the warmth of a memory that wouldn’t quite let go.

Your chest ached with the weight of it all. Joel’s voice still lingered in your mind, the way he’d said baby, soft, familiar, like it belonged to you and no one else. It had been so long since you’d heard it, and it stirred something in you you’d tried to bury. Something tender and raw, something that reminded you of stolen kisses in the kitchen, of his arms wrapped around you on cold nights, of the way he used to make you feel like home wasn’t a place but a person.

You wiped at your cheeks, sniffling quietly. “Damn you, Joel Miller,” you whispered to the empty room, but your voice lacked conviction. The truth was, you didn’t know how to feel. Angry? Relieved? Hopeful?

“Are you okay?” your mother’s voice broke through the stillness, soft but laced with concern.

You startled slightly, turning toward the sound. She stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim glow of the hall light, her face etched with the quiet worry only a mother could carry.

You tried to smile, to brush it off like you always did, but the tears still wet on your cheeks betrayed you. “Yeah,” you croaked, your voice hoarse from the emotion threatening to spill over. “I’m fine.”

She tilted her head, unconvinced, and took a slow step closer. “Sweetheart...”

The way she said it made your composure wobble. You looked away, blinking rapidly as if that would erase the evidence of the storm swirling inside you. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just... Christmas stuff.”

She didn’t say anything right away, just moved to sit beside you on the couch. Her warmth and presence were enough to break something loose inside you, and for a moment, you just sat there in silence.

After a long, heavy pause, you finally spoke, your voice trembling. “I have to go.”

Your mother turned to you, her brows knitting together in quiet confusion. “Go? Where?”

You swallowed hard, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap. “I... I don’t know…home?”

Her expression softened, and she gave a small, knowing nod. “To Joel?”

You glanced at her, startled that she understood so quickly, but you shouldn’t have been surprised. Mothers always knew. “I just-” You broke off, your voice faltering.

She studied you for a long moment, then reached out to gently clasp your hand. “Then go,” she said quietly, squeezing it in encouragement. “But go for the right reasons, sweetheart. Not because it’s Christmas, or because you feel like you owe him something. Go if you think it’s what your heart needs.”

You blinked at her, your throat tight. “What if I regret it?”

She smiled softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “And what if you don’t?”

The question hung in the air like a challenge, one that settled deep in your chest.

You exhaled shakily, then stood, your movements unsteady but resolute. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, though you weren’t sure if it was more for her benefit or your own.

She gave you a gentle smile and stayed seated, as if she knew this was something you had to do on your own. “Take a coat,” she reminded you softly.

You nodded, grabbing your coat and scarf off the rack by the door. The cold air outside hit you immediately as you stepped out, but it didn’t slow your steps as you headed to your car. Your heart pounded, nerves swirling in your stomach as you turned the ignition and pulled out onto the quiet, dark road.

Joel sat slouched on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the Christmas tree he’d half-heartedly decorated earlier that day. The glow of the lights cast soft, uneven patterns on the floor, but he wasn’t really seeing them. His mind was stuck somewhere else—on the sound of your voice, on the quiet goodnight that hung heavier than he could have imagined.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, tired in a way that sleep wouldn’t fix. It was the kind of weariness that came from missing someone so deeply it felt like it hollowed you out.

A sudden knock at the door startled him. He frowned, glancing at the clock on the wall.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, grumbling under his breath as he trudged toward the door. “Tommy, I swear I’m fi—”

He pulled the door open mid-sentence, the complaint dying on his lips when he saw who it was.

You.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You just stood there on his doorstep, wrapped in your coat and scarf, your cheeks pink from the cold, your breath visible in the freezing air. Your wide eyes met his, filled with something he couldn’t name—surprise, maybe, or uncertainty.

Joel froze, his hand still on the doorknob, his heart thudding hard against his chest. He blinked, like he was trying to make sure you were real. “Baby?”

“Hi,” you said softly, the single word carrying so much weight it nearly knocked the air out of him.

Joel let out a shaky breath, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “What... what’re you doin’ here?”

You shifted the bag in your hands, your fingers clutching the handles tightly, like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “I, uh... I brought some things to bake cookies,” you said quietly, your voice trembling just enough to betray the emotions you were trying to hold back.

Joel just stared at you, completely still, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. The words sank in slowly, and something in his chest tightened—hard and sudden—until he felt like he might break right there on the spot.

“You... you brought stuff to bake cookies?” he repeated, his voice so low it was barely a whisper.

You nodded, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I figured... if it’s just you and some burnt cookies this year, maybe you could use a little help.”

Joel exhaled sharply, a shaky breath that sounded dangerously close to a sob. He turned his face slightly, as if trying to gather himself, but there was no hiding the way his eyes shone in the soft light spilling from the doorway.

For a long moment, he didn’t move, didn’t speak, he just looked at you, like you were something fragile and precious, something he couldn’t believe was right in front of him. Finally, he cleared his throat and stepped back, his voice rough as he spoke. “C’mon in, baby. It’s too damn cold out there.”

You stepped inside, the warmth of home enveloping you, after being away for a year, this house still carried the faint scent of pine, Joel and something a little burnt, probably the remnants of his earlier baking disaster. Joel shut the door behind you, lingering for a moment before turning to face you again.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said softly, his voice uneven, like he was fighting to hold something back.

“I know,” you replied, meeting his gaze.

Joel swallowed hard, the weight of your words sinking into him like a balm to every ache he’d carried for far too long. “You always know how to fix my messes,” he said, his lips curling into a small, almost wistful smile.

You gave him a look, a teasing edge to your voice despite the tension still lingering between you. “Well, someone’s gotta make sure you don’t burn down the kitchen.”

Joel let out a quiet laugh, gruff and hoarse, but real. It sounded like the kind of laugh that had been buried for too long, and the sound of it made your heart squeeze in your chest.

“Yeah,” he said softly, watching you with that same unreadable expression. “Guess someone does.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the air between you thick with unspoken words and years of memories. Then Joel sniffed, scrubbing a hand down his face as if to steady himself. “You still use that same recipe?”

“Of course I do,” you replied, your voice light but steady. “You’re gonna help me this time, though. And I mean actually help.”

Joel watched you for another long moment before he turned toward the kitchen, clearing his throat again. “Alright, then,” he said, his voice thick with emotion he couldn’t quite hide. “Let’s make some cookies.”

The kitchen was filled with the warm, sweet smell of freshly baked cookies. A few floury handprints stained the counter, mixing bowls were stacked haphazardly in the sink, and a couple of slightly misshapen cookies sat cooling on the tray. It wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it felt like you. Like him. Like the pieces of something familiar were falling back into place.

You set the final cookie down on the tray, brushing a bit of flour from your cheek with the back of your hand. “Well,” you said, stepping back to admire the messy success, “I think we did it.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. When you turned to look at him, you found him leaning against the kitchen doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. There was something soft in the way he looked at you, something so Joel,it made your breath hitch.

“What?” you asked, self-conscious under his gaze.

He shook his head slowly, that smile growing just a little. “Nothin’,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Just…you look even more beautiful than I remember.”

The words hit you like a wave, sweeping away all the uncertainty you’d been holding onto. Your heart skipped in your chest, and your breath caught in your throat, leaving you momentarily speechless. You hadn't expected that—hadn’t expected him to say that, especially after all this time.

You glanced away for a moment, suddenly unsure of yourself. The kitchen suddenly felt warmer, the space between you two too close, and yet it felt like everything was finally falling into place, as if you’d both been waiting for this moment without knowing it.

“Joel…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you tried to steady your breath. You met his gaze again, and this time, there was something different there—a vulnerability, a longing that mirrored your own.

He stepped forward, slowly, as if giving you the space to decide what came next. But you didn’t pull away. You stood there, rooted in the moment, caught somewhere between the past and the present, unsure of what the future held but certain that, for once, you wanted to face it with him.

“I mean it,” Joel added, his voice soft but unwavering. “You always did have a way of lightin’ up a room, darlin’. But right now… you’re more than I remember.”

A lump formed in your throat, and for a second, you couldn’t hold back the emotion that swelled within you. It was like he had reached right into the depths of what you’d been afraid to feel and pulled it all to the surface. You reached out instinctively, your hand brushing his arm, the warmth of his skin making everything feel so real again.

“Joel, I—” Your voice broke, and you paused, unsure of the words.

Joel didn't let you finish your sentence. Before you could gather your thoughts, before the words could fall into place, he closed the gap between you. His hand found your cheek, his thumb grazing the soft skin there, as if he needed to feel you, to make sure this wasn’t just a dream. His lips met yours, soft at first, hesitant, as though he was giving you the chance to pull away, but you didn’t.

You kissed him back, your hands coming up to tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer as the familiar taste of him flooded your senses. It was like stepping into a memory, one you’d been holding on to without even realizing it. All the years, the distance, the pain—all of it seemed to melt away in the warmth of his embrace.

The kiss deepened, slow and tender, and you let yourself lose in it, in him, in the feeling that maybe, just maybe, this was how things were meant to be all along. There were no questions, no doubts, only the comforting certainty of him being right there, of the connection you had never truly lost.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavily, you gazing the floor instead of his eyes.

His hands were still on your face, his fingers brushing over your skin like he was memorizing every part of you again.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” Joel murmured, his voice rough with emotion. His eyes searched yours, vulnerable and open in a way that made your heart flutter.

“Are you going to push me away again?” you asked, meeting his eyes with some fear dancing on them.

Joel’s expression faltered for a moment, his gaze flickering with a mix of fear and hope. He searched your face, as if trying to understand what you were really asking, what you really meant.

“No. I will never do that again.” he answered, “I was scared,” he admitted. “Scared of not bein’ enough for you. Scared of how people talked about us. Scared that you’d wake up one day and realize you deserved better.”

“I never thought that,” you said softly, finally meeting his gaze.

Joel swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. “I was a damn fool for pushin’ you away. And if I could go back and fix it, I would. But I know I can’t. I just…” He paused, his voice breaking. “I just needed you to know how sorry I am.”

“Joel,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “I don’t know if we can go back to what we had. But…maybe we can start somewhere new.”

Joel’s breath caught, hope blooming in his chest. “I’d like that,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’d like that a lot.”

The silence that followed felt different than before. It wasn’t filled with regret or confusion, but with a shared understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of what had been lost and what was still possible. You stayed close, your hands gently resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips.

Joel finally let out a shaky breath, as if he’d been holding it in for far too long. His hands came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, like he was memorizing the feel of you again. "I’m not askin' for all of it back. Just... a chance. To show you that I can be the man you deserve. The man I should’ve been all along."

You nodded slowly, your heart heavy but hopeful. “I’m not sure what this looks like, Joel. But we can figure it out, right? Together?”

A soft, sincere smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. Joel pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your face as he looked at you with love and something more vulnerable, but what was more vulnerable than love? He took a slow breath, and then his gaze shifted toward the window, the quiet fall of snowflakes beginning to collect on the sill outside.

His voice was soft, almost reverent. "Look at that," he murmured, his eyes tracing the peaceful scene outside. "First snow of the year."

You turned to look out the window, your heart fluttering as you watched the snow gently blanket the world in white, the quiet stillness of the moment wrapping around you both like a cozy blanket. It felt surreal, almost like something out of a dream, a dream you didn’t want to wake from.

Being this close to the man you loved felt like a dream.

Joel stepped behind you, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close again. His chin rested on your shoulder as he whispered in your ear, the warmth of his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said, his voice full of raw tenderness, the words wrapped in the kind of love that had been buried for too long but never truly gone.

Before you could respond, he turned you gently, his hands sliding down your arms to hold your waist as he kissed you again, soft and slow, like this moment was meant for both of you, like it was always meant to be this way. The world outside faded, leaving only the quiet hum of your heartbeat and the warmth of his touch, the promise of something new blooming between you two.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt like home again.

[seriiousgiirl]

𝐼𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ݁𝒿𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓍 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇.⊹ ₊ ݁.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. alternate universe - canon divergence, post-silent Hill 2, angst and fluff and smut, touch-starved, redemption, grief, mourning, psychological trauma and horror, mutual pining, James adopted Laura, age difference, smut, vaginal sex, rough sex, rough kissing, aftercare, daddy kink, James deserves his happy ending, James is desperate and pathetic, based on the Silent Hill Games and mostly the remake

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Three years after the harrowing events in Silent Hill, James Sunderland has survived the haunting memories of his past but carries the heavy burden of grief and guilt. Adopting Laura, James strives to create a normal life for them both, but the echoes of his former life linger, haunting him in moments of solitude.

As he navigates the challenges of fatherhood and a corporate job, James grapples with PTSD and the lingering shadows of his late wife, Mary. His daily interactions are fraught with anxiety, especially when it comes to Laura's teacher, Y/n. Young, vibrant, and filled with warmth. But as Y/n becomes an unexpected source of comfort and tension in James's life. He is drawn to her kindness and beauty, yet he feels undeserving of her attention, burdened by the ghosts of his past.

When Y/n reaches out with genuine concern for James's well-being, he wrestles with feelings of guilt, lust and longing, torn between the desire for connection and the fear of betraying Mary's memory. As James's pent-up frustrations bubble to the surface, he finds himself navigating a complicated emotional landscape where love, loss, and redemption intertwine.

❛ Part 2 ⋅ masterlist ⋅ ao3 ⋅ requests ❜

➜ ┊ a/n: Hello everyone! After years of being more or less in the Silent Hill fandom, the remake rather inspired me... :') After seeing how cute James is in it, I felt like I was rediscovering his character. The story is a bit different from what we usually see, but I hope it will appeal to the (few, I don't think many would be interested in a silent hill fanfic) people who read it.

➜ ┊: chapter 1/?.

James woke up again, his body snapping upright in bed, his breath ragged and uneven as if he had just surfaced from drowning. His chest rose and fell with frantic breaths that refused to calm, his heart hammering against his ribcage like a prisoner desperate to escape. The room around him was silent, still, and blanketed in shadows, the faintest silver glow of the moon seeping through the thin, worn curtains. It painted his surroundings in an eerie light, enough to make out the vague shapes of his furniture but not enough to chase away the weight of the darkness.

He knew it was early—much too early. The alarm on his nightstand wouldn’t go off for hours, not until the unforgiving numbers clicked over to 7 a.m. He set it religiously, every night, clinging to the hope that one day he’d wake naturally to the sound, as if that simple act could restore some semblance of normalcy to his broken life. 

But that never happened.

James never woke peacefully anymore. His body, his mind, refused to grant him that mercy. Instead, he jolted awake in a cold sweat, his body rigid, his pulse racing. Each time, it felt as though he was being pulled from some unseen nightmare—ripped out of a hellish dreamscape that he couldn’t remember clearly but always left its mark. The fear, the panic, the suffocating sense of dread stayed with him, lingering like smoke in the air long after his eyes had adjusted to the dim glow of his bedroom.

He pressed his palm against his face, wiping away the sheen of sweat that clung to his skin. His body felt tense, coiled like a spring that had been wound too tightly. His muscles ached from the constant strain, from the battles he fought every night within the confines of his mind. The nightmares weren’t just dreams. They were fragments of a past that refused to stay buried, haunting him in the dead of night when the world outside was quiet and his mind had no distractions to keep the demons at bay.

The medication bottles on his bedside table gleamed faintly in the moonlight, their labels worn from use. He reached for them out of habit, his fingers brushing the cool surface, but he didn’t open them. No matter how many pills he swallowed, how many prescriptions doctors wrote, nothing ever worked. Sleep was supposed to be a sanctuary, a refuge from the waking world, but for James, it had become another battleground.

He let his hand drop back to his lap, staring down at his shaking fingers. He could feel the tension still coursing through him, the residue of whatever nightmare had dragged him awake. His body hadn’t yet realised he was safe, that it was just a dream, and the adrenaline still pumped through his veins. Every night, it was the same—this restless terror that clung to him, trapping him in a cycle he couldn’t escape. He longed for sleep, yet feared it in equal measure, knowing that the darkness of his subconscious held more horrors than the light of day ever could.

For a moment, he considered lying back down, closing his eyes, and trying again. 

But the thought alone made his stomach twist.

With a sigh, James decided to give up on sleep altogether. There was no use lying there, waiting for his heart to calm down or for the remnants of his nightmare to fade. His legs still trembled as he swung them over the side of the bed, the cool floor beneath him grounding him just enough to pull himself up. The shadows in the room seemed to shift as he stood, though he knew it was his mind playing tricks again. He had long stopped trusting the darkness.

He moved carefully, trying to stay silent as he made his way to the door, not wanting to wake Laura. She was the only constant in his life now, the only reason he hadn’t completely unravelled. But even the thought of her, sleeping peacefully down the hall, wasn’t enough to ease the tremor in his hands. As he stepped out of the bedroom, the familiar creak of the floorboards echoed too loud in the silence of the house, and for a fleeting moment, his breath hitched.

Sometimes, in these quiet hours, he could swear he heard them—the monsters. That same sickening creaking sound they made, their grotesque forms dragging across the cold. Or worse, the heavy, slow scrap of metal—a blade being dragged along the ground. His body tensed, instinctively waiting for the ominous presence of that thing— he came to call Pyramid Head. He hadn’t seen it in three years, but its presence still lingered, like a ghost lurking in the corners of his mind. His chest tightened as he imagined that scraping sound growing closer, louder, but he knew… or at least, he tried to convince himself it wasn’t real. Not anymore.

On the worst days, though, it wasn’t just the monsters. 

Sometimes, he would hear her—Mary. Her voice, soft and sweet, like the Mary he remembered before everything went wrong, calling out to him. It always started the same way, a gentle whisper at first, like she was in the next room, waiting for him. And each time, it grew louder, more urgent, until it was a siren’s call, relentless and cruel. It was enough to make his heart stop, to make him question everything, and then he’d remember—he knew where that call would lead. Straight into oblivion. Straight into the abyss of his own guilt.

On other nights, he could swear he felt Maria—her warmth next to him in bed, the way her body would press against his. It was so vivid, so painfully real, as though she hadn’t died in his arms multiple times, as though Silent Hill hadn’t swallowed her whole. She had been a ghost, a reflection of everything he had lost, and yet… sometimes she felt alive in those moments. His doctors told him it was all hallucinations, the remnants of trauma deeply embedded in his mind. Certified and explained away in clinical terms, but knowing that didn’t change how real it felt in those fleeting, terrifying seconds.

Even now, as he stood in the hallway, his breath uneven, James couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere—beneath the layers of his fragile reality—the horrors were still there, watching, waiting.

James padded quietly into the kitchen, his bare feet brushing against the cool tiles as he reached for a glass. The water flowed smoothly from the tap, cool and refreshing, and he drank it straight, the crispness washing over him. It helped clear his mind, if only for a moment, pushing back the lingering echoes of the night’s terrors. 

After finishing the glass, he flicked on the small lamp in the living room, its soft glow spilling light across the space, chasing away the oppressive darkness. He made his way to the couch, settling himself in front of the window, where the city still lay shrouded in early morning silence. Outside, the world was just beginning to stir, but here in this moment, everything felt suspended in time.

They had moved far away from Silent Hill, away from Maine altogether, as if he was still trying to escape the town’s haunting pull. When Laura had expressed her desire for a place near the coast, saying she wanted to feel the warmth of the sun and breathe in the salty scent of the ocean, he had obliged her wishes. It was the least he could do for the little girl who had become his lifeline, the one bright spot in his otherwise dark world. It had taken time, but he had learned to appreciate the small things—like the sound of waves crashing against the shore and the way the sunlight danced on the water’s surface.

He pulled his journal from the side table, the worn leather cover familiar against his fingers. The pages were filled with thoughts, memories, and an ongoing dialogue with himself—one that his doctor had encouraged. Writing was meant to help him sort through his feelings, to separate reality from the nightmares that still clung to him like shadows. It was a way to document the moments that felt tangible, grounding him in the present.

With the pen poised above the page, he took a deep breath, letting the silence of the morning wrap around him. 

Date: [XX/10/1993]

Another night of waking up in a cold sweat. The dreams feel heavier lately, more vivid. I can still hear Mary’s voice sometimes, like she’s calling out to me. I know it’s not real, but the longing… It’s hard to escape. I need to remember that I’m here now. That I have Laura. She needs me to be present. I need to plan my day—take her to the beach, show her the tide pools, maybe? She deserves to explore, to laugh, to feel alive. Maybe it will help me too.

James paused, staring at the words he’d just written. The ink was still wet, and he felt the weight of each line pressing against his chest, a mixture of hope and dread swirling within him. 

He continued, allowing his thoughts to flow onto the page.

I’ve been thinking about the way the ocean looks at dawn. It’s a beautiful sight, the horizon slowly illuminated by the first light of day. I want to share that with Laura. She deserves to see the world as it is. Maybe if I can show her that, it’ll help me remember what it feels like to be alive, too.

He turned the page, feeling the familiar texture beneath his fingertips, grounding him in a moment that felt too fragile. The nightmares are starting to blur again. It’s like I’m drifting between memories and dreams. I know I should talk to Dr. Fischer about it, but I hate feeling so exposed. Every time I sit across from him, it’s like peeling back layers of skin. I don’t want to keep reliving the past, but I also know I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist. It’s a part of me now—part of what makes me who I am.

But sometimes, I wonder if I’m doing enough. If I’m enough. Laura is so full of life—she deserves happiness, yet I feel like a ghost in my own home. The laughter that fills this place is often followed by a silence that weighs heavily on me, as if I’m a spectator in my own life, watching a play where I don’t belong. 

He paused, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, fighting against the swell of loneliness that threatened to overwhelm him. 

Some days, I can still hear Mary’s laughter, the way it used to light up the room, but now it’s a whisper in the wind. I wish I could reach out to her, ask her for forgiveness, tell her how much I miss her. But she’s gone, and I’m left with nothing but my guilt and the memories that won’t let me go. It’s a bitter irony—I have another chance at life with Laura, yet I feel more alone than ever.

I thought time would heal me, that the scars would fade, but each day feels like a new reminder of what I’ve lost. I watch Laura play, her laughter cutting through the silence, and it fills me with joy and pain all at once. I want to protect her, to shield her from the darkness I carry. But how can I do that when I’m still fighting my own battles?

Anyway, plan for today: Take Laura to the beach, explore the tide pools, and have a picnic.

As he continued to write, the rhythm of his thoughts began to settle, the initial chaos giving way to clarity. He documented everything he hoped to achieve that day, the things that could distract him. 

After some time, the soft patter of small feet echoed in the hallway, and Laura emerged from her room, her hair tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep. She settled next to James on the couch, curling her legs beneath her as she leaned against his shoulder, still waking up. 

“Did you even sleep at all?” she mumbled, her voice thick with the remnants of slumber. 

James chuckled softly, the sound warm and gentle. “Just a little. You know how it is,” he replied, glancing down at her. The early morning light filtered through the window, illuminating her features and casting a soft glow around them. 

“Not again,” Laura sighed, shaking her head in mock exasperation. “You should really take better care of yourself, you know.”

James smiled, closing his journal and setting it aside, feeling the comforting weight of their shared silence. His relationship with Laura had evolved significantly since that first day they met. In the beginning, there was an undeniable tension, a wall between them built from grief and uncertainty. Laura had been sharp-tongued and defiant, often testing his patience with her stubbornness. But over time, that wall had crumbled, brick by brick, revealing a bond that had become more profound and genuine. 

“Maybe I just like the quiet,” he teased, nudging her lightly with his shoulder. “It gives me time to think.”

Laura rolled her eyes, though a smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah, right. More like you spend it worrying about everything,” she shot back, her familiar sass coming through. But he could sense the softness in her demeanour, the way she had begun to let him in, and it filled him with gratitude.

There were still moments when she wouldn’t call him “Dad”—it felt too heavy, too final—but there had been instances where the word slipped out, once or twice. The first time he had felt a rush of warmth and something almost like fear at her words. It had caught him off guard, pulling at his heartstrings in a way he hadn’t expected. It was one night after a particularly rough day at school. 

The kids had been relentless, and when she had come home, her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She had cried so much that night, seeking solace in his arms, and in that moment of vulnerability, she had whispered it—Dad—like it was a fragile promise, something she wanted to believe in.

He had held her tightly, whispering reassurances as she poured out her heart. It was one of the hardest days for both of them, but that single word had changed everything, reinforcing their bond in ways he never thought possible. 

The shrill sound of James’s alarm cut through the quiet morning, signalling that it was finally 7 a.m. He groaned softly, the sudden noise pulling him from the lingering remnants of his thoughts. “Time to get moving,” he muttered to himself before swinging his legs off the couch and standing up.

“Laura,” he called out gently, “you need to get ready for school.” 

Laura groaned but slowly pushed herself upright, her hair sticking up in tousled spikes. “Do I have to?” she whined, rubbing her eyes.

“Yes, you do,” James replied with a chuckle, heading into the kitchen to start breakfast. He could already hear her muttering under her breath as she dragged herself away from the comfort of the couch, but he couldn’t help but smile at her antics. As he prepared breakfast, the scent of eggs and toast filled the air, mixing with the cool October breeze that slipped in through the slightly ajar window. 

He could hear the soft shuffle of Laura getting ready in the background, her footsteps echoing through the hallway.

When breakfast was ready, he set the table, placing a plate in front of her just as she joined him. They ate together in comfortable silence, the clinking of forks the only sound between them for a few moments. 

“So, there’s this kid in class…” Laura began, her voice a mix of enthusiasm and worry. As she recounted her stories, James listened attentively, nodding along as she shared her concerns about a class project and the kids who were teasing her again. She spoke with an earnestness that made him proud, she was a smart little girl.

“...and I do think the teacher likes me a lot,” she finished, her voice dropping slightly, smiling shyly.

James reached across the table, placing a comforting hand on hers. “You’re doing great, Laura. I’m so proud of you,” he encouraged, hoping to convey his support. 

Once they finished breakfast, he cleared the table while she dashed back to her room to grab her backpack. The familiar morning routine helped ground him, a stark contrast to the chaos that often filled his mind.

Then, James returned to his room, feeling the familiar weight of his thoughts returning. He turned on the water for a shower, the warm spray washing over him, almost as if he were trying to cleanse himself of his sins and guilt. Each droplet felt like it could wash away a little more of his guilt, his pain, and his memories.

After his shower, he stood in front of the mirror, towel drying his ash-blond hair and tidying it up, shaving his stubble. The cold air from outside seeped through the window, sending a shiver down his spine as he dressed for the day. He pulled on a simple shirt and jeans. 

But as James stood in front of his closet, the morning light filtering through the curtains, his gaze fell upon his signature khaki jacket hanging quietly amidst his other clothes. For a moment, he hesitated, his heart tightening.

The jacket felt heavy with the weight of the past. He recalled the feel of it against his skin as he navigated the fog-laden streets, the chill of the air contrasting sharply with the warmth it provided. It had shielded him from the elements, yes, but it had also cloaked him in the pain of his choices, the guilt that clung to him like a second skin. 

James swallowed hard, staring at the jacket, the muted fabric whispering secrets of the past. He could almost hear the echoes of Mary’s voice, feel the pang of loss that accompanied every memory. It was as if the jacket was tainted, infused with the blood and tears of that time—but also her scent, her warmth and gentle touch.

Perhaps… Today, he could indulge himself.

He took a deep breath, fighting against the swell of anxiety that rose within him. This jacket is just a piece of clothing, James, he reminded himself, yet it felt like so much more. With a decisive moment, he pulled it from the hanger and slipped it on, the familiar weight settling comfortably on his shoulders. 

James looked at himself in the mirror, the reflection staring back at him was a man still fighting battles. With a shameful sigh, he adjusted the collar, feeling the jacket’s fabric against his skin. When he stepped outside, the brisk October wind greeted him, a sharp contrast to the warmth inside. 

Laura stood at the door, a look of surprise mixed with concern crossing her face.

“Why are you still wearing that jacket?” she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gestured to the fabric. “You know… after everything that happened in...” She couldn’t bring herself to say the name of the haunting town.

James shrugged, a faint smile creeping onto his face. “I still like it. It’s comfortable.” 

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “You’re so weird, James,” she teased, nudging him with her shoulder as they made their way down the path toward the car.

“Weird or not, let’s get you to school on time little girl,” he said, his tone quite firm. Together, they stepped into the brisk morning air, ready to face whatever the day had in store.

‧───────────────

Dropping Laura off at school had become a routine, but for James, it was anything but simple. As they approached the bustling entrance, he felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a sense of dread creeping over him like a heavy fog. It wasn’t the school itself or the noise of children chattering and laughing; it was the attention he attracted.

In a small town where traditional family structures were the norm, a single father with a daughter who didn’t even remotely resemble him stood out like a sore thumb. James had chosen to keep his past private, and he was grateful that Laura’s adoption remained a secret. He avoided any conversations that might lead to questions about their relationship or as to why he was alone, fearing the scrutiny that came with revealing the truth. After all, in the eyes of the world, he was just a man dropping off his daughter, and that was how he wanted it to stay.

As they parked and stepped out of the car, the sun shone brightly, but it felt cold against his skin. He could already sense the gazes of the mothers lingering on him as he helped Laura with her backpack. Their eyes were sharp, curious, sizing him up like sharks circling prey, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of vulnerability. James kept his head down, focusing on Laura as she adjusted her straps and prepared to head inside.

“Have a good day, okay?” he said, forcing a smile as she turned to him, her enthusiasm bubbling over as she waved goodbye.

“Bye, James!” she called, her voice full of cheer as she dashed toward the school gates, her ponytail swinging behind her. 

With her back turned, James felt the full weight of the mothers’ stares. He could almost hear the whispers beneath their breath, speculating about him—why he was alone, where Laura’s mother was, and why they didn’t look alike. It was all too easy to imagine the conclusions they would jump to, and he wanted no part of it. 

Every step he took toward his car felt like walking through a minefield. He avoided eye contact at all costs, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground as he navigated through the throngs of parents and children. Conversations buzzed around him, but he focused solely on his breathing, trying to ignore the anxiety tightening around his chest.

As he passed a small group of mothers standing near the entrance, he couldn’t help but catch snippets of their conversations, even as he tried to block them out.

“Did you see him? He looks so sad,” one of them whispered, her voice dripping with faux concern. “Who could leave such a handsome man alone?”

James felt a familiar flush creep up his neck, a mix of embarrassment and irritation. He quickened his pace, but their comments followed him like shadows.

“I know, right? A single father is so sexy,” another chimed in. “I wish my husband was as committed to our son’s school life.”

He clenched his jaw, biting back a retort. The last thing he wanted was to be part of their gossip, yet he was helpless against the words that floated through the air like smoke. Each compliment felt like a reminder of everything he wanted to avoid—attention, scrutiny, and the inevitable questions.

As he reached the edge of the parking lot, he heard another mother say, “I heard there’s a parents-teacher meeting tonight. Can you imagine? He’ll probably be all alone again. It’s such a shame.”

The words hit him like a cold slap, and he paused, taking a moment to gather himself. The thought of attending the meeting, sent a fresh wave of anxiety crashing over him. Why did they have to bring that up now?

He finally reached his car, fumbling for his keys in his pocket as he tried to push the whispers from his mind. The weight of judgement lingered in the air, but he didn’t look back. He slipped into the driver’s seat, exhaling slowly as he gripped the steering wheel. “Just another day,” he murmured to himself, willing his heart to calm. 

James had avoided women religiously since he came back, erecting barriers around himself that felt both protective and suffocating. The loss of Mary had left a gaping hole in his heart, one that he couldn’t bear to fill with anyone else. Allowing himself to indulge in the warmth of another felt like an insult to her memory.

In the years following her death, he had retreated into himself, building walls high enough to keep the world—and the painful reminders of his past—at bay. He threw himself into fatherhood, pouring all his energy into raising Laura and ensuring she felt loved and secure. She was his anchor, the one bright spot in the dark fog of his grief. Yet, in avoiding connections with women, he had inadvertently created a deep well of pent-up frustrations within himself—frustrations that simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over at any moment.

Every time he caught himself looking at a woman, whether it was a fleeting glance at a passerby or—especially a longer gaze at Laura’s teacher during a school event, he felt a wave of guilt wash over him. What am I doing? He would ask himself, immediately diverting his eyes, as if the very act of looking was a betrayal of the love he once held dear. He had convinced himself that he wasn’t ready to move forward, but in truth, he was terrified of what that would mean. 

In the quiet moments, when he was alone with his thoughts, he couldn’t help but acknowledge the weight of his solitude. The nights grew long and lonely, and sometimes he found himself longing for the comfort of another person—a hand to hold, a voice to soothe him. 

But the thought of crossing that line felt insurmountable, like stepping onto a precipice with no way back. He often wondered if this self-imposed exile was healthy or just a way of avoiding the inevitable. Deep down, he knew that if he ever did let someone in, it would come with a torrent of emotions he wasn’t prepared to face—the guilt, the grief, and the fear of moving on without forgetting.

Sometimes, when the darkness of the night enveloped him and the oppressive solitude weighed heavily upon his chest, James found himself struggling to resist his deepest, most shameful urges. Alone in the dim light of his bedroom, the air thick with silence, he would reach for the only source of warmth he had left—his own body.

But every time he started to jerk himself, trying to think about anyone other than Mary, he would falter. His thoughts would slip, no matter how hard he tried to redirect them. The moment he ventured into the realm of fantasy, attempting to conjure images of the warmth he longed for, his mind would betray him. Instead of the embrace of another, he would see Mary’s face—her soft smile, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief, the lightness in her laughter that had once filled their home. The memory of her enveloped him, suffocating and punishing him in its intensity, and he would feel a deep-seated shame clawing at his insides.

But jerking off while thinking about his dead wife, the one he had killed, felt utterly wrong. 

With a trembling hand, he'd stroke his hardening cock, trying to drown out the memories that haunted him. But no matter how hard he tried to push them away, they always crept back in, taking over his mind and filling him with an overwhelming sense of guilt. Images of Mary would flood his vision, her soft smile and sparkling eyes etched into his mind, along with the lightness of her laughter that once filled their home.

As he stroked faster, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, he could feel the pressure building inside him. But just as he was about to reach the edge of ecstasy, he would see her face again, and the guilt would consume him. How could he possibly find pleasure in this, knowing what he had done to her? 

The guilt was overwhelming, flooding his senses as he would try to push it all away, but it clung to him like a shadow. Tears would fill his eyes, hot and stinging, blurring his vision as the shame washed over him. He would cry, feeling pathetic and broken, as if indulging in his own body was another betrayal on a long list he had made in his mind. How could I even think of anyone else? He would chastise himself, the guilt wrapping around his heart like a vice, squeezing tighter until it became unbearable.

Knowing that he could never truly find solace in this act, James would eventually release his warm cum spilling onto his hand and stomach. But even in the aftermath of his orgasm, the guilt remained, and he would lie there, spent and broken, wondering how he could ever redeem himself.

It was a cycle of longing and despair that left him feeling more isolated than before. He would swipe at his tears, but they would keep coming, relentless and unyielding. The echoes of his cries seemed to linger in the air, a haunting reminder that he was still trapped in a cycle of grief that he could never escape…

‧───────────────

The day had finally drawn to a close, and the muted hum of office chatter began to fade as the fluorescent lights overhead flickered in their final moments. James gathered his belongings, the familiar weight of his briefcase resting heavily in his hand. The corporate world had wrapped around him like a well-worn coat, the same job he had held before, one that felt both calming and predictable. 

It paid well enough to keep the bills at bay and provided a stable life for him and Laura, allowing him to indulge her little whims—the occasional treat, a new book or doll, or even a day out at the beach. 

As he waved goodbye to his coworkers, offering polite smiles and half-hearted chuckles, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of isolation. Their lives seemed so vibrant, filled with laughter and casual conversations about weekend plans, while he felt like an outsider peering in. Part of him wished he could simply slip away unnoticed, disappearing into the anonymity of the evening. But the thought of the upcoming parent-teacher meeting loomed over him like a dark cloud, the spectre of his insecurities rising to the surface. 

What if Laura’s teacher had concerns about her progress? What if she brought up issues he was completely unaware of? The prospect of engaging in a discussion that could highlight his shortcomings as a parent filled him with an unfamiliar anxiety. He recalled how he had struggled to help her with her homework due to his absent mind, the frustration evident in both their faces as they would argue over James’ implications. Laura would always end up saying that she wished she had a better family…

As he walked through the now empty parking lot, James’s mind drifted to the scenario of the meeting. Maybe it was a bit late, and he secretly hoped Laura’s teacher wouldn’t want to linger past the working usual hour to talk with him. He envisioned himself slipping away, feigning an urgent call or an unforeseen obligation, but guilt gnawed at him, tugging at his conscience. 

He couldn’t let Laura down; she had come to rely on him, and he owed it to her to at least try.

“Just get through it,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head as if to clear the impending doubts swirling in his mind. The crisp October air washed over him like a cleansing wave, invigorating him for just a moment. Inhaling deeply, he felt the coolness slice through the tension that had built up in his chest throughout the day, if only temporarily.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of his ageing car, he turned the key in the ignition, the familiar rumble reassuring him, if only slightly. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; he still had a little time before he needed to pick Laura up from school. As he drove toward the school, the streets blurred by in a rush of colors, and he allowed himself to mentally prepare for the meeting. 

Maybe he could muster enough courage by the time he arrived, but deep down, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that this meeting would push him closer to confronting the ghosts of his past—something he had been desperately trying to avoid.

Thoughts of Mary flitted through his mind, uninvited yet persistent. What would she think of him now? Would she be proud of how he was trying to raise Laura, or would she shake her head in disappointment? These questions haunted him as he navigated the familiar streets. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions roiling within him. 

The school building came into view, and he parked in a spot near the entrance. As he sat there for a moment, staring at the looming structure that housed his daughter’s daily adventures. With a deep breath, he pushed open the car door, stepping out into the cool evening air. 

As he approached the entrance, he reminded himself that this was part of the job of being a parent—a role he was still desperately trying to fully embrace. After all, it was true she deserved more than a father lost in his own grief.

As he approached the school gate, he spotted her standing there, the last child waiting to be picked up. His heart sank at the sight; he had hoped to arrive earlier, to be there for her when the final bell rang. A wave of guilt washed over him, but when Laura turned and her face lit up with a smile, that guilt was momentarily pushed aside.

At least she wasn’t angry. 

“James!” she called out, her voice bright and cheerful, as she stretched out her hand toward him. He could see a small backpack slung over her shoulder, and his heart swelled at how she looked—so much like a little girl embracing the world, unbothered by the worries that often plagued him.

“Hey,” he replied, kneeling slightly to take her small hand in his. 

As he thanked the school attendant, a friendly woman with kind eyes who had watched over Laura, he glanced around, hoping to catch a glimpse of her teacher. He didn’t see anyone lingering by the entrance, and a relieved sigh escaped him. Perhaps she had decided to leave, not waiting for him to discuss whatever concerns she may have had about Laura. That was one less thing for him to handle, and he felt a slight weight lift off his shoulders.

“Let’s go home, shall we?” he suggested, his tone light as he turned to lead Laura away. The sight of her eager nod and bright smile made his heart feel lighter, even if just for a moment. He began to walk toward the car, feeling a sense of normalcy return to him—until a soft voice called out behind him.

“Mr. Sunderland!” 

Here’s an expansion on James' perception of you:

James turned, the sound of your voice pulling him back from his thoughts. You were striding toward him, your expression a mix of determination and urgency, the late afternoon light catching in your soft hair. 

There was something striking about your presence that always made his heart race, even amidst the rising anxiety he felt at these interactions. It was as if you carried a warmth with you, an energy that seemed to radiate in the space around you, igniting a flicker of something long dormant within him.

“I was just about to leave,” you said, a hint of breathlessness in your tone as you approached. “I wanted to talk to you before you went. Is this a good time?” You looked unsure.

James glanced at Laura, who was watching the exchange with curious eyes. He felt the familiar knot of anxiety twist in his stomach but nodded, trying to mask his apprehension with a calm demeanour. “Sure, I have a moment.”

“Laura’s been doing really well, by the way,” you continued, your voice lightening as you spoke about his daughter. “She’s incredibly bright and has made some good friends this semester. I’m really proud of her progress.”

James felt a flicker of warmth at your praise. He was grateful to see Laura thriving, especially after the rough patches they had navigated together. “Thank you. I know she’s been working hard,” he replied, glancing down at her, who was beaming at your words.

“But…” you paused, your tone shifting slightly. “There are some areas where she might need a bit more support. I think if we work together, we can help her really shine.”

James felt a wave of gratitude and unease wash over him. While he wanted to support Laura, the idea of deeper involvement with her teaching felt daunting. “What do you suggest?”

Your eyes met his, and he felt a strange mix of comfort and vulnerability in that gaze. You began outlining a few ideas, your passion for teaching evident in your animated gestures. He found himself hanging on your words, drawn in by the way you spoke.

As you began to speak about Laura’s progress, he couldn't help but take in the little details—the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about the kids, the way your hands moved animatedly as you explained your thoughts, and the curve of your soft pink lips. It struck him how youthful and beautiful you looked, filled with a vibrancy that he found both comforting and terrifying. 

He had known you for years since Laura started school, but he had always kept his distance, avoiding lingering too long in your presence. Every encounter felt like a double-edged sword; he wanted to connect, to know you better, but the fear of what that meant held him back. Your passion for teaching shone through, and it was evident that you genuinely cared for each child, especially his daughter. 

Yet, for James, that made you all the more dangerous.  It was a kind of warmth that he couldn’t dare to approach or touch, as if it would burn his skin. Your laughter and bright smiles were like sunlight piercing through the clouds, illuminating the shadows that loomed over his heart. 

But it also reminded him of how far removed he was from that happiness. 

The innocence and light you carried felt worlds away from the darkness he had endured. It made him question if he was even deserving of your kindness, let alone your attention—even if it was strictly professional. You had a purity about you that felt both inviting and forbidding. It was the kind of innocence that reminded him of everything he had hoped for once—everything he felt unworthy of now. How could someone like you, who radiated joy and hope, ever understand the darkness that clung to him? The guilt and despair that wrapped around his heart like a vice? 

Yet, as you continued, he realised that part of him didn’t want this moment to end. Just a short while ago, he had dreaded this conversation, but now he found himself wishing to listen to your soft voice all night long.

As you concluded your thoughts about Laura, your smile remained bright, and for a moment, James caught himself wishing he could linger just a bit longer in your presence, absorbing the warmth you exuded. But the instinct to retreat kicked in, a familiar defence mechanism rising to shield him from the vulnerability he felt around you. 

“Thanks for the feedback,” he said, forcing a smile as he tried to mask the storm of emotions brewing inside him. “I appreciate you taking the time.”

You smiled back, but there was a flicker of something in your eyes—curiosity, concern? 

He couldn’t quite decipher it. 

As you stood there, a moment of silence stretched between you, and James noticed a flicker of hesitation in your eyes. You looked shy, as if you were unsure whether you were crossing a line by speaking up. 

“Mr. Sunderland,” you began, your voice soft, “are you okay? I’ve noticed you’ve looked... a bit tired lately.” 

The question caught him off guard, and for a fleeting moment, he found himself wondering if it was painfully oblivious or truly observant of the details that everyone else seemed to overlook. But quickly, he concluded that he must have been projecting his exhaustion more than he realised, and he must definitely look tired. 

The question wasn’t intimate.

He forced a smile, trying to shake off the weight of your concern. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied too quickly, dismissing your worry as he nodded almost vigorously. “Just, you know, work and everything.” 

For a heartbeat, you searched his face, perhaps hoping to see something more, a glimpse of the truth that lay beneath his carefully crafted exterior. But after a moment of hesitation, you seemed to accept his response. You nodded, though there was still a hint of worry shadowing your features. 

“If you or Laura need anything, please let me know,” you insisted gently. “I’d be more than happy to help.” 

The kindness in your offer made his chest tighten, his heart pounding with a mix of gratitude and desire. He appreciated it, truly, but it also fueled the raging fire of lust that had consumed him. Here you were, simply trying to be helpful, and yet he couldn't help but imagine what it would be like to have you all to himself, to explore every inch of your body and lose himself in your embrace.

His mind raced with vivid, graphic images of you—unbuttoning your shirt, revealing your tantalising curves; running his hands over your smooth skin; kissing and licking your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He could almost taste the sweet moan that would escape your parted lips, the moan of a woman ready to surrender to his sinful, wanton needs. The very idea of it made his breath catch in his throat and his cock twitch in his pants.

He felt like a beast, a predator stalking its prey, as he watched you. Every move you made was a tease, every word you spoke a seductive whisper that echoed in his mind and stoked the flames of his desire. You were a forbidden, irresistible delight that he craved with every fibre of his being.

“Thank you,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper and his voice painfully strained. “That means a lot.” He managed to nod, hoping to convey his gratitude without revealing the turmoil churning inside him.

James' lips curled into a polite smile, but his dark thoughts raged like wildfire beneath the surface. He tried to ignore the forced gentleness of his own tone, reminding himself that he was only being polite. Yet, every word he uttered was weighed down by heavy lust for you, and the knowledge that he should never let these desires surface again.

As you stood there, a mixture of warmth and uncertainty radiating from your presence, he felt a pang of regret. You were offering him a lifeline, yet he felt as though he was dragging you into a murky depth he didn’t know how to escape. The moment hung between you, a fragile thread of connection that he wanted to reach for, yet feared would only end in disappointment. In your eyes, he saw kindness, concern, and a spark of something he dared not acknowledge. But with every passing second, he also felt the walls he had built around himself begin to tremble, as if you might be the catalyst for change he had been both longing for and dreading.

“I should go,” you said, breaking the silence, and James felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment wash over him.

“Right,” he replied, forcing his mind to focus on the present. “Thank you Miss, and have a good night.”

You offered him one last warm smile before turning to leave, and he watched you go, feeling the weight of what had happened. The kindness you had shown him stirred something deep within—a longing he couldn’t quite satisfy.

[satinestales]

❝self destructive tendencies❞ | qimir x fem!reader

pairing: qimir x fem!reader

● this is a 3rd pov, if you want to read 2nd pov, here●

summary: A week has passed since the battle on Khofar and the startling reveal of her former friend. Qimir, the man behind the mask and the murderer of her comrades took her to a remote island, far away from the Republic's surveillance, after she sustained severe injuries. She's been keeping her distance from him, trying to ignore her hidden feelings. Yet, when his thoughts merge with hers, the vow she made to herself becomes almost impossible to keep.

warnings: english is not my first language, sexual tension, lots of sexual tension, corruption, sexual themes/dreams, E Y E C O N T A C T, qimir, mentions of blood and injuries

author's note: I could not be a jedi I'd turn into aquaman if he asked me to join him

now playing, love in the sky by the weeknd

*:..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡౨ৎ 🍓｡˚🍰♡ ˚..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡ ︎

The moon hung low over the horizon, casting an eerie glow on the waves that lapped against the shores of the ghostly island. Qimir’s silhouette stood out against the backdrop of the night sky, his presence a constant reminder of the blood and carnage he left on Khofar. As she lay on the rough sand, the pain from her injuries pulsed faintly, and she could not shake the mixture of fear and thirst that his proximity stirred within her. The island was a planet unknown to her, and as much as she tried to examine the surface, its location remained elusive. She supposed it might have been somewhere in the Outer Rim or beyond. Somewhere where the Republic would have a difficult way of finding her. World away from the Republic’s watchful eyes, and here, with only Qimir for company, she felt both vulnerable and strangely contented.

She decided to relax on the beach, further away from Qimir’s constant presence that melted her thoughts. However, luck wasn't on her side; minutes after settling in, he walked past her to his favorite bathing spot, smirk on his face as he acknowledged her presence. It was late at night, her legs and arms sore from the repetitive training she put herself through. The island offered few diversions. Waiting for Qimir’s next move or for Sol to find her wasn’t her idea of a perfect day. The injuries covering her body were difficult to ignore, and she refused to let Qimir get close enough to her to heal them. She told herself she would rather bleed out than feel his touch on her skin. Deep down, though, she knew the real reason for keeping him at bay.

So, she lay there, absentmindedly playing with a rock she found, irritated by his presence but too weary to consider moving again. She had to admit her fault; she had set up camp right in front of his favorite spot. Over the past week, she had seen him bare many times. First unbothered but lately it had gotten under her skin. She had been friends with Qimir for some time before discovering his true identity behind the mask and his responsibility for her friends' murders. Their deaths pained her, but the betrayal and realization of his deception cut deeper. After many years, she thought she found herself a friend outside the temple. One that she could share her interests and secrets with, without the fear of being judged by the Jedi. She told him about her fears and likes. Her doubts in the order and her wish to help people as much as she could. About her hate and desire. The Sith emotions. Now he’s using them to lure her in and trap her on the other side.

She wasn’t the most perceptive, but his intentions were clear. He knew her feelings, her likes, and dislikes; she had shared them with him when she believed he was her friend and a supplier. Even a blind person could see his thoughts, and her strength in the Force allowed her to delve into his mind, revealing more than she wished to know.

She couldn’t tear her eyes away as he slowly shed his clothes to enter the water, a routine he seemed to relish. Despite her experiences in battles and missions, witnessing the horrible conditions and lack of hygiene, even her comrades didn’t bathe as frequently as Qimir did before her. She considered herself fortunate; at least he smelled good, even if the scent of sandalwood mixed with citrus fruit drove her mad. She smelled it when she woke up, during meals and training, and before sleep. She felt him everywhere. She wasn’t sure for how much longer she could endure it.

She studied the muscles of his back as he swam slowly, admiring them from her vantage point. He was undeniably strong, scars marring his skin a testament to the pain he had endured. She observed how his dark hair moved with his motions, how he ran his long thick fingers through it while washing it gently. His biceps tensed as he splashed water around his neck, and she noticed the way he caressed his chest, attempting to cleanse away the day’s dirt.

It was only when she accidentally crushed the rock in half that she realized the intensity of her stare. Clearing her throat, she sat up and leaned against the mossy bank behind her, feeling shame wash over her. She was convinced his own dreams had started to corrupt her.

One of the curses of being a Jedi was the ability to read minds, and Qimir was no exception. She saw his thoughts vividly, filled with bright colors that sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. She wondered if he wanted her to delve into his mind, to make her believe he desired her, or if he simply didn’t care. She feared he could read her thoughts too, despite her lifelong ability to block out others with ease.

She lied to herself, convincing herself that she was immune to his ideas, desires, and magnetic charm. But every time he looked at her, towered over her, or she smelled him in the air, her knees buckled, her stomach tightened, and she fought against the need to press her legs together. She felt sick, and his mind brushing against hers didn’t help.

She felt it every time he drew near. He visualized her hands in his mind, how they caressed his scars and shoulders. She saw his hair falling down as he towered over her, gently pushing her against the cold floor of his cave. She felt his breath against her neck, his fingers pulling her hair, his skin pressed against hers. In his dreams, she never resisted. He was corrupting her in his dreams, and she never once objected in them. She was embarrassed he got her mannerisms right.

She was so lost in their shared thoughts that she didn’t notice Qimir making his way out of the water, his eyes fixated on her with dangerous intensity. He carefully leaned down to grab a towel, amusement playing on his lips. He didn’t want to wake her from her thoughts, whatever they may have been.

As he gently dried himself with the soft cloth, not taking his eyes off her, he tried to read her mind, even if he failed millions of times before. He never had difficulty reading someone; one look at them and he could see their whole past. But with her, he had no idea what she was thinking or planning, or what images played in her head. She was strong, stronger than the ones he had met before, and he admired that. He praised her strength in the Force and her ability to protect herself from her nemesis. Like him.

But he could read body language. He noticed how she tensed around him when he walked past her. How her chest started rising faster whenever he stared her down. Her goosebumps when they brushed against each other. How she pressed her legs together when he towered over her. And how she was now crushing the rock in her hand, gazing in his direction.

“You can always join me, you know that.” He breathed out, letting the cloth fall to the ground, replacing it with his long blouse. She almost wanted to take the top from him just so she could continue her view, but when she finally recollected her thoughts, she wanted to slap herself. “It would help with your wounds when you don’t let me heal them.” He uttered, dressing himself, not breaking eye contact with her. He liked her stare. He liked how she fought with her emotions and how they reflected in her eyes. It pleased him.

“I’m okay,” she faked a smile, swallowing the ridiculous amount of saliva in her mouth. She forced herself to look somewhere other than his strong forearms or how he dragged the pants up his muscular legs. She found a cute shell, admiring it from afar.

She didn’t catch the grin on his face as her face turned pink and she clenched her fists. He was amused with her reactions, but her ripped bandage and the blood revealing itself underneath caught his full attention. His face froze, along with his movements while buttoning up his shirt. He would never touch her unless she wanted him to, but her leg was nowhere near being healed and with the lack of medical supplies on this island, she’d lose it long before she’d be able to leave the island.

“Let me help you.” It wasn’t a question, more of a subtle order. She didn’t miss it. A week ago, on Khofar, Qimir had stopped himself before fatally hurting her, but he still landed a strike on her leg that had trouble healing. She was stubborn enough to push him away when he offered his help, and now she started to slowly regret it.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she hissed at him, catching a glimpse of his unbuttoned blouse.

“You’re a powerful Jedi, and I don’t doubt you’d be still as fierce as you are now without your leg,” he murmured, making his way towards her, leaving his bag and shoes near the water. “If you want to risk it.” She watched him tilt his head as he slowly approached her. She could only see the images in his mind, his plans and ideas. But underneath it all, he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He wanted to help her. In his own way. He was her friend; he knew her weaknesses and strengths. He knew what she wanted, and he was willing to give it to her. But she couldn’t erase the lying and murder of her friends. She wanted her friend back. Maybe something else this time, but her trust in him had faded. Now it was just Qimir, confusing her thoughts and making her rethink her morals. She felt as disgusted with him as she felt with herself. But she understood him. Or at least tried to.

So, she didn’t oppose, letting him kneel in front of her, his hands carefully reaching out to her ripped bandage above her knee. He was so close she could smell him again. His hair fell into his face, covering his eyes that were focusing only on her wound. His fingers worked fast but tenderly as he lifted her thigh to unwrap the bandage. She swallowed hard, feeling his veiny hand below her leg. She was scared he could feel her burning skin, hoping he would mistake it as a result of the injury.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you on Khofar,” she heard him whisper, gripping the sand below her as he threw away the bandage, the cold air kissing her open wound. She almost heard pity in his voice. She was certain she imagined it.

She begged herself to look away, but her eyes betrayed her as they glared down at his hand that was almost as big as her thigh. He covered the wound, not touching it fully, concentrating on restoring her cells.

She was fascinated by how quickly the wound closed up, leaving only a small scar across her thigh. She had wanted to learn how to force heal ever since she lost her friend to a fatal injury as a kid, but the Jedi never taught her. No matter how hard she pleaded. Whenever she asked, they gave the same answer: only dark side users possess this power. She always felt it was ridiculous.

“How do you do it?” she managed to ask, ignoring Qimir’s confused stare as he picked up his head and drew his hand away from her. But he didn’t move position and kept kneeling between her feet. “How do you force heal?” she felt embarrassed asking, but he was one of her only chances to learn.

A soft smile crept to his lips as he moved his eyes from her face to her hands. She suddenly became aware of her vulnerable position.

“In order to heal someone,” he started, softness in his voice, no signs of mockery. “You need to focus on your own energy, imagine it and visualize it. Imagine its color, like you do with the Force.” He continued, his hands moving in motion with his words.

She could feel the warmth radiating off him as he sat centimeters away, his wet hair framing his sharp features. His eyes were dark, only the light of the moon reflecting in them. His lips were full, stretched as he shared his knowledge with her. She didn’t move a muscle and returned his stare. It was only the two of them.

“The Jedi teach only one way. Physical way. Taking your physical energy and giving it to someone who needs it,” he whispered, leaning his head to the side, giving her a view of his sharp jaw. His neck was thick, his collarbones defined. “But there is another way.” He stopped to look at her, examining her expression. She was listening intently, breathing fast, and her eyes bored so deeply into him he was certain she could read everything he was thinking. He let her.

“Below the surface of consciousness are powerful emotions. Anger. Fear. Loss.” He started listing, his eyes twitching between her eyes and her lips. “Desire.”

Her leg muscles twitched, her core burning up. She wanted to bury herself.

“Only Sith feel those emotions,” she whispered back, denying herself. She saw a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth before he lowered his gaze.

“You can draw energy from them, direct them in any way you want,” he purred, looking back at her, letting her feel his emotions. “However, whenever you want.” He lowered his voice as he stretched the last words, reading her face.

He knew she read his mind. He knew she saw the images that kept him awake and his wishes. He had had them since he met her months ago, and when he sensed her attraction toward him, they only intensified. He wanted her and was simply waiting for her to admit the same to herself, no matter how long it would take.

[canine-witch]

What is your shadow side?

The Shadow Side is a piece of ourselves that we do not wish to accept, for a multitude of reasons. They could be social reasons, religious reasons, past experiences, ect. Originated in Jungian psychology, the theory is you can begin to grow and become more happy when you face your shadows and accept them.

My intention today is to help the collective find a place to start doing shadow work on this aspect of themselves, if they so choose.

Drink some water, pick a pile, and feel free to discard what does not resonate

🌧️ personalized readings avaliable on kofi 🌧️

─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

Pile One ~ The Roses

Your shadow is isolation. You may have had an experience in your life, that made you think you could do it all alone. It is a toxic independent and individualistic mindset. You may struggle with materialsim or a sense of constant lack. You may see your medical issues as something you can easily overcome. You don't want to rely on others, because others have dissapointed you far too much.

"I can do it all alone."

No one human can fight all their battles alone. There may be manifestations or blessings coming in through people, which you are blocking by thinking you can make it all on your own. You need to cease isolating yourself. Seek medical and professional help as you need it. Slowly begin to trust humanity again, there is good and bad, and dark and light, like anywhere. Stop thinking you are alone, no person is ever alone.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

Pile Two ~ The Angel

Your shadow is combativeness. You are always the first on one the battlefield, and the last one to leave the war. Defending what you love and experiencing riteous justice is not a bad thing, but you can hurt yourself with your anger. You aren't fighting wisely, nor very effectively. You end up not understanding when the time is to drop people, arguements, and swords. You have healing to do, and fighting like this is just a toxic outlet.

"My anger consumes me; I can't not fight."

You may have a lot of pent up frustrations collected over years of injustice. Something that may be benefical is volunteering in your community. Maybe even seeking a career path which allows you to do good for others. If you are angry over the treatment of animals, perhaps you could volunteer at shelters or advocate for adoption agencies. If you are angry at the justice system in your country, perhaps seeking the ability to control some part of it by pursuing a career would help. Look inwards and see what you care the most about, and put the energy into helping directly. Your anger is justified and right, but it need to go somewhere else.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

Pile Three ~ The Jellyfish

Your shadow is obsession. This may be varying levels of obsession, but you lean into them heavily depending on the day. This may be a concept, person, or place that you associate heavily to childhood or a past wound you cannot release. It is misery manifesting as a fixation. It may have a grip on anything, from your heart to your financials, and you need to accept that this is not joy, it is sadness.

"This reminds me of what I have lost."

You may be fighting the concept that you are sad. That whatever happened is something that hurts you to this day, and shows up in your life as vices. You shouldn't feel shame or feel guilt about these emotions or wanting to process them without pain. But, pain can lead towards transformation, and you are stuck in a spiral. You do have the strength to persevere and face whatever you need to. You do not have to cling to this energy, for your own sake.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

Pile Four ~ The Beach

Your shadow is your broken heart. You may have been heartbroken by a past lover, or someone who you were close to betrayed you, and perhaps used you. This left you with a flurry of emotions, each one swirling and chaotic. You reflect this energy outwards, and can't seem to catch a break or be able to slow down. Or when you do, you procrastinate.

"My heart is broken, and I will never love again."

The only way to mend your own heart is through yourself. You need to find peace and prosperity from the inside, outwards. You need to change your mindframe, release the pain that others gave you, and redefine your life. It may be difficult, and the work may be hard, even excruciating. But you can, and will, save yourself. You are a dedicated person, but you need to learn loyalty to yourself first, before you can mend your broken heart. Do shadow work, affirmations, and spells that will bring you self love. Do mirror affirmations and try to change your mindset. You will be okay again, but it is up to you and nobody else to decide that.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─ ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ─

Thank you for trusting me with your time and energy! If you want a more in depth reading, my comprehensive readings listing is 🌧️ here, through kofi. I'd appreciate the help!

Have a wonderful day, and I hope this helped you! 🌧️

[shortnspidey]

CHAPTER THREE: FRACTURED BONDS

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Stark!reader || WC: 7.5K

SUMMARY: Bucky Barnes, caught in a political storm and haunted by his past as the Winter Soldier, battles internal guilt and fragmented memories while finding solace in someone who sees beyond his trauma, intensifying his struggle between seeking connection and fearing the harm he might cause.

WARNINGS: Mentions of character death(s), graphic violence, protective Bucky, Zemo, talk of past trauma

A/N: Figured I'd made you guys wait long enough... so here's another chapter! Make sure you hold on for this one, this chapter is really angsty!! I apologize in advance. 🥺

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The Quinjet was silent, the kind of silence that pressed in on you, thick and heavy, broken only by the low hum of the engine reverberating through the walls and the steady, rhythmic breaths of the two super-soldiers beside you. The cold metal floor felt unnervingly hard beneath your boots as you stared out the window, the blurry landscape passing by below, but your mind wasn’t on the scenery.

Bucky’s voice broke through the stillness, raw and edged with something you couldn’t quite place, but you could feel the weight of it in your chest. "What’s gonna happen to your friends?" His words were simple, yet the question lingered in the air. You found yourself wondering the same thing, a gnawing sense of uncertainty crawling under your skin. The mission had been successful, but at what cost? The stakes were higher now, the consequences more far-reaching than any of you had expected.

Your gaze shifted to Steve, who was staring ahead, his jaw clenched in that familiar way when he was deep in thought. He’d been quieter than usual, almost distant, and it seemed like this particular question was one he wasn’t sure how to answer. His eyes flickered to Bucky for a split second before he exhaled slowly, as if trying to release something heavy from his chest. “Whatever it is,” Steve started, his voice low but firm, "I’ll deal with it."

It wasn’t the answer you’d hoped for. It wasn’t comforting, but it was Steve, and that was the best you were going to get. His tone made it clear that whatever came next, he’d face it head-on, as he always did. But you could see it in his eyes a flicker of doubt, of weariness. The silence stretched on again, suffocating, until Bucky’s voice, almost a whisper, cut through it like a blade. "I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve." His words were jagged, raw, and the weight of them hit you like a punch to the gut.

There was pain there, deep and unspoken. You could feel it in every syllable, every breath he took. His haunted eyes, the way his shoulders were slightly hunched, as though he was carrying a weight too heavy for anyone to bear, it all spoke volumes about the internal battle he was fighting. It made your heart ache, the sheer vulnerability of it. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what it felt like for Bucky, years of being trapped, manipulated, erased and rebuilt, time and time again, into something that wasn’t entirely him.

You could see the guilt in his eyes, a constant, suffocating presence that refused to let him go. And you hated it. Hated that he didn’t see himself the way you saw him: strong, loyal, brave. But more than anything, you hated that no matter how many times Steve reassured him, how many times the team rallied around him, Bucky still couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t worth saving. Your chest tightened as the words echoed in your mind. You wanted to say something, anything to ease his pain, but the words seemed to die on your tongue.

Your own anxieties and insecurities resurfaced like a tidal wave, crashing over you as you replayed the events of the last forty-eight hours in your mind. Before you could spiral too far, Steve’s voice broke through the fog of your thoughts. He said exactly what you were thinking. "What you did all those years, it wasn't you. You didn't have a choice." Bucky breathed out, but his voice still carried the heavy burden of guilt and unresolved pain. "I know," There was a long pause, the tension thick in the air.

"But I did it." He added quietly, the words hanging in the silence like a confession that he wasn’t sure he was ready to forgive himself for. As Steve's gaze flickered over to you, he saw the absence in your eyes. You were curled up in the corner, facing the window, your expression completely void of any emotion. It was as though you had shut yourself off from the world entirely. Your body present, but your mind was somewhere far away, lost in a quiet place where nothing felt real anymore. Steve’s concern softened his features as he spoke, his voice gentle but laced with sorrow.

“I’m so sorry you had to get involved in this, Y/N.” You stared at the horizon outside the window, avoiding his gaze. As you spoke with a bitterness that tasted like years of pent-up frustration. "It’s okay, Steve. It’s not like I wasn’t already disowned." The words hit the air like a cold wind, and Bucky immediately turned toward Steve, his expression forming into one of genuine concern. His brow furrowed, and his lips parted to say something, but he hesitated. “Don’t say that, Y/N, it’s not true” Steve coaxed softly.

“But it is true," You insisted quietly, your voice soft, but the heaviness in it was unmistakable. "Just before Clint arrived at my apartment, my father and I were fighting," You continued, your words stumbling out in between shaky breaths. "What's new, we’ve always fought.” Your mind flashed back to the endless arguments, the moments where you felt more like a stranger to him than a daughter. “Dropping out of MIT and siding with you on this whole accords fiasco…" You trailed off, your voice barely above a whisper, "That was just the tip of the goddamn iceberg."

You scoffed bitterly, the anger bubbling up again like an old wound reopening. “You dropped out of MIT?” Your father’s voice was filled with disbelief like he believed you made the biggest mistake ever. Yet somehow, when Steve repeated those same words, you didn’t hear the disappointment in his tone. Instead you were met with a quiet concern, an emotion you hadn’t been able to recognize from your father in years. You shrugged, the motion as cold and indifferent as the walls you had built around yourself. "I never wanted to go to MIT... he practically made the decision for me when I graduated high school,"

You muttered, the words slipping out almost as an afterthought. Your fingers twitched, memories of lectures, crowded hallways, and a life you had never chosen clashing with the one you were desperately trying to carve for yourself. "But after last semester," You continued, your voice firmer now, as you dared to speak your truth. "After finding out people only wanted to befriend me because of my last name, and what they thought I could get them access to, I decided I was done," The bitterness in your mouth was sharp. "Done living in his shadow." As those words left your mouth, Bucky quickly realized just how much you both had in common.

His chest tightened, and a sudden wave of guilt hit him with the force of a storm. He had barely known you, and yet, when he first saw you at the airport in Germany and learned who you were, something inside him recoiled. Y/N Stark, the daughter of Tony Stark, of all people, was actually trying to help him. It didn’t make sense. His walls had grown higher the moment he saw you, his instincts shouting that he couldn’t trust anyone. Yet, in a strange, subtle way, there was a shift in him. He hated to admit it, but when you looked at him like a human being, with real warmth in your eyes, your voice so soft as you muttered his name it was different.

You didn’t call him The Winter Soldier. You didn’t see him as the weapon they’d turned him into. You saw him as a person, and for the briefest of moments, those walls he’d so carefully constructed started to crumble. But still, his guard remained, firmly in place, a fortress he couldn’t afford to let go of completely. Now, hearing your confession the pain and raw emotion in your words, something was different. And he detested it. The lively spark he’d seen in you before was gone, replaced by something quieter, something he wasn’t used to.

Watching you interact with your father so brief, yet so tense it had made his stomach churn. The way your shoulders tensed, how your hands fidgeted at your sides, and the barely controlled panic that flickered in your eyes as he saw you fight to hold it together it was like you were a completely different person. Now, as he looked at you, there was a hollow look in your eyes, a void of emotion. You looked smaller, more fragile, as though whatever had been left of your strength was slowly slipping away. This was the real you, the one you hid so well beneath layers of strength and purpose and sarcasm.

Bucky couldn’t help but feel a gnawing sense of protectiveness, the kind he didn’t know he was capable of anymore. Yet he couldn’t act on it and that frustrated him more. He’d spent so long locked in a world of darkness, of not knowing who he was or what he was capable of, but here, with you, something was stirring. Something… human. But what could he do? Nothing, because he didn’t even understand it himself. Before he could dwell further on his thoughts, Steve’s voice broke through the tension, calm but filled with purpose.

“We’re getting close,” He muttered, his grip firm on the controls as the jet’s engines hummed. “I’ll have to make a quick descent.” He was preparing to land the jet at the HYDRA facility Zemo was surely heading to, and as the reality of the mission settled in, the air inside the jet grew thick with a shared intensity. The energy shift in the air was immediate. Without even realizing it, Bucky found his muscles tensing in anticipation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw you. Your movements were fluid, calm, but there was something in the way you moved, in the way your gaze flicked toward him, that made him aware of how much he was paying attention.

You opened a side compartment in the jet with practiced ease, grabbing a spare gun you had secured in your back holster. For a split second, he wondered if you had sensed his gaze. The brief moment of shared eye contact spoke volumes, a silent understanding passing between you two. You stepped aside just slightly, enough to offer him a weapon, no words necessary. Bucky didn’t hesitate. His hand shot out and grabbed the M249 SAW with a familiarity that surprised even him. The weight of the weapon felt natural, and it almost grounded him in the chaos of the situation.

The doors of the jet were still locked in place, but Steve was preparing to open them at any moment. He could feel the tension building in the air, the kind of pressure that made his chest tighten. Something about this mission felt different, more nerve-wracking than anything else, even more than when he faced down your father in Germany. Trying to ease the mounting tension, Steve broke the silence turning to Bucky. “You remember that one time we had to ride back from Rockaway Beach in the back of that freezer truck?” His voice was casual, but there was a lightness to it.

Bucky’s lips twitched upward. “Was that the time you used our train money to buy hotdogs?” He teased, the familiar tone creeping into his voice despite the situation. Steve didn’t miss a beat. “You blew three bucks trying to win that stuffed bear for a redhead.” Bucky’s laugh was a low, almost wistful sound. You had to do a double-take to make sure you weren’t imagining it. Damn, was it a nice smile. “What was her name again?” He asked, his voice softer than usual, but there was still amusement in it. That was enough to snap you out of your thoughts about the brooding super-soldier.

Now was certainly not the time nor place.

“Dolores,” Steve answered, grinning. “You called her Dot.” Bucky chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned against the side of the jet. “She’s gotta be a hundred years old right now.” Steve shrugged, unfazed. “So are we, pal.” As the jet door opened, a rush of frigid air blasted into the cabin, sending a shiver down your spine. The stark, white landscape outside stretched endlessly, broken only by the dark silhouette of the HYDRA facility in the distance. Your heart rate picked up, your instincts sharpening as you surveyed the terrain.

You knew that what lay ahead could very well be your last fight, but there was no turning back now. You barely had time to gather your thoughts before Bucky’s voice cut through the tension. “Stay close.” He coaxed, his tone surprisingly gentle despite the gravity of the situation. He had seen the subtle shift in your demeanor, the way your body went rigid as the cold began to gnaw at you, and his protective instinct kicked in. You could feel the weight of his words. His presence beside you, reassuring, steady. You didn’t need to look at him to know he was scanning the horizon, preparing for the worst. You didn’t have time to reply, not with the threat of danger so close.

Bucky and Steve moved as one, stepping into the snowy abyss, their boots crunching in the snow as they carefully checked their surroundings. Every movement was calculated, deliberate. The sound of the wind howling across the barren landscape was the only thing that cut through the otherwise oppressive silence. The bitter cold stung at your skin, but you could feel the heat of your adrenaline pushing back against it, fueling your focus. You watched them, both men taking point, their bodies tense and alert as they scanned the area for any signs of movement.

After a brief but intense moment of silent communication, Bucky nodded toward you, an unspoken command to follow. You didn’t hesitate. You moved quickly to join them, matching their pace, your eyes flicking over the terrain as you stepped into the snow. Steve paused a few feet before the entrance of the facility, his breath visible in the cold air as he took in the sight of the door that was slightly ajar. His brows furrowed, and he inhaled sharply, analyzing the situation. “He can’t have been here more than a few hours,” Steve muttered, his voice low but filled with certainty. Your gaze shifted to Bucky, and you saw his jaw tighten, the muscle in his cheek pulsing as he processed the information.

“Long enough to wake them up,” He muttered, barely above a whisper. His grip on his gun tightened instinctively, his flesh knuckles whitening as he prepared for whatever came next. That was all the confirmation Steve needed. Without another word, he stepped forward, moving with the quiet precision of someone who had done this countless times before. “Watch your step.” Bucky warned, his voice low, but there was a trace of urgency. As you stepped inside, the smell of damp air and something else, something metallic immediately hit you. It was suffocating, making your throat itch.

The shadows inside seemed to stretch, hiding secrets in every corner. Every step you took echoed unnervingly in the vast, empty space, but the facility, despite its eerie stillness, felt anything but abandoned. The feeling of being watched crawled over your skin. Bucky didn’t speak, but you could feel him shifting subtly, positioning himself just slightly in front of you. Steve, on the other hand, moved with fluid confidence, his senses on high alert as the three of you ventured deeper into the facility. Both super soldiers took turns sweeping the area, their movements instinctively synchronized, checking each shadow, each flicker of light.

The elevator creaked as it descended, groaning under the weight of the past. You could hear the scrape of metal against metal, the shudder of old machinery struggling to keep up. It felt as though the whole place might collapse on itself at any moment. Your boots clicked against the rusted floor as you followed them deeper into the belly of the facility, your hand gripping your gun tighter, your senses sharp, aware of every creak, every shift in the air. And then it came, a sudden, loud noise. The sharp scrape of something against concrete, too close, too fast. Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky and Steve moved as one.

Bucky’s steel-like arm was already around your waist, guiding you back behind him as Steve instinctively dropped into a defensive stance, his shield raised in a fluid motion. "Seriously?" You hissed, voice barely above a whisper as you struggled to stay calm. The frustration in your chest surged. "Haven’t we established that I’m more than capable of defending myself?" But neither of them acknowledged you. They were laser-focused, eyes trained on the door ahead, watching for any movement. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as the air seemed to vibrate with the weight of their readiness. They were calm, but there was an edge in the way their muscles tensed.

You hated that feeling, the helplessness, the quiet knowledge that they were ready to jump into danger before you even had a chance to react. You wanted to protest, wanted to remind them that you weren’t a fragile civilian, but at that moment the words felt stuck in your throat. "You ready?" Steve's voice was steady, but there was a hint of tension beneath the calm exterior, the kind of tension you could feel even before the words left his lips. His eyes never wavered from the door, and you could sense him preparing for whatever was about to come through. The screeching noises from the other side of the door intensified, a jagged sound that scraped at your nerves and made your pulse quicken.

"Yeah." Bucky’s response came immediately, his voice low but filled with the unwavering confidence you’d come to expect from him. He had his gun raised, his grip firm. The cold, calculating look in his eyes told you he was ready for anything, but there was no mistaking the tension in his body as he braced for whatever, or whoever was on the other side. You held your breath, watching the door as it slowly creaked open, the harsh, metallic sound echoing through the empty space. Each inch it moved felt like an eternity. Your mind raced, preparing for a fight, for danger, for anything that could come charging through that door.

But nothing could have prepared you for what you saw. Your heart stopped in your chest. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, and the ground beneath you felt as though it had shifted. Standing there, just a few feet away, was your dad. Encased in the gleaming, intimidating armor of the Iron Man suit. Even with his face shielded, you were certain that his eyes were locked with yours. The shock was instantaneous. Yet before you could even form the words, your body reacted before your brain could catch up. Adrenaline surged through you, sharp and immediate.

Without thinking, you pushed past Bucky and Steve, slipping between them as they tried to stop you, their hands reaching for your arms, but you were already moving. You didn’t even notice the way Bucky’s grip tightened or how Steve’s voice called out in protest, a low warning that you couldn’t hear over the pounding of your heart. Everything seemed to slow as you took those steps forward, stopping just a few feet in front of your dad. Your hand instinctively gripped the weapon at your side, but it was less about preparing for a fight and more about standing your ground. This was your father. Nevertheless, if he wanted to get to Bucky and Steve, he would have to go through you first.

Your breath was shallow, chest rising and falling with the quick rhythm of your racing heart. "You don’t have to do this." You found yourself saying, the words coming out before you could stop them, your voice a mix of desperation and defiance. You watched in silence as the nanotechnology plates of the suit parted with a smooth, almost mechanical grace, revealing his face. "You seem a little defensive." His tone was casual, almost playful, but there was an edge to it that didn’t quite match the tension in the air. Out of all the things you expected him to say, that was the last.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire back, but before you could, Steve’s voice cut through the charged silence. "Yeah, well, it's been a long day." You shifted slightly, catching the movement out of the corner of your eye. Steve, ever the protector, was approaching cautiously, his shield still raised between him and Tony, eyes flicking back and forth between you and your father. He was ready for anything, but there was something about his movements that felt restrained, as if he was waiting for permission, waiting for you to show him how to handle this situation. "At ease, soldier," Tony’s voice rang out, a touch of irony in the words, though his eyes lingered on Bucky.

You watched as the two men exchanged a brief, silent moment of tension. Bucky hadn’t shifted an inch. His stance was as firm as steel, eyes narrowed and unyielding. It was clear: he wasn’t lowering his guard for anyone. Your pulse quickened. What the hell was happening? You managed to find your voice again, though it was strained with the weight of the moment. "Then why are you here?" You narrowed your eyes, staring hard at your father, the man who had just walked into this situation like it was any other. He looked at you for a beat, and for a brief moment, it seemed like he might speak, maybe apologize, maybe explain.

But instead, he shrugged, that cocky, familiar smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "Could be your story's not so crazy." The words hung in the air like a confession. He was acknowledging the truth of what Steve had said, but the casualness with which he delivered it only added more weight to the conversation. His gaze shifted to Steve, and you could see the flicker of something unreadable between them, an unspoken understanding. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, as Tony leaned against the doorframe, eyes never leaving Steve’s. "Ross has no idea I’m here," He continued, the humor fading from his voice. He sounded more serious now. "I'd like to keep it that way,”

“Otherwise, I'd have to arrest myself." He let out a huff, but even the sound was lacking its usual bite. Steve’s lips quirked into a half-smile at the comment, but his eyes were still sharp, his focus unwavering. “Well, that sounds like a lot of paperwork.” He replied, a lightness to his tone, though it couldn’t quite lift the heaviness that lingered in the room. At Steve’s words, you heard your father let out a small chuckle. It was a sound you hadn’t heard in what felt like forever. But there it was, allowing himself the rare gift of a real laugh. It caught you off guard, a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there was still a trace of the man he used to be beneath the armor of cynicism and sarcasm.

You watched, transfixed, as Steve’s guarded expression softened, the familiar shield he always carried with him seeming to fall away. In its place was something that looked like relief, or perhaps acceptance. He stood a little straighter, his posture no longer rigid but open. “It’s good to see you, Tony,” Steve muttered, the words sincere. Your father’s gaze softened, just slightly, as he replied, his voice tinged with something almost nostalgic. “You too, Cap.” For a fleeting second, it felt like everything was right in the world. "Hey, Manchurian Candidate, you're killing me. There's a truce here." Your father’s voice broke the tension with his signature sarcasm, and you couldn’t help but scoff.

Hearing that familiar tone that always seemed to be half-joking, half-threatening. That was the real Tony Stark, you thought to yourself, the one who never missed a beat, even in the thick of it all. But it didn’t quite land. Not with Bucky standing there, tense and poised, eyes flicking to Steve for permission to lower his weapon. You felt your father’s gaze on you again, heavier this time. It was like a weight pressing down, challenging you to acknowledge it, to react, but you couldn’t afford to. His eyes burned through you, a mixture of concern, frustration, and maybe something else you weren’t ready to face. Not quite yet.

The silence hung in the air like a storm cloud, and despite yourself, your walls cracked slightly, just for a split second. But you didn't let it show. You straightened your back, keeping your expression neutral. After a long, pregnant pause, the tension in the room gnawed at you, suffocating. You had enough. Without waiting for anyone else to speak, you walked forward, your boots clicking sharply against the cold, cement floor of the abandoned facility. You held your gun firmly in hand, scanning the dark corners, the narrow hallways, every shadow that seemed to hold something dangerous just out of sight.

"Stay behind us," Your father’s voice called out, sharp and commanding, like it always was when he felt the need to protect. His words were laced with a sense of authority, but you could hear the undercurrent of something else too, his belief that you weren’t quite ready, that you weren’t quite capable. It was always the same. "You do know there's a psychopath on the loose, right?" The way he phrased it made your jaw tighten, the old sting of his overprotectiveness rising in your chest. It was like he thought you couldn’t handle it. Like you didn’t belong there.

You didn’t even stop to glance at him, but you could practically feel his eyes on your back as you continued walking. Your grip on your weapon tightened, not out of fear, but frustration. You hated the way he undermined you, even now. With each step you took, you could feel the weight of his disapproval pressing on your shoulders, but you wouldn’t let it break you. You couldn’t. “You do know," You started, your voice cold but steady, not looking back, but letting your words hit him anyway, "I was trained by one of the deadliest Red Room assassins and I can perfectly handle myself, right?"

You let the words hang in the air between you, knowing they would get to him. You let the silence follow, letting your point sit heavy in the air, hoping it would sink in once and for all. You watched him, waiting for the reaction you knew was coming, yet to your surprise, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked past you, his eyes scanning the room, his focus sharp. “I’ve got heat signatures,” He muttered, breaking the stillness, his voice low, tense. “How many?” Steve asked. There was a long pause, a beat too long, before he answered, “Uh, one.” A chill ran down your spine at his reply.

You exchanged a glance with Steve, then followed him cautiously into what seemed to be the facility’s main chamber. As the four of you stepped inside, the room seemed to pulse with an unsettling energy. The hum of machinery filled the air, sharp and static. The flickering lights above barely gave you a moment to prepare before they blinked on fully, casting an unnatural brightness across the room. The sight in front of you sent a jolt of horror through your chest. The room was lined with cryo-chambers, the transparent, frost-covered capsules housing the bodies of the super soldiers.

Soldiers who had been preserved, frozen in time, until now. Their faces were twisted in expressions of agony, frozen in the instant of their deaths. It wasn’t just death. It was execution. Before you could process the horror before you, the voice pierced the quiet, unsettlingly calm. “If it’s any comfort, they died in their sleep.” The words were coated with an eerie detachment, a venomous hatred. "Did you really think I wanted more of you?" Zemo’s voice continued, dripping with disdain. You felt a chill settle deeper into your bones, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end.

Bucky, standing next to you, muttered under his breath, his voice low but laced with disbelief. "What the hell." You could see the disbelief in his eyes, but there was no time to process the chaos. It hit harder than you expected, the sting of his words making you wonder if this was all part of his twisted plan. "I'm grateful for them though," Zemo added, his tone shifting. “They brought you here.” Slowly, almost theatrically, Zemo revealed himself, his presence calm but undeniably sinister. Your instincts kicked in, and without a second thought, you raised your weapon, aiming it directly at him. The metal of the gun felt cold against your palm, your finger hovering over the trigger.

But Steve was faster. He flung his shield with lethal precision, a blur of motion as it sliced through the air toward Zemo. Only, Zemo was smarter. He didn't flinch. He didn’t even break his cold gaze. “Please, Captain,” He mocked, watching as Steve’s shield veer off course and deflect with a metallic clang. “The Soviets built this chamber to withstand the launch blast of UR-100 rockets.” Of course this bastard had time to think of everything. “I’m betting I can beat that.” Your father’s voice cut through the tension, fist raised in a challenge. “Oh, I’m sure you could, Mister Stark," Zemo replied, his voice smooth like velvet, but carrying a bite of mockery. "Given time, but then you’d never know why you came.”

You could feel the anger rising in your chest, anxiety skyrocketing. "You killed innocent people in Vienna," You spat, your voice razor-sharp, laced with accusation and fury. "Accused an innocent man of murder, just to bring us here." Zemo’s gaze shifted toward you, a glint of twisted amusement flickering in his cold eyes. A sadistic smile spread across his face, a smile that made your skin crawl. This was what he wanted. This was the game he’d been playing. “Ah, Miss Stark,” He purred, his voice smooth, almost mocking, “It's lovely to finally meet you. Your reputation truly precedes you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sheer contempt in his words, but before you could respond, Steve immediately stepped forward. His body language was defensive. He stood just a few feet away, his broad frame blocking your view of Zemo, shielding you from his scrutinizing gaze. That subtle shift in the air, the way Zemo’s attention immediately turned to Steve, did not go unnoticed. “I’ve thought about nothing else for over a year. I studied you. I followed you. But now that you're standing here, I just realized, there’s a bit of green in the blue of your eyes.” He chuckled darkly, the humor in his voice hollow.

Yet Steve didn’t falter. He stood his ground, his eyes unblinking. “How nice to find a flaw.” For a moment, Zemo was silent, his eyes narrowed, taking in Steve’s every movement as if weighing him. Steve’s face hardened as he pressed on. “You’re Sokovian,” He denounced, piecing together the remnants of what he had come to understand about this man’s vendetta. “Is that what this is about?” Zemo’s lips curled into a thin, bitter smile, but there was no humor in it. “Sokovia was a failed state long before you blew it to hell. I’m here because I made a promise,” His words were sharp, like daggers thrown without care. “You lost someone.” You spoke once more, putting the pieces together.

Zemo’s face tightened, his eyes darkened with an almost palpable bitterness. “I lost everyone, and so will you.” Without warning, Zemo reached for a control panel nearby, his movements fluid, almost rehearsed. A moment later, a screen flickered to life. The soft hum of machinery filled the room, followed by the sudden glow of the monitor. You stepped closer to the screen, your heart racing. Something felt wrong, but you couldn’t quite place it. As your eyes moved over the image displayed before you, you heard your father’s voice quiet, almost to himself cut through the tension.

“I know that road.” His words, full of recognition, broke you out of your thoughts. Your eyes darted to his face, catching a shift in his expression. His breath hitched as he focused on the date labeled on the cassette tape: December 16, 1991. A chill ran through you. Why did that date sound so familiar? “What is this?” Your father seethed, his voice full of barely contained rage as his eyes never left the monitor. You glanced toward Zemo, whose face was locked onto your father, an almost predatory interest glinting in his gaze, as if he were watching the last piece of his game fall into place. You could feel your hands grow clammy on your gun, your pulse pounding in your ears as the image on the screen shifted, and a car came into view.

Then, it happened.

The car crashed. You barely had time to process it before a figure on a motorcycle approached the wreckage, and in that instant, everything clicked. This was the night your grandparents were murdered. “Sergeant Barnes,” You heard your grandfather’s voice on the recording, his voice filled with disbelief. You felt your heart stop in your chest as you saw him, saw Bucky no, The Winter Soldier, emerge from the shadows, his face cold and unreadable. Your breath hitched, and you couldn’t hold back the gasp that escaped your lips. You could hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears, drowning out everything around you.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your father’s gaze lock with Bucky’s. But you couldn’t look away from the screen. The video zoomed in, and you watched, paralyzed, as Bucky struck your grandfather twice in the face, sending him collapsing into the wreckage of the car. The silence in the room was deafening as you struggled to breathe, the weight of the reality crashing down on you. You didn’t even realize the tears were falling until the salt stung your lips. The screen before you only grew darker, more horrific as The Winter Soldier continued his mission.

You watched in absolute horror as he staged your grandfather’s body at the steering wheel, as if to make it look like a tragic accident. Then, Bucky moved to your grandmother’s side of the car. Your eyes burned with tears as you watched his hand wrap around her neck, squeezing the life out of her with a coldness you couldn’t fathom. You could see it in his face, no emotion, just the mechanical efficiency of a soldier who had been stripped of his humanity. You could hardly breathe as you saw him let go, stepping away from her lifeless body. But it didn’t end there. Bucky then made his way around the car and, without hesitation, fired a shot at the camera, erasing all evidence of his actions.

The world felt like it was spinning, and you couldn’t quite understand what you’d just witnessed. It was like your entire life had just been shattered in front of you. You didn’t know where to put your grief, your fury, your disbelief. Before you had time to fully process what you’d just seen, your father lunged at Bucky, his rage exploding outward. “No!” You wanted to scream, but the sound barely left your throat. Steve was quicker, grabbing your father with surprising force, holding him back.

“Tony, Tony!” Steve’s voice was frantic, coaxing, trying to calm him. The chaos around you intensified, and it was as if everything froze for a split second. Your bloodshot eyes met Bucky’s, and in that moment, it was as though the room had gone silent again. The weight of the truth was unbearable, suffocating. “Did you know?” Your father’s voice cracked, breaking with something raw, something you’d never heard from him in your twenty-four years of life. He was breaking. His eyes were wide, desperate, as he looked at Steve. “I didn’t know it was him,” Steve replied, his grip on your father’s suit tight, as if trying to hold him together in that moment.

But it was too late. “Don’t bullshit me, Rogers,” Your father spat, his face twisted with grief and rage. His voice was full of a rawness that made your heart ache for him. “Did you know?” You held your breath as you watched Steve’s face, torn between truth and loyalty. Then, with a steady gaze, Steve said the one word that shattered everything: “Yes.” For a long moment, you didn’t know what to do. You could feel your whole world crumbling around you. And then, you saw it, your father’s face harden. His gaze darkened with fury, the weight of everything crashing down on him.

Without warning, with a force you didn’t even know he had, your father’s fist shot out, metallic palm connecting with Steve’s face in a brutal backhand. “Dad!” You screamed, but it was too late. Steve went down hard, hitting the pavement with a sickening thud. The sound of nanotechnology whirring to life reached your ears before you had time to react. You stepped forward, panic flooding your veins, knowing what was about to happen if you didn’t intervene. “Dad, listen to me!” You shouted, desperate, heart racing. “He was brainwashed by HYDRA, it wasn’t him! He had no control over his actions, you can’t blame him for what happened!” You stood between your father and Bucky.

But your father’s eyes were wild, filled with the kind of rage you’d never seen before. His voice was broken but fierce. “He still killed my mom.” In an instant, you were shoved aside, your body crashing to the ground with the force of your father’s fury. You barely had time to register the pain as your wrist hit the pavement. You gasped, a sharp ache spreading through your arm as you struggled to regain your footing. Your father was blinded by rage. And you were standing in his way. You watched in horror, your breath catching in your throat, as your father, a man you’d always known as controlled and calculating, moved with terrifying speed and ferocity.

He immediately headed towards Bucky, his movements fluid and deadly. With a brutal efficiency that sent a shiver down your spine, he disarmed Bucky, the clatter of metal echoing through the fractured space. He then stepped on Bucky’s metal arm, before aiming one of his Repulsors directly at his face, the glowing aperture a stark, menacing eye. Only then did Steve, battered and bruised, manage to rise, intercepting the blast with a powerful, desperate throw of his shield, the impact resonating with a metallic clang. Seeing your father momentarily distracted, Bucky, his eyes flashing with a desperate determination, lunged forward, attempting to knock your father off balance.

The attempt was futile, a desperate gamble against a force driven by pure, unadulterated vengeance. Once again, your father, his movements precise and relentless, aimed one of his Repulsors at Bucky, the blue energy pulsing ominously. But the super soldier, his instincts honed by decades of combat, used his metal arm as a makeshift shield, the powerful limb absorbing the blast and then, with a brutal twist, shattering the repulsor emitter. You should have known your father would be prepared for such a contingency. He immediately transitioned, his movements seamless and deadly, attempting to launch a short-range missile at Bucky.

But Bucky, his senses sharpened by the adrenaline and the threat of imminent death, anticipated the move. With a swift, twist of his metal arm, he redirected the missile, sending it hurtling towards what appeared to be the facility's generators. You held your breath, your heart pounding against your ribs, watching in slow-motion as a catastrophic chain reaction erupted. A plume of smoke and fire billowed from the damaged chamber, the air thick with the acrid smell of burning metal and ozone. Debris rained down, and one of the support pillars, weakened by the explosion, began to tilt, heading straight towards you.

You froze, your muscles locked in a paralysis of fear, your eyes widening in terror. You closed them, bracing for the inevitable impact. Only before the pillar could crush you, Bucky managed to break free from your father's relentless attacks. He lunged forward, his movements a blur of desperate speed, pulling you away from the collapsing structure. “Go, I’m okay,” You reassured him, your voice trembling, but firm. Only instead of heeding your words, his eyes remained glued to your face, his gaze searching, almost desperate. "Bucky," You called his name softly, your voice barely a whisper, snapping him out of his reverie.

"He's not going to stop, go!" You needed him to focus on survival, not on you. You watched as he gave you one last, lingering look, a silent promise etched in his eyes, before sprinting towards the opposite end of the chamber, where Steve and your father were locked in a brutal, desperate struggle. The sound of their grunts and the clash of fists, echoed in the vast, dimly lit room. Time seemed to slow, each movement of their bodies, each swing of their arms, a blur of chaos. You wanted to move, to help, but your body betrayed you. The agonizing throb in your injured arm was a constant, cruel reminder of your limitations. You could do nothing about the fight.

You knew that. Your best bet was to get out of there was to reach the jet. That was your only hope in case the situation spiraled further out of control. With every step you took, the pain in your arm felt like a fire, consuming you from the inside out, but you couldn’t afford to stop. You gritted your teeth, forcing your legs to carry you, each stumble a testament to your desperation. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of limping, you reached the darkened corridor. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of dust and burning debris. And then, just as you thought you might catch your breath, a loud, deafening crash echoed through the chamber, and more debris fell from above.

The ground shook beneath you, sending vibrations up your spine, and you had to brace yourself against the wall to avoid being knocked over. That was your first mistake. You’d let your guard down. For just a fraction of a second, you’d been so fixated on the fight in front of you, that you didn’t sense the presence creeping up behind you. You didn’t hear the footsteps, the faint shuffle of movement in the shadows, until it was too late. Before you could even react, a strong hand shot out, gripping your arm with a vice-like hold. You barely had time to gasp before you were yanked back, your body crashing into the cold, unforgiving stone of the wall as you were pulled deeper into the darkness of the corridor.

The air grew colder here, the shadows longer, and for a moment, you couldn't see a thing. "Innocent?" The voice, sharp and unmistakable, hissed in your ear. Zemo. "After what you saw, do you still think that monster is innocent?" You swallowed hard, fear crawling up your throat. Your pulse quickened, but your mind raced, searching for something, anything to use against him. But all you could feel was the pounding in your head and the throbbing ache in your arm. You reached for your gun, but the world was spinning. Everything felt blurry, disorienting. The metallic taste of blood was in your mouth, and your body screamed at you to give in. Your fingers brushed the handle of your gun, but before you could even draw it, Zemo's hand was there, quicker than you could react.

With a brutal twist, he wrenched your gun from its holster, his grip unforgiving as he shoved you further into the shadows. "You don't have to do this." Zemo’s laugh was cold, cruel. "Oh, but I do," He shoved the barrel of your gun into your side digging into your injury. "I made a promise. And I intend to keep it." His words were final, spoken with a venomous certainty that made your heart lurch. And then, before you could do anything more, before you could beg or reason or fight back, there was a sudden, searing pain in the back of your head. The world tilted, spun wildly, and everything around you went dark.

thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! <3

[itsnesss]

I have a request 💖 sensei wolf x reader, she is his wife, and consoles him after his defeat against Johnny Lawrence

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭 | sensei wolf × fem!reader

summary | he's defeated, and you comfort him silently, reminding him that one loss doesn’t define him. you offer your love and support, assuring him you'll always be there, no matter what

warnings | reader!wife, emotional distress, vulnerability, implied past trauma, comforting touch, slight angst, kissing

word count | 1.0 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

The sound of the fighters' screams, the crash of punches, all had ceased. Only the stillness remained, as if time itself had decided to stop. There he was, the man who had been an unstoppable force to many, now leaning on one of the training bars, head down, shoulders hunched, as if the weight of defeat was crushing him.

The man who had never known the meaning of surrender, the man who had taught you to fight not only with the body but also with the mind. But in that moment, all he seemed to have was a bitter defeat, marked by the punch of Johnny Lawrence, a man from the past who had resurfaced to teach him a lesson. A lesson that, whether deserved or not, had left him vulnerable. And that feeling of vulnerability was the last thing he accepted.

You could see how his gaze emptied. Sitting there, with his legs stretched out, he seemed smaller, more human, than what people usually saw. You, who knew him better than anyone, understood that behind that facade of strength, of the image of the invincible leader, was a constant battle. Not only against others but also against his own demons, the ones that never disappeared.

You approached him without making a sound. You didn’t need words, only your presence. You knew that the touch of your hands, the warmth of your body near his, would be more effective than any verbal comfort. You leaned in slightly, placing a hand on his shoulder. You didn’t say anything, but you could feel how his body slowly relaxed, as if your touch were an anchor in the middle of the internal storm that was pulling him away.

He didn’t look at you at first. His gaze stayed fixed on the ground, as if he couldn’t find the strength to face you, or maybe, out of pride, he didn’t want to show his vulnerability. You knew the weight of the defeat was heavy for him. He had invested so much in this fight, so much in that image of invincibility he had built over the years, and now it all felt like it was crumbling before his eyes.

Finally, he raised his head, and for the first time, his eyes met yours. His dark eyes, which always seemed to have an answer for everything, now were empty, lost. The look he gave you was that of a defeated man, someone who felt like he had failed not only in front of others but in front of himself.

“I’m sorry...,” he murmured, his voice heavy with regret. “I should have never underestimated him.”

You shook your head softly, giving him a calm, almost imperceptible smile, but one filled with assurance. “You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong, Feng.”

But he wasn’t convinced. You could see it, how his mind tried to find an excuse, a way to justify the defeat, how he saw himself as a man who had failed. In his mind, Johnny Lawrence was not just a rival, but a reminder of his own past, of his own vulnerability. His insecurity.

“Johnny is just an obstacle, a challenge. Just another fight. That’s all he is,” you said firmly, taking his hands in yours, which were cold from the tension building up.

He looked at you for a second, skeptical, and then, with a sigh, leaned back, resting his back against one of the dojo walls. “You don’t understand. I’ve always been the best, I’ve always led, but today… today I felt like I had taken a step back. Like my efforts didn’t mean anything.”

You moved a little closer, not taking your eyes off him, and sat next to him. The atmosphere between you both was charged, but what you felt wasn’t hopelessness, but a deep connection. You knew this moment was necessary, that he needed you to remind him of who he truly was, outside of the fight, outside of the dojo.

“It’s not the end of the world, you know?” you said softly, touching his face with one hand, caressing his cheek. “Everything you’ve done up until now, everything you’ve achieved, it doesn’t disappear because of one fight. You don’t define yourself by this defeat, or by the outcome of this match.”

The lament on his face didn’t disappear immediately, but something in his posture changed. You could see how his shoulders slowly relaxed. Despite his pride, despite his resistance, he trusted you, your words. He knew what you said was true.

“What truly matters is who you really are. What you’ve built in your life, the people who follow you, those who respect you. And me, I’ll always be by your side. No matter how many times you fall, Feng, I’ll be here. Always.”

With those words, you felt a weight lift off his shoulders. It wasn’t victory that he needed to hear, but the comfort of knowing that even in defeat, he wasn’t alone. You knew that for him, the fight never ended. And you also knew that, although today’s battle had been important, there was something much bigger than that: the future they could build together.

He looked at you intently, and for a moment, words weren’t necessary. Without saying anything more, he raised his hand and ran it through your hair, touching you gently, as if he were thankful for your support, for your patience. His gaze was deep, but calm. He was a man who had been touched by defeat, but at the same time, felt the strength of your love and understanding.

Then he hugged you, a deep and warm hug. There was no need for words. The simple fact of being there, together, was enough. And in that moment, he knew that no matter how many times he fell, or how the world saw him, he would always have your support, and that was more important than any victory.

“I need you,” he whispered, his voice barely a murmur, as if the vulnerability of that moment had stripped him of his armor.

“I’ll always be here,” you replied, hugging him tighter, clinging to him, to the peace that only he could give you. “No matter what happens, Feng. No matter what comes. We’ll get through it together.”

[rationalnerd62]

Seeing some of the tags I got on the CR timeline post, I think I loved C3 for the exact same reasons some folks disliked it or struggled with it.

I liked the overarching arc. Don't get me wrong, mini-arcs like with VM and M9 are perfectly fine, but there's something narratively satisfying to me about BH following this consistent thread all along the campaign. This group started with a few questions (Who attacked Keyleth? Why? What is the meaning of those dreams? Where are Fearne's parents?) and uncovered a whole conspiracy that then revealed itself to the entire world. It reminds me of reading those Fantasy series where the characters hear about the upcoming battle in book 1 and finally get to it in book 14. I can't wait to rewatch and see the foreshadowing and hints that brought this group to this point.

I liked the constant discussions about the Gods. Listen, as a gay person raised in a Catholic family, boy I've had my dealings and issues with religion. But I find it nice to be able to put our own world aside and watch this fantasy world ask questions that would be very controversial in ours. What we know of the Gods of Exandria has fundamentally changed from the first episode of C3 to the last. We went through both ExU Calamity and Downfall during that time. Those Gods have changed from being so removed and above mortals, mystical entities incomprehensible to anyone who dared trying, to beings with a past before Exandria, a family they're willing to protect at all costs no matter how hurtful their siblings are to the mortals, aliens with flaws and faults and failings, full of nuances and grayness in a world that put half of them in a box of "Good" and the other half in a box of "Evil". And as those Gods have been humanised in front of our eyes, it brought the question of whether their power over mortals is still justified and relevant. And now Exandria is about to change, and I find it exciting. IMO, it gives even more of a reason to keep exploring Exandria in the future of Critical Role than if the status quo was maintained. It's hard to do something new in a world that doesn't evolve with the story.

And while I understand people would have loved more time with Bell's Hells (I would have loved that too!), I also kinda loved how rushed and short in time they've been feeling since they've heard of the solstice. They've had a ticking clock ringing in their ears for a while now. People make different decisions when they don't think they have the time to get some sleep on it. Would have Ashton tried to absorb the shard if the group didn't have to leave for Ruidus the exact next day? Would have Orym taken a sword that maybe shouldn't be his if they didn't have to leave for Aeor the next day? Would have Imogen absorbed Predathos if watching Downfall hadn't made them realise that the Gods will break the Divine Gate to keep the secret of Predathos hidden?

IMO, we still got plenty of very interesting character moments despite the limited amount of time those characters spent together. They've been through some shit together, and the friendships they made through the shared trauma will stick with them for years. Because yes, they are friends (except for Braius, that one is on a tightrope lol). But they've proven over and over again what they're willing to do for their tight crew of broken people.

Boy I am so very fond of them. Saying goodbye will be hard 🥹.

[voidandabyssal]

How would nightmare react to someone that helped him at his lowest

The s/o in question is as old as him maybe even older. The s/o met him when he was a child and sulking near the tree of emotions because everybody kept on hating him for being the protecter of negativity

The s/o took pity in him and decided to become his friend.

But even if nightmare now had a friend, he succumbed to negativity and ate the apple

The s/o at the time of corruption was going to hang out with him but instead saw him murder people mercilessly so they got scared and ran away.

And after hundreds of years of nightmare looking for the s/o throughout the multiverse, he met them helping dream instead of him.

I would like to know what Nightmare would do in that happens because my thoughts just left me at that

Nightmare:

The moment he takes a bite out of that apple is simultaneously the best and worst decision he had ever made. The feeling, the power, the justified revenge he got at the hands of the village was worth it

Even when his body tore apart at the seams and black goo burst from his cavitys. Tentacles bursting from his back. His teeth twisting and sharpening into painful reminders of his decision.

Until he saw you. You’re face twisted in horror, fear

He hated you. From that very second, overcome with negativity, he swore he wouldn’t forget your face. The emotions he pulled from you only strengthened him. Further empowering his shattered and remaking body.

You were supposed to be his friend! Someone who cared for him, who stuck by his side through even the worst of times.

you were exactly like the rest of the village.

You were using him! you only befriended him because of his status!

He’s so consumed with everything that you just manage to slip away from him. You just barely manage to escape, his sharp tentacles slicing your cheek open leaving a thin trail of blood behind.

When Nightmare snaps out of his rage. After the village had been destroyed, though he still feels the ache of that perceived betrayal he still wants you around.

Dream is gone, turned to a statue, and you are the only thing he has left.

He searches, and searches, and soon rips the village and surrounding lands apart as he looks for you.

He assumes you’re dead. Killed by him. He lets the negativity consume him once again. Forcing himself to relive the memories of your time together.

Hundreds of years pass, and Nightmare has mostly pushed you from his mind. Occasionally going on a rabid hunt throughout the multiverse in search of you. The desperate part of him, the part of him that could still be considered Passive, still believes you to be alive

He hates himself for that day, he wishes he had grabbed you, held you tight in his arms and stopped you from disappearing.

Constant battles between him and his brother and that newfangled ‘star sanses’ keep him from finding you. Constantly bothered by Dreams desperate pleas to be able to find you.

He holds nothing back, lashing out with every ounce of aggression.

Then he finally sees you. Older, more mature. Still as beautiful as he last saw you.

You were wrapping the wounds of one of Nightmares victims. Regret poured out from you as you remembered the last time you saw him.

Before you can dwell on past regrets, Nightmare sneaks in. Watching on in jealousy as you care for the injured.

You leave the injureds home, when you feel Nightmares tentacles wrap around you and tug you towards him.

The grip is tight, almost painfully so. Every time you struggle he holds you tighter, wrapping his arms around you in a tight hug

“You’re here… you’re really here” he mutters, tucking your hair behind your ear.

He fixates on the scar on your cheek, a reminder of Nightmares attack.

He presses a kiss, one as gentle as he can manage. On top of it.

A silent ask for forgiveness.

You can struggle as much as you want, but Nightmare will never let you go.

The two of you disappear into the void. Nightmare taking you to his home.

You are kept careful hidden away. Like a precious gem in a dragons hoard.

He will tend to your every need, keep you safe and locked away from any would be meddlers.

He won’t let you out of his sight until Nightmare is sure you won’t leave. Even then, he keeps a carful eye on the people around you.

You’ll come to love the new him eventually. You don’t have a choice

[asexualenjolras]

I've finished watching season two, and I have some thoughts I needed to just get out. Neil Gaiman is a very talented writer, and the way he writes the Ineffable Husbands' relationship is so authentic and beautiful.

Aziraphale and Crowley's relationship is so much more complex than having them end up happy so soon after Crowley admitted his feelings for his angel. They've spent 6,000 years, as Nina and Maggie put it, not talking to one another about how they feel. It isn't unimaginable that Aziraphale would struggle with his feelings when Crowley finally admits how he feels.

Of the two of them, Crowley is more settled in his freedom. He has no ties to Hell, or Heaven, or Earth. He knows that he would be happy living away from all of that with Aziraphale. It's what he's wanted for a while, and he's content with the idea. We've now seen him ask Aziraphale to run away with him twice (once in season one, and once in season two). He's perfectly happy with that idea. And him telling Aziraphale that at the end of season two was such character development compared to him just screaming at his angel in the first season.

Overall, Crowley knows he loves Aziraphale more than Earth, or Hell, or Heaven and Maggie and Nina help him reach that conclusion by the end of the season. Nothing matters more to Crowley than Aziraphale. And we have seen him threaten to throw everything away for him twice now. He wants Aziraphale and Crowley is contented with the idea of it being the two of them for the rest of time.

However, Aziraphale has never wanted solitude. He's never once said that that's something he wants. Aziraphale's wants and needs are in constant battle with one another, and what he wants is ... to be good. His morals are objective, and he is burdened by his constant need to be good and to be fair - even if it means being unfair to himself. He's prone to self-sabotage. And he will forever put other people and beings before himself.

Aziraphale, like Crowley, knows that he is bound to Crowley for eternity. They are soulmates. 6,000 years of finding one another is evidence of that. But Aziraphale's trauma is so deep-rooted. It is engrained in him that he needs to be good. He believes it's integral to his being. He's spent 6,000 years doing his absolute best to impress Heaven and God, and his morals aren't going to change just because Crowley admits his feelings for him. He is, at the heart and soul, good. And he can't move past his morals and put himself first because that would be ... out of character. He's conflicted. But the one thing he is is ... good.

Aziraphale wanted Crowley with him just as much as Crowley wanted him. But he just wanted to try and balance Heaven and Crowley. He wanted Crowley to be an angel with him, and be happy and work together as they always had. He didn't want anything to change (he's so autistic). When Crowley told him that he didn't want to stay in Heaven, Aziraphale was confused and hurt. You could see it in his face.

And, integrally, he could have demanded that Crowley come with him, he could have been selfish for the first time in his life, but he wasn't ... and he couldn't ever be. He let Crowley go. Because he thought that was what was best for him. He put Crowley first and pushed his own wants and needs aside. Crowley told him he didn't want to go, so he let him walk out.

Importantly, we see him doubt. He stops for a split second and considers going with Crowley when he sees that Crowley has waited for him on the other side of the road (Crowley didn't go ... too fast this time, he stayed put and didn't run away - he waited for Aziraphale - but don't get me started because I will cry).

Overall, just as we've seen Crowley's want to run away with Aziraphale before, we've seen Aziraphale turn down that offer in place of doing the right thing (or, what Aziraphale feels is the right thing). This isn't new. And they will get through it. They just have a bad time communicating with one another.

One thing is certain, though: they are soulmates. And they will find their way to one another again. They have done for the past 6,000 years. It's ineffable. They are ineffable.

Neil's a genius. And the mirroring between their relationship in the two seasons is so well-written, and complex and I have so much admiration for it.

Anyways, that's all I can muster in thought. I'm off to cry because angst makes me sob. And I'm heartbroken. I'm so hopeful for a season three. I need to see this angel and ... Crowley again.

[moonwayne]

Weak

logan x gn!reader

warnings: angst, cussing, mention of blood and injury, arguments, my rushed writing

Request: i love logan and i love angst!!I would like to read about an argument (one that is difficult to resolve or forgive) because I haven't seen much of that around here. That would be great! Thk 🫶 - @daugheroferuri

first time writing for Logan, let me know if you like it!

Logan had always struggled with his past. The reminders of trauma showing themselves in arbitrary moments and the constant battles he faced as part of the X-Men was no help. You had been with him for a handful of years now and as a fellow mutant you had stuck by his side for years, supporting him through countless fights. Your empathetic healing and manipulation abilities had come in handy whenever it came to persuading an enemy or alleviating a teammate’s pain. But this wasn’t without a cost. Every change of the mind or lapse in judgement you inflicted on to others no longer had an effect, but removing and forcing pain blockers took its toll on your body. Every use had left you exhausted, nearing a dangerous line of losing consciousness on multiple occasions. Needless to say, Logan was against you using your pain-relieving powers.

In recent days, the strain of the distance forced between you and him at his hand, had been damn near debilitating. As you sluggishly strolled into Charles’ office, you noticed him and Hank talking lowly in the corner. With a heavy sigh, you plopped yourself into a nearby chair, waiting as the two finally noticed your presence.

“Ah! Y/N! H-How’s your day?” Hank stuttered out, face burning with a embrassed blush, as if he’d been a child caught with something he shouldn’t have. You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously before turning to Charles, who matched Hank’s guilty expression and strained smile. You moved your eyes from one to the other a few times, before focusing on Hank and feeling around in his mind.

“Hey! Don’t d-“ He sputtered, cut off by your determined voice. “Hank.” You said, pleading with a tilt of your head. “I can practically see your guilt. You’re very bad at hiding things. Just tell me what you know.”

His face burned again, and he flicked his gaze towards the professor in apology before mumbling out a quiet “Well.. Logansortofdiscoveredanewthreatthatcouldendangerallofourlivesandcountlessinnocents. Heleftlastnight.“ He finished with a meek smile.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You breathed out, exasperated at the confession and the situation as a whole.

“Y/N, you must understand-“ Charles injected then. “No Charles! Don’t you see? I’m tired of understanding.” You rose your voice, digging your nails into your palm harshly. “He thinks he’s doing the right thing.”

You scoffed. “He only wishes to protect you.” Charles finished, having found his way over to you in the process, and wrapped a hand around yours comfortingly. “Logan does not know any better.” You rolled your eyes as you yanked your hand away from his harshly, standing up.

“I can’t do this any longer. I won’t. I am so tired of being pushed to the outside just because he simply ‘does not know better’, that’s some bullshit, Charles. And I know you know that.” You stated firmly, making your exit. “If I don’t return, I thank you for all you both have given me.” You spoke, hand grasping the door anxiously. “Truly.” Hank and Charles nodded, and watched your figure fade as you walked off.

+- -+

After searching and finding Logan’s plans in his room you concluded the threat would have been dealt with by the time you arrived to where he was in France. After a long flight and some more traveling later, you caught up to him. You strolled into the hotel and by turning up the charm, you convinced the poor receptionist to let you into where he was staying. It only took around an hour of you pacing the carpeted floor with a frown etched on your face for Logan to come storming in the room, his face already set in a hardened expression. “Y/N?” He questioned, taking in your form as you did his, noticing the healing bruises and bloody knuckles.

“What are you doing here?” He rushed over to you, hands on your shoulders as he began to push you towards the door.

“Logan, I’m here for you!” You said, planting your feet and staring up into his eyes. He shook his head in disagreement and began to push you out of the room again. “You shouldn’t have come here. It’s too dangerous.”

“L-Logan. Stop pushing me.”

“Shouldn’t be here.. not safe..” He mumbled, gathering your bags and placing them in your hands. “Logan!” You yelled now, dropping the bags at your feet and making your way over to his cowering form.

“You should be at home.” He grunted. “I need to leave. The threat isn’t dealt with.” He said, turning to leave you alone once more.

"Logan, you can't keep doing this!" You exclaimed, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. "Every time you go on these missions alone, you leave me behind, unsure of your safety. You need support with you.”

Logan's jaw tightened. "I can handle it. I've been doing this long before we met. It's what I do."

"But we're supposed to be a team," you shot back, voice breaking as tears welled up in your eyes. "How am I supposed to just be okay with you shutting me out, okay with you making me feel like I don't matter in your life?"

Logan's eyes softened for a moment, and you thought he might wrap you in his arms and speak to you his apologies, but that was only a thought. He stiffened up and turned away, his voice gruff. "This is not about you. It's about keeping you safe. I can't risk losing you." A crack in his voice was the only sign of emotion. You shook your head rapidly, frustration and sadness boiling over. "Logan don't you see? Every time you go out there alone, I feel a piece of you slip away. I can't do this, Logan. I can't keep living everyday unsure, waiting for the day you decide you simply do not need me anymore.” You spoke, voice trembling with every word. Logan's shoulders slumped, the weight of your words seeming to have had an effect. He sighed and turned towards you again, his eyes filled with a mix of pain and regret.

"I... I don't know how to do this any other way." He mumbled, avoiding your gaze. You took a step closer and reached out for one of his bloody hands.

"Then we need to find a way together. Because I won’t continue letting you push me away. We need to stick together." You breathed, regaining some composure. “You know I’m capable of helping. I don’t understand why you don’t let me come with you.” He pulled his hand away from yours aggressively, that stony expression returning to his face.

“Y/N. Enough.” He said, “You’re not strong enough to join me on these missions.” You blinked rapidly, feeling the burning sensation of tears returning to your eyes.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean that you’re weak, Y/N.”

“You don’t really mean that.” Your voice lowered.

“Right now, I do.” He gritted his teeth, baring that once charming smile into a grim line.

“You’re fucking pathetic, James. We’re supposed to be together, in everything.” Your sadness slowly morphed into a rising anger. Logan's eyes flashed with anger at your statement. "You don't get it, do you? I don't need a partner. I don’t need back up. I need you to stay safe. And out of my way. If that means you hating me, or you leaving me entirely then so be it.” He told you, jaw tightening. “I tried the domestic life once. You know what happened. I won’t do it again. I mean, just look wherre it fucking got me.” He flashed his claws, a pained frown spreading over his face.

“I don’t recognize you anymore, Wolverine.” You stated. “I didn’t fall in love with this version of you.”

He sighed and looked into your eyes, his mind’s pain and uncertainty filling the air around you so thick you could nearly feel it choking you.

“I am sorry, Y/N.” He lifted his bags off the floor and with a single glance into your eyes, he turned and walked out, leaving you standing there, heartbroken and riddled with doubt. You didn’t know if you could ever bridge the massive chasm between you.

+-+

sorry the ending was a bit rushed. hope you liked it <3

[leather-n-velvet]

High & Low: Part VII

A Drew Starkey x singer/actress!oc SMAU

Summary: While on hiatus from touring and wanting to branch out with her career, Ivy Blake auditions for OBX, immediately hitting it off with none other than Drew Starkey during their chemistry read. As tension and drama brew between the two, can they get through the highs and lows that come with fame and relationships together?

A/N: Small blurb today along with the usual posts! Kind of a filler chapter. Enjoy!!!

Dividers by: @cafekitsune ⭐️🌙

Previous Part // Masterlist

Ivy was confused, to say the least. Why on earth would O*dessa be messaging her about Drew? Irritation flared inside her as she considered even opening the message.

She glanced over at Drew, who was peacefully sleeping, completely unaware of the constant thoughts plaguing her mind regarding his relationship with O*dessa. He didn’t recognize the discomfort she felt each time her name came up. It wasn’t like Ivy to be so wary of a friend of her boyfriend; she usually made a significant effort to get to know them. But something was stopping her, especially after her conversation with Madelyn just a few days earlier.

It felt as if she didn’t want to accept the possibility that her suspicions were valid, and she certainly didn’t want to confront them head-on. She knew she needed to talk to Drew about her feelings, but how could she bring it up without sounding crazy and jealous?

Ivy wanted their relationship to thrive on communication and honesty, and if she didn’t confess her feelings now, she feared she would only build a wall between them. She understood that she’d never be able to fully let him in if she didn’t start now.

Letting people in had always been difficult for her. After being played and used by too many people in her almost 26 years, she learned those lessons the hard way. This time, with Drew, she refused to let that pattern continue. She had fallen hard for him and, for the first time in her life, saw a future with someone. There was no way she could throw that away over some silly insecurities.

These thoughts kept her awake until the sun began peeking through the cream-colored curtains in her childhood bedroom, causing Drew to start stirring.

Ivy felt his arms wrap around her, pulling her to his chest and pressing a kiss to her neck. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” she sighed, turning in his embrace to lay across his bare chest, melting into him. “Guess I had a lot on my mind.”

His arms tightened around her. “Anything you want to share with the class?”

She chuckled half-heartedly, her heartbeat thrumming nervously in her chest. “Actually, yes. It’s about O*dessa.”

Drew stiffened. “What about her?”

“She messaged me on Instagram last night, asking me to get you to reach out to her.”

“I feel like there’s more on your mind than that.”

Ivy hesitated, feeling her hands start to shake as the fear of potential confrontation took over. She didn’t like being that girl—laying her insecurities bare and discussing her feelings. In the past, it had always led to conflict. She had a habit of bottling things up just to let them go without a fight, finding herself a human doormat. This relationship with Drew would not be like that, even if it physically pained her to go against everything she was accustomed to.

She sat up, turning to face him and occupying her hands with the hem of the threadbare t-shirt she had dug up from high school. “Um, there is. I’ve just had this feeling about her. Like there’s something off about her vibe. The whole thing with the event mix-up last week has been really bothering me.”

Drew closed his eyes, mentally battling the guilt about the situation. He had been deciding whether to tell her that the entire thing had been a setup, manufactured by none other than O*dessa herself.

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me about any of this?”

Ivy sighed, avoiding his gaze. “I didn’t want to cause any problems. I know you’re close to her, and I’d never tell you who you can and can’t be friends with, but my gut is just telling me something is off.”

“Do you not trust me?”

“Of course I do. I just think it’s her. She seems very dependent on you, and I get that, but…”

Drew noticed Ivy’s shaking hands as she started to pick at her nails—a nervous habit that usually emerged when she felt anxious or overwhelmed. It pained him to see her so torn up just discussing something that bothered her. If he could, he would personally confront everyone who had ever made her feel like a burden for sharing her feelings. He knew how hard this was for her and he hated that he couldn’t help her more.

His hands found hers. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

She glanced up, meeting those denim-blue eyes that she adored.

“I swear to you, you have nothing to worry about. We are just friends, and we have only ever been just friends. You’re my girl. I feel terrible about missing your event, and I promise to start writing everything down so there aren’t any more mix-ups.” He rubbed his thumb across hers, feeling her shaking start to lessen. “But I need you to talk to me about things. I know your past has made you hesitant to open up, but this is different, baby. We’re different. I want to know every single thought that goes through that beautiful head of yours.”

“I’ll try.”

______

drewstarkey

Liked by haley_james, JillianBlake, and 2,347,766 others.

drewstarkey happy birthday stink 🧜🏼‍♀️

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User1 HAPPY BDAY IVY

user2 this is so cute

User3 no one’s gonna talk about the 2nd pic???

railaslovechild THEIR BIRTHDAYS ARE ONLY A DAY APART 🥹

user4 HBD QUEEN

starboyd

Liked by JillianBlake, brooke_starkey, and 123 others.

starboyd Happy birthday, angel 🩵

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sonotivyleague 🥹 happy to be spending and almost sharing a birthday with u 🩵

madrecliner I TOLD YALL TO STOP IT 😭

lacigurl HAPPY BIRTHDAY GORGEOUS 💋

brooke_starkey happy birthday, pretty girl! ☺️

ivyblake

Liked by drewstarkey, hichasestokes, and 23,387,977 others.

ivyblake it’s been a good day 🩵

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madelyncline 26 HAS NEVER LOOKED HOTTER

carlaciagrant happy bday gorgeous girl 🫶🏾

madisonbaileybabe HAPPY BIRTHDAY ANGEL FACE

drewstarkey🪽🩵

user4 HI DREW

user5 DID ANYBODY SEE DREW’S STORY JUST NOW??!

railaslovechild OMFG DID HE SET THIS UP?! MY HEART 🥹😭

o*dessaazion hbd

user1 🤨 @/user2

user2 @/user1 🥸

sabrinacarpenter happy birthday darling 🩷🩷🩷

TheIvyLeague HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUEEN 🎁🎉🎈

ivyblakeupdates HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU LOVELY HUMAN

ivyblake

Liked by brooke_starkey, railaslovechild, and 21,332,456 others.

ivyblake happy birthday drewby doo, hoping you had your daily pb&j to make it the best day 🩵

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drewstarkey I suspiciously had a freezer full of Uncrustables this morning, any idea how that happened???

ivyblake that’s so strange 🤭

user1 they aren’t even trying to hide it anymore 😂

railaslovechild MARRY EACH OTHER RN

madelyncline Happy birthday drewseph!!!

DrewIvyUpdates SO CUTE HBD DREW

DrewIvyUpdates wait is that IVY'S NECKLACE IN THE 3RD PIC

sonotivyleague

Liked by haley_james, lacigurl, and 213 others.

sonotivyleague birthday boy 🩵

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JillianBlake happy birthday sweet boy!

starboyd thank you mama Jill! madelyncline already in good with the in laws I see 🤭

rude_boy hbd drewseph!!!

lacigurl HAPPY BIRTHDAY BESTIE!!!

o*dessaazion

Liked by ivyblake, drewstarkey, and 877,323 others.

o*dessaazion Happy birthday Joseph. Keep eating that pb n j once a day, it's really good for ur bones

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user3 ummm, did she just somewhat copy Ivy's bday post???

user4 this is umm.... yeah

user5 Ivy liked....

hater1 I LOVE U GUYS

haley_james lol...ok

user4 HOLY FUCK user2 did not see that coming

A/N: Not Haley being messy 🫣

THANK YOU for all of your support!!! Please let me know what you think and don't forget to like and reblog! My inbox is always open for any thoughts or discussions you would like to have about Drew/Ivy! I would love to hear from y'all.

Taglist: @davinashifts333, @rafegf-real, @chalahyung01, @jjmaybankmylovee, @f4irywor1d

[theobjectofmyobsession055]

Of Wonders and Witches: Chapter 1 (Zagreus x Reader)

I know this game came out like 6 years ago, but I've only just gotten around to playing it and I am OBSESSED. Specifically with Zagreus. So, in honor of Halloween, here's the first chapter of my witchy little reader-insert starring everyone's favorite god! I'm not sure how many chapters this story will have, but I have a very clear plot mapped out for it, so hopefully I'll actually finish this one in a timely fashion lol. Enjoy!

Next chapter

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

Zagreus’ blood roared in his ears as he trekked through the cold, his entire body thrumming with adrenaline. He’d done it. He’d finally done it. After all this time, attempt after attempt after attempt, he’d gotten past Hades, felled his own father. And now, now he was only a hair’s breadth away from finally meeting his birth mother. He wondered what she was like, if he looked like her in any way. Achilles told him he took more after his father, but surely there’d be some family resemblance, right? Whatever the case, he was sure she’d be an improvement from his father, anyone would be.

That was, if he managed to find her amid all this blasted snow. Nyx had given him clear directions on how to get to his mother’s abode, but it was proving to be far less simple getting there than he’d thought. The battle with his father drained him of just about all of the strength he had, leaving him with several egregious wounds that painted red across the snow as he walked. His mother’s hiding place was much farther away from the Temple of Styx than he’d imagined, but he refused to give up now, not when he was so close.

He gasped for breath, clutching the dripping gash on his side as he continued to trudge through the snow, every step feeling like he was resisting the weight of the heavens themselves. He’d never felt more sympathetic of Atlas’ plight than in that moment. But he had to carry on, he wouldn’t let himself fall like this.

A rock jutting out from under the snow caught his foot, sending him sprawling out onto the ground with a thud. He groaned, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the screaming pain in his head. His every nerve was on fire, his body wailing at him to stop. He tried to struggle onto his hands and knees, only to find that he couldn’t make his muscles budge.

It was cold. So cold. Not even the constant warmth of his flaming feet was enough to shut out the bitter chill seeping into his bones. And he was so tired. He felt the pull of Hypnos, lulling him into slumber. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to close his eyes, just for a second. He was so, so tired.

Zagreus watched with a detached sort of curiosity as crimson blood seeped into the stark white snow around him, the puddle expanding and expanding. He thought back to the wondrous sight of the sunrise he’d seen just minutes before, the red sun spilling its color all across his uncle’s vast realm. He wondered why he’d ever been ashamed of bleeding red—it was such a beautiful color.

And then, the world went dark.

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

The scent of roasting herbs filled Zagreus’ nostrils. He groaned as he was roused from his slumber by the tantalizing smell, his head pounding. His eyes slowly fluttered open, his vision swimming slightly for a moment before his surroundings came into focus. He found himself seated on a plush recliner, bundled up in several soft, woolen blankets. He appeared to be inside a small cottage, the cozy interior decorated with paintings of creatures and places he’d never seen before. Bundles of herbs wrapped in twine hung in the windows, alongside various animal bones and crystals sitting on the sills. But the most striking thing of all about his new surroundings was the woman standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in a forest-green shawl and tending to a large cooking pot over the fire.

The woman looked up, her eyes alight with warmth as she regarded him. “You’re finally awake.” She turned to the cupboards behind her and retrieved a small wooden bowl, ladling a few spoonfuls of her concoction into it. She knelt down by Zagreus’ side and placed the bowl to his lips. “Drink. It’ll make you feel better.”

He did as she commanded, too tired and weak to resist. Warm, hearty flavors he didn’t recognize bloomed on his tongue, and he found himself greedily drinking down the entire bowl. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he’d been until his belly was no longer aching with emptiness.

Once he polished off the soup, the woman stood and filled the bowl once more. “Where…” he croaked, his voice hoarse and crackly. “Where am I…? Who are you…?”

The woman offered him a gentle smile as she set the bowl down on the end table beside him. “My name is Y/N. I found you unconscious in the snow, so I brought you back here to my home. In all honesty, I thought you were dead.” She retrieved a pitcher and poured its contents into a cup. “I’m glad to see that’s not the case. I don’t think I’d have the strength to dig a grave with the ground frozen solid as it is.” She chuckled, a low, soft sound that filled the cottage with warmth. She returned to his side and offered him the cup. “Water.”

Zagreus took the cup and drank, the coolness doing wonders for his scratchy throat. He coughed, dislodging the flehm from his esophagus. When he spoke again, it hurt far less. “Y/N… thank you.”

He was touched by this mortal’s kindness, shown to a complete stranger, no less. As he shifted, he realized that his wounds had been stitched together and bandaged. He could already feel his strength returning, his body beginning to heal his injuries. He picked up the bowl and drank deeply, savoring the satisfying flavor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand in a very un-princely manner. “What is this stuff?” he asked. “It’s delicious.”

Y/N’s soft smile widened ever-so slightly as she watched him enjoy his meal. “Just pumpkin soup. Though I did add a few extra ingredients to promote healing. You’re lucky I’m the one who found you—not everyone is as well-versed in the curative arts as I am.”

Zagreus raised a curious eyebrow. A mortal with the ability to mend a god’s wounds with just a meal? He’d never heard of such a thing before. “Are you a witch, then?”

Amusement shone in her eyes. “You could say that. Though I prefer to think of myself as more of a healer than a true sorceress. I don’t spend my days cursing people I don’t like, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

He thought of all the witches he’d slain in the Underworld, their gnarl-toothed grimaces as they spat hexes at him on orders of his father. Y/N didn’t seem much like them at all—kind, gentle, her appearance youthful and her voice sonorous. In truth, she was quite beautiful. No, nothing like the witches he knew of.

She sat down in a chair across from him, maintaining a respectful distance. She steepled her fingers together in her lap and pinned him with a curious, enigmatic gaze. Her voice lowered, far more serious yet no less kind as she said, “…I’ve seen many strange things come from the direction of the Temple in my time living here, but this is the first I’ve seen a person. Either you are very lost… or very lucky.” Her eyes shone knowingly as she looked him up and down, making him feel a bit exposed. “…And judging by the looks of it, I’d wager on the latter.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but she held her hand up, silencing the words on the tip of his tongue. “I won’t make you explain, I’ve no interest in prying. I’m sure you’ve encountered far enough opposition thus. Just know that wherever you are going on your journey… tread cautiously.” Her expression sobered, her keen eyes examining him as though she could see directly into his divine soul. “…I sense much darkness surrounding you, enshrouding you with the warm cloak of night. That will serve you well if you wish to save yourself from the gods’ wrath, but even the darkest nights yet have the possibility to be illuminated by Olympus’ gaze. All that is to say… be careful.”

Zagreus blinked, shocked that a mortal could sense Nyx’s blessing so acutely. No true sorceress she said, sure. But even so, she didn’t seem interested in using her knowledge against him, which he thanked the Fates for. Her words of warning appeared to come from a place of genuine concern. He nodded, his heterochromatic eyes gleaming with determination. “Thank you, kind maiden. For everything. I don’t think I would have made it through the snow were it not for your aid, so I shall heed your words—I’ll be careful.”

She smiled, and the entire cottage felt warmer. Zagreus stood from the recliner and stretched his stiff muscles. He still didn’t feel one hundred percent, but it was much better than being half-dead. He knew he’d be able to make it the rest of the way.

Then it struck him that he had absolutely no idea where they were, and thus Nyx’s directions were entirely useless. With a sheepish flush creeping up his face, he turned back to Y/N and asked, “Say, just for curiosity’s sake… you wouldn’t happen to know about any divine gardens around here, would you? Perhaps inhabited by a certain goddess…?”

Y/N’s eyes widened in recognition. “Oh! You’re looking for Lady Persephone’s garden?” A conflicted look crossed over her face, her brows furrowing together. “…Lady Persephone doesn’t take kindly to most visitors. I trust there is a good reason she remains hidden away here. But…” She examined Zagreus once again, her gaze piercing. “…I can sense you have no ill intentions. If you must go to her, I can tell you the way.”

He nodded firmly. “Yes, I must. Thank you. I will not forget your kindness.”

“Oh, feel free to forget if you wish. It is only the right thing to do, to help a soul in need,” Y/N said, as though she didn’t just save his life.

He took in the sight of the woman before him, sitting there with her hands folded demurely in her lap as she smiled up at him. His voice came out much softer than he intended as he murmured, “I don’t want to forget.”

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but he could have sworn he saw a touch of red bloom on her cheeks. She looked down at her hands in her lap. “…As you wish.”

Y/N instructed Zagreus on where to go to find his mother, and he was pleased to hear that it wasn’t far at all from their current location. But before he stepped past the threshold and back into the cold, Y/N stopped him with a gentle but insistent hand on his arm. “Wait, take this.” She unclasped her shawl from around her shoulders and placed it in his hands. “It’s awfully chilly out there. It’s not much, but it should at least help a little to keep you warm.”

He was more surprised than he cared to admit. Usually he was the one giving gifts to others, not the other way around. Besides, he was a god (not that she knew that), surely she needed it more than him? “Thank you, but I can’t take this. You’ve already done more than enough for me. Won’t you get cold?”

She waved away his protests with a dismissive hand and started affixing the shawl around his shoulders. It was heavier than it looked, a nice, warm, comforting weight. “Oh nonsense, I have plenty more just like it. Take it, I insist.” She took a step back to admire her handiwork, her lips curled up into a gentle smile. “I must say, green is a rather handsome color on you, stranger.”

“Zagreus,” he corrected automatically. He wasn’t sure why he was giving her his name when he was almost certain he’d never see her again, but he couldn’t stop it from slipping past his lips. “My name is Zagreus.”

“Zagreus…” she repeated, his name falling off her tongue sounding even more addictive than the taste of ambrosia. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Zagreus. I wish you nothing but luck on your journey.”

Something deep within him stirred. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it compelled him to take her hand in his own and bring it up to his lips, placing a gallant kiss to her knuckles. “The pleasure has been all mine. Thank you again for your immeasurable kindness.”

This time, he knew he saw a red flush crawl up her cheeks. She pulled her hand away, which he released without resistance. But even so, a small, almost shy smile graced her lips. She cleared her throat. “Well, you’d best ought to get going,” she said quietly (almost reluctantly? Did he dare to hope?).

Zagreus steeled himself, standing up straighter. He had a mission to accomplish. “Yes. Farewell, Y/N.”

“Farewell, Zagreus.”

And with that final goodbye, he set back out into the snow. Y/N’s shawl proved to block out the cold just fine as he made the final trek to his mother’s home. Even though he was single-minded in his purpose, and he wasn’t entirely sure of what the future held, he found himself hoping that the Fates would see it fit to let them meet once again.

[satinestales]

He knew she was a different Jedi, she was better than him, he couldn't read her mind , or could even tell what she thinks, but she could feel everything he felt . She understood him. Lot sexual tension

❝self destructive tendencies❞ | qimir x fem!reader

pairing: qimir x fem!reader

● this is a 2nd pov, if you want to read 3rd pov, here●

summary: A week has passed since the battle on Khofar and the startling reveal of your former friend. Qimir, the man behind the mask and the murderer of your comrades took you to a remote island, far away from the Republic's surveillance, after you sustained severe injuries. You've been keeping your distance from him, trying to ignore your hidden feelings. Yet, when his thoughts merge with yours, the vow you made to yourself becomes almost impossible to keep.

warnings: english is not my first language, sexual tension, corruption, sexual themes/dreams, E Y E C O N T A C T, qimir, mentions of blood and injuries

author's note: I could not be a jedi I'd turn into aquaman if he asked me to join him

now playing, love in the sky by the weeknd

*:..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡౨ৎ 🍓｡˚🍰♡ ˚..。♡*ﾟ¨ﾟﾟ·*:..。♡ ︎

The moon hung low over the horizon, casting an eerie glow on the waves that lapped against the shores of the ghostly island. Qimir’s silhouette stood out against the backdrop of the night sky, his presence a constant reminder of the blood and carnage he left on Khofar. As you laid on the rough sand, the pain from your injuries pulsed faintly, you could not shake the mixture of fear and thirst that his proximity stirred within you. The island was a planet unknown to you and as much as you tried to examine the surface, its location remained elusive to you. You supposed it might have been somewhere in the Outer Rim or beyond. Somewhere where the Republic would have a difficult way of finding you. World away from the Republic’s watchful eyes, and here, with only Qimir for company, you felt both vulnerable and strangely contented.

You decided to relax on the beach, further away from Qimir’s constant presence that melted your thoughts. However, luck wasn't on your side; minutes after settling in, he walked past you to his favorite bathing spot, smirk on his face as he acknowledged your presence. It was late at night, your legs and arms sore from the repetitive training, you put yourself through. The island offered few diversions. Waiting for Qimir’s next move or for Sol to find you wasn’t your idea of a perfect day. The injuries covering your body were difficult to ignore, and you refused to let Qimir get close enough to you to heal them. You told yourself you would rather bleed out than feel his touch on your skin. Deep down, though, you knew the real reason for keeping him at bay.

So, you lay there, absentmindedly playing with a rock you found, irritated by his presence but too weary to consider moving again. You had to admit your fault; you had set up camp right in front of his favorite spot. Over the past week, you had seen him bare many times. First unbothered but lately it has gotten under your skin. You had been friends with Qimir for some time before discovering his true identity behind the mask and his responsibility for your friends' murders. Their deaths pained you, but the betrayal and realization of his deception cut deeper. After many years you thought you found yourself a friend outside the temple. One that you could share your interests and secrets with, without the fear of being judged by the Jedi. You told him about your fears and likes. Your doubts in the order and your wish to help people as much as you could. About your hate and desire. The Sith emotions. Now he’s using them to lure you in and trap you on the other side.

You weren’t the most perceptive, but his intentions were clear. He knew your feelings, your likes, and dislikes; you had shared them with him when you believed he was your friend and a supplier. Even a blind person could see his thoughts, and your strength in the Force allowed you to delve into his mind, revealing more than you wished to know.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away as he slowly shed his clothes to enter the water, a routine he seemed to relish. Despite your experiences in battles and missions, witnessing the horrible conditions and lack of hygiene, even your comrades didn’t bathe as frequently as Qimir did before you. You considered yourself fortunate; at least he smelled good, even if the scent of sandalwood mixed with citrus fruit drove you mad. You smelled it when you woke up, during meals and training, and before sleep. You felt him everywhere. You weren’t sure for how much longer you could endure it.

You studied the muscles of his back as he swam slowly, admiring them from your vantage point. He was undeniably strong, scars marring his skin a testament to the pain he had endured. You observed how his dark hair moved with his motions, how he ran his long thick fingers through it while washing it gently. His biceps tensed as he splashed water around his neck, and you noticed the way he caressed his chest, attempting to cleanse away the day’s dirt.

It was only when you accidently crushed the rock in half, you realized the intensity of your stare. Clearing your throat, you sat up and leaned against the mossy bank behind you, feeling shame wash over you. You were convinced his own dreams started to corrupt you.

One of the curses of being a Jedi was the ability to read minds, and Qimir was no exception. You saw his thoughts vividly, filled with bright colors that sent adrenaline coursing through your veins. You wondered if he wanted you to delve into his mind, to make you believe he desired you, or if he simply didn’t care. You feared he could read your thoughts too, despite your lifelong ability to block out others with ease.

You lied to yourself, convincing yourself that you were immune to his ideas, desires, and magnetic charm. But every time he looked at you, towered over you, or you smelt him in the air, your knees buckled, your stomach tightened, and you fought against the need of pressing your legs together. You felt sick and his mind brushing against yours didn’t help.

You felt it every time he drew near. He visualized your hands in his mind, how they caressed his scars and shoulders. You saw his hair falling down as he towered over you, gently pushing you against the cold floor of his cave. You felt his breath against your neck, his fingers pulling your hair, his skin pressed against yours. In his dreams, you never resisted. He was corrupting you in his dreams, and you never once objected in them. You were embarrassed he got your mannerisms right

You were so lost in your shared thoughts, you didn’t notice Qimir making his way out of the water, his eyes fixated on you with dangerous intensity. He carefully leaned down to grab a towel, amusement playing on his lips. He didn’t want to wake you up from your thoughts, whatever they may have been.

As he gently dried himself with soft cloth, not taking his eyes of you, he tried to read your mind, even if he failed millions of times before. He never had difficulty reading someone, one look at them and he could see their whole past. But you, he had no idea what you were thinking or planning, or what images played in your head. You were strong, stronger that the ones he met before, and he admired that. He praised your strength in the force and your ability to protect yourself from your nemesis. Like him.

But he could read body language. He noticed how you tensed around him when he walked past you. How your chest started rising faster whenever he stared you down. Your goosebumps when you brushed against each other. How you pressed your legs together when he towered over you. And how you were now crushing the rock in your hand, gazing his direction.

“You can always join me, you know that.” He breathed out, letting the cloth fall on the ground, replacing it with his long blouse. You almost wanted to take the top from him just so you could continue your view but when you finally recollected your thoughts, you wanted to slap yourself. “It would help with your wounds when you don’t let me heal them.” He uttered, dressing himself, not breaking eye contact with you. He liked your stare. He liked how you fought with your emotions and how they reflected in your eyes. It pleased him.

“I’m okay,” you faked a smile, swallowing the ridiculous amount of saliva in your mouth. You forced yourself to look somewhere else then his strong forearms or how he dragged the pants up his muscular legs. You found a cute shell, admiring it from afar.

You didn’t catch the grin on his face as your face turned pink and you clenched your fists. He was amused with your reactions but your ripped bandage and the blood revealing itself underneath caught his full attention. His face froze, along with his movements while buttoning up his shirt. He would never touch you unless you wanted him to, but your leg was nowhere near in being healed and with the lack of medical supplies on this island, you’d lose it long before you’d be able to leave the island.

“Let me help you.” It wasn’t a question, more of a subtle order. You didn’t miss it. A week ago, on Khofar, Qimir stopped himself before fatally hurting you, but he still landed a strike on your leg, that had trouble healing. You were stubborn enough to push him away when he offered his help and now you started to slowly regret it.

“I don’t need anything from you.” You hissed at him, catching a glimpse of his unbuttoned blouse.

“You’re a powerful Jedi and I don’t doubt you’d be still as fierce as you are now without your leg.” He murmured, making his way towards you, leaving his bag and shoes near the water. “If you want to risk it.” You watched him tilt his head, as he slowly approached you. You could only see the images in his mind, his plans and ideas. But underneath it all, he didn’t mean it in a bad way. He wanted to help you. In his own way. He was your friend; he knew your weaknesses and strengths. He knew what you wanted, and he was willing to give it to you. But you couldn’t erase the lying and murder of your friends. You wanted your friend back. Maybe something else this time but your trust in him faded. Now it was just Qimir. Confusing your thoughts and making you rethink your morals. You felt as disgusted with him as you felt with yourself. But you understood him. Or at least tried to.

So, you didn’t oppose, letting him kneel in front of you, his hands carefully reaching out to your ripped bandage above your knee. He was so close you could smell him again. His hair fell into his face, covering his eyes that were focusing only on your wound. His fingers worked fast but tender as he lifted your thigh to unwrap the bandage. You swallowed hard, feeling his veiny hand below your leg. You were scared he could feel your burning skin, hoping he would mistake it as a result from the injury.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you on Khofar.” You heard him whisper, gripping the sand below you as he threw away the bandage, the cold air kissing your open wound. You almost heard pity in his voice. You were certain you imagined it.

You begged yourself to look away, but your eyes betrayed you as they glared down at his hand that was almost as big as your thigh. He covered the wound, not touching it fully, concentrating on restoring back your cells.

You were fascinated by how quickly the wound closed up, leaving only a small scar across your thigh. You wanted to learn how to force heal ever since you lost your friend to a fatal injury as a kid, but the Jedi never taught you. No matter how hard you pleaded. Whenever you asked, they answered with the same answer. Only dark side users possess this power. You always felt it was ridiculous.

“How do you do it?” you manage to ask, ignoring Qimir’s confused stare as he picked up his head and drew his hand away from you. But he didn’t move position and kept kneeling between your feet. “How do you, force heal?” you felt embarrassed asking but he was one of your only chances on how to learn.

A soft smile creeped to his lips as he moved his eyes from your face to your hands. You suddenly became aware of your vulnerable position.

“In order to heal someone,” he started, softness in his voice, no signs of mockery. “You need to focus on your own energy, imagine it and visualize it. Imagine its color, like you do with the Force.” He continued, his hands moving in motion with his words.

You could feel the warmth radiating of of him as he sat centimeters away from you, his wet hair framing his sharp features. His eyes were dark, only the light of the moon reflecting in them. His lips were full, stretched as he shared his knowledge with you. You didn’t move a muscle and returned his stare. It was only you two.

“The Jedi teach only one way. Physical way. Taking your physical energy and give it to someone who needs it.” He whispered, leaning his head to the side, giving you a chance to admire his sharp jaw. His neck was thick, his collarbones defined. “But there is another way.” He stopped to look at you, examining your expression. You were listening sharply, breathing fast, and your eyes bore so deep in him that he was certain you could read everything he was thinking. He let you.

“Below the surface of consciousness are powerful emotions. Anger. Fear. Loss.” He started listing, his eyes twitching between your eyes and your lips. “Desire”

Your leg muscles twitched, your core burning up. You wanted to bury yourself.

“Only Sith feels those emotions.” You whispered back, denying yourself. You saw a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth before he lowered his stare.

“You can draw energy from them, direct them in any way you want.” He purred, looking back at you, letting you feel his emotions. “However, whenever you want.” He lowered his voice as he stretched the last words, reading your face.

He knew you read his mind. He knew you saw the images that kept him awake and his wishes. He had them since he met you months ago, and when he sensed your attraction toward him, they only intensified. He wanted you and was simply waiting for you to admit the same to yourself, no matter how long it would take.