#despite all the years and trauma that hardened him

[reginrokkr]

Is this me being a menace as I'm having dinner for what's to come later? Mayhaps. Just going to drop this here and say: how lucky it is to get a man who goes like this seconds before kissing someone:

It's the softening gaze as he approaches his partner, so gentle and full of emotion and love-stricken which not even himself would anticipate to ever feel, let alone find someone who accepts him for how he is. And the lips that part in waiting as they close the distance 😔

[heartpascal]

i was born waiting

▹— joel miller x daughter!reader

▹— summary: you’ve been looking for your dad for as long as you can remember, is this really him?

▹— a/n: hi! i started writing this september ‘23, so it has. it’s been a WHILE. so if this seems jumpy / not consistent then that is why! sorry!!! i have done my best!!!

▹— warnings: canon-typical violence and themes, weapons, parental death, witnessing parental death, aka insane amounts of trauma, death in general, she/her pronouns, reader is biologically related to joel but no mentions of appearance, no mention of her bio mother’s appearance either, fantasising about being dead (sorry), all hurt zero comfort, attempted murder, unrealistic expectations of someone you never met — please let me know if ive missed anything!

▹— taglist: @rhymingtree @sleepygraves @wnstice (everything), @auggiesolovey @just-kaylaa @evyiione @lemonlaides @fariylixie0915  @faceache111 @randomhoex @canpillowscry @pedropascalsrealgf @star-wars-lover @coolchick333 @soobsdior @rvjaa @sunflowersdrop @definitely-not-a-seagull-i-swear @miss-celestial-being @hqkon

MASTERLIST

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

There are certain things from your childhood that you can remember vividly. Though, really, childhood is a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? It’s hard to find the right word to encompass the way you had grown up, because you didn’t have much of a chance to actually grow.

From the moment you had been born, your life was a battle of staying alive to see another day.

That’s not to say that your mother didn’t do her best for you, obviously. But it was hard to raise a child as a child in the midst of a global apocalypse. You were bound to end up the way you did — moulded and hardened by the world around you, by having to pick up a gun at seven years old and use it to protect your mother. By never putting that gun back down.

For the past few years, you had known your mother was suffering. The world had been anything but kind to her, and age was hitting her harder than she had expected. More than the physical aspect, you knew it had been destroying her, the fact that you were now the one protecting her and not the other way around.

But what choice did you have? Her aging body had left her fragile, prone to falling and breaking even more frail bones. You could see the strain on her muscles, as they slowly decayed and shrunk, until they were barely there at all. You couldn’t let her carry the burden for you anymore, because you knew her body couldn’t handle it.

You had been preparing yourself for that moment, though. Making sure that you were ready, that you were strong enough for the both of you, strong enough to shoulder the burden she had been carrying for years.

When you were growing up, your mother had told you tales of your father.

She had told you all about how strong he had been, how he had been the best man she had ever known. She told you how he had cared for his daughter before you, how he had been the best father to that girl. When you were old enough to comprehend these things, you’d asked what had happened to him. “Is dad dead?” You had asked her, watching the way her face fell.

“I don’t know, honey. I hope not.” She had responded, smiling sadly at you, and patting her hand against your cheek.

It was hard for you to let go of that.

The uncertainty had haunted you for the rest of your life since that very moment, leaving you wondering for hours at a time where he could possibly be, why he would ever leave your mother to carry this responsibility alone. And in your more selfish moments, you couldn’t help but wonder why he wasn’t here to care for you as he had his daughter before you.

For a long time, you had convinced yourself that he was dead, despite what your mother hoped. And sure, you felt that loss, something like mourning weighing you down, but it was the only way you felt you could accept his absence. He had to be dead, because otherwise, why wasn’t he here?

But as you grew up, getting taller, stronger, you felt like you could rationalise his absence even if he wasn’t dead. After all, the apocalypse wasn’t exactly family friendly. You figured that if your mother didn’t know whether or not your dad was alive, that the same could go for him. He might just think that you and your mom died, years ago. After all, how many pregnant women survived the end of the world?

You have a feeling that the answer would have to be not many.

So, really, you and your mother being alive by now was nothing short of a miracle. It was a testament to your mother’s strength, her ability. She had succeeded where so many others had failed, and she had managed to keep both herself and you alive.

It’s a bitter kind of irony that you can’t do the same.

The last dredges of autumn fall away, leading into the coldest and harshest part of the year. Winter is hard — it’s full to the brim with fresh Infected, the ones not yet frozen solid, and resources are more scarce than ever. And this winter feels like something tangible, something which sends unending waves of dread through you.

Your mother gets weaker by the day, spending more time resting than moving, and you spend as much time as you can keeping her warm, finding food and water and pain relief for her broken arm that didn’t heal right. She’s exhausted, you can see it in her face, in her every movement. And you’re pretty sure it’s not just from the lack of rest. She watches you with dulled eyes, something like heartbreak reflecting in them.

For a long time, you pretend not to notice.

You pretend that you don’t see the way she lags behind, just watching you move away from her with speed she can’t quite manage any longer. You pretend that you don’t see the way she hesitates before taking her painkillers, or her food, or the last sip of water.

This year, the winter brings something worse than the cold. A bug, spreading across the state in a way that was familiar to so many. Not quite the Infection, but still able to take out people with ease.

When your mother catches it, you physically felt your heart clench in your chest. You felt it squeezing all of the blood around your body so quickly that you became dizzy with it. There’s a panic so deep that you can’t climb your way out of it. For days, weeks, you’re certain that you’ve lost her. That after everything, everything you’ve done, everything the two of you have been through, a cold would be the end of it all.

But then, she gets better.

The little strength she had before the sickness returns to her, bringing some colour back to her skin, some ease back to her breathing.

Religion wasn’t a thing in the apocalypse. Not really. But if you had believed in God, you would’ve thanked every one that might’ve existed for giving you this. This miracle. This small mercy.

The two of you are in an abandoned barn when it happens.

You’re dozing away, not quite asleep, but not awake either, when you hear the sound of old hay crunching underneath boots. If you weren’t so familiar with the lightness of your mother’s footsteps, you might’ve passed it off as her wandering. But these boots are heavy. They’re purposeful.

The gun in your hand means nothing when you jerk upwards, eyes snapping open and squinting through the light let into the barn by the rising winter sun. It’s an image that has since been ingrained into the back of your skull, replaying each time you close your eyes.

There, right in front of you, is your mother.

Behind her, a man, a gun pressed to the back of her skull.

Your stomach lurched suddenly in that moment, the small rationed dinner you had before dozing off trying to rise to the back of your throat, trying to race the rapid beating of your heart to see which would kill you first.

“Put down the gun.” He said, voice cold, throat dry from the winter air. The sound of his voice is printed in the base of your brain, echoing every time things around you still, go quiet.

He could be bluffing, you thought in the moment. His gun could be unloaded. It didn’t take you long to notice that the safety was off, but in those few moments, he had pressed the end of it harder into your mother’s head. You dropped the gun to the floor without another moment of thought.

You were nauseous, waiting to wake up, to realise this was all some twisted nightmare.

But you could see a look in your mother’s eyes. Acceptance. Defeat. It was almost familiar to you, so closely related to the look she had been giving you for months.

All this time, she had just been waiting to die. Waiting for something to come along and kill her off, to free you from having to take care of her. She knew that if it was up to you, that you would look after her for the rest of your goddamn life. If she lived any longer, she might just live long enough to see you die.

“Slide it over.”

You barely registered the cold pinch of metal against your palm as you pushed the gun away from you, sending it skittering over the rough ground and into the side of an old hay bale.

“Now your pack.”

There was a numbness to you as you gripped the backpack you had been leaning against, and chucked it towards where he stood behind your mother. It hit the front of his boot, but his eyes didn’t stray from where he stared at you.

“Turn around.”

You stared at him, teeth gritted together.

“No.”

There was a beat where both him and your mother just watched you. And then the surprise flickered across his face, apparently not expecting any resistance from you.

“Turn. Around.” He told you, firmer this time.

“No.”

“Okay then,” He relented, after a moment of consideration. His eyes drifted down towards your mother, who stared forwards at you. “This your daughter?” He asked, jerking his head towards you despite knowing your mother couldn’t see the movement.

“Yes, she is,” Your mother said, voice shaking, her breath clouding in front of her face as it reached the cold air. “Please, just let her be.”

He hummed, dropping his free hand down to rest heavily on your mother’s shoulder, his fingers clamping around it and not helping the way she trembled.

“So, your momma, huh?” He asked you, a smirk drawing up his face, showing smile lines around his murky blue eyes. His hair rustled in the wind, a piece falling down across his forehead. He stared at you, and you stared at him, not daring to say a word, still hoping that this whole thing was a dream. Muscles in his cheek twitched, pulling his skin taut and showing a scar across his left cheekbone. “Good.”

There was a moment where the sound didn’t register. A moment where you didn’t even realise it was your mother when the body slumped forwards. A mere moment where you didn’t think about it being her blood that splattered across your face.

The moments after that though, become blurry, hazed over, and you’re not sure it actually ever hit you that the body before you was your mother.

You’ve always had a hard time remembering that bodies were once people, that they once had lives and loved ones and thoughts and feelings. That they weren’t just bodies. So seeing her like that, as a body, not her, was wrong on so many levels. It didn’t feel real. Nothing did.

You heard the second gunshot, just a moment later, followed by a snickering laugh that you would never forget, before the pain bloomed in you.

It was buried by the shock, the complete disbelief, and you only felt the pain for mere seconds.

His gun — the one that killed your mother — was whacked across the side of your head a moment after, and that was the end of that.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

Three months passed by, judging by the way the seasons turned, and you were on your own.

It was a strange feeling, really. Throughout the entirety of your life, you had never actually been alone. At least, not really. Your mother was always a small ways away, a mere shout from running to you. There had never been any true distance between the two of you until that day.

A sort of ache claws your throat each day, when you realise that it’s easier like this.

The only back you have to watch is your own, the only life you have to worry about belongs to you, and you have nothing to lose in this world. There was no terrible outcome if you were caught. Nobody else would be hurt, or suffer because of it. And you’re less likely to be caught now, when you don’t have your mother slowing you down. You don’t have to stop for the frequent rest breaks she needed, you can try to outrun Infected without worrying about someone lagging behind, and you only have yourself to feed.

If your mother had known how much easier survival was when alone, you hope that she would’ve abandoned you at birth. Because perhaps, without the burden of you upon her shoulders, she wouldn’t have fallen apart so quickly.

Sometimes, you like to think of a world where she was spared all of this. Never pregnant with you, for a start. So when the infection broke out, she would’ve only had herself to worry about. You think that maybe, one day, she would’ve been able to reunite with your father. If she hadn’t been carrying a child, she would’ve been able to manage the journey to where she believed him to be. You look at the picture that had been in the pocket of her coat for your whole life, the papers folded and clipped to the back of it, one word underlined: Boston.

You had reached a store in the weeks after that day, and when you found a map, it wasn’t difficult to notice that the direction the two of you had been heading in was to that very city.

It’s a long shot. More than a long shot, really, but you find yourself continuing in that direction regardless. You don’t know what you hope to find in Boston, whether it was your dad, or the man who had killed your mother, or perhaps just somewhere to take shelter for a while. You try not to hope for anything. You try not to focus on the fact that you might not even make it that far.

It keeps you up for days.

The uncertainty of it. The unknown. The fact that you’re walking your way to a city you know nothing about, almost certain that your mother’s killer was already there, and more than that, consumed by a fever that might kill you regardless of the where the journey took you.

The only sleep you get results in fever dreams, rippling, warping images that make your perception falter, feeling all too real until you notice that it’s not. And when you do wake up from them, it’s as if you haven’t slept at all. An exhaustion weighs heavily upon you, and your shoulders hunch over with it. There’s almost nothing you wouldn’t do to get rid of that endless feeling.

You hope—or wish, maybe— that if you reach Boston, the journey there will have tired you out so much that your body will have no choice but to rest. It’s a distant thought in your mind, though. You’re almost certain you won’t make it that far, because if the fever doesn’t get you, surely the Infected will.

It’s not as though you’re trying to get killed. But there is a kind of peace that comes with the thought. There’s an idea of rest behind it, hiding within the shadowy depths that make you scared. Would not having to fight in order to survive really be so terrible? You have this image in mind, of a never ending blackness, a void, somewhere that your thoughts and worries can just fizzle away. The small part of your fever-fried brain that has retained its rationality reminds you of the unknown. It reminds you that death could be worse than this.

You don’t like the thought. Not after that day. It’s a shuddering feeling, wondering if your mother is in some kind of unreachable hell.

By the time you’re even close to Boston, a few hours out at most, you’re out of ammo in the gun you’d found along the way. Out of food rations. No knife, no resources. You’re barely standing on two legs, kept up by the adrenaline, the knowledge alone that you’re this close.

When the tall walls of the QZ finally come into view, you start to feel some amount of hope. Which is a dangerous thing, but especially in a situation as dire as your own. You couldn’t afford any adrenaline fading, couldn’t afford to lose your cautious nature. You couldn’t make a mistake. One wrong move, one slight misstep, and you’d be as dead as your mother. Or worse, infected. Though this close to a QZ, you had some amount of relief at the knowledge that they should’ve cleared out any nearby infected. Runners, and clickers alike.

Your steps don’t falter for a moment. Partly because of your worry about the fever taking you out, but mostly because you’re certain that the FEDRA guards on watch on top of the wall will have spotted you, and you don’t want them to think you’re Infected, just because of your sickly appearance, and shoot on sight. Though, with FEDRA’s track record, it wouldn’t surprise you if they just shot you down regardless.

For a while, you’re not sure if you’re even awake, or if perhaps you were stuck in yet another fever dream. Everything felt so real and so not real simultaneously, it felt impossible to believe that you had actually made it.

Soldiers met you on your approach, calling out for you to get on the ground with your hands up. You called back some sort of response as you did so, practically collapsing to your knees and squeezing your eyes shut at the pain that followed. But despite all of it, despite the pain and the rough hands that grabbed you and pulled you forwards, through the gates and straight into a building, you had made it to Boston.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

It was maybe three weeks into being a resident of the Boston QZ that you caught wind of him for the first time. Or, at the very least, somebody who might be him. You didn’t know how common the surname Miller was, being a child of the apocalypse, but you kind of hoped the answer was uncommon.

“Goddamn Miller, again.” A man had muttered as you walked through the trading market. You paused almost instantly, pretending to peruse the feeble amount of clothes a woman had to trade. “Said we gotta go through him and Tess if we want anything, as if we gotta listen to them.” He practically spat out, glaring around as he spoke to the woman beside him.

“They’re the most well established smugglers in the whole goddamn QZ. Don’t have to tell you how, do I?” She asked, sounding more annoyed with her companion than she was with whoever Miller and Tess were. “Joel is as nasty as they come, Darren. Don’t get on the wrong side of him.”

Your heart practically stuttered to a stop in your chest, and you had to remind yourself to keep breathing. Could it possibly be a coincidence? Could there be another Joel Miller? One who wasn’t your father? Sure, it was possible. Plausible, even, considering the fact that you had absolutely no idea if he was here. Not any concrete idea, anyway. Your mother had believed as much, but who was to say she was right?

Besides, whoever this Joel Miller was didn’t sound like the man your mother had told you about. As nasty as they come didn’t have any relation to the heroic and kind and amazing father and man your mother always spoke about. Though, you knew as well as anyone what the apocalypse could do to people.

Darren didn’t say anything else to his companion. So, after a few more moments, you continued on your way, making the journey to the tiny box apartment that FEDRA had elected to you.

But even as you got there, sitting down on the poor excuse of a mattress, you couldn’t shake the conversation out of your mind. After everything you had been through to get here, what was it all for? Could you really make this journey and just never try to find Joel Miller? Your father? You could still remember the anxiety that had come when you first arrived, when you were strapped into a chair and scanned for the fungus that had taken over so many. You didn’t know what you were more scared of: the idea that it would flash red, and you’d be killed, or the idea that it would be clear, and you’d be sent out into the QZ, where you may just find the other half of your DNA.

You don’t even know if you want to find out anything about him. Don’t know if you could face that, especially after losing your mother. That’s been the hardest thing since being here, since having your own place, the fact that you’ve gotten it all without her. It feels… empty. For your whole life, she had been there at your side, making every short stay at whatever accommodation you could find feel like home.

Plus, even if you did consider trying to find him, and if it was him those people were talking about, then who the hell was Tess? What if she got upset at your appearance, your claim as Joel Miller’s surviving child? You’re not sure you can lose another parent.

Sure — Joel Miller wasn’t exactly your dad, he couldn’t be classed as a parent in the way that your mother was, but if you never met him, that could’ve been for any number of reasons. He could be dead. He could’ve thought you and your mother were dead, all these years. You didn’t want to face a reality where you met him, and he wasn’t present for you and your mother because he didn’t want to be. You’d rather live your whole life thinking him six feet under, than know he was out there, and just didn’t care about you.

The more you think about it, the more certain you are that Boston was a mistake.

It would all be different if your mother was alive. If she had brought you here, if she had been the one to hear the chatter about Joel Miller, if she had been the one to seek him out. But she was dead, and the only living connection you had to Joel was, too. Hypothetically, if you did seek him out, you didn’t know enough about him to prove your claim as his child, and without your mother, how could you make him believe you?

They had been a family, once. They being Joel, your mother, and your deceased half sister. You’d heard the tale of how Joel and your mother had met, of how it took months for him to finally feel comfortable introducing her to his little girl. Hell, you had heard almost as much about Sarah as you had about Joel. Your mother had certainly adored his daughter, and you’re somewhat sure that they had planned to have you, despite Sarah already being a teenager.

You don’t want to have to mourn a family you had never actually had. Perhaps, Joel and Sarah were out there, living their lives certain that you and your mother were dead, just as you and your mother had done.

Not that any of this even mattered — you didn’t even know for sure if it was the same Joel Miller! And even if it was, it’s not like Boston QZ was small. There’s absolutely no chance you run into the man who might just be your dad. No way.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

You find someone else, before you hear anything more about Joel Miller, and it immediately sends the thought of your biological dad to the very back of your mind.

After all, it’s not every day you see the man who murdered your mother.

It wasn’t exactly a surprise. You had guessed that this was the place he was heading, all those moons ago. But to actually see him, here, in the flesh, alive and well despite all of the pain and heartache and devastation he had caused you? It was surreal. You had to practically pinch your skin from your body to make yourself believe he was real.

And it only really hits you now, that this man killed your mother. You had been so focused on surviving, on living to see another day, on healing and moving and getting away from her body, buried in shallow dirt outside of some abandoned barn. You can vividly remember the strength it had taken to pry the frozen dirt from the ground.

Sure, you had felt the guilt over it, the guilt over the ease that came with surviving without her, guilt over your very existence, but you’re not sure you had ever actually grieved over her. Not sure if you had ever let yourself be sad, be angry, be anything about what had happened.

But now, seeing him, you feel… almost too much.

All of the rage and grief you had squashed in favour of surviving another day, all of the sadness and fear, all of it. It all comes rushing towards you at once, hitting you in the chest, winding you. You gasp for breath on the street, ducking away for a moment, gripping your chest like you could physically hold your heart steady.

When you look back out at the street, you see him as he nears the corner. Panic grips you at the thought of losing him, of never seeing him again, of failing to avenge your mother. You follow after him before you can think better of it.

It’s strangely easy. You fall back into the life of a hunter like it’s the most natural thing you’ve ever known — and maybe it is. You’re healed up, by now, or about as healed as anybody gets in this world, and your shoulder only bothers you when you move it too much. Even with that, you’re pretty sure that you could take the man on. Now that you’re not hazy with sleep, caught off guard, held back by any sort of earthly tether.

You’re strong. And despite FEDRA’s harsh reign, their dire consequences for rule-breaking, you have a switchblade stuffed into your shoe. You could do it. You could kill him.

There’s no question about it in your mind, especially as you follow him from a distance, and he remains none the wiser. He takes a left, and a moment later, so do you. He’s clueless. It’s almost painful that he was the one who managed to get the jump on you. How could you have let this man kill your mother?

He skids to a stop outside of a doorway, so you slide down the wall of the building opposite and listen. He pays you no mind as he knocks twice on the door.

“What d’you want, Colin?” The man who opened the door asked gruffly, seemingly inconvenienced by the man. He sounded tired, or out of it, maybe.

“I need the supply.” Colin answered, and the sound of his voice sent a shiver down the back of your neck. It echoed in your ears, the words he said that day. Good. Everything in you itched, like thousands of critters had dug into you and made a home scuttling around your insides. You wanted to kill him. You wanted to end his life, and you wanted to make it slow. Brutal. Painful. Even if it meant you were hung by FEDRA tomorrow morning. It’d be worth it.

The man at the door sighed, as if deeply bothered by getting Colin what he needed, and disappeared inside. He emerged a moment later, empty handed. “I’m all out. You’ll have to go across town tomorrow.” The man said flatly, saying nothing as Colin swore, before stepping away.

You ducked your head down as Colin passed, all too aware of the man in the doorway watching you suspiciously. After a moment, he sighed again, and retreated inside, slamming the door after himself. It took almost no time at all for you to push yourself back to your feet, and take off after the man who had left.

Despite your pounding footsteps against cracked concrete, he didn’t pay you any mind as you caught up to him. He seemed focused on getting to wherever it was that he was unknowingly leading you to, glancing up at the darkening sky every other step. FEDRA’s curfew would be coming into play soon enough.

To your disappointment, he walked into an apartment building, about three blocks away from your own. It seemed that, unless you were willing to risk being caught and stopped, today wasn’t the day you would be avenging your mother. You vowed that tomorrow you would do it. You would kill Colin. No matter what got in your way.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

By the time curfew was lifted, you had been waiting by the exit of your building for an hour.

The switchblade in your shoe felt heavy with every step you took towards the home of your mother’s killer. It weighed almost as much as the picture in your pocket. All of it was heavy. But you acted as normally as you could manage, passing by patrolling FEDRA guards without them so much as glancing towards you.

You were waiting by his building when the door opened, when he stepped out, and headed determinedly in the opposite direction from which you had come. You followed without a moment of hesitation.

He made his way around town, trading with a few people on the side of the streets, handing them small wads of ration cards in favour of various items. Nothing dangerous, though. Not to you. He clearly was oblivious to your loitering figure, standing a few metres away, like some omen of death. Despite your shadow reaching for his shoes as the sun rose, he didn’t flinch.

It was irritating you, just how easy this was. You had been following the man for two days now, and he hadn’t even noticed. How had he gotten the drop on you? How had he managed to kill your mother? How had you allowed him the opportunity to do so?

There was nothing remotely special about him — no reason that he should have survived over your mother, no reason that he should have been granted mercy over the last twenty years. He didn’t deserve it. Not like your mother had. She had done the best she could, for years, for the only daughter in her care. And she had done it all alone. This man, Colin, he was alone, and he had no reason to hurt her. You were going to make sure he regretted it.

You loomed at the entrance of an alleyway as he walked down it, finally stopping at a dead end, leaning against the brick wall as if he was waiting for something. Or someone. You knew it wasn’t you he was waiting for, so you bided your time, cautious of someone happening upon the two of you. If they had business with him, they would care. If they didn’t, then nobody but FEDRA would care.

By the time you finally decided to move, almost an hour had passed, and Colin was facing away from you at the entrance of the alley, head pressed to the bricks.

It was strange, what the innate desire to hunt and kill could bring out in you, that it could make you move silently without thinking about it. It could make you reach for the blade in your shoe, without so much as a rustle of your clothes.

With a final glance back at the entrance of the alleyway, you grew impatient, and you attacked.

From an outside perspective, you probably looked like some kind of wild animal. You jumped at him, tackling him, pushing him sideways and landing on his back as his shoulder smacked the asphalt, and he howled in pain. It was like seeing a cheetah hunt an antelope, the way you bored down on him. If you could have widened your jaws, and ripped out his insides, you think you would have.

But without that ability, you could only press the cold metal blade to his throat, and feel him go still.

“Do you remember me?” You asked, voice flat and still, despite the way your heart felt as though it would beat out of your chest, and splatter down in front of his face. You were quieter than you had expected, too. You thought that the words would burst out of you, vicious and unending, but they were quiet. Calm.

Colin shook his head, as much as he could with the side of his face pressed to the ground, and a blade to the soft skin of his neck.

“Think about it.”

His eyes strained to try and get a look at you, and they widened as you leant sideways slightly, allowing him to gaze at your blank face. “Oh, shit,” He said, mouth fumbling around the words.

“Yeah, shit.” You repeated, waiting for satisfaction to seep into your chest cavity, waiting for the grief to fade away.

It didn’t.

Nothing changed, even as you pressed the blade closer to his throat, even as you watched his eyes dart back and forth, as you watched him try and formulate a plan to survive. “Listen, kid—” He started, throat bobbing against the knife, drawing the tiniest line of blood. You watched him bleed, and expected to feel more than numb.

He threw your weight backwards, sacrificing more skin on his throat to your knife. You went flying off of him, but you flung yourself forward faster than he could stagger up, and dug the knife into his calf as he tried to stand. His yell pierced the air, louder than any of the commotion yet, and likely drawing attention of people out on the street. You just hoped, distantly, that FEDRA wasn’t around.

His flesh and muscle moved as you pulled the blade free, and you didn’t flinch at the squelch of blood that left him alongside it.

Colin fell back to the floor, resulting in crawling along the asphalt without care for how the small stones cut into his palms, leaving streaks of blood. “You don’t gotta do this, man, chill out!” His voice had more emotion in it than it had back when he killed your mother, which was infuriating. “It wasn’t personal!” He insisted, crawling further as you got to your feet, prowling after him similarly to the wild animal you felt like.

You’d disagree with his statement, though.

He already had your pack, you had already relinquished your gun — the only thing you refused to do was turn so you could be executed. If you were going to be killed, you were going to look your murderer in the eye. Instead of that, though, Colin had decided to make it personal. He had decided to kill your mother, to spread her brains out on the ground in front of you, to cover you in her blood, rather than spare her. And then, worse, he had let you live.

That seemed pretty personal.

“You killed my mom.” You stated, getting closer as he turned so he was facing you, watching you get closer. “D’you remember what you said to me?”

He shook his head.

“You said good. You were glad that it was my mother. Admit it, Colin. Tell the world all about how not-personal it was.”

More than anything, you wanted to feel satisfaction for how badly he was trembling beneath you, for how scared you were making him. But you just didn’t. Fear wasn’t enough. Not for what this man had done to you.

“I’m—I’m sorry.” He said, shaking, still shying away from you,

“No, you’re not. You’re sorry that I’m here, that you’re going to die. And that isn’t something to be sorry for.”

“Pl—Please, I have a daughter—a son, you don’t need to do this.” He begged, tearing up as he watched your grip on the switchblade tighten, watched you continue to approach. He was pathetic. Everything about him was pathetic.

“She had a daughter, too.”

His eyes widened as you leaped at him once again, digging your knife as deep as you could get it into his shoulder, feeling it graze bone as you pushed the hilt firmly against his skin, until you could practically hear the blood vessels breaking. He howled, a wounded animal, prey. And he did nothing as your fist descended against his face, once, twice, a third time.

It was just as you were losing count that somebody grabbed you, hauling you up and away from the body sprawled out on the floor, the puddle of blood slowly expanding beneath him. His chest was stuttering, but he had stopped groaning minutes ago.

“Well, shit.” A woman’s voice said, not sounding particularly authoritarian, so you figured she wasn’t FEDRA.

The hands grasping onto your arms released them shortly after, and you dropped to the asphalt, watching Colin’s chest closely, waiting for his breathing to stop. It didn’t seem to be slowing much, and you could feel that unending wave of rage coming back to you, overruling the numbness, and enhancing your need to have him dead.

You moved the slightest bit, about to launch yourself at him, but as soon as your foot was pushing you from your spot on the ground, the hands wrapped around your arms again.

“Fuck! Get off of me!”

“We can’t let you kill the guy, for fuck’s sake. We got business with him!” The woman spoke again, sounding increasingly irate as she moved to get between you and your mother’s murderer.

“He deserves to die. He deserves to be killed. Get off!” You practically roared, resorting to a state not unlike a feral cat, spitting and hissing, spine curling, trying to claw at the hands holding onto you. They stayed steady, even when you managed to scratch one of them deep enough to break skin.

The woman swore again, “Everybody deserves to die, get a hold of yourself!”

“Tess, ‘s probably best if we get him out of here.” The man gripping you said, voice straining slightly as he focused on keeping you restrained. He couldn’t do anything but hold on to you and watch as Tess dragged the guy, by his ankle, down the alley slightly, banging on a side door that you hadn’t even noticed. It opened, and the man inside swore before helping Tess grab the guy and haul him inside.

As soon as the door was safely shut, the man released you.

You walked to the end of the alley, gripping at the back of your head, swearing the whole way. You were probably screaming, given the way your throat was grating on every word, but the sound didn’t register.

“Joel, you’d better get in here.” Tess called, poking her head out of the door. You could hear the irritation in her voice, but it was immediately sent to the back of your mind as you realised what she had actually just said. You whirled around.

He wasn’t exactly what you were expecting.

But he was… familiar.

You couldn’t help it — you laughed, almost hysterically.

“Are you kidding me?” You said, voice strained with laughter, “You are Joel? Miller?” You asked, wanting him to say no and be done with it all so badly, but you knew that he wouldn’t say that. It was ingrained in your blood, in your very DNA.

He stared uncomprehendingly at you, as if expecting a spark of recognition to go through him, but it didn’t happen. You saw Tess step cautiously out of the building, apparently prepared to have Joel’s back, no matter what your next move was.

“Who are you?” Joel asked, instead of answering your question, or even making a move towards where you had begun to cry. If only he fucking knew — he had just saved the man who had murdered your mother, who had murdered the woman who was, once upon a time, his wife.

You reached into your pocket, uncaring of the way they both reached for what you assumed were weapons, and pulled out the photo. The moment you unfolded it, revealing him stood next to your mother, it was certain. This man was your father. You held the photo out towards him.

“Joel—” Tess warned, as he stepped forward, but he dismissed her with a look, clearly communicating that he could handle himself. He wasn’t worried, despite the state Colin had been in when they had arrived.

He stared at the photo, brows creasing, face drawing blank, before he reached out and took it. His finger ran across the image of your mother, her bright smile, not a slither of grey to be seen in her hair. “How did you get this?” He asked, clearly in disbelief, denial, maybe.

You pointed to the woman in the picture. “That’s—was my mom.”

It could’ve been funny, months, maybe years ago, the way his eyes flickered between you and the image of her, as if trying to put together how much of the statement was true. You vaguely noticed Tess shift uneasily behind him, before approaching.

“Was?” Joel decided to ask, eventually, instead of whatever else was going through his head. He said nothing to Tess as she took in the photograph he was still holding onto.

“That man, he—he killed her. A few months ago.” You said, smiling, because you couldn’t do anything else. This was all too much. First, your mother is killed. And then when you finally find somewhere potentially safe, you hear about your father. And then before you could do anything about that, you see her killer! And then, before you could finish the job, your biological dad, Joel Miller, saved his life. It wasn’t funny, but you didn’t know how else to react.

You stepped back, sliding down the brick wall behind you until you were sat on the asphalt, and could hang your head between your knees.

“Oh fuck,” Tess said, connecting the dots as she looked between you and Joel rapidly, brows furrowed as she became increasingly concerned. “Don’t tell me that she’s—” She shook her head, turning away from the photo and Joel and you, running a hand through her greasy hair.

Joel was still processing, or at least that’s what it looked like to you. He was staring at the photo, strangely still, seeming blank of any and all emotions.

Tess paced for a moment more, before releasing a heavy breath. She walked past Joel, over to you. “Okay, c’mon.” She said, holding out a hand for you. When you hesitated, she waved her hand and barely refrained from putting it in your face. “C’mon, we’ve gotta get you out of here before Colin goes to FEDRA.” You take her hand, surprised by her strength as she hauls you to your feet in an instant, releasing you immediately. She shook her head again. “Joel, time to go.”

He looked at her, and then towards you, nodding once. You said nothing when he put the picture in his own pocket, instead of handing it back. You hesitantly followed after Tess, wondering what your next move should be, and Joel followed after the two of you, looking stricken.

∘₊✧───── ───── ───── ─────✧₊∘

None of you had said anything, the entire time Tess had hurried you through borders and to what you assumed was their apartment. It felt like it was miles away from your own.

The wallpaper was yellowed with age, slowly drooping down the walls, peeling away at corners, but it wasn’t the worst state it could’ve been in. The floral pattern didn’t really lend itself to the vibes of the apocalypse, though. Nor did it match either Tess or Joel’s stoic and tough demeanours.

You had no idea what to expect from this.

For as long as you could remember, your mother had told you tales of your father, of the great man he was, the great father he was. But here, on the other side of a worldwide outbreak of infection, you couldn’t quite match the image in front of you to the man in those stories. You had spent so long thinking of him as being dead, unable to do anything to find you or your mother from a grave, that to learn he was alive, and with Tess, it was a shock to your system.

Where was Sarah? Where was the half-sister you had heard so much about from your mother?

Despite Joel matching the name, and the photo that your mother had kept, it just didn’t feel like he was the man you had been imagining as your father. He didn’t seem kind or caring, he didn’t look like he had any love left in him. And maybe, you could have accepted that, if he had other aspects to him, if he hadn’t let your mother’s killer live.

“What happened the day of the outbreak?” You asked, finally, despite the way you ached to run away and cry, for your mother, for yourself, for the father you would never have. Joel just looked at you, rarely blinking as if you were a figment of his imagination, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

“No, we are asking you questions.” Tess responded, clearly taking the lead on the situation, despite having no connection to you. It really shouldn’t have been her business. You scoffed. “Where did you come from?” She asked you, unblinking in the face of your disbelief.

You shook your head, “How is that even relevant?”

“Because I said it is.”

“I don’t care what you say. He’s my dad. You’re not my mom.” You replied, roughly, angrily, and you’re only more irritated when Tess doesn’t even react. You become furious when Joel says nothing. “Are you going to say anything?”

Tess went to speak, but you spoke again before she could utter a word.

“Not even about how you let my mother’s killer go? You don’t have anything to say about that?” You questioned, stepping towards him where he had taken a seat on the couch in front of that god-forsaken wallpaper.

There was an awkward lull in the room, each of you waiting for Joel to speak. He seemed unsure if he was going to speak at all, his brows furrowing further, and he pulled the photo out of his pocket to look at once again.

“She died, years ago. My—my kids…” Joel swallowed, and shook his head. He placed the photo down beside him. The photo meant nothing. You could’ve been to his house, and brought it here with you, never having met the woman he hadn’t seen since the day the world fell apart.

“Did you even look for us?” You asked him, head tilting, eyes stinging, wanting desperately for him to say yes, to say he scoured the world but missed you somehow. But looking at him, covered with scars, you could see he was nothing like the man your mother remembered. He didn’t care, not like she thought he had. The man in front of you wasn’t your father — he was a disappointment. He was your father’s shell.

Joel didn’t speak, swallowing harshly, seemingly unable to form any words.

“You’re nothing like she said you were.” You told him quietly, shaking your head, reaching by his side and taking the picture. You wanted to rip his half off, throw it at him, denounce him, tell him he wasn’t your father, that he was never worthy of your mother, but you couldn’t. It was the only thing that you would ever have of the father you should’ve had. The man your mother had loved. She’d already had so much taken from her, you couldn’t, even after her death, take Joel away too. He could live on in the memory. In pictures.

They didn’t say anything when you turned your back on them, shoving the picture in your pocket, and walking out of their door. You slammed it behind you, felt the walls of their apartment tremble with the force, and kept walking.

Part of you, a big part, wished that Joel Miller would have stayed dead. At least that way, you could have kept pretending.

[librababe99]

The Wolverine's Heart

❥・CW: Old Man Logan, Female Reader, age gap, mentions of violence and past trauma, emotional vulnerability, sexual content, body worship  ❥・Word Count: 1649

Summary: Tonight you wanted to show Logan just how loved and cherished he is....

(Masterlist)

The small cabin, nestled deep within the wilderness, was far removed from the chaos of the world. It was a place where time seemed to stand still, where the steady rhythm of nature was the only sound that filled the air. The tall pines, their needles whispering secrets to the wind, surrounded the cabin like silent sentinels, guarding its solitude. Inside, the warmth from the crackling fire cast long shadows on the walls, dancing with a life of their own.

Logan sat in his worn leather chair, nursing a glass of whiskey. The amber liquid swirled in the glass as he absently rolled it between his fingers, his mind a thousand miles away. The years had not been kind to him, and the burden of a life lived too long and too hard weighed heavily on his shoulders. His once rugged, indestructible frame now bore the marks of time—scars that never fully healed, a limp that never quite disappeared, and the ever-present ache in his bones.

But there was one thing that had kept him grounded in the face of it all—you. You had come into his life like a breath of fresh air, a balm for his soul. Despite the years that separated you, despite the scars that marred his body and the ghosts that haunted his past, you had seen something in him worth loving. And that love, gentle yet fierce, had slowly worked its way into the cracks of his heart, filling the empty spaces he thought would remain forever hollow.

You watched him from the doorway, the flickering firelight casting a soft glow on his weathered face. His eyes, though hardened by years of battle, held a depth of emotion that never failed to take your breath away. You had always admired the strength in him, the unyielding determination that kept him going even when the world seemed intent on breaking him. But tonight, as you stood there, you felt an overwhelming need to show him just how much he meant to you, to worship every part of him that he so often dismissed as damaged or broken.

“Logan,” you called softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up at you, his expression softening as his gaze met yours. “Yeah, darlin’?”

You crossed the room to where he sat, placing your hand on his shoulder. The heat from his skin seeped into your palm, grounding you in the moment. “Let me take care of you tonight.”

His brow furrowed slightly, a mixture of confusion and hesitation crossing his features. “You don’t have to do that, kid. I’m fine.”

You knelt beside him, your hands resting on his knees as you looked up at him with a determination that matched his own. “I know I don’t have to, Lo. But I want to. You’ve done so much for me, and I want to give you something in return. Please, let me do this.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes searching yours as if looking for something he couldn’t quite name. Finally, he gave a slow nod, his rough exterior cracking just enough to let you in.

You rose to your feet and gently took the glass from his hand, setting it on the table beside him. Then, with a tenderness that belied the fire burning within you, you began to undress him. His flannel shirt, worn and frayed at the edges, slipped from his shoulders, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, marred with countless scars. Each mark told a story—of battles fought, of losses endured, of a life that had been anything but easy.

Your fingers traced the lines of his scars, your touch light as a feather. “Every one of these is a reminder of how strong you are,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “You’ve survived so much…You’ve lived through things that would have broken anyone else. But you’re still here, and I’m so grateful for that.”

He didn’t respond, but the way his breath hitched told you he was listening. You continued to undress him, your movements slow and deliberate, as if each piece of clothing you removed was a layer of armor he no longer needed to carry with you.

When he was finally bare before you, you took a step back to drink in the sight of him. His body, though weathered by time and hardship, was still a masterpiece in your eyes. The strength in his muscles, the resilience in his bones, the raw masculinity that seemed to emanate from him—all of it was beautiful to you.

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “You’re beautiful, Logan,” you murmured against his skin. “Every part of you.”

A low rumble resonated deep in his chest, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. He reached out, his hand cupping the back of your head as he pulled you closer. His touch was firm, but there was a gentleness in the way he held you that made your heart ache.

“You don’t have to say that,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut him off, your lips brushing against his skin as you spoke. “I want you to know how much I love you, how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’ve given me so much, Lo Let me give you something back.”

You began to trail kisses across his chest, your lips worshiping every inch of him. You kissed each scar, each mark, each place where life had tried to break him and failed. And with each kiss, you felt him relax a little more, the tension slowly leaving his body as he allowed himself to be vulnerable with you.

Your hands roamed over his body, exploring the hard planes of his muscles, the rough texture of his skin. You marveled at the way his body responded to your touch, the way his breath hitched when your fingers brushed against a particularly sensitive spot. He was a man of few words, but his body spoke volumes, telling you everything you needed to know.

When you reached his abdomen, you paused for a moment, taking in the sight of him. His stomach, once taut and defined, now bore the softness that came with age. But to you, it was just another part of him to love, another part of him that made him who he was.

You pressed a kiss to his navel, your lips lingering there as you whispered, “You’re perfect to me, Logan. Every part of you is perfect.”

A low growl escaped him, and you felt his hand tighten in your hair. But it wasn’t a sound of anger or frustration—it was a sound of need, of desire, of a man who was slowly allowing himself to be loved in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.

You continued your journey downward, your lips and hands worshiping every part of him as if he were something sacred. And to you, he was. He was your protector, your confidant, your lover. He was the man who had seen you at your worst and loved you anyway, the man who had stood by you through everything, even when he had every reason to walk away.

As you reached his thighs, you took a moment to admire the strength in them, the way his muscles tensed and relaxed under your touch. You kissed the scars that marred his legs, the ones that told stories of battles fought and won. And then, with a reverence that took your breath away, you moved further, pressing a kiss to the most intimate part of him.

He let out a sharp breath, his hand still tangled in your hair as he fought to keep control. But you didn’t want him to hold back—not tonight. Tonight was about him, about showing him just how much he meant to you, about worshiping every part of him until he understood that he was worthy of love, that he was worthy of your love.

You took him into your mouth with a tenderness that belied the fire burning within you, your tongue tracing the contours of him. His taste was heady, intoxicating, and you reveled in the sounds he made as you pleasured him. The low growls, the sharp intakes of breath, the way his body tensed and relaxed under your touch—it was all a symphony to you, a symphony that played just for you.

You took your time, savoring each moment, each sensation. You could feel him trembling beneath you, could feel the way he was slowly losing the battle for control. But that was what you wanted. You wanted him to let go, to give in to the pleasure, to allow himself to be loved in the way he deserved.

And when he finally did, when he finally let go and allowed himself to be vulnerable with you, it was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. He came undone in your hands, his body shuddering with the force of his release, and you held him through it all, your touch gentle and loving as you brought him back down to earth.

When it was over, when the last tremors had subsided, you pulled him into your arms, holding him close as you whispered words of love and reassurance into his ear. He clung to you, his body still trembling slightly, and you could feel the way his heart pounded against his ribcage, could feel the way his breath came in shallow gasps.

But more than that, you could feel the way he had finally let down his walls, the way he had finally allowed himself to be loved without reservation, without fear. And in that moment, you knew that this was just the beginning.

A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed! While this is technically a standalone fic, I do have a 2.7K story thats completely done (its smut 🤭 and definitely dives into some new territory for me compared to other work I've posted) so you could look at it as a continuation of this little "universe." I'm curious if y'all would want that later tonight or maybe tomorrow? I don't want to release anything to quickly😭 - Libra * .♡ *:･ﾟ✧ ⋆ ࣪.* ࣪.⋆

[gingerbloof]

Good Boy (sub!astarion x fem soft dom!reader)

contents: MAJOR 18+ MDNI, plotless smut, mentions of safe word however not used, slight mentions of past trauma, sensative elf ears, use of toys and lube, ass play/pegging (male receiving), dry humping, nipple play, oral (male receiving), male masturbation, orgasm denial, praise, precum, sweet fluff at the end

word count: 3,070

The thought had been drifting in his mind for a while, ever since the night he shared with you in the graveyard. Claiming back your body and growing comfortable with intimacy again was one thing, but this? This was going to take a lot of trust… And a lot of patience.

The thought and conversation of you taking control in the bedroom had come up quite a few times, not only because it intrigued you, but Astarion wanted nothing more than to experience something new with you. The only issue was his past. He was afraid taking on a more submissive role would remind him of his years with Cazador…

But, he knew he could trust you. He knew that you wouldn’t do anything to push him past his limits, unless of course he asked for it. You have even discussed a system for it; a special word he would use if he needed a break or if he changed his mind. A smile flit across his face. He felt so safe and secure with you… And he knew that he wanted to do this, as long as you were comfortable as well.

He walked into your shared bedroom to find you in a black silky night slip, long enough to reach to your mid thigh. There was a slit in one of the sides, revealing more of your beautiful, soft skin. You were curled up on the bed reading a book. The faint glow of the candles in the room illuminated you beautifully…

Gods, you were perfect.

He felt his cock harden at the sight of you. He took a small breath, nervousness starting to fill in his chest. He walked toward the bed and tried to keep his usual composure. “Hello, my sweet,” He said in his usual honeyed voice, and walked toward the bed.

You looked up and grinned at him. You always looked so happy to see him, it made his undead heart swell with delight. “Hi, my star!” As you looked at him you could notice he was nervous, despite the front he was putting on. You marked your page in your book and set it on the nightstand, sitting up. “Is something the matter?” You asked.

If he had a pulse, he knew it would be quickening right now. Not only because he was nervous to ask you, but because of how much he loved you. You always knew exactly what was wrong, even when he tried hiding it. He smiled and sat down next to you and placed his icy cold hand on your thigh. “I’ve been doing some thinking…” He started, looking into your eyes. “And I think… I would like to try that… Thing we’ve been talking about.”

You took his hand in yours and looked back into his eyes. “Really? Are you sure? Because I don’t want you to feel forced or pressured, my love,” You said, squeezing his hand gently.

He smiled as he felt a couple of small tears swell in his eyes. He couldn’t help it… This is exactly why he trusted doing this with you, because of how safe you made him feel. He took your hand in his as well and nodded. “I want you to have all of me, darling. Even my vulnerable sides. I trust you with everything in me.” You grinned as you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his. He returned the kiss happily, cupping your face in his hands, the warmth of your skin filling his entire being. He craved you, more than you could ever know.

The kiss soon turned from soft and gentle to deep and greedy. Your tongue swept across his lower lip and he allowed you access. Your tongue danced around his and you started to crawl on top of him, straddling him. He made a small moan as he felt you push against his almost painfully hard cock. He could feel beads of precum soiling his trousers as you kissed along his jaw, and eventually his neck. He put a hand on the back of your head, relaxing into you. A whimper left his lips as you gently nipped at his pale skin, leaving small love marks on his pale flesh.

You slowly lifted up his shirt looking up at him, silently asking for permission. He nodded and you lifted it over his head. He felt your eyes scan over his body, love and lust filling both of your senses. Your thumb slowly reached out to draw slow gentle circles around one of his nipples. He gasped softly and bit his lower lip, trying to hold back his moans. You noticed this and smiled sweetly at him as you leaned forward to whisper into his ear. “It’s okay, my love. Make all the sounds you want, there’s no need to hide,” Your voice was a soft purr in his ear and he grunted, not budging. You smirked and laid soft kisses along his ear, earning you another gasp and a whimper.

“Sensitive here, are we?” You asked playfully, taking the curve of his ear between your lips and sucking on it gently. You continued to tease his nipple and pressed your thigh in between his legs. He shuddered under you, gripping onto your shirt. The pleasure was absolutely insane, and you had barely even started. His cock throbbed against your thigh as he started to unconsciously buck his hips against it. You chuckled softly as you kissed your way down his body. You took one of his hardened nipples into your mouth and sucked gently, swirling your tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves.

Astarion’s breath hitched in his throat, his back arching slightly. “D-Darling, that feels… Too good,” He moaned, earning a moan of approval from you. You lifted your head up to look him hungrily in the eyes, a smirk on your face. “We’ve only just begun, my love.” You purred.

You kissed further down his body and tugged down his trousers, his cock springing free from their grip. It was standing perfectly upright and throbbing, precum trickling down the shaft. You bit your lip at the sight, feeling your own arousal growing. But that can wait, right now his pleasure was your priority.

You gently took a hold of him in your hand and pulled back the skin, revealing his pulsating tip. You locked eyes with him as you agonizingly slowly swirled your tongue around his tip, lapping up his precum. He bit his knuckle and his chest heaved, staring down at you working your magic. “P-Please, darling…” He whimpered. “Y-Your mouth… Please.”

You felt the pool of heat in your stomach grow, molten lava burning at your core. The sight of him quivering at your touch and the sound of him begging was so arousing. Almost as arousing as when he takes control of you. You stop the movement of your tongue and he whines, bucking his hips slightly trying to fuck himself in your hand. You let go and smirked. “Be patient, my love,” You purred. “Tell me exactly what you want.”

His whines were music to your ears. The vision before you could put the finest artists of Faerún to shame. His pleading eyes, his failure at trying to hide his sounds of desperation, his rock hard throbbing cock… He was beautiful.

“I-I… I want my cock in your mouth,” He pleaded breathlessly. “Please, darling… I can’t take it anymore.” You smile as you lean back down and take his cock in your palm once more. The words you spoke next are what you’ve been wanting to say for a while, and you knew it would send Astarion over the edge.

“Good boy.”

A shocked, but aroused sound came from his mouth before you parted your lips and took his length into your mouth. He moaned loudly at the sudden sensation and threw his head back, gripping the bed sheets underneath him. You sucked gently and swirled your tongue around his length, bobbing your head, taking more and more of him into your throat.

Thankfully because of your nights together in camp, your gag reflex has decreased, so you could confidently take him all the way into your throat no problem. Your head slowly slid down the rest of the way and stayed still, letting him enjoy the warmth and wetness of your throat. You also stick out your tongue to ensure every inch of him is deep inside your throat.

He is a whimpering, pleasing mess. Watching you take his entire cock so effortlessly makes him throb inside your throat. He wants nothing more than to take back his power and grab your hair and fuck himself in your throat, but he resists, he wants you to make him feel good.

You suck around him as you bob your head up and down, a bit faster this time, making sure to take all of him in your throat at every pass. He moans loudly and grips the sheets tighter, tearing it a bit. His hips start to thrust, matching your pace. You can taste more precum flowing from his tip and his cock swells even more in your mouth. You can tell he’s about to come undone.

“F-Fuck!” He cried out. “Tav you’re gonna make me-“ You suddenly pulled off of him, leaving a thick trail of spit and precum connecting from his cock to your mouth. You smirked greedily at him as he whined pathetically. “W-Why.. Didn’t you..” He whimpered, his chest heaving with every breath. His cock looked as if one touch would make it explode. It twitched violently in the air, begging for release. You chuckle softly as you crawl atop of him once more, kissing him sweetly on the forehead.

“I’m not quite done with you yet, my heart,” You purred. You got off of him as you went to your nightstand, grabbing a bottle of lube. “You wanted to do… Everything we discussed, right, Star?” You asked, turning to him. He took a deep breath and nodded eagerly. “Yes,” He replied. You smiled. “On your hands and knees for me then,”

He quickly obeyed, getting on his hands and knees and arching his back, letting you have full access to him. You sat behind him and gripped his ass cheeks firmly, nibbling on your bottom lip. “You remember what to say if you want to stop, right, Star?” You asked, starting to get your index finger lubed. “Y-Yes, my love,” He replied. You smiled and kissed the back of one of his thighs. “Very good boy,” You purred, your praise earning you an eager moan from the beautiful vampire before you.

You made sure to get your finger very well lubricated. You were quite nervous because you’ve only ever done such a thing to yourself, but you figured it couldn’t be too different.

You slowly circled Astarion’s asshole with your finger, making sure he was nice and relaxed. It twitched under your touch and Astarion let out a long breath. “That’s it, my star, just relax,” You praised, gently rubbing his leg with your other hand. Once you felt his hole was nice and relaxed, you slowly started to ease your finger inside, only until your first knuckle. He moaned softly as he stretched around you, and quivered. You stopped to give him some time to get used to it.

“How does that feel?” You asked soothingly. His legs quivered as he stuttered. “P-Please… More,” You smirked and hummed softly. “I want to hear you beg more, sweetheart. Can you do that for me?” You purred. He whined and arched his back more, trying to sink himself more into your finger. “M-My love, please… I need you… inside me,” You could tell he was embarrassed, but you could also tell how much he liked it. A fiery desire was growing in his crimson eyes and it made you hunger more and more for him.

“Of course, my love. Just tell me if it’s too much, okay?” You said sweetly as you pushed your finger inside him further, nice and slow. Soon enough your finger was all the way inside of him. He stretched so nicely around you, and you couldn’t help but wonder how much he could take… You supposed you would find out soon enough.

You reached underneath him with your free hand and took his cock in it, starting to slowly jerk him off. You moved your finger at the same pace; nice and slow. His breath quickened and he buried his face in the pillow, moaning out loudly. “Gods, yes!” He cried out. “Please, darling… More,”

Fuck…

The way he begged for more grasped something in you, a side of you that you didn’t even know you had. Your pace quickened, making sure to curl the finger inside of him to reach his special spot.

“Want another one?” You asked, reaching over to give the small of his back a small kiss, making sure not to touch the scar on his back. He nodded eagerly. “Yes, darling. Please,” He replied, frustration filling his voice. You pulled out just enough to line your middle finger up along with your index. You made sure to add some extra lube before slowly pushing the two fingers inside, once again waiting a moment to let him stretch around you.

Suddenly he let out a loud groan of frustration and started to move his hips into your fingers, fucking himself. You were slightly taken aback at this, but decided to take this moment to show who was in power here. You grabbed his hip and kept him still while you started to pump your dexterous fingers in and out of him.

He gripped the bed sheets tightly as he whimpered and shook with pleasure. He never knew he could feel anything like this before, and the fact that you were the one doing it made it that much better. Soon enough he could feel his orgasm slowly approaching.You could feel this as well, as his hole and cock were twitching violently. You slowly withdrew your fingers and got off the bed. He whined loudly in protest.

“D-Darling this is torture… Please just let me-“ His words were cut off as he saw you grab something from the nightstand; a double sided toy with a strap. It wasn’t too thick, or too long, but it was perfect to fit inside both of you easily. The strap was to keep it from slipping, which could very well easily happen since you were so wet. He bit his lip at the sight and smirked up at you. “Mmh, I’m excited for this,” He purred. You smirked back at him and gave him a hungry kiss, flipping him onto his back.

You quickly stripped your clothes and fastened the strap on, making sure it was nice and tight so it didn’t fall off. You got between his legs and generously lined the tip of the toy. You lined it up with his hole, as well as your own on the other side.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” You asked, petting his inner thigh gently with your free hand. He let out a small nervous breath and waited a moment. Soon enough he nodded, looking up at you with half hooded eyes.

“Please… Fuck me, darling.”

That was all the encouragement you needed. You slowly pushed the toy inside both of you. You both let out a loud long moan. Astarion took the toy surprisingly well, especially since he only had two fingers inside before. Regardless, you still waited to move so he could get used to the size of it, which was exactly what he did for you your first time.

His legs shook in excitement and his cock was twitching violently, leaking precum. It was truly a sight to behold… You looked into his eyes hungrily, silently asking for permission to move. He gripped your hips and pulled you into him, making you both gasp in pleasure. You placed your hands on his hips and took hold of them, slowly rolling your hips inside of him. Your side of the toy was angled just right, so every thrust pushed the toy up and against your g spot.

Astarion whimpered softly and reached down to his cock, taking a hold of it and stroking it slowly as you fucked him deeper. You knew he wouldn’t last long like this, especially after being denied his orgasm twice now.

Hmph, showed him. He does it to you all the time.

You decided to show mercy, finally, and rolled your hips faster and deeper, starting to feel your orgasm approaching too. Your core was on fire, seeing him so helpless under you set fire to your blood. You leaned down and locked him in a deep kiss. He whined helplessly into your mouth, gripping the back of your head with his free hand. He broke the kiss briefly to speak.

“M-My sweet, may I come? Please will you let me come this time?” His pleas were adorable, and it only made you pick your speed up even more, your hips now clapping against his. You moaned loudly and nodded.

“Yes, come with me. Be a good boy and come with me.”

His cries crescendoed as he came closer and closer. You lifted him slightly so you could get even deeper inside, and with one more thrust, you both came undone. Pleasure shook through you both like an earthquake. Your come covered the sheets underneath you and Astarion’s shot all the way up to his chest, some even reaching his jaw. He always was a shooter…

After you both came down from your highs you looked at each other, both of you breathing heavily. You were both stunned at how amazing that was. It was like nothing either of you have ever experienced before. It was surreal…

You were the first one to split the silence. “That was…” Astarion finished your sentence. “Amazing,” He chuckled, chest still heaving. You smiled and pressed a small kiss to his forehead. “Would you like to bathe with me, my love?” You asked, slowly pulling the toy out of both of you. He smiled and cupped your cheek. “Darling, there is nothing I’d like more.” He purred.

You grinned and leaned into his touch and reached out to run your fingers through his hair.

“Good boy.”

authors note: this is probably the hardest fic i’ve ever written… i’ve never written a submissive male before so if it’s not accurate or if some things said don’t match up to astarion’s character i’m sorry! also the tags are a bit different from my original teaser post, again sorry about that but i really really hope you all enjoyed!

taglist: @preparedfruit @my-horniness-is-okay

[fumifooms]

Chilchuck, family & alcoholism

Collection of thoughts and speculation on Chil’s upbringing, his dynamic with his family and how alcoholism ties into it all. If you want the groundwork info on Chil’s background I recommend my masterpost on his family, here beyond a summary of the facts it’s really just me speculating from the crumbs we get of his parents and siblings, how it’s all affected him and in turn affected his own wife and kids etc etc.

There’s nothing more I’d like on mother’s day than to speculate about Chilchuck’s maladaptive attachment style. I’m fascinated by how distant everyone is and how much he’s been devoted to them all despite having been so absent. Intergenerational trauma get over here

Actually it’ll be easier if I make a rundown here too, it’s just stuff I reiterate from my masterpost tho.

Tiny table of contents: 1- rundown: family facts 2- rundown: alcoholism 3- dad 4- parenting 5- daughters 6- wife

^ Every time his dad gets mentioned. His mom never gets mentioned. His siblings I think are only ever mentioned in this extra, and then there are more ambiguous relatives cameos.

We know is hometown isn’t Kahka Brud, but we’re not sure wether he moved there upon getting his own house (presumably around when he got married at 13), or if it’s only after his wife when he rented out his place to relatives then rented the place in Kahka Brud.

If he rented it out to relatives, maybe that meant it was in his hometown? Especially if he and his siblings are "almost strangers" so presumably he doesn’t really keep in touch with his family. And I mean, he hasn’t seen his wife or daughter in 4 years so you can imagine how he’s like with his more distant family…

Additionally half-foots and Chil are very coded to be from an impoverished opressed working class people. So that’s the context.

I’ll say that I mentioned intergenerational trauma at the beginning, and I def think the distrust of elves is part of that, but here I want to focus on the interpersonal effects rather.

Copy pasting my masterpost thoughts overall: Chilchuck is hinted to have had a rather dysfunctional family himself (alcoholic father, distant siblings, etc). So he doesn’t really have the best model on how to raise someone and such. I imagine it was a sort of neglectful home situation, where the kids are encouraged to be independent. If they didn’t have to work or help around much, then a free range parenting sort of thing.

We do see how the family has full and warm feasts, where someone cleans his mouth with a rag, so it’s not like he didn’t have caring people or had a tragic childhood though! I don’t remember if it’s explicitely stated but he’s heavily implied to having grown up poor, as most half-foots, and I just think it’s the hardened hardworking family type of childhood where just like he does with others, they instilled somewhat harsh life lessons in him, which in turn encourages him to indulge in the simple pleasures of life like alcohol and sex, or at least women’s beauty and crass jokes. We do see he seems more optimistic when he’s younger in flashbacks, so a bunch of his harsh view on the world is still likely learned and earned rather than taught.

I still think he inherited many flawed views from how his father acted, like his attitude about excessive drinking not being a big deal, it being worth it. That work hard play hard, enjoy life die young mentality he has, shown mostly in the “alcohol” section of his Adventurer’s Bible profile, could very well be partly a result of the general poverty half-foot communities are that he grew in as well, like how he doesn’t hope for things to be as best as they could be and contends with good enough.  As far as I remember, his mother is never mentioned, but I doubt it implies she was out of the picture. She was probably a regular sort of mother that took care of the home and was still around when his father died, not unlike how Chil’s wife was implied to be a housewife. It looks like there’s a good age gap between one sibling to the next, that could be interesting to speculate about too. Mostly though I think it’s big family because it’s just sorta what happens when you regularly have sex and you don’t have contraception, being poor often makes family planning harder for various reasons and leads to more children.

Alcoholism context rundown:

Good Chilchuck analysis baseline here. Alcohol seems to be his main stress reliever/coping mechanism, especially for how emotionally constipated he is, and his job is being stressed about his party’s safety. Then he also mentions as a changeling that having his senses dulled feels relaxing to him, further confirming alcohol, as a drug that dulls senses, is something that he likes for the intoxication aspect and feels it’s relaxing. Alcohol also acts as a hunger suppressant, so it for sure has played a role in his dieting and unhealthy eating/diet habits, especially since he shows the instinct to drink to soothe hunger, all of that about how going hungry for 3 days used to feel manageable. Chil dieting info compiled here.

Chilchuck is at his most effortlessly cheerful when drunk or drinking. Compilation of every time he was drunk here.

And to be clear, a cheerful drunk is still a drunk. He literally will drink anytime he gets the opportunity to even if he’s aware overdrinking leads to health problems and death. Like canonically. He does NOT see how drinking should be a problem and does not seek to show restraint with it.

Dad of the dad

Marcille and Chilchuck having a talk on how losing a dad be like "You lost your dad young too…? I know how it is, it must have hit you hard…" "No not really tbh. Do you want lasagna or chicken for dinner?" <- either genuinely doesn’t feel much about his dad’s death or has 10 layers of repression, idk which is worse

I think Chil not making a big deal out of his dad’s death, not having worries in following into his footsteps that way in the least, is super interesting.

As a buddy @saccharineomens puts it: " I kinda imagine chilchuck and his dad didn't have a bad relationship, but in general chilchuck is so blase about drinking (he sees it as a delightful time, a wonderful thing! he wouldn't mind dying doing something he loved!) that he's not very upset about his dad's passing? like "yeah, he died, but i was already an adult, he was an adult, he made his choices, i make my choices, it's cool" " And I’ll nitpick that we don’t know how old he was when his dad died, I always assumed it was pretty early since Chil left home when he got married, and like I’ve gone into he doesn’t seem to be the keep in touch type. It’s on the table though, and he could have learned about it through letter if nothing else and that contributes to the "meh" reaction.

And that is very Chilchuck, the whole "we made our choices, it is how it is, he died doing something he loved", and you can totally believe that that’s the crux of it, but I do think the nonchalance hints at the family overall being distant and not only the siblings, that there’s dysfunctional shenanigans going on in there more than just… Healthy coping and having moved on.

I wonder when Chil first drank… And I wonder how he came to realize he liked alcohol a lot. His father probably gave him sips… Or he stole them

No because, with how disaffected he is about his father and siblings I could definitely see him having started to kind of numb himself/dissociate with the help of alcohol in that home environment that felt so… Either devoid of feelings or too messy to get attached. I can totally see his family being one that encourages dealing with feelings by bottling them up.

Because too… We saw him have a family/community feast of some sort presumably when he was a kid, in that chapter cover, so it’s not like there’s no warmth or sense of family at all, but then like… What went wrong? If as I theorize that girl with short black hair in that panel is his future wife, since she’s his childhood friend and all, what if his family/home life was always kind of cold and distant, even when gathered and cheery or despite those occasions? So then it’s like, at the family gatherings, she’s the most important person there to him, the one he actually connects to the most, the warmest presence he has…….. Someone he jokes around with that feels on the same speed as him, that doesn’t have the same connotations as everyone else present, a bit of a haven, someone different, a breath of fresh hair and a regained sense of childhood… Spitballing of course of course

I feel like they had a pretty big family and they were poor and such so there were always chores to be done etc, so their household might have operated like a mini busiess of sorts where everyone’s too busy, always has this and that to do and the mother asks them to go do tasks. I used to think it might be more of a neglect situation, where the kids are expected to provide for themselves and so cook their own meals and whatnot, both parents distant, but I don’t think so with the feast illustration. Chil at the beginning of canon used to see eating as a practical thing more than anything, you have to eat to live but don’t eat much or your weight will make your job more dangerous, might as well skip meals and have beer instead, etc etc. So the thought that he doesn’t know how to cook all that well despite this speculated background where he cooked for himself and keeps cooking minimalistic, since he does tell Senshi he taught him about cooking, is fair, but still… There could definitely be a situation where his older siblings were pushed into a parental role too, where they helped with the food and raising the younger siblings etc etc. As mentioned, the age gap between siblings may play into the dynamic as well. But on this front I have less ideas…

So yes my general take on Chil’s family is that everyone was too busy to emotionally connect as much as is normal, the parenting leaving things to be desired with alcoholism and emotional neglect.

Fathering

And I think that’s especially interesting considering he hasn’t been keeping in touch with his daughters either. It’s "they’re independent now" and that’s kinda it. His daughters haven’t sent him letters or visited him or tried to make him talk to their mom again. It does feel like with his own parents and siblings to me, where people are almost strangers, where relationships grow apart and everyone shrugs and goes ‘that’s how things are’. Is it that everyone including all his daughters gave up on trying to keep in touch, or is it that they all went "well divorced or not he’s absent, this is our normal tbh", and which is worse?

So yes, I think his relationship with his daughters is probably similar to his relationship with his parents, sort of hands off. Chil's dad was probably not a good dad but probably not quite a bad dad. A definitive He Was There, to quote another friend heh

Imo the thing with Chil is that he was pretty absent bc of work travels to dungeon dive, right. He’s working hard to provide for his family but in the process he’s not spending much time with them, slowly making a gap grow between him and them as they drift apart and change as people. He’s a career dad who never realized spending time with his family was more important and threw his pager into the ocean— But also here’s the thing!! You want to say being his family is more important, but money is arguably more important! They’re poor, they don’t have the privilege of free time as much. Sure he’s not there, but he is providing for them what they need to keep living and growing healthily. Similarly, you want to say Chil should stop doing harsh dieting for weight management, but, he has a point, maybe starving is still preferable than dying in traps. Of course the ideal would be to change jobs, but again, life is a struggle and that’s not always an option.

^ Truly the classic "if you don’t listen to me, your parent, a cryptid is gonna kidnap you!" international experience………

He is so so so the "What? My way of parenting is kinda bad? But my father raised me like that, and look how great I turned out!" <- emotionally dysfunctional…….. "Pshhh what do you mean having an alcoholic parent negatively affects you? My father was an alcoholic too and look at me"  🤡

All of it was behavior normalized to him. And listen, I’m saying this but not as like, shirking of his part in it. This isn’t a teen or young adult, he’s middle aged, he’s become the one giving and not receiving the generational trauma. He’s chosen to never think deeper on the topic.

And like, he himself is so indifferent to his father and what their relationship was like, of course he wouldn’t notice if a parenting choice wasn’t great for his daughters. He doesn’t have a relationship with his dad, he’s not (at least not consciously) traumatized by him, so from his perspective it’s mission success! He got raised decent enough 👍⭐️ Except he doesn’t realize that like, not particularly caring if he died is sign of a problem between them in itself… And this even as he remains somewhat of an important figure in his life, especially since that’s who he sees on the other side of the life river in the ghost chapter. It’s implicitly the biggest instance of loss through death Chilchuck has in his life I think.

But despite it all he obviously does love his family a lot, right. So I do believe that like, while he has imperfect standards when it comes to parenting he still tries to be better than his dad was, that even if it’s necessary that he has a lot of long work travels, he spends time with them. And there’s sort of this dissonance that he’s both "it doesn’t matter wether i’m here or not, they’ll live, they’re tough girls. Oh they didn’t like my scolding earlier? It’s just how kids are" dismissive and "I love them so much and I want them to have a good life. I want to do my best by them" devoted and so so caring. And like that’s why he works so damn hard, he does it for them, but also that’s why the girls grew up with an absentee father and aughhhh AUGHHHH the unsolvable dilemma of it all Chilchuck in Dunmeshi truly represents like, the harshness of reality & the world and how sometimes things will just suck no matter what, and then of course balancing that with Marcille in their shared arc where she tacks on "And despite that there is beauty everywhere even in the small and menial things, despite that your flawed relationships and dreams are still worth fighting for" ie giving reconciling with his wife a shot, etc.

All that said I think the very strict "you’re gonna grow up to have a stable job by god, young miss" attitude, those strong work ethics he highly values and focuses on and no doubt tried to instill in is own kids, is something he somewhat inherited from his own upbringing and parents.

In my masterpost bit on his parenting, I said I don’t think he’d do any kind of corporeal punishment, but. I do wonder about spanking aftee all. It can be so so easy to rationalize it… Sigh

Daughter pov

Again, my general interpretations for the daughters are written in my masterpost. I think Patti knows her father the least and is the one least worried about jobs and stability and least settled down as a result. Flertom is the more social one who I imagine tended to be the one worried about her parents’ couple and their emotions the most. And Meijack… Ohh Meijack.

When your father tried his best to provide for you but he worked all the time and even when he was home he was either tired or stressed and he’s always liked to get drunk to relax and cheer up. When you know he values work ethics and respectability so you grew up to be capable and quiet. And when he says you’re like him you’re sort of puzzled, does he really know you so little, or does he know himself so little? But you like the feeling of your father ruffling your hair so you accept it and still you stand next to your mother just as quiet and just as stoic during family gatherings. He leaves again and again and when your mother leaves him nothing changes, really. You wonder if it’s more telling that you know him better than he seems to himself or that you don’t know him as much as you wish you did, or that you don’t think about him all that much these days. Out of sight out of mind

Thinking of those posts about how kids never forget and during the "draw your family!" things at school, some of the kids draw their working parents seperate from the rest of them...

Absent father and when he’s at home you get the crumbs of him that you get and you’re grateful for it and that’s that <333

She doesn’t know how much he loves them bc he hasn’t showed them in a long time </3

The horror of drunk Chil in my fics is often about what in this state he can’t do rather than what he could do, how someone who’s as proud of his skills and work ethics as he is has truly changed, not comprehending how he could become so sloppy or how he could allow himself to get like this, marred the values he preaches above all else. It’s in the way that he fumbles with doorknobs, that he could never lockpick a door if you were to lock it, and it both being your salvation and bringing you extreme distress at the thought of it all. His footsteps usually featherlight now sound heavy as stone, like a troll’s.

You know the thing that gets me so bad with alcoholism angst is when people describe the drunk person as a stranger. Often making a metaphor that they’re monsters, have some monster they shapeshift into uncontrollably once in a while, as a way to split the unreconciliable halves of the person sober and drunk in your vision of them……. It gets me soooo bad Little Puckpatti growing up on tales of trolls kidnapping disobedient kids and replacing them with doubles so no one even knows they’re gone… Coming face to face with a drunk Chilchuck that roams the halls of the house with heavy steps in the night, because she wanted to go drink a glass of water, too thirsty to sleep………..

And this is where I reveal that I wrote a fic about just that!! Trolls that thump and tiptoe through the night Mei @ Chil, You made me of stone and still every day you wear me down and chip away at me bit by bit

In the end notes I describe my takes and interpretations: With Mei I tried to give the sense of a kid who sacrifices some parts of childhood to feel closer to her parent, like not playing games to spend more time with him no matter how empty, or wanting to be worthy in his eyes. With Fler, since she was the one in canon to take in their mother and write Chil a letter explaining the situation, I feel like she’s always been the one most involved and aware of the problems in their family. The one most there to emotionally support or to understand what the vibes in a room meant. Puckpatti I think knows her father the least, since with time I think Chilchuck was more and more away from work and more and more cynical like the flashbacks of younger him dungeon diving. I think because of her not minding unstable odd jobs that she’s the most passive, that she’s the most go with the flow. I do also love when Mei is the one most aware of her parents’ flaws and most critical as the eldest, but not in this fic. Meijack grows up to never touch a drop of alcohol, what people joke is the one difference between her and her father. Flertom drinks, too much sometimes, but she considers drinking should be a social activity rather than a habit. Puckpatti only drinks on special occasions when she has the chance.

They already don’t have that much time together because of his work, I wonder how big of a percentage the amount of memories the daughters have of him are when he’s not himself truly… How they kinda reconcile it all. It’s their normal. 

And the thing that’s gutting too, is that Chil always looks so so much more open, relaxed, cheerful and happier when drunk than he usually is. He doesn't know how to get his defenses down without alcohol

"you're all that's good"

Because we do see how he truly used to not be so closed off and bitter. But distrust and fearing for betrayals from both coworkers and then his wife aka the person who’s supposed to be closest to him (he doesn’t even have close family besides his daughters. Does he even have close friends) turned him into what he is now. He was so cheerful!! Happy and trusting and optimistic.

He leaves and she left

God there’s the whole ‘wife leaving him’ trauma too is the thing… It had to have fucked him up so bad like no wonder he got paranoid and decided not to open up to ANYONE like. He never saw it coming is the scariest thing. He didn’t expect her to just up and leave. He didn’t see the warning signs. He won’t know if it’s coming this time either.

….. But then also, why he didn’t reach out to her (besides hurt) was because it was a petty silence treatment, like "oh she left without saying a word? Fine well I won’t reach out to her either" <- man who is so not fine and collected about it. It’s been FOUR YEARSSSSSSS I wonder if he always was like… "This week she’s gonna send a letter. … Ok fine, this month she’s gonna crack. … Within the year she’ll come crawling back." and it’s a bit why it was allowed to go on for this long unchecked like… Why he still considers her his wife even though functionally she’s more of an ex by that point after 4 years.

I can never stop thinking about him and his wife they’re fucking crazyyy. Him not reaching out to her started as a silent treatment from frustration. She never reached out to him either, she just up and left, didn’t even leave or send one last letter she’s just gone and has left this all behind, the house and everything in it. It’s been 4 years but he still considers her his wife and considers themselves only "estranged", "due to circumstances we haven’t seen each other in years". His face in the panel he said this is interesting too, trying to be casual but defensive and exasperated, already dreading the judgement and questions. He moved out of his house to rent a place in Kahka Brud instead. How much of him not reaching out was avoidance… Guilt, frustration, sadness, confusion, just procrastinating and dread and fear of a rejection more concrete, or something else… Maybe realizing he doesn’t miss her as much as he should, not enough to chase after her or try to get her back, just resigning himself to it… Is he a bad husband, is he a bad person? Should they reconcile?

Not seeing it coming… It’s half trust, that this person who’s so dear to you could never just up and leave and hurt you like that, half entitlement, thinking that she would never think of leaving, and third it’s blinding himself to the warning signs, not wanting to believe or acknowledge them. Because like, there WERE some, he said she "suddenly fell into a bad mood on the way back [from the outing]" and I don’t think he’s too dumb to be aware that something was off, he literally just dismissed it and then went surprised pikachu face when it turned out things were indeed off.

Part of it is definitely, how do you even react if your wife walks out on you without warning. If it happened to me I think that I wouldn’t reach out for a while either, wait for them to reach out to me first, give them space. As I put it in one of my marchil wips, "I respect your right to be rid of me too much to try and shackle you to me if you want to leave". Inaction is easier than admitting he’s scared to check and find out that the worst case scenario is true. It’s been years and he still hasn’t worked it out why she left. Do you think that’s on purpose. That he doesnt want to know for sure. It’s so so so scary to try and do anything about it

He said he didn’t reach out right away when she left because he was petty and wanted to give her the silence treatment back. Ok but is it that he blames her for their marriage falling apart or does he blame himself and he’s just misdirecting the conflicted feelings? Did he not reach out because a part of him was too scared to know why she left or if she would refuse to come back? Did he just think that she’d come back on her own, and things would get fixed while still staying unsaid and unconfronted like they always have, the first month, then the next and the next, until it was a year in and it sunk in that oh, maybe she wasn’t coming back?

He seems genuine here when he says that he was angry about it and gave her the silent treatment, but it is an habit of his to lie to make himself look worse instead of showing vulnerability, so who knows.

He is so so scared of being affected by relationships. Same thing with his compulsive habit to disguise his worry for anger. It’s why he doesn’t want people to have expectations of him, "I’m a coward I’m selfish", because then they can’t be disappointed, they can’t be surprised if he bites, they can’t leave when you lose what they’ve been staying for.

He has avoidant tendencies too. Every time there’s an interpersonal issue he just accepts it’s out of his control immediately. He’s passive when it comes to relationship problems, just like with coworkers, relationships are a ticking time bomb to him, and he just wants to be left out of it and come out unscathed. It comes back to his pessimism. He doesn’t think that like, things could be better. According to him life is tough and cruel, you accept your lot in life and make the best out of it and that’s it. If people are scummy you don’t whine about how unfair it is, you close yourself off and work to not be taken advantage of again and adapt. So then with his wife, when Marcille is like "Have you tried… Talking?" it’s such a crazy idea that it might work at all, that he could have the power to fix things… And that’s why it’s such a big deal when he goes "Alright I’ll try… I don’t know if it’ll go as well as in the stories, but I’ll try". That CRUMB of allowing himself to be hopeful is so huge

Honestly for the longest time I misread this bit, I thought she left in the night like how Marcille framed it, but no she left after he left for work. She left after he left again.

The way it’s told, it really sounds like Chilchuck just came home from work, stayed probably a couple of days in which they went to that outing together, then left for work again right away/soon after and it’s like. Was that outing the most special thing you guys did together. You came home from like a month of work, you had one outing where she ended up having a bad time, y’all didn’t talk about it further and then you left for another couple of weeks. Are you kidding me

Your married life is waiting for your husband to come home, spending mediocre time together, being shut down when you voice discontentment, and things being left unaddressed before he leaves again.

She left when he was gone for work, but did she leave the day of, or did she flip flop on it and took a while before working up the strength to leave? Was she waiting to see if he’d say anything before leaving and when he didn’t that was the last straw?

Chilchuck trying to prove a point that half-foots can make it out there, trying to rely more on himself because that’s the only person he can trust. His wife feeling like he's leaving her behind (because he does. over and over and over and over.) This guy just keeps throwing himself into work because he thinks it's what's best for everyone. Hey sir neglecting emotional needs can be kinda detrimental to everyone involved, I think you might wanna know that ^ quotes courtesy of @soappox

And to come back to alcoholism for a bit, alcoholism is alcoholism, and someone asked why I thought that a Chilchuck with depression would drink and cope through alcohol, since drinking seems to be something cheerful to him. It does puzzle me a bit but it’s worth going over, so… I don’t think him using drinking as a coping mechanism is far fetched at all. Cheerful drunks that are alcoholic still can absolutely use alcohol in ways like that. If something makes you happier, or even just more numb which translates to you feeling more free etc etc, then I definitely think it tracks that he’d keep drinking. Like personally I do think he’d drink a lot after his wife left him, and in rough patches like that. Depression -> not wanting to have to think, the days are blurring together and you either don’t want to be conscious or you want to feel something etc etc -> drinking for the alcohol. Alcoholics tend to be, well, dependent on alcohol. If something bad happens etc they’re usually more likely to go harder on it rather than stop. We can debate on when and why Chilchuck first started to drink but it’s straight up his favorite food now and it’s deeply ingrained in his life, in his favorite outings and activities and priorities and moods and meals. A CHEERFUL DRUNK IS STILL A DRUNK!!! They drink to get happy not drink because they are happy, though obviously the two can have overlap.

Chil represses sooo much. His solution to interpersonal conflict and feelings is just don’t think about it and dull your feelings & senses to everything ✨ I love him. I need to kill him with hammers Like the other day I was thinking about an AU where he might have ran away from his neglectful home or something, but then I remembered he deals with everything including his family by dulling his feelings and senses to things 🫠 He wouldn’t leave

I’d say he doesn’t look troubled by loss through death, moreso loss through mistakes. His nightmare is his daughters dying yes, but moreso them being killed, there’s an axe in the wall etc, it’s about having failed to protect them.

If he can’t fuck something up or if he’s already fucked it up there’s this pacifying sense that he can’t have the rug pulled from under him, because that’s what having connections is, having a wife isn’t an insurance it’s a rug waiting to be pulled. And his brand is sort of Flawed Mr Mistakes Man so he’s kinda been having to cope lol. I do think he throws himself into workaholism, because it’s sort of the only way to live he knows, making yourself capable and useful and spending his days working like that, less time to think, too tired to think. Senses dulled, senses that are usually too sharp, cutting with clarity that he prefers ignoring and avoiding. Work is something he doesn’t have to feel through, something that gives him pride and self-esteem, something through all the danger and life or death risk feels safer, emotionally. No one taught him how to deal with things another way, it’s always been suck it up and work.

Conclusion

Stop smoking we love you and we don’t want you to die

No drinking will not externalize your feelings no it won’t vent them out well please Chilchuck ple-ea-ease…….

</3 They should invent an alcoholism that doesn’t make you dysfunctional and hard to be around

^ Drunk, by The Living Tombstone

I’ve been thinking about enneagrams and Chil is 6w7 highkey. Becomes 3 when stressed, a little 8 but it’s more that he wants security so much that he becomes paranoid rather than having the core of an 8 y’know. I haven’t dug into it for quotes yet but this paper goes hard if you’re curious.

Dropping my relevant Spotify playlists here bc why not: Chilchuck & his wife, marchil angst

[abookloverlmao]

When you’re lost in the darkness look for the light—

warning: father-daughter relationship, mention of death, depression, school shooting, swearing, heavy topics, blood, kidnapping, reader is 19 years old or early 20s, family loss, trauma, ANGSTY!

My birthday passed and I miss my dad and love Price so here you have this angsty piece, grab tissues, you have been warned!

🤍

Price is a father- was actually.

Father of 10 year old Ruby who passed during a school shooting, did it take toll on his life? Yes... yes, it did.

Did he get married and have another kid? absolutely not. Always just a one night stand.

Price never thought he would have a kid, hell even handle one ever again after his was gone, his sweet Ruby– until.

A sarcastic and violent fourteen year old holding a sniper gun and hidden away from the world in a cabin a little away from the base that was attacked appeared.

At first like a pain in the ass but as times went by, she became the rest of his uncompleted soul, like the light in his dark life.

From being a smartass to him, to being a soldier under his wing.

And being a soldier under his wing means getting into trouble sometimes and getting yelled at by him, he didn't want to lose the one girl who like his Ruby.

After almost getting shot, she found herself in Price's office listening to his scolds, staying silent and moving the pen across the paper knowing better than to argue back.

“I know I ain't your damn dad, do I need to tell Ghost to always keep an eye on you because you can't take care of your own self?” He sneered causing her to stop and look up, giving him a frown.

oh…

it was always her saying that she knows he’s not her dad sarcastically just for him to retort back a “do you?” but she never thought it will be the other way around.

she stayed silent before opening her mouth to murmur a small “do you?” now that made him freeze.

His gruff demeanor softened a little but then hardened and he scoffed, running a hand through his hair.

“I…” he started, Price's brow furrowed, and he leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples, "Don't get all sentimental on me, kid," he grumbled, his tone gruff.

“I ain't got time for that shit. Just do your job and stay out of trouble, understood? you need to start acting like a grown ass,”

But despite his harsh words, there was a subtle warmth in his eyes as he looked at her, a silent acknowledgment of the bond that had formed between them.

Y/N did nothing but nod and huff sinking back on her chair, “fine.” he glared at her, “understood?” he repeated again causing he to stand up and walk towards the door.

“understood, old man, but if anything ever happens to me then just to let you know I did it like a grown ass. I’m a woman now, ain’t asking for help ever again,”

Price watched her leave, a mixture of frustration and affection swirling within him. He let out a gruff chuckle, shaking his head as he muttered to himself, “Stubborn little shit,”

he knew she liked him too much to stay angry at him, hell he saved her ass too many times and she saved his soul, she always came back to apologize for being stupid but this time she did come to see him before heading out with a boy she met a year ago.

a fling.

Price met him, but didn’t trust him, hell he hated the thought of the girl he raised meet a guy- well at least he watched her grow and become a woman not like his… never mind, Y/N will always remain the sarcastic fourteen year old to him.

his little shit who called him old man.

his light when he’s lost in the darkness.

Y/N knocked, peeking in, “hey… i’m heading out with Alexei to the cinema, just came to let you know,” she said with a small smile walking towards his desk.

Price looked up from his paperwork, his expression unreadable as he met her gaze, “Going out, huh?” he grunted, trying to mask the twinge of unease in his chest.

Y/N nodded, her smile faltering slightly under his scrutinizing gaze, “uh huh, just thought I'd let you know,” she replied, her tone casual.

Price's jaw tightened as he studied her, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind, "Be careful," he finally muttered, his voice gruffer than usual.

Y/N's smile widened, genuine gratitude shining in her eyes, the childish twinkle he bought back after horrible shit with her abusive asshole of a family, “I will, cap. Promise.” everyone knew the; don’t promise something you can’t keep, rule.

As she turned to leave, Price couldn't shake the feeling of dread that settled in the pit of his stomach. “and kiddo?” he called out, his voice softer now.

She glanced back at him, a question in her eyes.

“Come back in one piece, back to me, alright?” he said, the vulnerability in his voice betraying his tough exterior.

Y/N's smile softened, a flicker of sorrow crossing her features, “always do, old man,” she replied with the brightest grin, she then stopped by the door.

“hey John… look, i’m sorry for being a bitch with you earlier when you’re just trying to look out for me, and you know that I love you right?”

Price's heart skipped a beat at her words, a lump forming in his throat as he struggled to find the right response. "I know, kiddo," he managed to choke out, his voice thick with emotion. "And... I'm sorry too. Just... be safe out there, okay?"

Y/N nodded, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I will, John. I promise." never break that rule kids. 

With one last glance, she disappeared out the door, leaving Price alone with his thoughts and a gnawing sense of dread that refused to leave him.

But despite his fears, he couldn't shake the feeling of love and pride that swelled within him for the young woman who had become like family to him.

“give me a call once you’re there!” he called back loud enough for her to hear and make her chuckle.

–•–•–🤍–•–•–

first call was right before the movie, Alexei said hello, but now it has been 3 hours with no response from her.

no movie is 3 hours… especially not Romeo and Juliet.. Price searched up the timing of the movie of course, his paranoia ate him alive, but then… it went to 48 hours of no news from her.

he looked everywhere for her, yelling for the cops to search for her and his crew, driving around and hacking her phone just to find it in a car abandoned in an alleyway.

not a sound, not a sight of her, she just… vanished– no way was his Y/N running away, she was happy with him, Price can feel himself losing his sanity minute by minute, cops looked everywhere around, his crew asked, searched, he looked even in the woods under the rain.

until 71 hours later, 2 days and 23 hours later… he got a call from a random number, Price stopped his crews and put his phone on speaker, “hello? kiddo? is that you?” he started but was cut off by ragged breaths, like someone was shot in the lungs or was badly hurt.

“dad?” she started between heavy yet rapid breaths, “Y/N?” Price's heart raced as he listened to her ragged breaths. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

for the first time she called him dad and it wasn’t in a sweet way, it was filled with fear like her life depended on it.

Price's voice shook with worry as he waited for her response, his crew hanging onto every word, “I’m in trouble, Dad,” Y/N gasped, the sound of fear evident in her voice. "I don't know where I am... They took me... I'm scared."

static can be heard in the background like shuffling causing him to wince and push the phone away from his ear.

Price's mind raced, his hands trembling as he clutched the phone. “Y/N, stay calm, baby girl, We'll find you. Tell me, can you see anything around you? Any landmarks?”

Y/N's voice was strained, “I-I don't know... look, Alexei is with the Russian gang, he’s a spy, he has always been- I shouldn’t trust him, hack this phone, and his real name is Dimitri Smirnov, was in jail for 3 years because of “you” apparently, I managed to knock him out but please for the love of god…” she took a deep breath, oh so shaky, it’s like her soul was slipping away by the second, after each inhale.

As her voice trembled through the phone, each word seemed to carry the weight of her suffering.

Her breaths were ragged, shallow gasps punctuated by the sound of her struggling lungs. Pain dripped from her voice like blood from an open wound, seeping into the airwaves with every strained syllable.

well she was bleeding from the side, hell she was bleeding all over in this random ass cabin freezing to death and holding her side for dear’s life at the corner with his phone in hand as Alexei laid unconscious– or should she say Dimitri, hell she couldn’t even move to kill him, the chains did hurt like a bitch.

“I want to go home… cause i’m fucking bleeding out and I don’t know if I’m living, please Price, please… just..”

yeah she’s dying, definitely dying…

her essence fading like a flickering flame in a gust of wind, voice trailing off in the distance same way her essence did…

The static in the background mingled with her gasps, a cacophony of agony and desperation that echoed in Price's ears like a haunting melody.

he won’t forget this- ever, whoever in the heavens listening to him and watching over him seemed to like the sight of his suffering, hell he knows he won’t ever forget those ragged breaths of hers.

it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

“come take me home,” her voice cracked with anguish, the weight of her words bearing down on Price like a heavy burden. It was a slow, agonizing descent into darkness, her lifeblood draining away with each passing moment, leaving behind only the hollow echo of her pain.

with that the line cut off, Price barked orders, tracking down her phone, and as soon as Gaz found the location they were off.

a haunting location, a house in the middle of the woods, burning from the inside.

Price froze, but then in a second, he raced towards the back of the house where the fire still hadn't reached the spot, kicking the door with all his force with his men behind he could feel his heart hammering as his eyes moved around in desperate search of her.

as soon as the door opened a sharp whiff of smoke hit his face, causing his eyes to squint and become watery, he coughed a little but that didn't stop him from moving in, calling out her name.

but then Ghost called him from one of the ends of the hallways, "hey cap! You might wanna see this!" he said through his mask causing Price to walk towards the man who pointed at the chains on the ground leading from the kitchen all the way through the fire and to the attic room.

Price's heart sank as he followed the trail of chains, his mind racing with thoughts of what could have happened to her. The flames roared behind him, threatening to engulf the entire house, but he pushed forward, determined to find her.

fine running through fire was a stupid idea but he wasn't burned or caught by the fire surprisingly, instead, he walked down the stairs but Ghost was quick to catch up stopping him from doing anything crazy when the door to the attic room opened.

"get out of my way, lieutenant," an order.

"let me check first," was all Ghost said before the masked soldier reached the entrance to the attic room, it wasn't locked... Simon took a deep breath, bracing himself for what he might discover inside, preparing for the worst.

gun in hand, the other reaching to push the door so slowly so he could sneak in just in case the "killer" might be by the door ready with a gun or a knife or even a brick.

however, the scene before him sent pure fear through his veins, horror gripping him alive, the room was dimly lit by the flickering flames, casting eerie shadows on the walls but the air was heavy with smoke and the acrid smell of burning wood.

and Simon was never one to be easily shaken.

he even forgot to point the gun around just in case of an attack, his eyes landing on the body in the center, empty eyes staring right back at him, barely blinking.

Ghost wanted to throw up, for the first time ever after millions of missions, he wanted to throw up at the sight, not at her... but the state she was in.

On the ground, beaten so badly, covered in blood from head to toe that he couldn't even recognize her features until his eyes landed on the earrings, twinkling, but with drops of blood still.

his breath hitched the more he took her in, the once nice shirt she wore ripped at the sleeves and top, barely warming her up, a hand chained while the other was on her side, ankles on the other hand both were chained keeping her from moving.

a bloody golf bat by her head, the hair she straightened, now curled and damp, spreading around and dirty thanks to the thick pool of blood— a bloody golf bat by her fucking head- the fucker had beat her to death until she was paralyzed with a fucking bat, not only that, but she was either shot or stabbed to the side.

her breathing- oh her breathing was- ragged, her cheek pressed to the ground and eyes staring right at his slowly losing the sparkle of life, slowly, god he couldn't imagine the excruciating pain she was in if her eyes were still open.

tears racing down the side of her face, pushing some of the drops of blood away.

Ghost's heart clenched with a mixture of rage, sorrow, and helplessness, and finally, he knelt down beside her, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her cheek, feeling the warmth of her fading life, blood coating his gloved fingers as soon as he reached for her.

The weight of the situation bore down on him, and he struggled to breathe, his body shielded her face from Price who would probably drive himself to madness if he saw her.

his daughter-

"Stay with me," Ghost whispered, his voice choked with emotion, "We're here now. We'll get you the help you need. Just hold on. Price is here- John's here..."

she tried to open her mouth and whisper something but only her fingers twitched and her lips parted, words turned into nothing but rough breaths.

"Lieutenant?" oh shit- oh no what should he do, Price was calling out for him, what should he fucking do? no response. he just.. stood and took a step back.

Price frowned, eyes moving to his gloved hand, a drop of blood, thick and so red landed on the wood, but when Simon didn't respond to his call only stared at the body.

He moved to the side, but then his breath caught in his throat, eyes widening in disbelief and horror they almost popped out. His mind struggled to make sense of the unimaginable truth before him.

It was his little shit lying there, battered and broken, her fragile form barely recognizable beneath the blood and bruises. The world around him seemed to blur as he fought to comprehend the magnitude of the atrocity committed against his precious girl.

Every fiber of his being screamed out in agony, and he felt as if his heart had been ripped from his chest.

and he moved, running to her side, collapsing on the wood, and reaching for her, taking his sweet Y/N in his arms, he held her against his chest and he swore he could see the way her eyes lit up as soon as she was in his arms.

Price could barely recognize her features, so he reached a shaky hand to brush her hair away from her face and with his sleeve, wiped the blood away carefully without hurting her even if it was painful even holding her, she didn't wince, but just stared, relaxing in his arms, breaths still fast but they slowed down as her fear evaporated like it was never there.

and she opened her mouth, mumbling the tiniest, "Hi old man..." Price almost sobbed at that, tears threatening to spill, yes he was emotional, for fuck's sake, "Hey kiddo... you're fine, just, try to talk to me we'll get you help," he whispered holding her, supporting her head like she was a baby instead of an eighteen-year-old woman.

He reached to push the strands of curls that clung to her bloody face, revealing a glimpse of her delicate smile. It was a bittersweet sight, pain, and fatherly love together.

With a trembling voice, Y/N managed to utter a few more words, her words barely audible, but Price leaned in closer, desperate to catch every syllable.

"come on, captain, scold me, it's better than this look," she whispered between ragged breaths, her voice weakened by the ordeal she had endured, tears streamed down Price's face as he listened to her brave words.

He couldn't fathom the depth of her courage and resilience in the face of such brutality. His grip tightened around her gently, as if trying to transfer his strength to her fragile form.

"I'm not scolding you at all, kiddo, never again," he said, he promised– as if that would make her stand and heal.

it won’t. it certainly won’t.

her vision grew blurry, the body heat slowly vanishing and colder then ice, black spots surrounding her vision, she didn’t know what to say.

"you’re my home, old man…" she whispered feeling her eyes flutter on their own, she wasn’t controlling her body, Price noticed and tried to shake awake talking about how she shouldn’t leave him or whatever, she couldn’t hear a single thing as peace slowly washed over her.

with weak knees she pushed herself using her tiptoed closer so her face in buried in his arm and his scent greets her into a warm embrace.

"no no no no- kid. stay awake," she would’ve laughed, joking about how he gives her orders even when she is on the verge of death.

"you’re my kid… you’re my home," he whispered both to her and to himself, so he doesn’t lose his sanity, to convince himself, he shifted so he will hold her in his arms into the tightest hug while her body is growing limp.

her breathing were ragged and as soon as he shifted and held her head against his shoulder, holding her head, it slowed down… and then stopped.

just stopped.

Price was frozen, heart shattering into so many little pieces, "Y/N? kiddo?" he asked shaking her a bit but as he glanced to the side, her eyes emptily staring up, lifeless, twinkle no longer there, no breathing escaping her mouth or nose, lips parted, head falling back, he knew.

his Y/N was gone, his sweet baby girl, in his arms, her bloody hand holding on his sleeve like it always did loosening and falling limp on her side.

Yet another soldier, yet another daughter vanishing from his arms and his life like a dying light, like a dying star, like dust in the wind.

well that’s life… ups and downs. never make promises you can’t keep kids.

Never

***

I hope you enjoyed it guys!! edit is shit but the story ruined me! please let me know what you think🤍

[klara-v-klyare]

I've just re-watched Logan 2017 and I got a little upset. (Well, not a little, but I'm not talking about the movie).

In most of the fanfics I've read, and I've read something like 1500 completed ones on Deadpool & Wolverine because I have an obsessive hyperfixation like a disease...

Nevermind.

So. In these fanfics, Laura always remembers her Logan as a hero, a respectable father figure, etc. Although, in reality (in the movie), Logan initially behaved like a god damn fucking asshole, he didn't give a shit about Laura.

He was very tired, he saw that his body was tired too, it was not regenerating normally, he was bleeding, his claws did not come out all the way and made the wounds from them fester. He knew that he was getting poisoned by his own adamantium bones. And he just wanted to run away to nowhere in the middle of the ocean with Charles Xavier, the only person he respected who was still alive and for whom he was ready to take responsibility. But the professor had other beliefs his whole life, which Logan himself may have helped shape, if you go by the lore of the other movies. And that is to help and protect the younger mutants.

Logan is very tired, he's an alcoholic and suicidal, and he's just waiting for the end to come. But it was Charles who was his moral compass until the very end. Logan had hardened over the years of shit that happened to him, he was used to letting people go, getting over their deaths and moving on without an alternative. Yes, he freaked out after Xavier's death, because, probably, besides his brother, it was the longest (not exactly human, but you get it) contact in his life with another person who knew and understood and accepted him. And he didn't even want to get involved with Laura after that. Most of his heroism was that he finally died for what the person he respected so much believed in. He died for the idea of ​​a future for new young mutants. For the fact that they are not God's mistake.

And I'm glad that after this gut-wrenching drama, there's a relatively fun Deadpool movie where Logan's skeleton is used as a weapon in the opening credits fight. Where "the worst Wolverine" gives Laura a high five with the Dogpool paw. Where there's a happy ending for all of them in some other dimension. And I'm so grateful for that.

And honestly, I want someone to write a fanfic where Laura finally comes clean to the new Logan in her life about her dad, how he wasn't such a perfect hero and how he and other Wolverine are so much alike, how Laura only knew him for a short amount of time, a few days, and how "the worst Wolverine" shouldn't worry about the rivalry because the fact that he tries, and tries constantly, for a long time, and tries consistently, makes him the best in the world for her.

(Doesn't mean that she gotta forget her own father. Just that her Logan doesn't have a holy halo of heroic immunity. Both Woverines are the same as men who try and make mistakes, but they're still different.)

And no, I don't want someone to replace any other one. I just want them all to know that despite all the shit in the past they all have a chance to start over with each other, to let go of the past trauma and not compare what that they are and what they do and what they mean to each other to anything that happend before.

Let Laura have things. Let Laura have family. Let Laura have unkillable multiverse dads, who are not eaten alive by inner demons that they're not good enough. Why fucking not?

That's it.

(And fuck X-men movies timeline, it won't ever make sense, but I'm all in for the emotional side of this bullshit).

[happynowyo]

Stubbornness

Fandom: Six of Crows

Pairing: Kaz Brekker x Reader

Warnings: mentions of traumas and touch aversion, Reader being a Healer

A/n: so here's the thing I wanted something angsty and smutty but could come up only with the first part tonight so I'll do another hot part in a few days to finish this completely.

Word count: 2,1k

Part 2

— I don't need that, — the confident tone cut through the silence like a sharp knife, sending shivers down your spine for a second.

You might have believed it if you hadn't personally witnessed a couple of Dime Lions beating Kaz with such zeal that the crunch of his broken ribs was clearly audible in the empty valley.

So you continued to worry about him without listening to what was said. You paid far more attention to the quiet sighs Kaz let out with each step, leaning harder and harder on his bad leg, as you noticed the pained expression flickering in his eyes, though you had to hand it to him that he was using all his acting skills to pretend to be fine and make you leave.

— Stop being so stubborn! Even Matthias isn't afraid of my abilities anymore after I healed that bullet wound in his shoulder.

You determinedly followed Kaz into his room, letting the door slam menacingly. As a sign to Kaz that you wouldn't just give up and leave him to be alone with the pain. As a sign to everyone else in the Slat that no one was allowed to bother him anymore in the next couple of hours.

There was no relationship between the two of you. At least, that's what you both claimed when Jesper and Nina cast too many meaningful glances at you, and Inej carefully kept in a secret all those times she saw you leaving Kaz's bedroom before breakfast, knowing that you had spent the night with him. Saints, sometimes even you convinced yourself that you had nothing in common, even though certain details made it clear that your relationship had long gone beyond the professional.

If you didn't know Kaz personally, you'd think he was giving you conflicting signals. He was withdrawn and aloof, preferring to talk only about business. Even if he insisted and you spent the entire evening around him, he went about his deals as if he didn't notice your presence. His stern tone was used toward you as often as it was toward everyone else.

If you didn't know him, you'd be sure that Kaz Brekker was a cold, indifferent bastard who was only interested in kruge and the future death of Pekka Rollins. Calculating and cruel and completely incapable of basic affections. But in reality it was very different. The trick was not to take Kaz for an ordinary guy and not to see him as such. His difficult past had made him wear such armor that it had time to blend into his skin over the years.

In those moments when anyone else would have approached you with caring questions and a warm hug if you were suddenly hurt during the heist, Kaz would limit himself to a brief worried look, though later he would definitely comb down the person you were paired with. You once accused him of being incapable of showing any emotions, but you later realized that the Barrel had hardened him to show it in the most inconspicuous way possible, so as not to put you in any danger. Only the Saints know what Pekka or anyone else would have done to you if they had known about the secret feelings Kaz had for you.

When Wylan revealed that he knew a Healer, everyone took it with great enthusiasm. Even Kaz saw it as a good sign, and it made everyone feel a little more at ease about the tasks ahead, though you remembered to remind Crows to be careful. You could heal a lot, but it wasn't always instantaneous and serious wounds could take a couple of weeks to fully heal. The bigger problem was someone else's stubbornness - Jesper would drag himself to you almost every day with any simple cut, while Matthias or Kaz would literally have to be persuaded.

— I want to help. Let me, please.

Despite the soft shell, the authoritative tone was no deception to Kaz. He sighed heavily and, after a little hesitation, pulled off his jacket, ignoring the flash of pain around his shoulder. Who would have thought that Pekka's secretary was so good with knives?

— You're not supposed to be here, Y/n. He'll be looking for you. Did Pim let you in? — the curt speech was the proof of how much effort Brekker was making to hold back a painful groan and, God forbid, admit that he really needed some help.

You were bound to Anderson with an indenture and officially worked at one of his clubs along with the other Grishas. He was a part of the Merchant Council and was involved in key decisions regarding politics and trade in Ketterdam, which, however, did not stop him from accepting bribes, being under the wing of Pekka and running a real brothel in his club. Many men were really interested in spending the night with Grisha, though more often they ended up asking the girls to demonstrate their skills.

— Anderson is having a party tonight, along with a bunch of other great merchants. And you obviously knew that, since you'd snuck into Pekka's club, counting on the fact that he'd be among the other guests and his office would be empty. Why didn't Nina feel the heartbeat of the guards? — you were tired of the distance between you, so you approached first, gently helping to undo the buttons on Kaz's blood-soaked shirt. Your eyes tried desperately to catch his, but Brekker stubbornly looked away, trying to control the panic that was building up. Close bodily contact was still difficult for him, though his was making definite progress with your help.

— The Fabricator. Someone had worked on the office door, turning it into a veritable safe, through which it is impossible for Grisha to feel or hear anything. Someone from Dregs had told Pekka about our future attack.

Kaz looked angry, but you understood that he had already passed the stage of frustration with his subordinates and so was calculating his options as to who might had done it. His sharp mind was constantly at work, and it was clearly to his advantage now, since it distracted him from realizing how close your fingers were to his body. Phantom heat could already be felt, but it was nothing compared to what he was going to feel later.

You had tried some things before. Intimacy might have been expressed in different ways, but gradually you raised the degree higher and higher. Kaz was getting used to your presence more and more and it allowed him to push his boundaries a little further. Recently you were even able to spend the night in the same bed, separated only by the thin fabric of your pajamas. Before his trauma Kaz was a particularly tactile child, and you hoped to bring him back to that at least a little, showing him that physical touch didn't always have to be accompanied by pain and panic.

You remembered perfectly your first kiss. How timid and cautious it was at first. How desperate and greedy it became later, until a wave of anxiety swept over Kaz and made him pull away first. He focused on avoiding you for a whole week after that and was pretty sure that you were disappointed in his ability to control himself or that you were angry because of his attitude toward touching and the fact that he couldn't give you something normal. However, you managed to change his mind and you continued to take steps toward each other, guided by your growing feelings.

— None of that matters now. You took the papers you wanted, and I'll heal your wounds. We'll deal with everything else in the morning, okay? — you smiled encouragingly, and then you gently stepped closer, your fingers caressing Kaz's bare left side, trying to bind the broken ribs together. Your attentive gaze was fixed on Kaz's face the whole time, assessing and comparing, so that you could instantly catch the moment when the panic of too close contact would occupy his mind again.

— Will you stay? — Kaz finally stopped pretending that his brave solitude on that night was more appealing to him than your support.

— If you behave yourself, sweetheart.

You pulled his shirt aside and examined more closely many bruises and cuts that studded Kaz's torso. The open wound on his right shoulder demanded your attention first, so you gently nudged Kaz toward the bed so that he could sit on it and give you more space. As you worked, you couldn't stop gazing at him, admiring him openly, and your free palm lightly touched his hair, brushing back the strands that had fallen to his forehead. Tenderness filled your heart, and a wandering smile appeared on your lips that didn't escape Kaz's attention.

He liked these moments of comfort with you, and he expressed it in his own way, deciding to take the initiative and slowly run his fingertips from your knee up your thigh. You were standing almost between his legs and the height difference you created gave him an advantageous opportunity. Touching you was still new to Kaz, but the mind-fogging desire was too great and, at certain moments, overpowered any panic. And that's why he gently wrapped his arm around your wrist and pulled you toward him to make you sit on his lap, facing each other even closer.

— It's good you weren't there in his office. If Pekka finds out you're working with me, he'll definitely tell Anderson. They're great friends, it wouldn't cost him anything to get your indenture to himself, — Kaz' eyes were filled with pure hatred, and some part of you was glad it wasn't meant for you.

— You could buy me out. That way I would belong only to you.

— You already belong only to me, Y/n, — Kaz said confidently, in a wave of ghostly jealousy, not even paying attention to the fact that your palm moved to his face, healing his cheekbones from the horrible bruises.

— Only at night. You only claim me here, among these confined four walls, when no one can see or hear us, — you shrugged briefly, getting rid of the sadness in your voice. It would be foolish to expect a man like Kaz to drop everything and leave for a peaceful life. Ketterdam, power and the pursuit of money was everything to him. — Sometimes it takes an effort to remind myself of that during the day, when I don't know if I can see you again because people on streets are about to break the news of your death after another fight or because Anderson will sell me out to someone else.

It was harder to hear about it than to just know it and keep it in the back of his mind. You were the fairest and most beautiful girl for Kaz, the person he truly wanted to protect from everything and care about, and he was sickened by the thought that someone could take you away or hurt you somehow. The words swirled on his tongue, burning with its despair, and he needed to do something to hold on to that moment and cling to you, to prove that the only thing real now was you, your caressing touches erasing the painful sensation from his skin, and the heat of life itself that emanated from you.

The few times before all your kisses had come from you. Kaz had found it easier to accept touch than to touch himself, but now the need to be with you made him go with his urges, so his palm gripped your waist, pulling you closer, and his lips covered yours so hastily, as if he feared it was the last thing he would ever have time and ability to do in his life. But kissing him was still extremely satisfying.

So much that the desire instantly settled in your blood and made you more pliable. Your tongue slid playfully along his, and a convulsive, loud exhalation became yours in common. You unconsciously buried your fingers in his hair and pulled stronger, causing Kaz to moan briefly right into the kiss before he slowly pulled away with a completely shaken look and a bright smile and a glint in his eyes. And in that moment he looked a hell of a lot like his usual self, just a guy spending time with the girl he loved, and their only problem was not the prospect of death at the hands of rival gangs, but the question of whether they'd locked the door.

Although Kaz Brekker had another question stashed away — would you agree to wear that ring he bought for you so you could remember him and his feelings at all times?

Part 2

[autistichalsin]

Broke: Halsin talking about nature all the time is boring

Woke: Halsin's love of nature is a way of showing what a deeply loving person he is; while most others become hardened by their traumas, Halsin still has a big enough heart to love trees and every animal he meets. This reflects how he specifically says he swore off cynicism at the age of 200: he could numb a great deal of his pain if he gave up his optimism, his determination to fix the world's pain, and his love of the small and voiceless beings contained in nature, but he actively refuses, knowing that feeling that pain, that empathy, is who he is- and it proves crucial to him earning his happy ending. This is shown in the Shadow Curse plotline, where all others wrote it off as a lost cause (numb to the cruelty and suffering) while Halsin carried that pain for 100 years as he tried to fix it, and ultimately is rewarded with seeing the curse lifted and his friends Thaniel and Oliver healed. It is also shown in the ending, where his refusal to stop worrying about the plight of the downtrodden of Baldur's Gate despite never being taken seriously leads to him being rewarded with a community, built by his hands literally and metaphorically, that gives him the sense of belonging that always eluded him as well as the children his nurturing soul always sought to have but never was allowed due to his strict sense of duty while he acted as Archdruid. Halsin's love of nature, of life itself, underscores his extraordinary compassion in a world that does not always encourage kindness, and in the end his ability to stay kind is the very reason he is so much happier in the ending than he ever was in the previous 349 years of his life

[sacrednova]

GENTLEMAN | Simon "Ghost" Riley.

This is a """Oneshot""". Well, it is a whole short-series actually (Seven chapters), but it's complete. All in one post. Doc!Reader, Fem!Reader. Smut in the last chapter, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Summary: Developing relationship between Simon "Ghost" Riley, a battle-hardened soldier, and you, a young doctor. Despite Ghost’s emotionally guarded nature, he finds himself drawn to you, struggling with feelings he’s not accustomed to. As your connection deepens, Ghost battles his inner demons, believing he isn’t worthy of you, leading to moments of intense intimacy and inevitable heartache.

Warnings:

Age gap (40-year-old man / Late 20's-year-old woman)

Emotional trauma

Sexual content

Abandonment

Self-destructive behavior

PTSD-related themes

Chapter 1: Uncharted Territory

Simon "Ghost" Riley had been through hell and back, but the sterile, white-washed halls of the medical wing were a different kind of battlefield altogether. His boots thudded heavily against the linoleum as he walked in, head low and shoulders squared, hoping to get this over with quickly. Another goddamn check-up. He’d sustained a minor injury during the last op—nothing serious, just a few scrapes and bruises—but the higher-ups insisted he see the medic. As if he needed to be coddled.

He hated the medical wing. The smell of antiseptic made his skin crawl, bringing back memories he’d rather keep buried. But today, something else added to his reluctance.

You.

You were too young. Too fresh. The first time he saw you, he couldn’t believe someone like you would choose this line of work. In your late 20's, if he had to guess. Your hair always tied back in a messy bun, stray wisps falling over your face as you worked with a soft smile that was too bright for a place like this. And your eyes—sharp, intelligent, but too damn hopeful. It made his gut twist, knowing people like you didn’t last in his world.

Last time, you’d patched him up with steady hands, making light conversation as if he wasn’t Ghost—a man whose reputation alone sent seasoned soldiers running. You acted as though he was just another patient, nothing more. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Today, he hoped you wouldn’t be there. But when he entered the exam room, there you were—sitting on a small stool, reviewing something on your clipboard. As soon as he stepped in, your eyes lifted, meeting his with that same warm energy.

"Lieutenant Riley," you said brightly, like they were old friends. "What are we looking at today?"

He grunted, glancing at his bandaged forearm. "Scrape. That’s all."

Your gaze flicked to his arm, then back to his face, an amused smile tugging at your lips. "Scrape? You had three stitches last time, remember? You’re always underselling your injuries."

Simon folded his arms across his broad chest, the material of his tactical vest creaking with the movement. "I’m fine."

You arched a brow and stood, moving to your medical tray. "Fine, huh?" Your tone was playful, but there was something about the way you carried yourself—calm, collected, confident. You wasn’t intimidated, not in the least. "Let me take a look anyway."

Your fingers brushed his arm lightly as you inspected the dressing, and Simon felt his jaw clench. He hated being touched. Especially by someone like you—delicate but skilled, and annoyingly unfazed by his presence. He watched your work, noting how your brow furrowed slightly in concentration, how you bit your lip when you weren't satisfied with something.

Too damn cute, he thought grimly. Too innocent for all of this.

But despite himself, he found that coming here wasn’t as much of a chore as it used to be. He wouldn’t admit it, not even to himself, but since you had been assigned to the medical wing, he had found himself there more often than usual. Nothing serious, of course—minor scrapes, bruises, and sometimes even complaints that didn’t need attention. Just excuses to end up in your care.

It was pathetic, really. He was forty—scarred, weathered, and cold. And you? Late 20's, with the whole damn world ahead of you. You was a doctor, sure, but you still had that youthful spark in your eyes, that optimism he hadn’t seen in years. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much.

Maybe it was because you made him feel things he thought he’d buried deep.

"Hold still," you murmured, cutting through his thoughts as you changed his bandage, your fingers working with practiced precision. "This will only take a minute."

Simon grunted in response, but his gaze stayed fixed on you, studying the way you worked, the light in your eyes. She was everything he wasn’t—bright, hopeful, kind.

You finished quickly, stepping back with a satisfied smile. "There. You’re all set."

"Thanks, Doc." The words came out gruffer than he intended. He turned to leave, but your voice stopped him in his tracks.

"You know, Lieutenant," you began, your voice soft but teasing, "I’m starting to think you come in here more than you need to. Either you’re the most accident-prone soldier I’ve ever met, or there’s something else going on."

His heart thudded in his chest. Did you know? No. Impossible. He kept his face neutral, but he could feel the weight of your gaze on his back.

"Yeah?" He turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder. "You seem to pay too much attention to it, Doc."

Your laugh was light and genuine, and it did something strange to his insides. "Touché, Lieutenant."

Without another word, Simon walked out, his mind racing. The idea of you knowing, of you suspecting, twisted something in him. You were too damn smart, too observant.

But as much as he told himself it was dangerous to keep coming back, he knew he wouldn’t stop. Not yet. Not while there was still something about you that pulled him in, that made him feel more human than the Ghost he was supposed to be.

Not while you looked at him like he was more than just another scarred soldier.

Chapter 2: Behind the Mask

The mission had gone sideways, as they often did, and now Simon Riley found himself in the one place he swore he wouldn’t return to anytime soon: the medical wing.

This time, though, it was bad.

Blood dripped steadily from a gash along his cheekbone, pooling under the edge of his mask. His vision blurred at the edges, but he kept his steps steady, forcing his body to obey. The last thing he needed was anyone thinking he was weak. The last thing he needed was you thinking that.

When he finally pushed through the door, You were there, busy reviewing your charts. The moment you saw him, your eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in concern.

"Lieutenant Riley." Your tone shifted, the lightness from earlier replaced with worry. "What happened?"

"Nothing serious." He grumbled, his words muffled by the mask.

Your sharp gaze flicked over him, immediately assessing the situation. "That doesn’t look like nothing. Sit down."

Reluctantly, Ghost did as he was told, lowering himself onto the exam table. His jaw clenched beneath the fabric of his skull-patterned balaclava. The wound stung, but the idea of you seeing his face hurt more. This mask wasn’t just fabric to him—it was his shield. Without it, he felt exposed, vulnerable.

You were already moving with a focused determination, gathering gauze and antiseptic. You came to his side, and when you saw how the blood was seeping through the mask, your lips thinned into a tight line.

"I need to take the mask off," you said quietly, your voice calm but firm.

His whole body tensed. "No."

You paused, looking at him with those eyes that were too kind, too soft for the world they lived in. "Lieutenant," you started gently, "I can’t clean the wound if I don’t take it off. You know that."

Ghost’s heart pounded in his chest. He’d never let anyone see his face willingly—not since the scars. The mask was as much a part of him as the name Ghost. It kept people at a distance, kept him safe from their pitying or horrified stares.

But you weren't going to back down. You stood there, waiting patiently, your expression understanding but unwavering.

His fingers twitched, his instinct to bolt screaming at him. But the wound throbbed, and he knew it needed to be treated. He couldn’t risk infection. Still, it felt like a trap, like baring his soul to the enemy.

With a low growl of frustration, he reached up and tugged the mask off, avoiding your gaze the entire time.

The room felt too bright, too open as his face was exposed. He knew what you’d see—the jagged scars tracing his skin like a map of every hell he’d been through. The one that ran from his temple to his jaw, a permanent reminder of a knife fight that nearly killed him. The burn marks that warped his cheek from an explosion he barely escaped. Every inch of his face was a testament to the violence he’d survived.

He waited for it—the gasp, the awkward look, the pity.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, you didn’t flinch. You barely even hesitated. You simply leaned closer, inspecting the wound with professional precision, your fingers gentle as you cleaned the blood away. You were focused, like you were working on just another soldier, not the Ghost whose reputation could freeze the blood in someone’s veins.

"You’ve got a nasty cut here," you murmured, dipping a cloth in antiseptic. "Hold still, this might sting."

Ghost sat perfectly still, his muscles locked in place. He couldn’t look at you, couldn’t bear to see whatever was in your eyes when you saw the mess of his face. He stared at the wall, his mind racing.

And then you said it.

"Handsome man under it," you remarked lightly, as if you were commenting on the weather.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut. His brain stuttered, trying to make sense of what you’d said. He went still—completely, utterly still.

Handsome?

He couldn’t speak, couldn’t process. You kept working, your touch methodical as you stitched the wound, but the casual way you’d complimented him left him reeling.

No one had ever called him that. Not since… well, not since before everything had gone to hell. Before the scars. Before the trauma had carved him into something unrecognizable.

He didn’t know how to respond. He wasn’t the type to fish for compliments, and he sure as hell wasn’t used to getting them. Especially not from someone like you.

As the silence stretched, the only sound in the room was the soft clink of medical instruments. His throat felt tight, and for the first time in years, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He felt… raw, exposed, but not in the way he’d expected. It wasn’t pity he felt from her. It was something else—something genuine.

"All done," you finally said, stepping back and giving him a soft smile, as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. At least for him.

Without a word, Ghost reached for his dity mask, pulling it back over his face, not caring about the way you protested. The cool fabric against his skin should have comforted him, should have helped him retreat into the shell he always relied on. But now, for some reason, it felt heavier.

He stood up, stiff and silent, his mind still spinning. He didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he could say anything.

"Lieutenant?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, your smile fading just a little. "You alright?"

He stared at you, his dark eyes unreadable through the mask. He wanted to speak, wanted to say something that wasn’t completely cold, but the words stuck in his throat.

Instead, he gave a curt nod, his body rigid as stone.

And without another word, he turned and left the room, his steps quick and heavy, trying to escape the strange feeling your words had left behind.

For the first time in years, Simon Riley—Ghost—felt off balance. And it scared the hell out of him.

Chapter 3: Night Terrors and Awkward Encounters

The nightmare came like it always did—silent at first, then deafening. His brother, Tommy, standing in front of him, eyes hollow and cold, like he was already gone. Simon couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. And then the screaming. Always the screaming.

"You let it happen, Simon!"

Ghost jolted awake, his heart hammering in his chest, the darkness of his room pressing down on him like a suffocating weight. The air was stale and hot, despite the chill outside. He lay there, trying to catch his breath, his body covered in a cold sweat. His mind throbbed with the remnants of the dream.

He hadn’t dreamed about his brother in months. He hated when it came back, hated the memories it dragged with it—guilt, loss, failure. Things he couldn’t change, no matter how much blood he spilled in the years since.

He sat up, rubbing a hand over his unmasked face, trying to shake it off. Sleep wasn’t coming back, not after that. There was only one thing that helped after a night like this.

Coffee.

Sliding out of bed, he pulled on his fatigues, taking his mask from the nightstand in an act of pure custom, and putting it on. The mess hall would be empty at this hour, a little past midnight. No one to bother him. Just him, the bitter taste of coffee, and the silence.

He made his way there in the dark, the base quiet, only the occasional sound of distant boots or the hum of generators. It felt comforting, the stillness.

But when he stepped into the mess hall, he saw a figure already sitting at one of the corner tables, a mug in hand. His chest tightened when he realized who it was.

That pretty young Doctor, you.

Your hair was loose, falling over your shoulders, your face tired but relaxed. You must have just finished your shift. A teapot and a small cup sat in front of you, steam rising from the cup as you took a sip.

Of all the places, and of all the times…

You spotted him almost immediately, your expression brightening in a way that made his stomach twist with discomfort. There was no avoiding it now. You were already smiling at him.

"Lieutenant Riley," you greeted, setting your cup down. "Didn’t expect to see you here at this hour."

He gave a stiff nod and made his way to the coffee station, trying to ignore the way his pulse quickened. His usual tactics for avoiding conversation weren’t going to work with you—he knew that much already. You were persistent. Too damn friendly.

Still, he busied himself with the coffee, keeping his back to you for a moment longer than necessary. The silence stretched awkwardly before you spoke again.

"Couldn’t sleep?" you asked, your voice soft, unintrusive.

"Something like that," he muttered, pouring the coffee into a mug and turning back around.

You gestured to the empty chair across from you. "Join me?"

Ghost hesitated, weighing his options. He didn’t want to be rude, but sitting with you… it made him uneasy. He wasn’t good at small talk—especially with women. Especially you. But you were looking up at him with those kind, curious eyes, and damn it, he felt a strange tug in his chest.

Reluctantly, he sat down, keeping his gaze on his coffee.

You smiled warmly, taking another sip of your tea. "Late shift," you explained, "just winding down."

He nodded again, unsure of what to say. His mind was still buzzing from the nightmare, his body on edge. He felt exposed sitting across from you, even though he still had his mask on.

"So," you began, clearly trying to ease him into a conversation, "do you always drink coffee at this hour, or is this a special occasion?"

You lighthearted tone caught him off guard, and he found himself fumbling for an answer. "It… helps clear the head," he said awkwardly, his voice gruff. "After a long day."

You nodded, watching him with that same amused glint in your eyes. "You sound like an old man."

Ghost blinked, thrown completely off balance by your words. His brain struggled to keep up. "… Old man?" he repeated, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

You laughed softly, your eyes twinkling. "Yeah, you know—late-night coffee, brooding alone in the dark. Very grumpy-grandpa behavior."

For a moment, Ghost was utterly speechless. Him? An old man? He was only forty—forty. That wasn’t old, not by a long shot. But the way you said it, so casually, so teasingly, made him feel like he’d suddenly aged a hundred years.

He could feel the heat rising up his neck, creeping under his mask. He tried to brush it off, but he could tell from the way your smile widened that you had noticed.

"Careful, Lieutenant," you said with a grin, "you’re turning red."

He stiffened, his ears burning beneath the fabric of his mask. Was he really? How could you tell? Damn it, he wasn’t used to this kind of thing. He wasn’t used to you—this kind of teasing, this playful back-and-forth. Most people gave him a wide berth, never trying to joke or poke at him. But this Doc? You seemed to find his discomfort amusing, not intimidating.

"I’m not—" he started, but his voice cracked, and he cut himself off, his jaw clenching in frustration.

You laughed again, a sound that was far too light for the darkness in his head, and something in him twisted. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was confusing. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this—flustered, off balance.

"You know," you said softly, your voice gentle now, "you don’t always have to be so serious. I bet you’re a nice guy under all that gruffness."

His hands tightened around the mug, his mind racing. Nice guy? You didn’t know anything about him. If you did—if you knew the things he’d done, the blood on his hands—you wouldn’t say that. You'd run as far away as possible.

But you were not running. You were sitting here, sipping tea and teasing him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"I’m just not good at this," he muttered finally, his voice low. "Talking."

"Talking?" you repeated, raising an eyebrow. "You’re doing fine so far."

He shook his head. "Not with people. Not like this." He struggled to find the right words. "Women."

Your smile softened, and you rested your chin on your hand, watching him with a mix of amusement and something else—something gentler. "Well, I’ll let you in on a secret, Lieutenant. You don’t have to be good at it. You just have to try."

Your words hit him in a strange way, sinking in deeper than they should have. He wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like this, and it threw him off completely.

He cleared his throat, straightening in his seat and trying to sound more like the soldier he was. "I, uh… appreciate the company," he said, his voice more formal than he intended, the words stiff and awkward. "You’re very kind, Doctor."

You tilted your head, your smile turning sly. "Very proper of you, Lieutenant. Quite the British gentleman, aren’t you?"

The heat in his face flared again, and this time he couldn’t hide it. His ears burned, his whole body stiffening at your teasing.

You grinned. "See? Old man."

Ghost gripped his mug tightly, staring into the coffee as if it could save him. He didn’t know how to deal with this. With you. But despite the awkwardness, despite his complete lack of experience with these kinds of conversations, there was something about your laughter, your smile, that made him feel… different.

Maybe it wasn’t so bad.

Maybe.

"You're lucky I’m a gentleman," he muttered under his breath, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Chapter 4: In Her Head

You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the soft glow of your bedside lamp casting shadows across the room. You had been tossing and turning for what felt like hours, but sleep refused to come. Your mind was too busy, too wrapped up in something—someone—you couldn't quite shake off.

Lieutenant Riley.

Ghost.

You groaned softly, turning over to bury your face in your pillow, trying to drown out the persistent swirl of thoughts. It was ridiculous. Completely irrational. The man barely spoke, yet here you were, replaying every word he had said to you in the mess hall over and over again.

"You’re lucky I’m a gentleman."

Your heart raced a little faster just thinking about it. The way he’d said it, his voice low and gruff, almost teasing—but not quite. There had been something else in his tone. Something you couldn’t put your finger on. What had he meant by that? Was it just an offhand comment, or… was there more to it?

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to banish the thought. You were overthinking it, you had to be. Ghost was… Ghost. Quiet, stoic, a man of few words. And yet, something about the way he had said those words had gotten under your skin. Something about the way he’d been so awkward, so stiff, and then just slipped in that little comment—like he had more to say but was holding back.

You felt a surge of heat bloom in your chest and groaned again, rolling onto your back. Why was he driving you crazy like this?

It wasn’t just what he’d said, though. It was everything about him. The way he carried himself, that looming presence that filled any room he entered. The mask, the cold exterior, the scars you’d seen but hadn’t commented on. He was a mystery wrapped in danger, and for some reason, that intrigued you far more than it should have.

You wasn’t usually like this. You were professional, composed, always focused on your work. You’d been around soldiers for years—tough men, broken men, and everything in between. But Ghost… he was different. It wasn’t just the reputation that preceded him, or even the scars that marked his skin. It was the way he seemed so untouchable, like he was walled off from the rest of the world, keeping everyone at a distance.

Except, maybe, you’d gotten closer than most.

And that thought sent another rush of heat through you.

"God," you muttered, covering your face with your hands, feeling utterly ridiculous. You were a grown woman, a doctor, and here you were acting like a teenager, flustered over a few words from a man who probably didn’t think twice about it.

But… what if he had meant something else?

The way he’d looked at you through the mask, the way his voice had dropped just a little lower, like he was trying to be respectful but couldn’t quite hide the edge of something more. It made you wonder—was there more to him than what he let on? Was there a part of him that was just as caught off guard by their interaction as you were?

You could still see him in your mind’s eye—his massive frame sitting across from you, the way he had stiffened when you teased him, the brief flash of embarrassment when you’d called him an “old man.” And then that parting comment…

"You’re lucky I’m a gentleman."

You cursed under your breath. You had no idea why it had affected you so much, but damn it, it had. Now, here you were, lying in bed, thinking about a man who was as closed off as they came.

You sat up, frustrated with yourself. Why did he get to you like this? It wasn’t just the words—it was him. The mystery, the danger, the fact that you couldn’t quite figure him out. And maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to figure him out. Maybe part of you liked the idea of peeling back the layers, seeing what was beneath all that hardness.

But that was dangerous thinking. He was a soldier, a man with more trauma than you could probably understand. And you were just his doctor. Nothing more. Nothing should be more.

So why did you feel like there was something simmering just beneath the surface every time you were in the same room?

You sighed heavily, flopping back down on your bed and staring at the ceiling once again. It was late, and you needed sleep, but all you could think about was that deep voice, those haunted eyes behind the mask, and the way he had looked at you—like maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as he tried to seem.

The idea sent a shiver down your spine. You were not sure if it was excitement or something else entirely.

For a moment, you let yourself indulge in the thought. What if he had meant something more? What if there was something brewing between them, something unspoken but real? It was a ridiculous notion, you knew, but still… it was there, lingering in the back of your mind.

"You’re lucky I’m a gentleman."

Your pulse quickened, and you bit your lip. Maybe you were lucky.

But the real question was… how long could a man like Ghost stay a gentleman?

Chapter 5: Unmasked Moments

You stared blankly at the ceiling, sprawled across your bed, utterly bored. It was one of your rare free days, and while the prospect of doing absolutely nothing sounded appealing at first, now you were restless. You had already gone through your usual routine—reading, tidying up your quarters, and even catching up on some paperwork—but none of it could shake the growing sense of aimlessness.

A knock on the door broke through your thoughts. Curious, you swung your legs off the bed and opened it to find one of the base’s admin personnel standing there with a note in hand.

"Doc, there’s a dinner happening tonight with some of the 141 crew and a few other personnel. You’ve been invited."

You blinked in surprise, taking the note. "A dinner? With 141?"

"Yes, ma’am. It’s informal—just a chance for everyone to unwind."

The idea of spending the evening with the elite team sounded intriguing, and besides, you needed a distraction.

"Alright, I’ll be there," you said with a smile, and the messenger nodded before leaving.

As evening rolled around, you found yourself standing in front of the mirror, smoothing out your hair and pulling on a comfortable yet flattering outfit—something casual but nice enough for dinner. You were not dressing up for anyone, you told herself, but the nerves in your stomach betrayed you. It had been a while since you’d had anything close to a social gathering, and the idea of mingling with the likes of Price, Soap, Gaz and—him—made you feel strangely jittery.

You shook the thought away as you left your quarters and headed toward the base’s rec hall where the gathering was taking place. As soon as you walked in, the familiar sounds of laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. The room was packed with soldiers and staff, mingling around tables of food and drinks.

It was a laid-back atmosphere, far removed from the usual tension and urgency that filled the base.

You greeted a few familiar faces, grabbed a drink, and made your way toward the edge of the room, scanning for anyone you knew well enough to chat with. But it wasn’t long before your eyes found him.

Ghost.

He was seated on one of the low couches against the far wall, his massive frame making the furniture seem almost too small for him. A beer was in his hand, his mask still on, but it was lifted just enough to reveal the bottom half of his face when he brought the drink to his lips. His scarred jawline, the faint shadow of stubble—just enough to make your heart skip a beat.

You froze.

The sight of him, so casual, so relaxed yet still somehow intimidating, sent a strange thrill through you. You had never seen him like this before—off-duty, with his mask lifted even a fraction. You didn’t know how to process it.

And then he saw you.

His dark eyes met yours from across the room, and he nodded. Just a simple acknowledgment, nothing more. But it was enough to make your breath hitch. You couldn’t look away, but at the same time, you felt like you couldn’t look directly at him without your face going up in flames.

You quickly looked down at your drink, your cheeks warming with embarrassment. You felt ridiculous, like you were some lovesick schoolgirl caught staring at the mysterious bad boy across the room. Get it together, you scolded yourself.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Soap approaching, a mischievous grin already plastered across his face. Oh no.

"Ah, Doc," Soap greeted, his Scottish accent thick with amusement as he sidled up beside you. "Enjoying the view, eh?"

Your eyes widened. "What? No! I mean—" You stammered, completely flustered, but Soap just laughed, clearly relishing your discomfort.

"It’s alright, lass, no need to be shy," he teased, taking a swig of his own beer. "Ghost over there, eh? He’s a fine catch if ye can get him to talk, y’know."

You blushed deeper, trying to play it cool. "I was just… looking around. Not at him specifically."

"Sure ye were," Soap winked, clearly not buying it. He gave a friendly nudge. "Yer lucky, though. He doesn’t usually come out to these things. I reckon you’re the reason he’s even here."

Your heart skipped a beat at that, and you gave him a skeptical look. "Why would you think that?"

Soap shrugged, glancing over at Ghost, who was now quietly sipping his beer and watching the room with those sharp, unreadable eyes. "Ghost keeps to himself, aye, but ever since ye started patching him up, he’s been… well, a little less ghostly, if ye catch my drift."

You bit your lip, unsure how to respond. You glanced over at Ghost again, your gaze lingering on the way his mask sat just below his nose as he drank. You had to admit, seeing him like this—so out of his element but still carrying that intense presence—was doing things to your body you were not sure how to handle.

Soap, ever the opportunist, seemed to sense your turmoil. "Tell you what, why don’t you go over and say hi? He might appreciate the company."

You shook your head quickly. "I—no, that’s—"

Before you could finish, Soap had already started to move toward Ghost, waving you along. "C’mon, Doc. We can’t let the big man sit all alone, can we?"

Panic rose in your chest, but Soap was already too far ahead. You had no choice but to follow, Your heart thudding in your chest as you approached Ghost.

When you reached him, Ghost looked up, his dark eyes flicking between you and Soap, but his expression remained unreadable behind the mask.

"Ghost," Soap grinned, plopping down on the couch next to him. "Look who decided to join us. The Doc herself." He patted the seat beside him, motioning for you to sit as well.

You hesitated, glancing nervously at Ghost, who simply nodded in acknowledgment. It was such a small gesture, but it made your stomach flip.

"Uh, hey," you said awkwardly, lowering yourself into the seat beside Soap. You could feel Ghost’s presence next to you like a magnetic pull, even though he wasn’t directly looking at you.

For a moment, there was an awkward silence as you tried to figure out what to say. But before you could speak, Soap leaned over and grinned at you.

"Y’know, Doc," Soap said, not-so-subtly nudging Ghost with his elbow, "our friend here doesn’t talk much, but he’s a real charmer if ye can get him goin’. Right, Ghost?"

Ghost shot Soap a look that could’ve frozen fire, but Soap just chuckled, clearly enjoying himself.

You couldn’t help but laugh, though your nerves were still buzzing. You glanced over at Ghost, who shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing at Soap before he looked away, lifting his beer to take another sip.

The mask was still pulled up just enough for you to see his jawline, the scars that told stories you could only imagine. And for some reason, that sight—just that small glimpse of his face—made your heart pound even harder.

"Well," you said finally, trying to shake off your awkwardness, "I’m sure he’s got his own brand of charm."

Soap grinned, clapping Ghost on the shoulder. "Aye, Doc, that he does." Then he leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice just enough for both of them to hear. "Ye should try askin’ him sometime. Might be surprised what ye get."

Ghost’s jaw tightened visibly, and you felt a blush rise up your neck.

You were surprised. But it wasn’t just what Soap had said. It was the way Ghost’s quiet presence seemed to fill the space around them, the way his simple nods and unreadable expressions made you feel so off balance. You couldn’t look him in the eye, not with Soap grinning like a devil and Ghost so silently… there.

Maybe Soap was right. Maybe there was something more to Ghost than you realized.

And maybe you weren't quite ready for it.

Chapter 6: Now or Never

As if on cue, Soap leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, stretching his arms overhead. "Ah, would ye look at that. I think I’ve got… somethin’ important to take care of." He glanced between Ghost and you, his grin wide and devilish. "Real important. Like… paperwork. Lots of it."

You raised an eyebrow, struggling to hide your amusement—and your panic. Soap’s excuse was absurd, painfully obvious. Even Ghost looked at him sideways, but the Scotsman was already standing up and patting them both on the shoulder.

"Y’alright then, have fun, ye two." And with a wink in your direction, Soap disappeared into the crowd, leaving them alone.

Your heart immediately started racing, a flood of nerves and excitement making it impossible to sit still. You stole a glance at Ghost. He was sitting there, stock-still, his beer now forgotten in his hand. For a moment, neither of you said anything, the air between you charged with something unspoken.

He wasn’t looking away from you, though. His gaze was fixed—dark, intense, like he was weighing something in his mind. The usual hard edge to his expression seemed softened, but there was still something undeniably dangerous about the way he looked at you. Not in a threatening way, but in a way that made your pulse quicken.

Finally, Ghost broke the silence, his voice lower than usual, rougher—maybe from the alcohol, maybe from something else entirely. "I don’t think I can be a gentleman for you tonight, Doc. I’m a bit drunk."

The words hit you like a punch to the chest. Every nerve in your body sparked, your breath catching in your throat as your heart pounded wildly. You wanted to scream, to laugh, to run, to do something to deal with the overwhelming rush of heat that surged through you at that moment. But instead, you just sat there, wide-eyed, struggling to process what he’d just said.

He can’t be a gentleman…

He was warning you. There was something raw and honest about it—an admission that he was trying to stay in control, but tonight… maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he didn’t want to. And the worst part was, you didn’t want him to either.

You swallowed hard, your mind racing. Your pulse was thundering in your ears, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you had no idea what to say. You should probably laugh it off, or make some lighthearted joke to break the tension, but your brain wasn’t cooperating. All you could think about was the way he was looking at you, the way his words felt like a door opening—an invitation to step through, into something unknown and maybe a little dangerous.

Panic and excitement clashed inside you, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, "Do you… want to go outside? Catch some air?"

As soon as the words left your mouth, you wanted to scream at yourself. Catch some air? That was the best you could come up with? It was so painfully obvious that you didn’t just want air, and you could already feel your cheeks burning with embarrassment. You half expected Ghost to call you out on it, to laugh or brush it off.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Ghost stared at you for a beat longer, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. He didn’t seem like the type to be easily swayed by nerves or awkwardness, but something shifted in the way he looked at you—something more calculating, as though he was deciding whether to follow your lead or stay rooted in place.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he set his beer down on the table and stood. He was tall—too tall—and the full weight of his presence hit you again, even more intensely than before. He towered over you, his broad shoulders casting a shadow, and for a split second, you felt like a small, fragile thing next to him.

But then he nodded, just once, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

You quickly stood up, your hands trembling slightly as you led the way out of the crowded rec hall. You could feel Ghost behind you, his footsteps heavy but measured, and your mind was racing in a hundred different directions. What am I doing? What’s about to happen?

Both of you stepped outside into the cool night air, the sudden drop in temperature making you shiver. The sky above was a blanket of stars, and the quietness of the night felt like a stark contrast to the tension that hummed between you. You glanced over at Ghost, who had stopped a few steps away from you, his hands shoved into his pockets, the mask still in place.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The silence stretched out, the weight of what wasn’t being said almost unbearable. Your heart was still racing, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You wanted to say something—anything—to break the tension, but all the words stuck in your throat.

Ghost was the one to break the silence first.

"Air’s not what you were really after, was it?" His voice was low, almost teasing, but there was an edge to it—a challenge.

You froze, your heart skipping a beat. You could deny it, laugh it off, pretend like you hadn’t just invited him outside for reasons that had nothing to do with catching air. But the look in his eyes told you he already knew. He wasn’t playing games. He was waiting.

You swallowed, your pulse thrumming in your ears. It was a now or never moment, and you knew it.

"No," you admitted, your voice quieter than you intended. "It wasn’t."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. You had no idea what was going to happen next, but the thrill of it—of stepping into the unknown with Ghost—sent a shiver down your spine. And as his gaze darkened, a part of you knew that after tonight, things between them would never be the same.

Chapter 7: No Turning Back, But I'm Turning Back (Final)

Ghost had barely taken a few steps when your voice cut through the cool night air.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

The words were soft but sure, carrying with them a weight that halted him in his tracks. His broad back was turned to you, his shoulders rigid as if he were trying to hold himself together. For a moment, it felt like time stretched endlessly between you—his silence was loud, almost unbearable.

You didn’t know if he was going to keep walking or if your words had reached him, but you stood there, heart pounding, waiting for something—anything.

Ghost remained frozen, his large frame still as a statue, but you could sense the storm of thoughts racing through his mind. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he turned his head just enough to glance over his shoulder at you, his dark eyes gleaming in the dim light.

"Do you know what you’re asking for?" His voice was low, almost a growl, as if he were struggling to maintain control. The tension between you was electric, the air thick with the weight of everything that had been left unsaid.

You swallowed hard, your chest tight with nerves and anticipation, but you didn’t hesitate. You nodded. You knew what you were asking for, even if the gravity of it made your skin prickle with uncertainty.

For a long, agonizing moment, Ghost said nothing. He just stood there, staring at you over his shoulder, his eyes dark and unreadable. It felt like a test—a final chance to walk away from the edge you were both teetering on.

But you didn’t move. You held his gaze, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst from your chest. Whatever this was between you—this dangerous, fragile thing—it was too strong to deny. And you didn’t want to. Not anymore.

That was all Ghost needed.

With a sharp exhale, he turned fully, his eyes never leaving yours. The weight of his gaze was intense, almost suffocating, but you didn’t look away. His expression was hard to read—somewhere between desire and caution—but there was no mistaking the shift in him. The tension that had held him back all night seemed to dissolve as if your words had given him permission to let go.

Without a word, Ghost closed the distance between you in a few long strides. He stood in front of you, towering over you like a shadow, his body radiating heat and something darker—something you felt pulling you in.

"Come with me," he said, his voice rough and strained. It wasn’t a question; it was a command, but one that sent a shiver down your spine. There was no more hesitation, no more doubt.

You followed.

The walk to his room was silent, your footsteps barely audible as you trailed behind him through the dimly lit hallways. Your pulse thrummed in your ears, every step feeling heavier than the last, the tension between you growing with each passing second. The base was quiet at this hour, the distant hum of activity fading away the closer you got to Ghost’s quarters.

When you finally reached his door, Ghost paused for a moment, his hand resting on the handle. He looked down at the floor, his shoulders tense, as if he was wrestling with himself one last time. Then, with a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.

His room was as you expected—sparse, utilitarian. No personal touches, no signs of the man who lived there beyond the few pieces of gear scattered on the floor. It was a place built for solitude, a reflection of the man who had spent years shutting out the world. And now, here you were, standing in the middle of it with him.

Ghost closed the door behind you, the soft click of the latch sealing you both inside. The silence was thick, almost suffocating, as he turned to face you, his dark eyes scanning your face, as if searching for any trace of hesitation. But there was none. Not anymore.

He took a step closer, and then another, until he was standing in front of you, his body so close that you could feel the heat radiating off of him. The tension in the air was almost unbearable, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

Then, slowly, you reached up, your fingers trembling slightly as they hovered just beneath the bottom of his mask. Your heart raced, the reality of what you were doing sinking in.

Ghost didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.

For a man who always controlled every situation, who kept everyone at a distance, letting you do this felt monumental. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, and for the first time, you sensed that you were seeing him—not Ghost, the relentless operator, but Simon—the man beneath the mask.

Your fingers brushed the rough fabric of his balaclava, and then, with a gentleness you didn’t know you possessed, you began to pull it up. Inch by inch, the mask came away, revealing more of the man beneath it. His lips, scarred and rough, were the first to appear, and you hesitated, suddenly overwhelmed by how intimate the moment was.

But then you looked up at him—into those dark, intense eyes—and all your hesitation vanished.

Ghost let out a breath, and in that moment, you knew he was letting go of something more than just the mask. He was letting go of the walls he had built, the armor he wore so tightly around his soul.

The fabric slid further up, revealing more of him, and he didn’t stop you.

He let you see him.

It wasn't like that time in the medical wing—when Ghost had reluctantly let you see his face, almost as if under duress. This time, it was different. The room was quiet, the air thick with something far more intimate. When the fabric of his mask finally hit the ground, you weren’t looking at Ghost anymore.

You were looking at Simon.

And everything seemed to revolve around the way the man—Simon—was staring at you.

A slight grimace tugged at his lips, a hint of unease flickering across his expression. He was trying to endure your stare on his imperfect face without completely falling apart, and the vulnerability of that moment hit you harder than you expected. The scars that marred his features told stories of battles long past, of pain and survival. But none of them could take away from the fact that, standing before you now, Simon was more human than ever.

His eyes never left yours, not even for a second, as if gauging your reaction, bracing for the judgment he’d convinced himself was inevitable. But that wasn’t what you felt. Not even close.

Before you could say anything, he took a slow step toward you, and suddenly, the air felt hot. Heavy. The closeness made your heart pound in your chest, your breath catching as you realized just how raw this moment was.

There was something almost magnetic about the way he moved—like everything was happening at his pace, dictated by the quiet authority he always carried. His hands, large and rough from years of warfare, reached for your waist with a gentleness that surprised you. The contrast between his hardened exterior and the soft way he touched you sent a shiver down your spine.

For a moment, you didn’t know what to do. Everything seemed to move according to his silent commands, each touch, each breath, timed to a rhythm only he controlled.

Simon’s gaze remained unwavering, his eyes following every subtle shift in your expression. The way you could now see his lips—permanently pressed into a tight line—only added to the weight of the moment. His short blond hair, tousled and messy from the constant use of his mask, gave him a disheveled appearance. The shadow of facial hair only added to that ruggedness, making him seem all the more real—human.

Simon was always an imposing figure, but seeing him like this, completely unguarded, made the air between you feel electric. His thumb brushed lightly against your waist.

The sigh that caught in your chest was involuntary. You hadn’t expected him to be so tender, hadn’t expected this—but it felt like everything you didn’t know you wanted.

His voice, low and rough, broke the silence between you, and you could hear the weight of his years, the tiredness buried beneath the surface.

“I still wonder what it was you saw in this old man,” he murmured, the faintest trace of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. The words were a callback to that night in the mess hall, “But I want you to keep seeing it, Doc.”

The raw honesty in his voice sent a tremor through you. He was giving you permission, letting you in past the walls he’d built for years. And as his hand slowly traced its way from your waist to your jaw, cupping your face like it was something to be cherished, you realized that you didn’t need to speak to show him what you saw in him.

So you did the only thing that felt right.

You leaned in, closing the distance between you in one soft, deliberate motion, your lips brushing against his. The kiss was tentative at first—slow, careful, as if testing the waters of something neither of you could quite name. But the moment his lips pressed fully against yours, everything else fell away.

His other hand came to rest on the small of your back, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the heat between you sparking into something more urgent. He tasted like the remnants of beer and something distinctly him, and it made your head swim.

Simon kissed you like he’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment, like he was pouring everything he couldn’t say into the way his lips moved against yours. His grip tightened slightly, and you could feel the restraint in him—the battle between wanting more and holding himself back.

When you pulled away, just enough to look into his eyes, you could see the struggle in them. He was fighting with himself, with the part of him that always believed he didn’t deserve this. That he didn’t deserve you.

But you weren’t going to let him fall into that spiral tonight. Not here. Not now.

You rested your hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your palm. “I see you, Simon,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, but you knew he heard it.

His grip on you tightened just slightly, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, but instead, he kissed you again—deeper this time, more certain. The hesitation from earlier melted away, replaced by something rawer, hungrier.

And in that moment, there were no more masks. No more walls. Just Simon and you, alone in the quiet of his room, the world outside forgotten.

There was something softer in the way he looked at you, a gentleness you hadn’t seen before—an unspoken promise hanging between you both.

His hand still lingered on your face, rough fingers brushing against your skin as if memorizing every line, every contour. His eyes were darker now, heavy with something unspoken, and his breath came out in measured, almost controlled exhales.

“You can leave yet,” Simon’s voice was low, thick with restraint, and his British accent more pronounced. His thumb gently traced your lower lip, his touch delicate despite the tension coiled in his body. He was holding back—waiting for you to give him the go-ahead.

You could feel the heat between you rising, your body already leaning into him, craving more of that touch, more of him. Your heart racing as the words finally left your lips. “Can I?”

Simon’s hand slipped from your face to your waist, pulling you firmly against him. The sudden closeness made your breath hitch, and you felt the hardness of his chest press against yours as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear.

“No,” he murmured, his voice rough and gravelly, sending shivers down your spine. The tension that had been building between you all this time was palpable, a heady mix of anticipation and need.

His lips finally found yours, but this kiss was different. It wasn’t soft or tentative like before. It was urgent, demanding, as if he couldn’t hold back any longer. His hands roamed your body with a sense of purpose, his touch both possessive and gentle, leaving a trail of heat wherever he went.

You gasped as his mouth left your lips and traveled down your neck, his stubble grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver. “I can’t be gentle forever,” he whispered against your collarbone, his teeth nipping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting.

Your fingers tangled in his short blond hair as you tilted your head back, giving him more access, wanting more. “I don’t want you to be,” you whispered back, your voice barely steady.

A low, guttural sound rumbled from his chest at your words, and you felt his grip tighten on your hips, grounding you as his other hand slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, his fingertips brushing against your bare skin.

He make you walk backwards to the bed, and as you sat there, he talked,"Lay down."

It was an order.

You laid back onto the mattress, your heart pounding in your ears as you watched Simon move towards you with an intense grace.

His gaze never left yours as he climbed onto the bed next to you, propping himself up on his elbow. A small smirk played at the corners of his lips as he reached out and gently tugged at your shirt. He wanted nothing more than to rip it off of you, to take you right then and there, but he held back. You were worth the patience.

Instead, he slowly slid his hand underneath the fabric, tracing patterns along your skin as his lips descended upon yours once again. This time, he kissed you deeply, hungrily, fueled by the fire that had been ignited inside of him since he first saw you standing there, completely and utterly captivated.

He dragged his lips down your jawline, across your throat, and down your chest as he lifted your shirt higher and higher until eventually, it was pooled around your waist. He paused, taking in the sight of you laying there before him, bared and vulnerable.

He leaned down and placed a single, chaste kiss on the swell of your breast, hidden beneath the thin layer of bra fabric before moving lower to rest beside you, bringing one leg over yours as he settled in

You arched your back slightly, pressing your breasts forward in a silent invitation. Your breathing quickened as you gazed up at Simon through half-lidded eyes, desire etching lines of pleasure on your flushed face.

You wanted him, all of him.

Simon could practically hear your heart pounding in your chest, matching the rhythm of his own. When you arched closer to him like that, he almost lost control, his restraint teetering on the edge.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes clouded with lust and hunger. There was no denying what he wanted now.

"That's it,"Simon growled, his voice deeper and huskier than usual as he leaned in, closing the distance between you both.

His free hand moved to trace the outline of your bra strap, following it down until his fingers brushed against the exposed skin on your side. "Keep looking at me like that, love." He said, his voice barely above a whisper against your skin. But his intentions were loud and clear.

Simon could hardly believe that this was happening - that you wanted this too. Yet here you were, pressed up against him, responding to his every touch. He couldn't remember ever feeling such a rush of adrenaline. With a slow exhale, Simon let go of the last vestiges of his doubts and surrendered fully to the moment.

His hands reached the waistband of your jeans, and time stopped running right there for you.

"Simon," you whispered softly, your hand in his hair.

"Hm, save that for later. You'll need it," he replied against your ear.

Hearing his confidence right there, when moments before he seemed to be fighting himself for just kissing you, was certainly an attractive form of duality.

He unbuttoned your jeans, and before you could react to it, he pulled himslef off you just so he could remove them along with your shoes. His attentive touch, as if he was in no hurry at all, and yet you stood there, breathing heavily, cursing under your breath at how unaffected he looked.

And when he lowered his face to your still covered heat, you knew he was about to lick every single though off of you.

Simon's breath ghosted over your heated skin as his tongue traced a path over the cotton covering your sex. His finger going up and down, tracing the line formed on your panties.

All you could do was grip his hair and close your eyes at the feeling.

He looked up at you through thick lashes, satisfaction glowing in his expression as he felt your body tremble beneath him. "No, look at me," he said then, his hand snaked downwards, pushing aside the remaining fabric to expose you fully to his hungry gaze. He wasted no time in delving into your slick folds, eager to taste the sweetness that was uniquely you.

Suckling lightly at your clit while flicking it with his thumb, making sure you were looking at him at all times, he wanted your eyes on his mouth buried in your wet pussy, he drove two fingers inside of you, filling you completely. "So wet already," he purred huskily against you, reveling in the guttural sounds spilling from your mouth. His cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, desperate to join the intimate dance.

But not yet. For now, he enjoyed watching you lose control, relished hearing his name slipping from your lips in pure ecstasy. And he knew, deep down inside, that this was just the beginning - their primal connection was far from satiated. But that was okay because right now, in this moment, they belonged entirely to each other.

Your legs quivered and your toes curled as waves of pleasure crashed over you. That familiar feeling in your belly getting bigger every time his tongue played with your clit, and his finger curled in your cunt, you gripped Simon's hair tightly, nails digging into his scalp as you tried to ground yourself amidst the storm of sensations threatening to sweep you away.

The orgasm hit you mercilessly, and although you cried at him to go slower, his fingers and tongue kept up the torturous rhythm.

Feeling you pulse around his fingers, knowing he brought you to the brink of oblivion was intoxicating. Simon slowly removed his digits from within you, drawing slow circles around your sensitive bud before trailing his tantalizing touch back down again.

He glanced up, catching your hazed expression. Seeing the want reflected in your eyes fueled his desire, stirred the beast within him even further. "Is that all, baby?" he taunted, his breath hot against your heated flesh.

You shook your head, unable to utter a word, or at least not one that made any sense.

With another grin, he sank back between your spread thighs, this time replacing his fingers with his tongue— exploring, worshipping every inch he found there. His big and rough hands keeping you in place as he felt your climax hit you once more, he chuckled soflty against you at the way you cursed under your breath.

"Talkative little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, looking at his artwork, running his tongue across his lips in an attempt to taste whatever was left of you on them.

He finished sliding your panties off, completely removing them from the way. His hands reached your shirt, helping you soflty to take it off, the same with your bra, leaving little kisses in your skin.

"Are you ready for me, baby?" Simon asked, his voice full of desire and heat. His gaze bore into yours, searching for any sign of hesitation, but finding none. Instead, he saw eagerness, want, and need. And he knew then that you were as invested in this as he was.

Slowly, he climbed back up your body, discarding the remnants of his own clothing on the way, until finally, he was hovering above you, their naked bodies mere inches apart. The weight of his erection pressed against your stomach, promising pleasures untold. Without waiting for an answer, he claims your lips again in a hungry kiss, taking in your taste, your warmth, your light.

After what felt like an eternity, he pulled away, panting heavily. "I need you," he admitted hoarsely, his voice laden with a desperation that made butterflies explode in your belly. "I've needed you for so long."

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours again, his tongue slipping past your lips in a slow and sensual dance filled with promise.

"Will you keep those pretty eyes on me?" he asked. And you nodded with a shaking breath.

"I'll try."

His hand moves to cup the back of your knee, lifting your leg up and around his hip, deepening the contact between them.

Despite the overwhelming urge to ravage you right there and then, he maintains control, showing you with every touch and caress that this is more than just a sexual encounter for him. It's a chance to connect on some deeper level he had long forgotten existed, a level where communication doesn't require words but actions instead.

"Please..." you whispered.

"You don't have to ask twice." Simon growls possessively against your skin as he continues to leave a trail of hot kisses and nips on your collarbone, before moving lower to wrap his lips around one peaked nipple. His tongue swirls expertly around the hardened tip, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from your lips. At the same time, he uses his free hand to continue fondling and pinching at the other neglected nub. He can feel the way his ministrations cause a chain reaction through your body, your hips arching involuntarily into his own hardness still trapped by his jeans.

Feeling impatient, Simon finally lines himself up, the smooth head of his shaft pressing against your entrance as he slowly pushes inside you. The fit is tight, causing a wave of satisfaction washing over him at claiming this woman that got him wrapped so tightly around her finger.

But despite the surge of raw dominant power thrumming through his veins, Simon is surprisingly gentle as he starts thrusting into you, letting you adjust and accommodate him before picking up speed.

"So tight for me, love. Such a good girl," he murmured in your ear as little moans scape from your mouth, yourr nails digging into his shoulders as you wraps your legs around his waist, urging him deeper.

Without breaking eye contact, Simon slammed deeper inside you, bottoming out with a grunt. He pulled back and pounded into you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Each thrust shook your body on the bed underneath him. Every hard, fast motion of his hips meeting yours drew them deeper and deeper into an intimate dance that neither wanted to pull away from. His fingers dug into your wrists above your head, pinning them in place, a display of dominance to make you squirm in delight under him.

"Simon! I can't..." you cried, but only making the satisfaction roaring in his ears as he claimed you, a low growl vibrating from him with every deep thrust. Hearing you whimper, struggling against him only served to urge him on.

"C'mon you can take it, you can take my cock," he murmured, his hands leaving your wrist to pull your legs on his shoudlers, and you just saw stars.

But he did it, gentle as ever before, he began rhythmically driving himself in a slow steady pace, letting the building desire between you escalate more organically this time.

"Eyes on me," he muttered when you closed your eyes for a moment.

He loved your eyes, the way you looked at him when his dick was fully inside you, it was driving him crazy.

Slowly, he pulled back only to slide back in, each thrust slow and calculated, fueling the growing pleasure between you. He kept his eyes trained on you as he maintained the steady pace you desired. His fingers moved up to gently trace your cheeks before plunging back into her mouth.

He loved the sounds you made, whimpers mixed with moans as he drove himself deeper into your core. The sight of your completely at his mercy, completely submitted to him was exhilarating. His hands explored further, tracing down from your cheeks, along your neck, before finally reaching your breasts where he squeezed gently and rolled your hardened nipples between his fingers.

"Gorgeous girl," he growled possessively as he pumped faster but not forcefully. The wet slick sound filled the room along with your heavy breaths. "Taking me so well."

For tonight, he thought, knowing he wouldn't be able to offer you more. Tonight, she belonged to me. He planned on making it unforgettable for you.

Your inner walls clenched around him, squeezing tighter as another orgasm built. "Oh god, oh god, yes!"

Simon didn't miss the tremor in your voice, the hitch in your breath, and he could see the climax approaching, edging closer with each thrust he made. It pushed him further, the anticipation building, the desperate need to ensure you reached your peak before he did.

His fingers dug deeper into your thighs as he continued to piston in and out of you, a hand going down to your swollen clit, driving you to the brink, watching you fall. Your moans grew louder, more urgent, your nails scratching down his arms.

And then you came undone, your muscles clamping down hard around him as your juices coated his cock. He gritted his teeth against the overwhelming pleasure threatening to steal his control, forcing himself to slow down, giving you a chance to come down from your high.

Your body quivered and shuddered beneath him as waves of ecstasy washed over you. "Please I can't take it anymore, Simon..."

"M'gonna fill your womb so good, can I, love?," Simon murmured huskily, his fingers lightly teasing the damp strands of hair sticking to your forehead. And when you nodded, he let himself go, spilling himself deep inside you. The intensity of his release, coupled with hearing you beg, only amplified his satisfaction and possession of you.

"That's it, good girl... Good fucking girl..."

As your breaths slowed down and your orgasms subsided, he lowered himself onto his elbows beside you, your chests rising and falling in sync. He buried his nose against your neck, inhaling your sweet scent mixed with your combined heat. "You did it so good," he whispered softly, placing soft kisses along her jawline.

His hand traveled down your body, tracing the curve of your waist and resting possessively on your hip. Every part of you was now etched into his memory - a living, tangible reminder of this night.

Part of him wanted to believe that perhaps someday, when everything settled down again, there could be more moments like these. But the other part of him knew better than anyone the cruelty of reality. And the fact that this was probably the closest he would ever get to having someone truly belonging to him.

The room was quiet except for the soft sound of your breathing beside him. Simon lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, the warmth of your body pressed against his side. The weight of the moment—the intimacy you’d shared—lingered in the air, but it did nothing to quiet the storm in his mind.

You slept soundly, curled up against him, your face peaceful in the dim light. It should have been enough. But for Simon, the silence was filled with something darker, something heavy that gnawed at him in the darkness.

What now?

That thought repeated itself over and over. He had let his guard down, let you in. He’d crossed a line he never should’ve—because he knew how it would end. No matter what, this would break you both, eventually.

He closed his eyes, frustration welling up inside him. He could feel the tightness in his chest, the creeping realization of what came next. It was inevitable. No matter how much you had seen of him tonight, there was more—so much more—that he could never show you. The ghosts, the demons, the weight of his past—they were too heavy, too dangerous for someone like you to carry.

He was no good for you. Never had been. You deserved more than the broken man lying next to you now.

The moment had been perfect—too perfect. And now all he could think about was how it was going to fall apart. You would wake up, ask him for more. Maybe not now, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, you would. You’d want more of him, more than he could give, more than he was capable of offering anyone. And when that happened, he would have to break your heart. Because that’s what he did—he pushed people away, kept them at arm’s length to protect them from the wreckage he was.

He wasn’t a man built for love, for softness, for whatever it was you saw in him. He was a soldier, a weapon. And no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise, this—you—wasn’t something he was meant to have.

Simon’s hand slid from where it rested against your back, gently pulling away from you as he rolled out of bed, careful not to wake you. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands, the reality of what he had to do sinking in.

In the quiet, he whispered it to himself—something he had told you once, something that had always been true.

“I’m not a gentleman.”

His voice was barely audible, a broken confession to the empty room. You couldn’t hear him, not in your deep sleep, but the weight of those words hung heavy in the air. He wasn’t a man built to stay. He never had been.

With a heavy sigh, Simon stood and began to get dressed. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if dragging out the moment before he’d have to leave. He glanced back at you, still sleeping peacefully, oblivious to the storm of emotions he was fighting.

You stirred slightly, just enough to hear the faint rustle of his clothes as he dressed. In your half-asleep state, you felt the emptiness where he had been and heard the soft sound of his footsteps moving away from you. Your eyes fluttered open for just a moment, a feeling of loss creeping in, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

By the time you registered what was happening, Simon was already gone. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet room, with only the fading warmth of where he’d been next to you.

And just like that, he was gone, pushing you away in the only way he knew how.

[hiskillingjar]

What if? Fox was infatuated to unhealthy levels with MC, from the beginning (even before the kidnapping).

me when i flirt with an older man (he runs a human trafficking ring and has an anxious attachment style)

2000+ words, sfw, ren hana is a chubby chaser and no you will not change my mind

"Hey, what can I get for you?"

It was a cold day in December and he had been called to the office on a weekend due to a technical mishap from one of his staff the previous day. It was a day that he would have been annoyed, angry even, a day where he would have taken one step into the building and tore the head off the first person who dared speak to him.

But, for whatever reason, he always found his anger dissipated when he saw them.

The barista smiled, their soft, freckled cheeks dimpling with an expression that insinuated sincerity and sweetness, an innately trusting nature, traits so rare in Fox's profession, in the city that surrounded him, rare enough that he cherished and obsessed over them whenever he found them in someone.

He had been coming to this cafe every morning for weeks, not only because it was on the corner of his office in the financial district, a place close by where he could escape his moronic employees when he needed to, but because he found that he had to see their face to even feel slightly at ease on the more stressful days of work.

Just one look of their smile and hearing their voice was enough to settle him in an instant.

"Just a cup of coffee, please," Fox replied with a slight smile, jolted out of his train of thought, one of his ears twitching when they chuckled kindly.

"Well, yeah, I assumed," They said with another little chuckle, crooked teeth (so familiar, so sweet, wouldn't they look nice on the ground, scattered like pearls?) biting their lip to stop the chuckle from growing into a laugh. It was a quiet Saturday in the financial quarter, so they must have had time to banter with customers. "What kind?"

Fox smirked just a touch, one of his fangs hooking over his bottom lip.

He couldn't deny that he was a little curious about the young barista and what they were doing working in this part of the city (since, for one, they looked like they had a modicum of personality compared to everyone else who worked there).

They were a far cry from the kind of people he usually saw and interacted with on a day-to-day basis, soft when all he saw was hard, kind when all he saw was cruelty, and there was a certain, naive charm to them that Fox found almost magnetic.

He was always the obsessive type, falling in love with every pretty face who was nice to him, and years of therapy and unpacking his trauma never really stopped that obsession from blooming.

But what was the harm, really? What was so bad about a little crush and a few intrusive thoughts?

"Hmm…" He hummed thoughtfully, his tail idly wagging behind him. "Surprise me?"

"Adventurous. I like it." They chuckled again as they set to work on his drink. When they turned, it gave Fox a good opportunity to…assess their assets, his gaze scrutinous as he leaned against the counter, elbows up on the glass pastry display.

All things considered, their figure wasn't exactly remarkable, certainly not compared to the call girls and 'staff members' he was accustomed to working with. Average height (taller than him, but that wasn't hard), a heft to their hips and backside, a small (possibly bound) chest, and a constellation of acne scarring on their freckled cheeks…but he found himself drawn to them, regardless of all of that.

It had indeed been a cold day…but there was a certain warmth that he felt coming from the young barista that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Indeed, despite his violent intrusive thoughts, there was a part of him (buried beneath his hardened surface) that yearned for them.

He almost wanted to reach out and touch them, right then and there, the urge to simply embrace them, touch their skin, run his fingers along their cheek, dig his claws into them, pull their hair, break their jaw, make them bleed, make them cry, growing with every passing second.

But something stopped him, a sensible part of him that kept pulling him back from the brink of his obsession, his face remaining impassive as he continued to stare.

He probably looked like any normal, lecherous, older man, making advances on someone years younger than him. He could deal with that.

"You work around here?" They asked, making idle conversation as they steamed a jug of milk, a gust of steam fogging up their glasses.

"That I do," Fox replied with a nod, his golden eyes glinting with amusement as he took in their form once again (they were cleaning their glasses with their shirt, making it ride up and expose the soft skin of their belly) and stood back from the counter, putting his hands in his pockets (adjusting his growing bulge). "Right around the corner, in fact. And you?" He asked curiously.

"I'm a student," They smiled, turning back towards him and putting their glasses back on. "Obviously. I mean, I'm a barista, that comes with the territory, right?" They laughed and Fox smiled, nodding again curtly. "I work the weekend shift when I can though, when it's nice and quiet."

"A student, huh?" Fox asked curiously, casually, raising a brow and running his tongue over one of his fangs, his ears tilting forward. His attention was torn between the barista's face as they spoke and the still-exposed flash of skin above the waistband of their jeans, a little fold of soft fat spilling over them. His eyes shone brightly as he continued to stare downwards. "What are you studying?" He asked, eyes quickly returning to their face so as not to look too obvious in his ogling.

"Criminal psychology," They replied, finishing up the coffee with a dusting of cinnamon and setting it on the counter in a to-go cup. They had him clocked as a businessman, then. "Postgrad."

"Criminal psychology?" Fox repeated, accepting the offered drink as he took the cup and raised it to his nose, inhaling the aroma as he spoke. "I'm curious, what sort of career are you hoping to move into with that?" He asked, tilting his head, his tail still wagging idly. "Not just after university, but after all of it?"

"I wanna work in rehabilitation," They said, tilting their own head and giving him a considered look, their dark eyes flitting from his well-groomed fox ears (beast-kin in the wild were still relatively rare, after all) and down his handsome face and his suit, admiring him casually, as any person did (and they often did). "And help people get back on their feet after prison."

"Rehabilitation, eh? Helping people get back on their feet…" Fox repeated their words again with a thoughtful look on his face, his wrinkles looking a little more pronounced as he thought over what they said. He took a sip of his coffee, meeting their gaze for a minute (noting when they smiled eagerly at him as if waiting for his approval). "Well, I think that's just wonderful….and a hard job, too. You must be pretty driven to want to do that."

"Yeah," They laughed, scraping back dyed hair behind their ears. "Tell me about it. It's really tough sometimes. But…" They bit their lip again, but despite their bashful expression (those crooked teeth digging into their soft skin, like he wanted to do), their eyes never left his. "I believe people deserve a second chance…everybody, even the worst people. We should do everything we can to make sure of that, and I want to be part of that. I want to help people."

Something about those words, their eyes on his, speaking to him as if those words were for him and him alone, made something tight catch in Fox's chest, and he almost spluttered a mouthful of hot coffee around the rim of the cup.

"Everyone…even the worst people," Fox said softly to himself, wiping his mouth clean as he glanced down at his shoes, hoping his expression made him look thoughtful instead of…well, complacent. "How very noble of you."

He ran his tongue over his teeth, tilting his head back while the barista typed his order into their register.

"Even people like me?" He then asked, his voice low in the back of his throat, golden eyes flitting upwards, half-lidded, as his brows knitted together with an ominous kind of consideration.

"What was that?" They looked up from the register, not catching what he said.

"Ah, it's nothing, nothing at all." He then said quickly with a subdued laugh and a casual smile. "This is lovely, by the way. What am I drinking?"

"Oh, it's just an oat milk latte," They chuckled with a shrug. "But…" They then continued in a quiet whisper, leaning into him over the counter, like they were telling a secret. "I infused the milk with fresh lavender and thyme this morning. This is the first time I'm trying it out in the shop."

When they were this close to him, their scent was overwhelmingly intoxicating and attractive, so much so that it made his guts twist in ravenous hunger and his growing bulge throb even more.

"Ah…how unique." He grinned, taking another sip of the coffee, doing his best to look deliberate. "The lavender adds a really nice touch, as does the thyme. Very subtle, but distinct. It's wonderful, really." He said, forcing a slightly impressed look on his face as he looked up at them, his golden eyes sparkling at their own grinning face, ecstatic at the praise.

"I'm so glad you think so," They grinned, before turning the register around for him to see and pay. "That'll be four-fifty today. No charge for the extras, of course."

"How very kind of you," He said softly (and mostly to himself), taking his phone from his pocket and tapping it against the register's contactless sensor in a quick and fluid gesture.

So fluid that he was almost certain that they didn't notice him taking their picture.

The register let out a high BEEP in recognition of his payment, and a receipt was quickly spat out on the barista's side.

"Great, that's all gone through. Well," The barista's grin faded into a polite smile, as the interaction wound to a close, tearing off the paper receipt and stuffing it in the cash drawer of their register. "It was great speaking with you today, Mr…"

"Fox." He said, taking another sip of coffee with a light smirk. Their picture must have been scanned into the database by now, from the way his phone was buzzing in his pocket. "Just Fox. No titles."

"Fox." The barista said back to him with a nod. "See you around?" They added hopefully.

"Certainly," Fox replied with as close to a genuine smile as he could still manage. "It was lovely speaking with you too, darling. Take care of yourself."

Once Fox left the cafe, a tinkle of a bell above the door marking his exit and leaving the young barista to attend to their other tasks while it was still quiet, he took out an old flip-phone and dialed a familiar number, still thoughtfully sipping his coffee as the cold chill of the morning ran down his spine.

"Hey…yeah, I have a special request for you."

His voice was low and quiet once the person on the other end of the phone silently picked up, waiting for his instructions.

"I want a pick-up from a specific spot, today if you can. I'll send you the location." He took another sip of coffee as he idly paced the front of the cafe, hearing a few words from the other end of the line. "Yeah, I've just uploaded them to the database. Local university, no housemates, family not around, it looks like…mm, and cute as a button, I know, I know."

Fox smiled widely, his tail wagging a little more frantically as his mind raced with gruesome thoughts.

"As soon as you can. No damage in transit or no bonus, got it? Great."

He hung up with a snap of the phone and drained the last of the coffee from its cup, running his tongue over his lips in silent consideration.

He could get used to lavender and thyme.

[desceros]

so. we are all familiar with villain rise leo x reader by now. but do u have any headcanons or just ideas about villain rise donnie x reader ? 🤔

so. this, uh. this got out of hand quickly

villain!donnie au where splinter didn't scoop up all of the turtles when he fled, and donnie got left behind in the exploding lab. god i love pretty boys with trauma

as the lab explodes around him, little baby donnie barely finds a safe place to hide so he survives. he gets crushed under some rubble, and he and his shell becomes scratched and bruised. after everything settles down, he crawls out and manages to escape to the streets of the hidden city. not properly tended, his wounds heal improperly and scar, leaving him always just a little bit in pain.

despite the odds, donnie survives. he's resourceful and brilliant, and with his naturally aggressive nature, he manages. after a painful lesson where he's nearly killed by a small local gang, he learns that hiding his soft shell is important, so he begins picking through the trash and putting things together. he's good at it, he realizes quickly. able to see things that connect together and make something bigger than their parts. he begins to scrap together all kinds of contraptions; a cover for his shell, a tool to help him break into people's houses for their blankets when it gets cold, something that plays soft music and keeps him company when he feels a little hollow in the back alleyway like he's supposed to have someone with him and doesn't.

as he grows up, he learns. he has a cold exterior that never betrays his inner thoughts, because those are just as vulnerable as his soft shell. he has no friends, no family, nobody but himself. he's so, so quick to attack, cruel and unforgiving, defensive and hardened from his youth. if he hurts you first, you can't hurt him, after all.

he starts making money selling his tech to sketchy people, until finally he manages to land an actual apartment. he goes one on the sketchier side of town so he can twist the landlord's arm (read: blackmail) into letting him do whatever he wants. running water, heating, a bed; these are all things he quickly becomes picky about, now that he has them. he craves comfort, so he remodels the entire place from the inside until it's unrecognizable. then, wanting more, making enough money because he's so fucking good at hacking and tech, he gets the apartment next to his, too. puts a door between them. refurbishes the other one into a full-blown lab where he can push, create, experiment.

he's got himself convinced that he prefers it this way, that the hum of his tech around him is all he needs. he finishes something and looks at it, almost like he's waiting for... for something. (...for someone to tell him he's amazing.) but he brushes it off, puts it to the side, then moves onto the next thing. this is all he needs. this is all he needs.

one day, he wants more. there's one more apartment on his side of the floor, so he goes to the landlord. unfortunately, there's someone inside, and they're, uh. not to be messed with. no matter how much donnie twists and grills. infuriated, he goes home to take matters into his own hands—only to learn that the person in the apartment next to his is you.

you are the underpaid, overworked, exhausted, single, addicted to this black swill that you call coffee but you're pretty sure is some kind of yokai magic juice personal assistant to one baron draxum. the motherfucker's been trying to get you to move into his lab for a few years now, but if you have to spend one more minute in his presence, you'll scream. also, you warned him that if he even thinks about mutating you, you'll quit, and since you're the best goddamned assistant he's ever had, quadrupling his tracking numbers since you started, you're also one hundred percent human. ('when you are the last human, then i shall mutate you, as i will no longer have need of your services then.' 'try it. i'll gnaw your fucking arm off and password lock the coffee machine.' '...bah.')

you meet donnie when a package is delivered, mistakenly, to your apartment with his name on it. (it's a passive aggressive gesture where he had it specifically sent to your apartment, so you could come talk to him and he would, uh, kindly inform you that you'll be moving.) unfortunately for him, you're used to dealing with mad scientist egomaniacs whose respect is nigh impossible to earn, so when he tries to threaten you, you laugh in his face, drop the box off at his feet, and go to work.

.......donnie stares at the spot where you were for a good, like, five minutes after you leave.

over the next few months, over and over this little green fucker next door makes your life miserable. he does weird experiments at weird hours—until he learns that actually, you work weird hours, so then he does them at normal hours which keeps you from getting any sleep. he blares loud, obnoxious music. he leaves snide messages on the corkboard by the stairs, even though you both know that you're the only two people who live here so there's only one person who could be doing it. he fucking mutates your favorite pothos plant where it was sitting, innocent, beautiful, on your balcony, so now it sings to you exclusively in nickelback lyrics when you go to water it. (...your one consulation there is that, at least, you aren't the only one who suffers.)

donnie, meanwhile, is perplexed. enraged. how the fuck are you so resilient?! he has done everything short of actually shooting you in the face, which he would have done were it not for your tie to baron fucking draxum, and yet you're still fucking here, preventing the expansion of his lab. it's infuriating. he can't stand the sight of you. just looking at your face and the way you smile and laugh at his machinations makes his chest feel tight. his fingers curl into fists when he looks at you bending over in those stupid pencil skirts of yours to grab your mail when he leaves the door open and it all falls to the floor. he wants to wrap his fingers around your pretty little neck and pin you to the nearest surface and squeeze until—until—

...oh. oh.

the day you get a beautiful bouquet of flesh-eating mutant yokai lilies on your front doorstep, no note attached because really there's only one person who has the resources to do this, the bottom of your stomach drops as you realize, perhaps too late, that you have attracted the gaze of something truly, truly terrible.

[fangsandfracturedhearts]

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 27: Sin and Shadow

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.8k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

Your laughter resounds through the rotten ruins, sharp and brittle. Astarion’s smug expression falters, taken aback by the sound. You can see his confusion in the way his brow furrows and his mouth pulls into a tight line, unsure of what to make of your reaction. It’s amusing how he expects fear or despair, but rather, you shower him with decisive derision.

“Of course, you would do something like this.” There’s a venomous lilt to your tone, a challenge that burns with each word. “It’s so predictable, really.”

You take a step closer, circling him with measured movements, like a prowling predator. It’s a risky game, but the rabid acrimony gives you strength. Astarion’s scarlet eyes track your every move, his stance rigid.

“Go on then,” you taunt in a deadly whisper. “Do it. Erase me. Free yourself. Take everything I am, everything I could ever be, and twist it into whatever sick fantasy you have. You’ve already taken everything else—my trust, my love, my life. It all belongs to you, doesn’t it? So why haven’t you done it?”

“You think I haven’t done it because I can’t? I could unravel you in a heartbeat if I wished. It’s just—” He sputters, searching for the right words. “It’s more... satisfying to let you cling to that desperate hope, to dangle the possibility of your freedom just out of reach.”

But the way he says it, the way his words tumble out with a rushed sharpness—it doesn’t add up. He’s grasping at straws, trying to convince himself as much as you, and you see it for what it is.

A lie. A thin, flimsy excuse swaddled in cruelty.

“Is that what you’re telling yourself? That it’s about satisfaction? That it’s about keeping me on the edge, trapped in your little game?” You shake your head, your eyes narrowing as you take a step closer. “No, I don’t think so. I think, despite all this—despite your cruelty, your desperate yearning for power—you loathe yourself. Because you know you could do it. You have the power to erase me completely, to make me nothing. But you can’t, can you?”

He flinches, the reaction so quick it’s nearly imperceptible, but you catch it. His expression hardens into a snarl, but the anger doesn’t mask the underlying turmoil in his eyes. “You know nothing about what I want!” he spits, but there’s no conviction behind it, no real strength.

You press on, each word a blade dipped in poison. “I know enough. You hate that you can’t bring yourself to do it. That somewhere, buried beneath all this darkness, is the man who would rather sever his own limb than harm me. That’s why you keep making excuses, why you haven’t turned me into the hollow, broken thing you threaten. Part of you, no matter how small, still cares.”

Astarion’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t strike. He stands there, trembling with rage—or perhaps something deeper, something he doesn’t want to face. His eyes flicker again, that scarlet brightening for a heartbeat, revealing a flash of something pained, something lost.

“Shut up. You think you understand me? You think you can pick me apart like some... some puzzle? You are nothing, and I—” He cuts himself off, biting back whatever admission threatens to spill out.

You take another step closer, your voice softening, but not with pity—no, it’s still a razor-sharp rebellion. “If I’m nothing, then why not finish it? Prove that I’m wrong, Astarion. Prove that you’re really as heartless as you claim to be.”

He stares at you, caught between outrage and confusion, and in that silence, you see it—the fissures, the war he’s waging with himself, the struggle that he so stubbornly refuses to pay any credence to. A war he’s losing, bit by bit.

Astarion’s face twists as he struggles for words, his lips curling back in a snarl. “You think I would hesitate for a moment if I thought you were truly a threat to me? You are my spawn! I own you!”

You laugh again, the sound caustic. “You keep telling yourself that you’re doing all of this to be strong, to be untouchable, but it’s a lie. You can’t even fool yourself, can you?”

He glares at you, stepping closer. “You think you can read me so well, do you? You think you can waltz in, make assumptions about what I am, what I want?”

“Why not?” You meet his eyes with a defiant fire of your own. “I’ve been by your side long enough to know when you’re lying—to yourself, and to me. If you truly wanted to erase me, to take everything that makes me me and twist it into your perfectly obedient puppet, you would have done it by now. But you haven’t. Why is that, Astarion?”

He bares his fangs at you, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he struggles to maintain his composure. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Maybe I enjoy watching you suffer—knowing that I could take everything from you at any moment.”

You scoff, refusing to flinch under his intense gaze. “Oh, please. Drop the act. The truth is much simpler, isn’t it? You don’t want to admit that there’s still a part of you that cares, clinging to some shred of what we had.”

He steps back as if struck, his expression ripping little a disturbed pond. For a moment, he looks like he’s been laid bare, stripped of his defences. Then his face hardens again, but there’s wild desperation in his eyes. “You think I need you?” he growls with a ragged edge to his voice, a strain that betrays the struggle within him. “I do not need anyone. Least of all, you. You’re the one who can’t let go.”

“You’re right. I haven’t let go, and maybe that makes me a fool. But it’s because I see something in you worth saving, even if you’ve forgotten how to see it yourself.”

His breath catches, just barely, but you see it, a moment of hesitation. He turns away, his shoulders trembling. “You think you’re so godsdamned noble,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp. “But if you knew... if you understood what it means to hold this power, you would see why I won’t let go of it. Even for you.”

You take a step closer, closing the distance between you, your voice an urging whisper. “Then prove it, Astarion. Prove that you can let go. Or keep lying to yourself and let it consume you until there’s nothing left. But know this—I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”

He whirls back around, his face contorted with a mix of choler and something more fragile—anguish, maybe. “You should be,” he snarls, his voice breaking on the last word, as though the admission costs him something precious.

For a moment, you think he might strike you, compel you, or something far more insidious, but then he just stands there trembling, breathing hard.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, his voice rough and unsteady, each word a struggle to get out. “To have everything you ever wanted, everything you thought would make you invincible, and realize it’s not enough. It’s never enough. There’s a hunger in me now—a darkness that won’t be sated. It’s... it’s eating me from the inside out, and it’s telling me that if I just hold on a little longer, if I just take a little more...”

He trails off, his voice breaking, and his shoulders slump. For a heartbeat, he looks like the man you remember—the man who used to smile, who used to hold you close, who whispered soft promises in the dark. The man who fought so hard to survive, who dreamed of freedom, who loved fiercely and deeply, even when he didn’t know how to show it.

But then the moment passes, and the cruel visage slips back into place, his expression hardening with renewed bitterness. He steps away from you, as if trying to rebuild the distance between you, to put up the walls that have kept you apart.

You follow his movement, refusing to let him retreat into his self-imposed isolation. “You think I don’t understand? I understand more than you realize,” you say firmly, even as your shrivelled heart aches. “I know what it’s like to feel that hunger, that darkness that whispers lies in your ear, telling you that you need more, that you’re nothing without it. But you’re wrong, Astarion. You are something without it. You always have been.”

He glares at you, his eyes flashing with fury, but there’s a wetness in his gaze that he can’t quite hide. “That’s rich coming from you. My favourite little toy who still clings to your precious hope, who thinks there’s some happy ending waiting for us if we just try hard enough? You’re deluded.”

“Maybe I am,” you admit, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “But at least I still feel something. At least I’m still fighting for something more than power. And you hate that, don’t you? You hate that I still care, that I still believe in you, because it means you have to face the part of yourself that you’ve buried so deep you’re scared to dig it back up.”

He lets out a strangled, humourless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “Gods, you’re insufferable,” he mutters, but the words lack the venom they held before. He looks askance, as if he can’t bear to meet your glare. “You always did know how to get under my skin.”

“And I always will, because I know you, Astarion. I know the man beneath all of this,” you gesture toward him, “and I refuse to give up on him. Even if you already have.”

For a moment, he just stares at you, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, as if the possibility of redemption is something he’s forgotten how to hope for.

“You think it’s that simple?” He says, his intonation harsh but fraying at the edges.

You shake your head, sadness twisting in your chest. “No. I know it’s not simple. But I also know that the man I love is worth fighting for, even if he’s forgotten how to fight for himself.”

Astarion’s expression twists, anger and longing blending into a storm. For a moment, you think he might lash out again, that the fight is still burning too hot inside him to let anything else through. But then, with a rough, unsteady breath, he steps closer, closing the space between you with a suddenness that steals the air from your lungs.

He seizes you by the shoulders, his grip firm, fingers digging into your skin just enough to blur the line between a caress and something that might bruise. His breath ghosts over your lips, his proximity heady and dangerous. Astarion’s eyes are still sharp, still filled with the darkness that’s taken root in him, but there’s something else there now too—a hunger, raw and unfiltered, that pulses through him like a beating heart.

He dips his head closer, his mouth less than a breath away from yours. “You think your love is enough to bring me back from this?” he whispers harshly, his voice trembling with unrestrained intensity.

His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond—a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. It’s wild—nigh on punishing. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him, as if he can fuse your bodies together and somehow make himself whole again through the sheer force of contact.

You gasp into the kiss, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you match his intensity, meeting every bite and graze of his lips with your own fierce resolve. There’s pain in it, yes, but there’s also a heat that ignites your blood, a need that burns just as bright as his. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as his hands roam over you with a possessiveness that borders on frantic.

Astarion’s breath comes in ragged gasps as he tears himself away from your lips, his mouth skimming down the curve of your jaw, leaving bruising kisses along the line of your neck. He nips at the delicate skin there, the sharp edge of his fangs a perilous promise, but he doesn’t sink them in, and he groans against your skin.

His voice is rough, barely more than a growl. “You think this is what I want? To let myself be vulnerable, to let you get close enough to tear me apart again?”

“You want to be seen,” you reply, your voice steady. “You want someone to know the real you, the one buried beneath all that power and pain. And I see you, Astarion. All of you.”

Astarion’s grip tightens on your waist, and for a moment, you think he might break again, retreat behind the walls he’s so carefully constructed.

“I hate you for that,” he mutters, but the words sound broken, almost pleading, as if he’s confessing a truth he can’t bear to face. He cups the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that belies the desperation in his touch. “You make me feel... gods, I can’t stand how much you make me feel.”

The admission sends a shiver through you, a flash of hope and desire mingling in your chest. You lean into his touch, your own hands softening their grip, sliding down to rest over the frantic thud of his heartbeat. “Then let yourself feel it,” you murmur against his lips. “Let yourself feel me.”

Astarion's breath hitches, and for a moment, he holds you so tightly it’s as though he’s afraid you might dissolve into nothing. He kisses you again, fiercer this time, but there's a thread of something else woven into it—a hint of surrender, of a desperation that has nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with the way he clings to you.

It’s messy, it’s frantic, and it’s far from gentle, but there’s a need there that neither of you can deny—a mutual hunger that pulls you closer even as it threatens to tear you apart.

Astarion’s fingers are rough as they tug at the clasps and fastenings of your clothes, the fabric falling away beneath his touch with haste. There’s a rawness to his movements, a barely restrained violence that makes your breath catch as you let him strip away the layers between you, both literal and otherwise.

You don��t bother being gentle either as you yank at the hem of his torn shirt, fingers skimming over the bloodied skin underneath. He snarls against your mouth, a low, dangerous sound. He catches your wrist, twisting it behind you as he pushes you against the cold stone, the roughness of it scraping against your bare skin.

His breath comes out in harsh gasps as he presses against you, pinning you with his hips, his need for you hot and hard straining against the fabric of his trousers. “You think you can save him?” he whispers, his voice ragged and raw. “You think this means anything more than a distraction?”

You bite back a sharp retort, tilting your head to meet his lustily hooded eyes. You can see the anger there, the frustration, but also something else—something like a plea. It’s ridiculous, this twisted game you play, this dance between hatred and desire.

You roll your hips and press your body closer to his, relishing the way he shudders against you. “Maybe I just want to forget for a little while. Maybe you do too.”

Astarion’s grip tightens on your wrist, his breath hot against your neck as he bites down, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to send a jolt of pleasurable pain through you. He trails his lips down your throat, sharp teeth grazing your skin, and you shudder at the sensation, a gasp slipping past your lips despite yourself. His hands move over you with a kind of frantic need, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

It’s a messy, brutal dance, each of you trying to gain the upper hand even as you both know there’s no real victory to be had here. You twist out of his grip and catch his shirt, yanking it open with enough force to send buttons scattering across the dusty floor. He laughs, a dark, bitter sound that rumbles through his chest as he allows you to push him back against the wall, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulls you in for another kiss.

For a moment, it’s almost tender, the way he cradles the back of your head, the way his lips brush yours with something like reverence. But then his nails dig into your scalp, and you return the favour, biting down on his bottom lip, hard. He growls low in his throat, a sound that sends a thrill down your spine.

And yet, beneath the frantic hunger, you can feel the tension simmering between you, the sense that this is more than just bodies colliding. It’s the only way either of you knows how to touch each other, through fire and force, through pain that twists into pleasure until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

Astarion’s hands skim down your sides. Your clothes have been discarded completely now, like so much meaningless debris, and his hands map every inch of you, tracing old scars and new bruises, as if trying to memorize you in this moment.

You let yourself lean into it, let yourself give in to the heat that flares between you, if only because it’s better than the haunting loneliness. His mouth crashes against yours again, rough and demanding, and you respond with equal fervour, your hands roaming over the hard planes of his chest, digging your nails into his skin.

Astarion’s touch is electric, each brush of his fingers sending jolts of sensation through you that blur the lines between pleasure and pain. He’s always known exactly how to wield desire like a weapon, but this time, you refuse to let yourself be shattered by it. You grip his shoulders, tearing off his shirt and throwing it off to the side.

It’s impossible to ignore how your body responds to him—how the ache that’s settled deep in your bones is temporarily numbed by his closeness. For a moment, you let yourself forget the lies and the betrayals, the shadow of your true husband trapped somewhere behind the darkness in his eyes.

A part of you knows that this is wrong—that you are grasping at a ghost. It feels like betrayal, a twisted mockery of the love you once shared, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it, from taking the solace his body offers, no matter how fleeting it might be. 

His gaze is filled with a dark satisfaction. His fingers press harder, his grip possessive, as if he can hold onto your body even as he keeps you at arm’s length in every other way. It’s raw and violent, more a clash of wills than anything else, and you’re both losing.

He pivots, pushing you harder against the crumbling wall, the stone biting into your back, and you let him, drinking in the way his breath hitches, the way his hands shake against your skin with rage or lust or something else entirely. You do not care at this point.

I should stop this, pull away, and refuse to let him turn this into just another power struggle. But you don’t. You cling to him as if he is the last solid thing in a world that’s falling apart because if you let him go, you’re afraid there will be nothing left of the man you love.

So you let yourself burn, knowing that you’re playing with fire. And even if it leaves you scalded and scarred, even if it’s a mistake, for this moment, you’ll take the heat over the cold emptiness that waits beyond.

Astarion's fingers intertwine with yours as he pins your hands above your head. His body presses flush against yours. His hips roll in a tantalizing rhythm. The friction sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your hips jerk involuntarily, desperate for more contact, more of him.

"Tell me you want this," he barks.

"I want this," you breathe, your voice husky with need. "All of you."

A wicked grin spreads across Astarion's face, his crimson eyes blazing with unholy hunger. "Then allow me to indulge you, my treasure."

Astarion's lips lavish attention to your neck, your collarbone, proceeding lower. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling and teasing until you're gasping his name. Astarion chuckles, clearly relishing the effect he has on you. His fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already slick with arousal.

Astarion groans appreciatively as he strokes your sensitive flesh, his skilled touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. "So wet for me already," he murmurs against your skin.

He works your clit, circling and sweeping in the practice, precise pace that left you addicted to him in the first place. He builds your pleasure higher and higher, increasing the pressure, his touch more insistent as your shuddering moans fill the space. He slips two long fingers inside you, curling them to hit that perfect spot. You cry out, clutching at his shoulders as he works you expertly. His thumb continues to tease your clit as his fingers thrust in and out at an ever-increasing pace.

"That's it, darling," Astarion croons. "Let me hear those beautiful sounds."

Your climax builds rapidly under his ministrations. Just as you're about to tumble over the edge, he withdraws. You cannot stifle the whimper resounding at the back of your throat at the loss.

”Eager little thing, aren’t you?“ he tuts, nipping at your lower lip. "Patience, my dear. I intend to savour every... last... drop.”

Breathing heavily, he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He slams you into the wall, hard enough to make your vision splinter, as if to remind you who your creator is, who you belong to, and bucks his hips into you with a growl, his cock straining against his trousers. “Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth.

Astarion eases you down to the floor with feline grace, and slides down your body, leaving a trail of burning kisses in his wake. His breath ghosts over your flesh, making you tremor with anticipation.

When his mouth finally reaches your aching center, you cry out, overwhelmed by the velvety sensation. He licks a long, slow stripe up your folds, making you gasp. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he sucks gently on your clit. The dual stimulation of his tongue and the slight graze of fangs against your sensitive flesh leave you trembling. Astarion grips your hips, holding you steady as he devours you with single-minded focus.

Astarion's ministrations intensify. His fingers curl inside you, stroking that perfect spot with relentless precision. He applies steady pressure, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you feel yourself climbing higher and higher towards your peak.

With his free hand, he grips your thigh, holding you open and exposed to his ravenous appetite. His tongue dances in intricate patterns, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that leave you gasping, creating a delicious tension that coils tighter with each passing moment. Your thighs begin to tremble, and Astarion responds by tightening his grip, holding you firmly in place as he redoubles his efforts.

Your fingers tangle tighter in his hair as he works you relentlessly with lips and tongue. Astarion's skilled ministrations build the pressure inside you to a fever pitch. Just when you think you can't take any more, he sucks hard on your swollen bud. Pure, raw ecstasy floods your body, and you cry out his name as a swell of bliss crashes into you.

But Astarion doesn't relent. He laps up your release greedily, prolonging your climax until you're trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he raise his head, lips, and chin, glistening. His crimson eyes burn with hunger as he crawls up your body.

"Delicious," he purrs, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue as he ravishes your mouth.

The kiss deepens, his fingers desperately working at the buttons of his trousers, and freeing his cock. The kiss grows more urgent as Astarion positions himself between your thighs, muscles rippling under his skin. You feel him pressing against your entrance, teasing you, hot and insistent. He breaks the kiss to gaze into your eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. Slowly, torturously, he rubs the head of his cock along your slick folds.

With a low growl, he sheaths himself inside you in one powerful thrust. You cry out at the exquisite stretch. Astarion sets a relentless pace, his hips snapping against yours with vampiric strength and speed. Each thrust sends soul-crushing pleasure spiderwebbing through your body, making you pant and whine. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper into you. The feel of him dragging against your walls is almost overwhelming, filling you completely, and every nerve in your body hums.

Astarion's mouth moves from your lips down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, your hands running over his back as he marks you with his bites.

He moves one hand to cup your breast, squeezing and teasing the hardened nipple between his fingers. The other hand trails down between your bodies, finding that sweet spot between your thighs once again. His fingers dance over it expertly, adding to the pleasure building inside you. You can feel yourself getting closer to another release, but Astarion seems determined to draw it out.

He pulls back slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts and hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. He smirks down at you before picking up his pace even more. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room as Astarion drives into you with a fierce hunger.

“Come for me, pet,” he barks, raspy and breathless.

His words send you over the edge, your body convulsing in ecstasy, pleasure crashing over you with an intensity that narrows your world down to only him. Your body arcs against Astarion as unadulterated ecstasy ripples through you, each one more powerful than the last. You cry out his name, clinging to him desperately as your inner walls clench around him.

Astarion growls, a primal sound of satisfaction as he feels your release. He doesn't slow his pace, plunging into you relentlessly as he chases his own climax. His lips find yours, swallowing your moans as the overstimulation borders on painful rapture.

"You're mine," he snarls, but his words carry less bite than usual, said more as if he's trying to convince himself.

"Yes," you sigh.

"You're going to take all of me, aren't you?" He growls in your ear. "My very good girl."

You moan in response, unable to form any coherent words as pleasure consumes you once again. As if sensing this change in you, Astarion starts moving faster and harder than before. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, his own need driving him to push you to your limits until your body convulses once again.

You feel the shift in him, the way his muscles tense and his thrusts become erratic. With a final thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and lets out a guttural groan. You feel his release, his cock pulsing and spilling his seed into you, hot and intense. As the pleasure begins to ebb, Astarion's movements slow to a gentle rocking. He peppers your neck and collarbone with feather-light kisses, a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before. His body covers yours completely, pinning you beneath him. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours as he catches his breath.

For a few minutes, you’re granted a blissful reprieve of thought. Astarion pulls out slowly, and the sensation makes your whimper because you once again feel so very empty. He rolls onto his back on the floor, his cock still glistening with the evidence of your betrayal.

In a movement you don’t quite perceive, he gathers you up, and places you atop his chest. His skin cools within moments, reminding you of a time long ago, and cutting through the searing heat of Avernus like a winter breeze. Your eyes begin to drift shut, but you force them open when Astarion shifts, bending his arm, and slipping his hand behind his head. He opens one eye lazily to glance at you.

“Rest,” he murmurs, his voice husky with the aftermath of your passion.

You shake your head slightly, stubbornness still flaring despite the exhaustion that tugs at your bones. “I can’t... if anything sneaks up on us.”

He cuts you off with a sharp, exasperated huff. “For once in your life, will you stop being so bloody insufferable? Rest. Nothing’s going to sneak up on us, not with me here.” The words are edged, but there’s a faint echo of something less venomous, less cruel.

His eyes slide shut, and eventually, you feel the pull of your trance calling to you. Just a few minutes. Just enough to regain some strength. You let yourself slip into that familiar meditative state, your breathing evening out, your mind beginning to drift.

But just before you fall completely into the quiet embrace, a sharp realization hits you like a dagger to the chest. This didn’t bring him back. The Astarion you love, your husband—the one who has always softened under your touch, who has always let you anchor him—remains locked away. This time, the intimacy didn’t break through. It didn’t bring him home.

A cold dread curls through your gut as your mind slips deeper into the trance, a single, terrible question echoing in the recesses of your thoughts: What if he’s truly lost to you now?

You rise slowly, pushing back the soreness in your muscles as you reach for your scattered clothes. The air is stifling, thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood and the charred remnants of this crumbling ruin that serves as your shelter. Astarion’s presence looms behind you, a shadow that refuses to recede.

He leans casually against the fractured wall, arms crossed, watching you with unsettling glee. “You know, darling, I could still taste you on my tongue when I woke up,” he mocks. “You were... surprisingly sweet for someone who likes to play so very hard to get.”

You stiffen, but refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. You keep your hands steady, forcing yourself to finish each button as if his words don’t touch you.

“And do not try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he continues, his tone slipping into a near purr. He steps closer until you can feel the whisper of his breath against the back of your neck. “I could taste your enjoyment on your lips, in your cries.” He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “Tell me, did you enjoy it as much as I did?”

“You’re delusional if you think I’m going to stroke your ego about this,” you snap.

He chuckles, a sound that reverberates through you. “Oh, come now. No need to lie to yourself. We both know there was something deliciously twisted about it, wasn’t there? The way you writhed under me, the way our bodies fit together.” His fingers trail along your shoulder, down the line of your spine, light but maddeningly possessive. “I wonder... how long will it take before you crave it again? Before you beg me to make you feel like that again?”

You jerk away from his touch, turning to face him with a glare that’s meant to cut through his bravado, but all he does is tilt his head, a wicked glint in his eyes. He’s studying you, drinking in your reactions like the desert drinks a mirage, savouring every hint of anger, every sign of defiance.

“You’re trying too hard, Astarion,” you bite out, hating the way your voice sounds—hoarse, shaken.

His smirk softens at the edges, but it doesn’t lose its sharpness. He reaches out, tracing a knuckle along your jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. “I think you’re afraid... afraid that you enjoyed it too much. Afraid that you might find yourself wanting me again, even knowing that I am not him.”

You step closer, closing the distance between you until you’re nearly nose to nose, and you let a small, defiant smile curl at your lips. “Enjoy this while you can, Ascendant,” you whisper, your voice like a blade. “Because this power trip of yours won’t last forever.”

He laughs softly, but it’s a brittle sound, like the crackle of a fire on the verge of dying. “Maybe it won’t,” he concedes, his expression darkening. “But I think we both know that you and I? We’re far from done.”

You hold his gaze a moment longer before turning away, grabbing what’s left of your belongings, and walking out into the harsh light of Avernus. Astarion’s silhouette leads the way across the blistered ground. He moves with the confidence of someone who expects to be obeyed, and you follow, your mind restless even as you try to keep your senses sharp, wary of any lurking dangers. It’s not easy—your attention keeps snagging on the memory of the man he used to be, the one you long to bring back from the recesses of his fractured soul.

But that man is not the one in front of you now. This version of Astarion walks as if he owns the Hells themselves, his chin lifted, crimson eyes sweeping the broken landscape with a predator’s calm. He glances back at you occasionally, his gaze cool and assessing, as though measuring how far he can push before you break.

“You’re awfully quiet, darling,” he remarks, his voice carrying over the infernal wind, mocking and sharp. “What’s on your mind? Plotting another romantic gesture, perhaps? Or are you already planning your next betrayal?”

“Some of us prefer to focus on survival rather than listening to our own voices,” you reply, tone as dry as the scorched earth beneath your feet.

He chuckles, a low, indulgent sound. “Yes, yes. Survival. But you’re not exactly thriving, are you? No sun to warm your skin, no prey to hunt, no adoring husband to cling to. I imagine it’s rather dismal, even for you.”

Despite the barbs, you can’t help but notice that he’s talking more. The silence that used to stretch between you has given way to a stream of biting commentary. It’s a small thing, but you cling to it, wondering if it means that some part of him is still trying to reach out.

The path leads you towards the river Styx, its crimson waters churning sluggishly, a scarlet serpent winding its way through the hellish terrain. You duck beneath a twisted tree, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, just as a fireball streaks overhead, sizzling as it hits the river’s surface.

Your mind wanders. Time hasn’t brought your Astarion back. Blood nor intimacy have, either. You’ve tried every approach you can think of, every small act that might stir a glimmer. But there is one option left, a last-ditch effort that could either save him or doom you both—the psychic bond that ties you to your husband, the thread that you’ve kept hidden, shut tight like a vault.

It’s your last secret, and one that you’ve guarded fiercely. What will happen if it fails? If you open yourself to him, let him see everything you’ve kept hidden—your desperation, your love, your belief that there’s still something left to save—and he remains unchanged, you’ll have nothing left. No hope. No leverage. Just a door flung open to darkness.

“Careful,” he croons, gesturing toward the crimson river that slithers alongside your path, its surface rippling like molten blood. “You know, the Styx has quite the reputation. One touch of its lovely ichor, and you might find yourself... forgetful. Sometimes it’s temporary, a few memories lost like leaves on the wind. Other times... well, let’s just say it can wipe a mind clean, leave you a blank slate.”

“I must admit, the thought is rather entertaining. Just imagine—me, throwing you into those waters, watching as every piece of who you are slips away, until there’s nothing left but a frightened, lost little girl.”

He leans closer, the mockery clear in every syllable. “You would have to rely on me for everything. I could be anything I wanted to you—a hero, a protector, the only one you could trust. You would hang on my every word, wouldn’t you? And would never know just how much danger you’re truly in.”

You keep your expression neutral, refusing to let the threat find purchase in your mind. It’s true, the Styx’s waters are a danger—one that could very easily strip away everything you’ve fought to hold on to. But Astarion’s taunts ring hollow, a game to try and get under your skin. You know, deep down, that if he truly wanted to reduce you to nothing, he wouldn’t need the river to do it.

You tilt your head, letting a faint smirk tug at your lips. “Oh, how thoughtful of you, but perhaps you should consider going for a swim yourself. After all, isn’t forgetting me your deepest, darkest desire? Didn’t the hag say as much?”

The change in him is slight—an almost imperceptible pause, the faintest twitch of irritation behind his eyes—but it’s enough. For a heartbeat, the mask slips, just a crack, and you seize the opportunity to press further.

“Why, Astarion, you almost seem bothered by the idea. Is it because it’s true? Is that what you really want?” You prod, your voice taking on a mocking lilt.

“You think you’re so clever,” he says, his timbre low and dangerous. “I needn't explain myself to you.”

“You’re so quick to dismiss it all, aren’t you?” you press. “So eager to pretend that none of this matters. But you’re lying—to me, to yourself. Maybe if you drown out the truth with enough threats, you’ll start to believe it.”

The shift is instantaneous. His eyes flash with a wild light, and before you can draw your next breath, he’s on you, one hand clamping around your throat. He moves faster than you can process, lifting you off your feet as if you weigh nothing at all.

Your nails scrabble against his wrist, but he doesn’t even flinch, his grip iron and unyielding. He holds you there, suspended in the air above the roiling edge of the Styx, the river’s crimson waters churning just inches below your dangling feet.

His laughter rings out—maniacal, jagged. “You think you can provoke me, that your little words matter?” he sneers, his lips pulling back to reveal a gleaming edge of fangs. “Look at you, dangling here like a broken doll. So fragile. So pathetic.”

He loosens his grip a fraction, just enough for you to suck in a ragged breath, and for a moment, your body drops, slipping toward the writhing red of the river below. Panic claws at you as you feel the heat of the Styx’s surface, the promise of obliteration in its depths. But just before your feet touch the water, his fingers tighten again, hauling you back from the brink with effortless strength. He holds you there, hovering over the edge of oblivion, letting you feel the danger, the power he wields over you.

“Go on then,” you manage to rasp out, voice hoarse with the strain of his grip on your windpipe. “Do it. Drop me. Erase me. Kill me. Just fucking do something.”

It’s a gamble—one that might cost you everything. But you can’t stand the game, the way he toys with you like a cat with a wounded bird, drawing out the agony with every mocking word.

“You think I won’t do it?” He hisses, and for a moment, you feel the tension in his grip shift, as if he’s testing your weight, deciding whether to let you fall. “You really are a fool. You’re so eager for death, aren’t you?”

“You don’t have the spine for it, do you?” you hiss out, fighting to keep your voice steady even as his fingers tighten and loosen again.

His grip slackens further, his expression shifting, something cold and vicious overtaking that momentary uncertainty. You feel the weightlessness beneath your feet, the rush of air as his grip slips—

And you realize, with a jolt of terror, that this time, he might truly mean it.

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes: - Did she push him too far? - I cannot tell if I feel like this is a betrayal. It's still technically him... right?

[iamumbra195]

SBG Hunger Games AU

Ashlyn, forced to survive and take on a leadership role she never wanted in the rebellion. Her parents teaching her to survive as best as they could in hopes that she could protect herself if she ever got hurt and refusing to let her put her name more than once for the reaping no matter how hard things got, only to watch her name get picked out of hundreds of others and not being able to do anything as their only daughter was thrown into a death tournament for the amusement of the rich and powerful. Ashlyn doing her best to survive the games and resenting Aiden for stepping all over her boundaries and poking his nose into her business but slowly learning to love him as time goes on. Her being forced into the arena of her nightmares a year after she and Aiden got out, knowing only one of them would walk out alive this time and she wanted it to be him. Her losing him despite doing her best to try and keep him alive.

Aiden, so hopelessly devoted to a single girl it destroys him. Aiden, the son of the mayor and his wife, whose cousin was reaped just two years before him, losing his voice and passion for singing in the process. Him watching the girl he liked (and was kinda obsessed with) get chosen for the games shortly before his name was pulled and finding it vaguely ironic because he'd always wondered what it was like to die but he'd never really expected that he would die this way. He was always testing the boundaries with the peacekeepers, seeking out dangerous things that he knew would get him in trouble. Aiden, who already knew what the outcome of the games would be because he would make sure of it himself-- make sure Ashlyn would come home even if he didn't. Him watching as she offers him the berries-- both of them go home or neither of them go home-- and falling in love with her all over again. Him volunteering for his cousin and swearing to make sure Ashlyn will be the only one to walk out all over again because he knows they won't get lucky again this time.

Ben, big and charming with a love for singing that helped him get sponsors when he was reaped, having his throat heavily damaged during the games by one of the careers. He beat them to death in his anger and his throat was fixed by the capitol but it was forever changed and artificial and Ben hated the sound of it so he never spoke or sang again, getting angrier and more defiant of the capitol until his family's home was burned down and he realized the capitol would kill them at any time if they wanted to. So he kept quiet and remained on his best behaviour, letting his hatred and anger fester inside him as other kids were reaped and then his cousin, his reckless stupid cousin was reaped and Ben knew he would die in that arena while he could do nothing but stand there with clenched fists and poisonous rage. But Aiden survived against all odds and there were whispers of rebellion and Ben began to hope-- until the victors are reaped and Aiden volunteers for him despite all his protests and he is forced to watch from the sidelines all over again, hoping that Jasmine and District 13 can extract them all from the arena in time.

Tyler, hardened and angry from loss, clinging onto the family he has left and volunteering as tribute when Taylor gets chosen so she never has to fear for her life only for her to get chosen again the next year as a punishment for his own defiant nature. Taylor, who manages to survive her games, watching her brother continue to suffer to protect her from the darker sides of being a tribute. Marianna, a victor who had a mental breakdown after the capitol killed her husband, watching her children go through the same trauma she went through and not being able to do anything about it. Tyler and Taylor being pulled back into that nightmare arena and Marianna volunteering for Taylor and dying in the arena to protect Tyler in the only way she could. Taylor, helplessly watching from the sidelines as her mother dies and falling apart at the seams when she realizes they didn't manage to get Tyler before the Capitol got to him.

Logan, intelligent and kind despite all that he went through, managing to get through his games by being underestimated and hiding with the career pack. His parents watching as he used their knowledge of botany (and drugs) to survive in a forest landscape where tributes from District 3 would generally struggle to survive and coming home despite all odds. Him being dragged into the games all over again barely a few years later.

Ashlyn, Aiden, Tyler, Marianna, and Logan being allies in the games. Ben, Taylor and the others working with District 13 to get the victors removed. Aiden and Tyler being the ones lost to the Capitol. Ashlyn, forced to be a symbol. Taylor becoming more angry and vicious because she has lost her whole family at this point. Aiden and Tyler coming back not quite right, not fully human. Alex Laurier taking on a bit of a mentor role for Ashlyn like Boggs did for Katniss, warning her not to trust Maverick.

Ashlyn and Aiden helping each other heal, the gang and their parents coming together in the end and helping each other heal because they were still kids by the end of it all, even if they were never truly allowed to be.

IT FITS THEM SO WELL, I'M GONNA GO CRY IN A CORNER WHY DID I THINK OF THIS? 😭

[yourfingeronmytriggers]

The "Ghoulcy" Songs of Fallout 2/4

“I Can Dream, Can’t I?

I admit this song both excites and puts a shadow over my ghoulcy shipping heart. But OH– how it pulls deliciously on my poor heart strings.

This song may well speak to how Ghoulcy ends. If Lucy cannot/does not break through to him, everything may well end as “a dream” which is never fulfilled. 

This scene, part of which I already did an analysis on, is just so heartbreaking with the addition of this melody crooning in the background.

I can see, no matter how near you’ll be

You’ll never belong to me

But I can dream, can’t I?

Can’t I pretend I’m locked in the bend of your embrace?

For dreams are just like wine

And I am drunk on mine.

Intentional or not, the word play here is perfect: he’s literally going on a bender and drinking himself stupid because sure a ghoul + a load of drugs= no brainer. But it’s more than that here. Lucy’s just thrown him for a loop by sticking to her Golden Rule when she could have taken her revenge. She proved tough enough to survive and still show mercy when given the opportunity to “do unto him” as he had done unto her.

And uh-oh– because the ghoul has survived his own trauma for the last 200 years on the principle that things like that–people like that– didn’t really exist in this world.

And now she's gone and challenged this, he chooses to try to lose himself to old habits and poor coping skills. Except it backfires. He just can't escape so easily from his demons.

I’m aware, my heart’s a sad affair

There’s much disillusion there

But I can dream, can’t I?

Everything he thought Barb was (but ended up not being) is superimposing in his mind over everything Lucy embodied when she laid down those vials and spared him. In that moment she had the power of his life and death in her hands and she made the choice Barb, his wife and lover, did not.

And I think that sort of terrifies him. I think he is almost as afraid of her proving him right about the world as he is her proving him wrong. 

Can’t I adore you, although we are oceans apart?

I can’t make you open your heart

But I can dream, can’t I?

They’ve gone their separate ways…for now. And Cooper’s left alone to dwell on all of it.

I know they said for season 2 they were going to be playing with the idea of how far Lucy could be pushed while holding on to her “golden center” and I think how that plays out will be vital in how things go for Ghoulcy. If she can manage to hold on to at least some semblance of herself despite having to harden somewhat, I think that will be the key to opening up the Ghoul’s heart again.

And yet.

I think the Ghoul is marked for tragedy. I fear he may even be marked for death.

But I can dream, can’t I?

[pricetagofficial]

How Far We Fall -D.G.

Warnings: Language, angst, mentions of death, child loss, therapy, trauma, attempted murder, poor Tim is caught in the middle of this

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Reader

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.6K

A/N: You guys voted for the angst, well you got the angst. I don't actually remember how I came up with this. All I remember is that I wanted to write pain, and well here I am!

I am not sorry, you guys wanted this.

Dick couldn’t believe what he was looking at, here you were in front of him with a dagger to his younger brother’s throat, Tim’s throat, and a murderous look in your eyes. 

He watched as Robin squirmed in your hold, desperate to get away but one wrong move and his throat would be slit and there would be no going back. 

Batman tensed beside him, ready for a fight to save his youngest. Somehow, you had gotten past their security and wormed your way into their lives. Somehow, you fit in so well they didn’t even think twice before accepting you. 

That was their mistake. 

“Y/N–” Dick held a hand out, the glove of his suit palm up as if he was trying to convince you to come back to him. “Let him go, and we can talk about this.” 

“Talk? You want to talk?” you scoffed. “Fine then. Why don’t we talk about the reason why we’re here.” 

After years of planning, this was your moment to get back at the Batman. Back at him for everything you’ve lost because of him and his senseless no-killing rule. If he didn’t have that rule, you wouldn’t be holding his youngest at knifepoint threatening to take his son from him, like he took your daughter. 

How could he have been so blind? So smitten with you, the idea of who you were, Dick gave you everything including his secret identity without so much as batting an eye. 

“Y/N, please–” he pleaded, trying to keep his voice from breaking, “He’s just a kid–” 

“So was my daughter!” you screamed, voice echoing off the walls around you. “She was barely a year old and it’s your fucking fault!” 

Dick stopped in his tracks at your words, what were you talking about? After living with you for the last six months, he would have noticed if you had a kid. 

“What are you talking about?” Dick asked, his eyes not leaving you or Tim. 

Your jaw tensed as your eyes flitted past Dick and stared at the man responsible. “Two years ago, October 31st.” 

Halloween, two years ago? Dick looked behind him towards Bruce; he was in Bludhaven at the time, but he heard how bad it was. The Joker and Mad Hatter decided that blowing up a city block or two and dosing them with gas was a good trick-or-treat gift. Bruce struggled hard and kept Robin inside that night. He was about to open his mouth when Bruce spoke up. 

“You were there,” his voice rumbled through the air making your nerves stand on end. 

“Of course I was there.” you hissed. “I was trapped in the rubble for 4 hours, another 3 before they found her.” 

Dick didn’t miss the way your voice wavered, nor the way your grip loosened on the knife. Tim didn’t seem to either, before steadying himself on his feet. 

“I lost the most important person in my life because you can’t keep your fucking city in check.” Your grip on Tim’s cape tightened, pulling him back into you. “And now I’ll take someone important to you.” 

Batman let out an audible growl before Dick jumped between him and yourself. 

“Y/N stop! Think this through!” 

“I have thought it through,” you spoke, voice unnaturally calm despite the circumstances. “You were my original target, Dick.” 

Dick’s blood ran cold at your words, you were planning to kill him? 

 You laughed. “But somehow you wriggled your way into my heart and I couldn’t kill you, so I had to improvise.” 

“So you kidnap a child to prove a point?” 

“I’m fourteen,” 

“Not now, Tim.”

You hardened your gaze, “There’s no going back for me, Dick. This is where it ends.” 

Daring to take a step towards you, Dick pulled the mask off his eyes. 

“Nightwing–” 

“Bruce now is not the time.” Turning his attention back on you, Dick kept a calm look on his face despite the terror coursing through him. He failed one brother, he couldn’t fail another. 

“Come back with me. Let Tim go and we can go home and forget this ever happened.” 

You scoffed. “Do you think I’m stupid? I know how this works. The second I let the kid go, he’s going to go running to you while Batman leaves me a bloody pulp for the police to find.” 

Dick sighed, dropping his head before he looked at you once more. “You’re right, we can’t just forget this. But we can get you help, get you to the right people.” 

Pressing the knife to Tim’s throat, you felt him tense under your hold. “I’m not going to that hellhole you call Arkham.” 

Taking another step, Dick shook his head. “No, not Arkham. But the second you hurt Tim, I can’t stop them from sending you there.” 

Swallowing hard, you took a look around. What were you doing? Dick had a point, Tim was a child no matter how many times he pointed out to you how old he was. Were you really going to kill him because Batman was responsible for the death of your baby?

Meeting Dick’s eyes again, you could see why he removed the mask. It was so you could see the expression in them, the longing, the hope that you would let his brother go and take his hand. 

The blue in his eyes stood out in the darkness around you, almost matching the blue of his suit. After all this, did he really think the two of you could go back to what you were before? He really trusted you enough not to try something like this again?

“Trust me, Y/N. Please?” 

Hearing those words, you dropped the knife. 

Immediately, Tim darted forward past Dick to Bruce. Dick was on his knees, catching you as your weight gave in and you collapsed into his arms. 

Unable to stop the tears, you cried into Dick’s chest. “It’s not fair!” 

Running a hand through your hair, Dick held you as you cried. Placing a kiss on the crown of your head, he closed his eyes. 

“I know baby, I know it’s not.” 

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

Months passed and true to his word, Dick got you the help you needed without going to Arkham. Your relationship was strained but on the mend. No matter how much he promised it would all be okay, you knew they wouldn’t forget let alone forgive the fact that you tried to kill Tim out of revenge. 

You lost count of how many times you apologized to him and Bruce, knowing it wouldn’t change a thing. Not for a while at least. 

Keeping your part of the promise, you sought help professionally at least once a week. Your session that afternoon wasn’t bad, but it was exhausting. Recounting the events of that Halloween to someone again drained all the energy you had left within you.

You were currently standing on the balcony of your apartment when you heard a soft thud behind you. Hearing the sound of light footsteps behind you, you felt a pair of hands rest on your shoulders. 

“Hey, what are you doing up this late?” 

Dick’s voice was tired but laced with worry, worry for you and your sleeping habits. He must have just finished his patrol for the night. 

Placing a hand on his, you smiled softly. It meant a lot that Dick stuck around when anyone else would have left you by this point. You felt a pair of lips brush your cheek before you were pulled back into his hold, warm and safe. 

“I’m okay, Dickie.” you hummed. “Just thinking I guess,” 

You didn’t have to see the look on Dick’s face to know that he was frowning. 

“You should be asleep,” he started. 

“I tried,” 

Dick sighed and rested his head on your shoulder. “I know it’s hard when I’m not there, but you have to try.” 

“Dick please, don’t start this tonight,” you begged, turning to bury your face in his chest. “I don’t have the energy for it.” 

Wrapping his arms around you fully, Dick held you close. The nightmares must have been bad this time if you were refusing to try again without him near you. Placing a kiss on the top of your head, Dick led you inside. 

“Alright, let me just get changed and we can catch some z’s together okay?” 

Nodding slowly, you let go of him but kept a grip on his fingers. The only time you let go of his hand was when he had to pull off his suit. Once he had sweats on, Dick pulled you along to the couch and rested you on top of his chest. 

Slowly you melted into his warmth as he turned on the T.V. letting the old reruns play as you listened to the sound of his heartbeat. 

Now that Dick knew the full story, he could see all the symptoms and signs you gave him from the very beginning. It was surprising how he missed them in the first place, with the way you left things around the place it was almost as if you wanted to be caught before it was too late. 

After a while, he heard the soft sounds of your breath against his bare chest and smiled softly. This was the only way you could sleep, with him next to you. Dick promised he was going to help you, and help is what you were going to get. 

Of course, Dick got the biggest lecture from Bruce, for the millionth time about why we don’t flaunt secret identities around. But Dick knew he could trust you. What he wanted to know was if you could trust him. 

Dick knew that death and loss made people do crazy things, he had been down that path before when his parents died, and again when Jason died. It was a hard one to come back from, but Dick planned on being there for you every step of the way, for as long as you would let him.

@bluejay-the-geek @niggxrette @offendedfishnoises @restwellsoon @littleredwing89