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chillian-murphy · 8 months ago

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Experimental Treatment

SUMMARY: after numerous failed attempts to treat your anxiety, you enroll in an experimental drug trial run by Dr. Jonathan Crane (OR: how you became Dr. Crane's bimbo fuckslave)

WORD COUNT: 5.4k

WARNINGS/ADDITIONAL INFO: Smut 🔞, dub con, drugging, mention of anxiety disorders, bimboification, brainwashing kinda??, breast/nipple play, oral sex (m receiving), piv, Jonathan is manipulative and possibly a nevernude

beta'd by @pawnsong

You shifted nervously as you sat in Dr. Crane’s office for the first time. You’d tried numerous treatments for your trauma-related anxiety, but nothing seemed to work. It had been about a year since you had been beaten, tied up, and left for dead in a supply closet by one of Gotham’s many aspiring criminals, and you haven’t been able to eat, sleep, or generally care for yourself since. When you heard about an experimental treatment study happening at the local university, you enrolled as quickly as you could, moving faster than you’d ever moved in your life. You knew there was no one therapy or pill that could fix everything, but at this point, you were desperate for any sort of relief that could be offered.

The man that entered was much younger than you expected; you always pictured the doctor running a drug trial to be much older, maybe even a bit weathered from the stress of working in such a nightmarish city. Instead, he was small, slender, and had an almost angelic baby face.

“Tell me about what brings you here today.” He sat down without looking up from his chart.

“It should all be there, but to summarize: about a year ago I was assaulted and have been experiencing extreme anxiety, depression, and nightmares since. I can’t eat more than a few bites of food at a time without vomiting, and can’t remember the last time I’ve had a few night’s sleep. I’ve tried talk therapy and a slew of medications, including SSRIs, SNRIs, and benzodiazepines, but nothing seems to work.”

By this point, you’ve gone over your symptoms and previous treatments so many times that you had a well rehearsed script you relied on when recounting them. You worried that listing everything off in such a matter-of-fact way would lead people to think you’re just seeking drugs for recreational reasons, but fuck, what didn’t you worry about these days?

“As I’m sure you were told when you were applying for the trial, my background is in pharmacology and I’ll be putting you on an experimental drug of my own creation. I won’t bore you with the specifics of how it works, but you’ll receive a fast-acting injection once a week, and it should calm your nerves and improve your sleep. The exact effects aren’t well documented as of yet, which is why you’re here. All of the proper consent forms should be in order, so if you like, I can start you on the injections here and now.”

“Yes, please, whatever gets me my life back the soonest.” As nervous as you were to be injected with something you knew almost nothing about, part of you was almost giddy to be given something that might finally work.

“The drug can have some sedative effects, so no driving, at least for the first 24 hours. Do you have someone to pick you up? Family, a roommate? A boyfriend, perhaps?” Dr. Crane continued to inform as he prepared a syringe.

“I took public transport. Not a lot of people in my life.” you chuckled nervously.

“All alone. What a shame.”

Before you could mentally register his comment as odd, you were startled by the coldness of an alcohol wipe rubbing against your arm and the sharpness of a needle being inserted.

“You should start feeling the effects in about 5-10 minutes. I’m sending you home with a packet detailing what you should expect, as well as my phone number if anything unusual happens. It might be difficult, but I want you to take detailed notes on everything you experience, and we’ll review them when you come in for your next dosage.”

It proved a bit difficult to make your way home as the medication’s effects set in. Your body felt heavy and sleepy, and you had trouble concentrating; even reading the familiar train schedule felt impossible. Thankfully, some sort of muscle memory kicked in and you made it home safely, letting your brain turn off and follow your usual routine out of habit alone. The mindlessness felt weirdly comforting, you barely realized that you had moved from your spot on the subway until you were at your front door, fishing around for your keys in your bag.

The rest of the night went by pretty uneventfully, following your usual routine, with the addition of writing down your response to the medications in the journal included with Dr. Crane had provided you with. For the first night in as long as you could remember, you settled into a deep, dreamless sleep that lasted the full night.

*********************************************************

A week had passed since your initial meeting, and you were in Dr. Crane’s office again to go over how the medication had affected you and to receive your next dosage. You brought the journal you had taken notes in, although you were unsure how helpful it would be since you had mostly jotted down bullet points instead of writing down your experiences in-depth. It was the most you could do, since you were having trouble concentrating after you were dosed. Shit, that was another thing you should’ve written down.

The doctor entered quietly and greeted you with a tense smile, the kind of polite grimace you’d make upon accidentally making eye contact with a stranger in public. He motioned for you to hand over your journal of notes as he sat, and you passed it to him while trying to avoid looking at him as much as possible. He had never done anything to make you uncomfortable aside from being a bit terse, but he still gave you an uneasy feeling.

“Let’s look at what you’ve written down. Your notes are brief, but at least they’re organized.”

Once again, terse. It was tempting to want to interrupt and explain how hard it was to focus on writing every little thing down when you kept forgetting where you were or what you were doing, often wandering into a room only to realize you couldn’t remember why you went there, but speaking up felt like too much trouble all of a sudden. After all, wasn’t Dr. Crane being soooo nice, offering to help you with your anxiety?

You had no idea where that thought came from. Weird.

“Grogginess, that’s to be expected, the drug was designed with sedative qualities. Forgetfulness, once again, not uncommon. Sleeping through the night? Good. Breast growth? I’d like you to elaborate.”

“I started getting my appetite back and gaining weight—“

“Weight gain is typical if you’re eating more regularly than you were before,” he interjected before you could finish. God, did he think you were fucking stupid?

“But I only seemed to gain weight around my breasts and hips.”

“Are you saying you’d rather have a double chin and beer belly?”

“Well, no…”

“Then I don’t see what the problem is.”

“I can’t fit into any of my old bras. Bras are expensive.” It really felt like talking to a brick wall.

“Understood.” He scribbled a few quick notes before looking back up at you. “Is there anything else?”

“Not that I can think of.” Relief sank in when you realized this meant that your meeting was wrapping up.

“Then I’ll give you your next dose and let you go. Please continue to take notes, even if they are brief. Any information you can give me is immeasurably helpful.” He gave you what must’ve been his version of a reassuring smile, tight and forced, before motioning for you to roll up your sleeve and receive your next shot. A cold jab in the arm was administered, and you were on your way.

*********************************************************

The next week passed largely without note, the intense brain fog from the first dosage had lessened into a sort of ditzy forgetfulness, which was still inconvenient but easier to live with. You misplaced things, forgot what you were doing, and lost track of time regularly, but somehow it all seemed easier to just laugh off. Had it not been for a reminder on your phone, you probably would’ve forgotten all about your weekly meeting with Dr. Crane.

The usual unease you felt around him was gone; you were almost looking forward to talking to him. He was the only one you could really talk to about everything that had happened since starting the trial, and how good you’ve been feeling, how your racing thoughts have slowed, and how sometimes you didn’t seem to think at all. It was a relief you never knew existed.

You were so caught up in thinking about not thinking that you hadn’t noticed Dr. Crane entering, sitting down, or speaking to you until he cleared his throat impatiently.

“I said, do you have your notes from this week?”

“Oh, right, here.” You casually tossed over your journal, even though your notes were even more scant than the first week. You had written just three things:

boobs keep growing

really sensitive

really horny!!

thoughts not happening

“This is the second time you’ve mentioned your breasts.” It didn’t take long for Dr. Crane to skim your brief notes. “Would you mind showing them to me?”

Despite his relaxed posture, his stare felt about a thousand times more intense as you squirmed in your seat.

“That feels inappropriate.”

“I’m a medical professional. I assure you, I’m only trying to verify what you’ve reported.”

Cautiously, you pulled the front of your top down, exposing yourself to him. To your surprise, doing this didn’t make you feel nervous or vulnerable, despite always feeling rather timid about being seen naked in the past. Showing off for the doctor felt weirdly <i>right</i>, like the best thing you could do in any situation would be to do what he says.

He scooted forward on his wheeled office chair, leaning in to examine you closer, never losing the icily neutral look on his face. It’s not that you wanted him to leer, but something, anything other than stony professionalism would’ve gone a long way, especially as he reached out to touch you.

“You’ve gone up… two, maybe three cup sizes? Have you taken any measurements?” He cupped your round, heavy breast lightly, as if to evaluate it. His hand was surprisingly warm, you always assumed that his cold personality would extend to his touch, and that being handled by him would be like being prodded by a metal instrument.

“I dunno… enough that men have started being nicer to me.” Measuring hadn’t even occurred to you. A lot of things stopped occurring to you. It was so much easier just letting yourself not think.

“And you said they’re sensitive.” Gentle cupping had turned into squeezing, firm enough to make you aware of just how strong his hands are. You wanted to moan and lean into his touch, but you didn’t want to make things any more awkward than they already were.

“Yes” you squeaked out. “Really sensitive.”

“You also wrote down that you were, in your own words, really horny. Now, I’m going to need some elaboration, is that an increase in sex drive, or more like constant arousal? I need you to be as descriptive as possible.” He rolled your nipple between his fingers before turning his attention to your other breast, giving it the same treatment.

“It’s both. I’m just… always horny, and I come so much harder now. Sometimes I sneak off during work to rub myself in the bathroom. I can’t help it, it just feels so good, so much better than it did before.” You knew it was for the study, but telling him this much, especially while he touched you like this, felt… weird, like it shouldn’t be happening. But you didn’t want it to stop.

“Are you aroused right now?” If your brain wasn’t clouded by how much you were turned on, you would notice the subtle smirk on his face. Instead, you just nodded eagerly.

“Now, I’ll have to stop touching you so I can write all this down. You’ve given me some crucial information, and as a thank you, you’re welcome to grind against my shoe and get yourself off while I record everything you just told me.” He casually extended his leg as an invitation.

You dropped to your knees promptly, bare breasts bouncing with every movement, and stared up at him dumbly as you straddled his foot. He barely glanced at you while he jotted notes down, even as you rubbed yourself against the shiny black leather of his shoe. It didn’t take long at all for you to climax, and when your orgasm hit you, it hit you so hard that it was honest-to-god disorienting. It took you a moment to remember where you were as you shuddered and fell backwards to the floor.

This was enough to finally get Dr. Crane’s attention. You stared back up at him with big, doe eyes as you finally realized how bizarre and even <i>wrong</i> it was for a doctor to grope you and encourage you to masturbate in front of him.

“Good girl. Cover yourself and let me give you your next dose.”

The faint bit of praise sent shocks down your spine as you pulled your top back over your breasts and climbed back into your seat, and the way Dr. Crane touched you as he administered the injection felt gentler than usual, almost tender. As soon as the drug entered your bloodstream, any apprehension you had about what just happened quickly disappeared.

*********************************************************

“These… aren’t notes in any way, shape or form.” Dr. Crane rubbed his temples in frustration as he looked at the page of doodles you handed him, mostly hearts, stars, and smiley faces.

“I couldn’t think of anything to write. I thought I would make it pretty instead.” you shrugged as you sat with your legs folded in a criss-cross on the couch in his office, not noticing or caring that the position hiked up your already short skirt in a way that revealed your lacy panties. It was true, you couldn’t remember a single thought, new effect, or even what you did from day to day over the past week.

“If you can’t record and report how the drugs are affecting you, you won’t be of any use to the trial and we’ll have to take you off the drug.” he chided, as if explaining himself to a small child. “Because right now, you’re just wasting my time.”

“But I like the drug! I feel better!” you whined, rocking back and forth and pouting for emphasis. “I’ll be good. I promise. Just tell me what to do.”

“Can you tell me anything? Anything at all?” His tone was becoming more condescending, to the point where it got through to even your druggy little brain. He stared at you, daring you to say something, but all you could do was stare back at him dumbly. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’ll have the nurses prepare the outtake forms. I wish you could have been more useful to me.” He spoke curtly as he stood and gathered his belongings, not even dignifying you with eye contact. You were nothing but a broken tool to be discarded.

“But I need this!” You desperately attempted to stand and follow him as he left, but were unable to unfold your legs and spilled on the floor, catching the leg of his pants and staring back up at him with big, pleading eyes.

You were desperate, you were pathetic, you were suddenly useful again.

“I’m surprised you’re this determined to stay in the trial. I suppose we do have one last option: since you’re unable to record your own data, I will have to watch you and take notes myself. I have a spare room in my apartment that you can move into, which should be more comfortable than being committed to the hospital and allow me more access to observe you. Is that something you would consent to?”

You nodded eagerly, although you’d agree to anything as long as it meant not going back to the anxious, overthinking mess of a person that you were before. It was so much simpler being simple.

“I’m taking a big risk on you. I need you to do something for me, to show you’re serious about wanting to continue with the trial.” He gestured towards the growing bulge in his pants, which was mere inches from your face. You stared silently, not sure he was inferring, but your mouth instinctively watered and dropped open when he nudged your head towards his clothed dick.

You pawed at his tented trousers until he got impatient and undid the zipper himself and freed his erection from his boxer briefs, and you quickly got to work bobbing your head over his length, lavishing the head with your tongue. Your eyes watered as you pushed as much of his cock down your throat as you could, making yourself gag lightly but never enough to deter you. You didn’t care that drool was dribbling down your chin, Dr. Crane’s cock was all that mattered.

He grasped a fistful of your hair, reinforcing the rhythm of your movements, and shoving you further down on his cock. No matter how visibly uncomfortable you were, you never pushed back or struggled, you just accepted your place as a living fucktoy. Mascara was running down your cheeks and your skin was flushed and glassy with sweat, almost looking like the plasticky sheen of a blow-up doll.

Dr. Crane grunted as he came in spurts down your throat, still tender from the rough treatment. You didn’t waste a single drop of what he gave you, and ran your tongue over his slit to collect any remaining seed. Once you swallowed everything, you wiped the saliva from your face and smiled up at him sweetly.

“Can we go home now?”

*********************************************************

You had lost count of how many days it had been since Dr. Crane brought you home, in fact, most of your life outside of the past few weeks had been something of a blur. It didn’t matter, though, as being his pretty little pet didn’t require you to think much. You spent most of your days lounging about, watching porn, staring out the window, or oohing and aahing over the pretty clothes he brought home for you. It took him a while to settle on a style when he replaced your wardrobe, dressing you in everything from latex minidresses to 1950s housewife apparel, but eventually found that he favored soft, feminine babydolls in light colors like pink and white.

You were admiring the ruffled hem of the slip you were wearing when you heard him unlocking the door to his apartment, and you immediately rushed over to greet him. Seeing him was the best part of your day, and you couldn’t wait to sit in his lap and talk to him about your busy day of watching yourself edge in front of the mirror.

It had become something of a routine, he would settle into his favorite recliner after coming home from work, and you’d straddle him with your breasts in his face while he felt you up and vented about whatever was bothering him. His job at the university was soooo stressful, apparently conducting experiments on unwitting students is “frowned upon,” whatever that meant. You were always happy to make him feel better.

“…and the dean can’t even appreciate the validity of my work. Opening up the skull of a live subject is the most reliable way to observe changes in the brain, regardless of whether or not the ethics board likes it.” You had no idea what he was even talking about, but you did your best to seem sympathetic, hugging his neck and pulling his head into your chest.

“My day was hard, too. My vibrator stopped working and I had to rub myself by hand.”

“Did you try changing the batteries?”

You thought about what he said for a few seconds and fell into a fit of giggles.

“Duh! Batteries go in the vibrator! You’re so smart, you always think of the best things.”

“That’s why I do all the thinking in the relationship. You just look pretty and keep your holes ready.” He frowned at you in faux concern, as if you were capable of having thoughts of your own.

“I do keep my holes ready!” You bounced excitedly in his lap. You were so, so good at having holes and keeping them ready. Dr. Crane even told you so.

“Wanna show me how nice and ready they are?" his hands skimmed over your body, from the top of your waist down to your thighs and then around back to your ass, which he squeezed firmly, making you gasp softly. You raised the hem of your slip and pulled your panties to the side, revealing your pussy, which was wet from edging all day. You were never allowed to let yourself come while he was gone, that was a special privilege that only he was allowed to give you.

“Beautiful. And your ass?”

You rose from his lap, turned around, and bent over to show him the plug you’ve had in for the past hour.

“I started with the small one and put the bigger one in when you texted me, just like you asked." The plugs always felt weird and you didn't like the bigger ones, but if Dr. Crane wanted you to wear them, then obviously there was a good reason. He’s so handsome and smart, you’d do anything he said.

“Good girl." His praise made your heart sing as he fucked the toy in and out of you. He knew anal play frustrated you, and it was so cute to watch as you tried not to squirm as the bulbous plug disappeared in your ass. Maybe he’d lock your pussy away in a chastity belt and make you masturbate anally all day instead of your usual edging.

Dr. Crane could hardly believe how much his little experiment had changed you. When he started the trial, it was mainly to indulge his curiosity about how the antidote to his fear toxin would affect people with no fear toxin exposure, and most of the other participants reacted to it the same way they would to any other common anxiolytic, save for one particularly unfortunate person who had their fear response reduced so drastically that they walked into oncoming traffic without realizing it was dangerous. But you? You turned into the perfect fuckdoll: always aroused, eager to please, and too oblivious to notice the strange hours he kept as both a professor and as Scarecrow.

Of course, there were some down sides: he had hoped to mold you into something of a stepford wife, not only taking care of his needs in the bedroom but other domestic duties as well. Yet after your third time nearly setting the kitchen on fire while trying to cook a simple meal, he had to accept that you had simply become too airheaded to trust with anything but sex.

“Can we fuck now? My pussy needs you." You whined, interrupting the train of thought that had pulled Dr. Crane’s focus away from you.

“Good girls don't whine like that, sweetheart. I could fuck you, but for that I think I’ll make you wait until after dinner.” He chided. You were so much fun to toy with when you got desperate.

"But I am a good girl! Let me show you.” You pouted and begged.

“If you’re an extra good girl, you’ll be quiet while I’m cooking dinner and then we can fuck.” His tone was equal parts syrupy and condescending, “if not, you can spend the rest of the night gagged and locked in your cage. The choice is yours.”

Not wanting to spend the night locked in a dog crate, you crossed your arms and sulked, but nevertheless obeyed as you sunk into the couch. Your needy little pussy was aching, but you had to be a good girl for Dr. Crane. Even if it was mean and bad and unfair and… Oh? There’s a plate being placed in front of you, dinner must be ready already.

As soon as Dr. Crane sat down beside you, you snuggled into his side. Physical affection wasn’t something he was used to before bringing you home, and it took him some time to come around to it, but now he was actually starting to enjoy the amount of cuddles and kisses you desired from him. Spooning on the couch while trying to eat wasn’t the most practical thing in the world, although you were determined to find a way to bury your face in his chest while also stuffing it with mashed potatoes.

“Someone’s needy tonight,” he teased as he stroked your hair.

You just hummed contentedly and nuzzled your face into his neck. He was warm and smelled nice, like everything in the apartment. The one time you tried opening the window, it smelled like rot and gasoline, and made you sad and scared as it filled your head with vague memories of your old life.

Dinner passed comfortably and quietly, even as you squirmed to find a position that let you eat and snuggle at the same time. Dr. Crane’s attention was largely on the nightly news playing on the television, nodding along with the crime report. The news was mostly boring to you, except for that one weird time that a woman who looked like you and had your name was reported missing. Dr. Crane told you not to worry about it, though, so you didn’t.

“I’d say you’ve been a very good girl this evening,” Dr. Crane shifted to face you. “Would you like to join me in the bedroom?”

“What’s in the bedroom?” You stared blankly.

“Sex, sweetheart. I’m asking you if you would like to have sex.” Dr. Crane rubbed his temples. Perhaps drugging your brains out but leaving you just smart enough to talk was a mistake.

Sex! Sex was exactly what you wanted! Sex was what you dreamed about all day, edging your pussy and thinking of Dr. Crane. Your face lit up, which he took as a sign to lead you to the bedroom.

As you approached the bed, he toyed with the strap of your chemise, gliding it off your shoulder so it hung suggestively.

“I want this off.” His voice was soft, but his unblinking gazes held all the authority in the world over you.

“Yes, sir.” You made quick work of the garment, pulling it over your head and flinging it to the floor.

“Panties, too.”

Those silently slid off next, leaving you completely nude while he remained fully clothed.

Dr. Crane’s breath stilled for a moment as he took in the sight in front of him. It only took a few weeks of being dosed for your body to reshape into a bouncy hourglass, with full breasts, a slim, defined waist, and a round ass with thighs to match. A soft, trimmed patch of hair adorned your pussy, just above the lips, with everything else kept bare. Occasionally you’d have your pubic hair waxed into a heart, which he found ridiculous, but was easy enough to overlook if it kept you happy.

Once he was done drinking in the sight of your body, he gently shoved you onto the bed and guided your legs open, settling in between. His hand made its way to your eager little pussy, spreading the lips and pressing inside, making you shudder in pleasure.

“Have you been this wet for me all day, baby?” His voice now a low rasp, thick with desire.

“Mmmhmm,” you hummed in affirmation, too lost in the sensation to form words.

“God, you’re good for me.” He growled as he dived on top of you, kissing your neck and fondling your breasts. You couldn’t help but moan when he rolled your nipple between his fingers, tugging lightly. You were always responsive, but especially when he played with your tits.

He trailed soft bites down from your neck to your nipples, gently nipping at any skin he could grasp between his teeth. Once he got to your chest, he got more aggressive, sinking his teeth into you until you whimpered in pain. Your breasts were his favorite. He had never given much thought to the “tits or ass?” question before, but now that he could come home to a soft, inviting pair to play with and suck, he knew where his preference lied.

Feeling satisfied that your nipples were now swollen and pink from both arousal and abuse, Dr. Crane removed himself from on top of you to once again admire your needy body and tease your cunt. Even when he was just fucking you with his fingers, you moaned and rolled your hips as if it was the best thing you’ve ever felt. Some nights it could drag on for hours, he would stimulate you with just his hands or a toy only to withdraw before you could climax, giving pleasure and taking it away over and over to see just how desperate he could make you. It was no secret that Dr. Crane was a sadist, and watching you squirm, cry, and beg was almost as good to him as coming inside of you.

Tonight was different, though, he wanted to fuck. He pulled his fingers out of you and freed himself from his trousers and underwear, making a show of rubbing his cock with the wet essence covering his fingers as he lined himself up with your tight, eager hole. He pushed himself in slowly, savoring how hot and slick you felt around him.

Your life revolved around his cock. If you weren’t sucking on it or being filled by it, you were fantasizing about the next time you would have it inside of you. And now that you were being given exactly what you were craving, you couldn't get enough, grinding back against Dr. Crane every time his hips met yours.

No longer satisfied with the languid pace he had set earlier, Dr. Crane pulled back slightly, helping to lift your hips and push your legs towards your chest, essentially folding you in half so he could penetrate you deeper and harder. His new rhythm was merciless as his fingers dug into your thighs, pistoning his hips and fucking you like his life depended on it. Whatever frustration he felt with his job, his colleagues, and his extracurricular activities, he was now taking out on your pussy and all you could do was grip the sheets and take it.

Between the powerless feeling reinforced by his rough treatment and the way his cock was hitting your g-spot, you couldn't help but let your eyes roll back in ecstasy. You were fulfilling your ultimate purpose as Dr. Crane’s pet: a pretty toy to play with and look at, and an inviting set of holes to fuck. You could come from the thought alone if you were allowed to orgasm without permission. You met each of his thrusts with short, staccato moans as you arched your back beneath him, sticking out your chest as your breasts bounced with every hammering movement.

Dr. Crane’s breath grew ragged as he approached his own climax, and his motions changed from a fluid rhythm to jerky, rough thrusts.

“Play with your clit. Come for me."

Finally given the permission you’ve been needing all evening, you began rubbing yourself vigorously as he continued ramming his cock into you. It didn't take much to push you over the edge, and as your orgasm hit, you moaned so loud and luridly that it would make most seasoned pornographers blush.

Dr. Crane wasn't nearly as noisy as he joined you in orgasmic bliss, panting heavily as he filled you with his seed. Once he found himself thoroughly drained, he collapsed next to you and silently attempted to catch his breath as you rolled over and snuggled up to his chest.

“Let's go again!" you excitedly chirped while reaching for his softened cock.

“Later, sweetheart, I need to rest.” He had no idea how you recovered so quickly. "Why don't you play with yourself while you're full of my come? I know you like that.”

"It's not the same,” you begged. "I need your cock.”

"How about this,” Dr. Crane's clinical doctor voice was back. "You can warm my cock in your mouth while I grade papers, and once I'm good and ready, I’ll fuck your throat while you ride one of your dildos.”

You made a happy little squeal as you smiled and hugged him tightly. He took such good care of you, keeping you so well-fucked. You had everything you could ever want: you were safe, you were loved, you were happy. And all you had to do was let your brain be turned into cotton candy.

#cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut

284 notes · View notes

glitter-stained · 7 months ago

Note

As someone who is very much not well-versed in medical things/psychology, I have no idea how to research this efficiently, so, would you say that Jason would in any way benefit from being on some sort of medication, like anti-depressants or something like that? Not in a way of "oooh that would fix him and make him not murderous" or whatever, but to improve some of the very clear mental health issues that affect him in his day-to-day life, first and foremost.

Oh I love that one! Answering quickly for once because I've already dissected it in my head

Fuck yeah he would benefit from medication. Of course, I'm neither a psychiatrist nor a pharmacist, but I did have classes on neuropharmacology and it was one of my favourite things to study, so I'm confident I'm not saying random shit but if someone in there

So- of course, it depends on the era, but there are three molecules I'd consider useful for him :

> Rebirth Jason:

-sertralin

> any and all Jasons:

- lamotrigin

-propanolol

Sertralin

So, the antidepressants. Basically, sertralin is an SSRI, which means it works by altering your brain chemistry to heighten the chances that your neurons will get the possibility to transmit serotonin, a neurotransmitter (brain molecule) that is linked with happiness (very very basically. Please don't misunderstand this as "sertralin/serotonin makes you happy".) I'll admit I haven't read enough of rebirth Jason to establish whether he fits the criteria for a characterized depressive episode rather, but he already displays, at minima, subclinical signs of depression. One reason why I don't need to wait for an established diagnosis to say I think trying out antidepressants would be a good idea is that Jason is suicidal as fuck (has made several attempts on his life + documented suicidal ideation... and at least according to Bruce) has been for a very long time.) This makes it a total emergency.

Now if we're considering post Gotham war Rebirth Jason, this guy has an anxiety disorder (like, I wish Batman #148 had shown Jason abusing benzos so bad.) The thing is, Joker might have made Jason "functional" enough not to be paralyzed by fear in Man Who Stopped Laughing (and hey! Laughter is a good strategy to regulate anxiety. Thanks, Joker.), but that is very much not enough: as Joker says, Jason still feels that anxiety, he's just not having outwards panic attacks about it. The thing with anxiety (aside from the risks of such extreme chronic stress) is that 1) some SSRI, like sertralin, have a positive effect on symptoms and 2) if untreated, it very often leads to depressive symptomatology (kinda like fatigue from all the stress). All of this to say if a patient has anxiety, in my country it's recommended to give them antidepressants, both to soothe the anxiety and to decrease the risk of developing depression. So yeah, I would definitely give him antidepressants!!

Lamotrigin

Listen.

Listen. I know what you're thinking. "Why would you recommend giving Jason an anti-epileptic? He doesn't have epilepsy." He doesn't. Stay with me.

So, lamotrigin is originally an anti-epileptic. However they realized that using smaller doses could make it into a thymoregulator for bipolar disorder (I and II). Now, a thymoregulator is a medicine that people with bipolar take to regulate their emotions. Bipolar disorders are characterized by three phases: mania(or hypomania), depressive phase, and euthymia. Mania (or hypomania) is characterized by elevated mood and/or agressivity (though the most characteristic of mania is still elation/euphoria) that can be associated with overestimation of abilities, augmentation of risk taking, sometimes psychotic symptoms (such as grandiose delusions, etc.) Depressive phases are the symptoms of a characterized depressive episode, but in the context of bipolar (they're often very severe, and can sometimes take on melancholic and/or psychotic characteristics). They're not rapid mood swings: manic and depressive episodes can sometimes last weeks. And then there is euthymia, which is "normal, non-pathologic mood". So basically, your mood is a spectrum from "so high it's harmful and dangerous to you" to "so low it's harmful and dangerous to you", with euthymia in the middle as "neither too high nor too low". The goal of thymoregulators like lamotrigin is to keep the patient in euthymia. That doesn't mean that the person will never feel sad or happy, this isn't a mood dampener: it's just that they won't have to leave with the fear that every stressor or sad moment will send them spiralling in a depressive episode, or that they have to be careful not to feel too much joy in case in tumbles into euphoria. It's just a way to compensate the chemical dysfunction in the brain that makes it so incredibly hard and painful to emotionally regulate.

Now, as we said, mood is a spectrum, and in bipolar, it's like you're swinging from one end of the spectrum to the other. But it's not perfectly symetrical, not for everyone. For example, you can have one patient who has very high mania and severe depressive episodes, but you could also have patients with high mania and less severe depressive symptoms, or patients with severe depressive symptoms and hypomania rather than mania. This is why we need different types of thymoregulators! Each thymoregulator's effect span can be situated on the mood spectrum. For example, lithium works best for patients where there's a symetrical dysregulation (so the mood goes about as high in the maniac phase as it goes low in the depression phase), and lamotrigin works best with patients whose disorder tends more towards the lower end of the mood spectrum (ie patients with very severe depressive episodes and whose high episodes tend more towards hypomania. (That's classically what we get with cohort studies, but of course every patient is unique! This is why it sometimes takes many tries before finding A) the right molecule for the patient and B) the right dosage for the molecule, which requires evaluating and re-evaluating with the psychiatrist as the treatment is established, blood draws to figure out absorption etc... It's a very careful balance to find.)

Now, it's a hc I've seen a bunch, but I don't personally hc Jason as having a bipolar disorder. So why do I think lamo could help him?

As we've seen, lamo's job is basically to help regulate negative emotions. To which, someone had the brilliant idea to realise hey, there are other disorders in which there are major issues with regulating negative emotions because of alterations to brain chemistry, one of the best-known being PTSD! So they conducted studies and it turns out, some thymoregulators (including lamo), in lower doses than those used in treatment for bipolar, are efficient in supporting emotional regulation in PTSD! It's pretty recent, but professionals have started to prescribe those thymoregulators to people with PTSD, and I for one think it's really really cool (partially because research in ptsd is doing amazing rn, and partially because my doctor decided i had enough trauma to qualify for prescribing lamo- i didn't necessarily agree with him, but of all the medication I've been prescribed it's the one that helped the most and I'm really really happy about it.) So with all of that said, I hope it makes sense why Jason, whose brand of complex PTSD (which is imo clearly associated with negative emotional dysregulation) might benefit from lamotrigin or a similar thymoregulator.

#ask #jason todd #red hood #dc #robin ii #jason todd meta #the jason todd psychology analysis meta #dc comics #let's talk meds!!!

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writerformanymuses · 10 months ago

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them: he manipulated them, killed their daughter, and fucked their heads. he's the villain! he's a sick twisted villain!

me: the 500+ year old vampire? with severe trauma? and zero support for his very obvious neurodivergence? the child sex slave? the dogmatically groomed prized possession? the cult victim? the 'has to figure out how to please people and blend in to survive and avoid further abuse' character? the 'regimented and desperate for order and sense of purpose so yeah he tries to do the job he is forced into to the letter' coven leader? the 'frequently abandoned, misused, and neglected so clearly he's developed frantic control issues to not lose his only sense of stability and comfort' one?

next day edit: hold on, i'm not done. i'm sitting here at lunch the next day and i really can not shake that some people do not get the point.

it's not that i'm gonna excuse villainous behavior. the tiny gremlin did all that shit, and his ass is gonna go in time out, but TO ME, the whole fucking point of the show is that no one is really the villain.

that's because they are ALL FUCKING AWFUL. all differently bad, all differently broken. the closest thing to a saint we got is madeline, so sure go off calling her the only good one im in agreement, but they are ALL A GODDAMN NIGHTMARE.

the beauty of this entire series, particularly the books for me but i do love the show, is that the nuance and wiggle room between monstrosities and man is the poetry of the story. it is beautiful that these creatures have this tiny gasps of heart and happiness and hope despite who and what they are.

i can scream into the void all week about armand and claudia and daniel bc those are the characters i most identify with bc of my own personal trauma. HOWEVER, that does not take away my ability to see that EVERYONE needs therapy.

put their asses on a vampiric SSRI, tell them to all fuck eachother and get the orgy over with, and then have an honest to god conversation about their feelings.

DAMN.

okay anyway, going back to work.

#I am fully aware he's in the wrong #but as someone who is also a survivor and is autistic #I just #can we try to see this series isn't not black and white maybe #also maybe ask yourself why you will forgive Lestat for his shit but not Armand but whatever #I'm going back in my hole now #the vampire Armand #Armand iwtv #iwtv #interview with the vampire

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kruegerspillow · 12 hours ago

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worth waiting for ; benjamin poindexter

creator's note: first time writing for deex woohooo let's see how it goes! (shoot me rn i hate loving this man...or maybe love hating this man. dunno)... thinking of making a continuation of this but huuuh idk

warnings: angst with comfort... kinda, mentions of mental health, reader takes pills (SSRIs), blood/injury, grief, psychological manipulation, implied PTSD, strong language, trauma, not proofread.

word count: 3.8k

It was a stormy night.

Nobody warned you of the rain that was yet to come. Not even the weather app on your phone. But inconveniences didn't really matter anymore—not when your life is one itself.

Droplets of water began to fall one by one. It slid down from the windows and slowly started falling in little groups of water. They formed an unsteady rhythm against roofs, concrete, and glass.

You had your hands inside of the pocket of your hoodie, seeking warmth from the humidity around you. You walked through the rain alone, boots splashing against puddles of water. Isolation has been a part of you for a while. Ever since the death of Foggy Nelson—a friend to you, a brother to Murdock—you never really had anyone to yourself.

Not even Dex. Benjamin Poindexter.

Because he wasn't yours.

He was Fisk's. To control. To order around like he was just a shell of a man. He wasn't loved by him, not even close. He was just another pawn. A worthy one, to say the least.

Fisk wanted him alone. He kept Dex all to himself. He isolated Dex from the rest of the world, because to him—they block his path—they become a liability and make Dex soft. Weak. Distracted.

So he stood alone, and so did you.

The rain had soaked your hoodie. It clung onto the skin beneath the soft cloth and made it feel like you were stripped from your clothes. Bare. One of your hands reached up to the hoodie and tugged it away from your side, but you didn't make a fuss out of it. Didn't complain or mumble under your breath. You just sighed and continued walking through the empty streets, where ghosts float around and flowers wither.

You took a turn, now walking through a small alleyway. It smelled of piss and garbage—but that didn't stop you—nothing did. You just held your breath and pray you don't taste bile in the back of your throat. After a few seconds of holding your breath, you escaped the stench. A small, weak noise squeaked from your throat as soon as you took a deep breath.

You stood in front of the building of your apartment.

The automatic door opened, and you entered the building. Your hands reached up and pull the hood down from over your head. You strolled to the elevator, pressed the button to your floor and entered the confined space as soon as the doors opened. The music hummed in the elevator, and you found yourself already thinking of all the things you'd do once you get back to your apartment.

Shower, eat, sleep.

The usual, boring schedule. This was a regular day of your life—where chaos was stripped away and boredom creeped up—you found yourself pulled into this… cycle. The door opened with a ding and you walked into your apartment. You took the keycard from the pocket of your jeans and opened the door.

Then, you continued with your routine.

Until you didn't.

You were drying your hair when the knocks from the door came. You mumbled “wait” under your breath, as if the person on the other side of the door could hear it.

You left your bedroom and stood behind the door, peeking through the peephole—expecting some kind of mail or a random kid ding-dong ditching on you.

But it was neither of them.

And your heart dropped. Quite literally. You felt yourself tense up at the sight before you. Dex. Eyes hollow, scar on his cheek and blood sliding down from his temple and dripping down from his chin. He was standing there, waiting patiently for you to open the door, as if he'd heard your footsteps and decided to wait, even if he was a little impatient inside.

“Fuck,” you mumbled underneath your breath.

You leaned away from the peephole, contemplating all of the choices. All of the things that you could do. Ignore him, open the door for him, punch him, call the police—how does one even prepare for a situation like this?

Before you could even decide, you found your hand sliding the chain off and twisting the knob without thinking.

There he was.

His eyes looked at you—truly looked at you—not staring through or staring ahead. He was soaking in the sight before him, and you were too. He was bulkier than the last time you'd seen him—his skin was paler and the pupils in his eyes lacked anything behind it.

“Hi,” he greeted, his voice rough from the lack of use.

You wanted to shut the door and punch yourself in the face for getting yourself into a situation like this. You wanted to shove him away and jump out from your window.

But he was here, and you had already opened the door for him.

“Hi, Dex.” You greeted back. Far too casual.

His mouth parted, as if he wanted to say something else. He wanted to say something—an apology or some kind of reunion speech—but he didn't. He stopped himself before he could, and you stepped aside so he could enter the room.

Dex stepped into the apartment, the scent of rain still clinging to his jacket, mixing with the damp, musty air of the hallway. He didn’t make a move to shake the water off, leaving tiny droplets trailing behind him as if he didn’t even care. You closed the door behind him, the sound of it echoing too loudly in the silence that filled the space between the two of you.

The apartment felt smaller now. A few feet from the door, and the tension was already suffocating. You didn’t say anything right away. You didn’t know what to say. A part of you wanted to yell at him, demand why the hell he was here, but another part, a much quieter part, feared that if you said anything too sharp, he might just snap.

He didn’t sit down, didn’t move around, just stayed there by the door like he didn’t know how to exist here, didn’t know where to place himself. His eyes were still on you, but there was no malice, no hatred in them—not anymore, at least. Just that endless blankness that you used to think was just a mask. But it wasn’t, was it? It was the real Dex.

His lips pressed together for a moment, and the quiet lingered until he finally spoke again. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

His voice was hoarse, almost like it had been a long time since he’d used it, a long time since he'd trusted anyone enough to speak. And that stung more than it should’ve. Because you knew what it meant—how alone he must’ve felt, how far gone he had to be to stand in front of you now, bloodied and broken.

“Do you want me to call someone?” You hated the words as soon as they left your mouth. It was a reflex, something you knew you were supposed to say, but it felt wrong, like you were pushing him away before you could even give him a chance.

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

Another silence. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen was louder than it had any right to be, the only sound in the room now besides your breathing. You wondered if you were making him uncomfortable. But you didn’t ask. You weren’t sure you were in a place to.

You glanced at the cut on his temple, the blood still fresh, darkened in streaks down his skin. “You need to clean up.”

He gave a brief nod, as though he was barely registering the injury at all, but didn’t move. He didn’t even seem to want to take his jacket off, like he was somehow attached to it. You caught yourself staring at the blood again, at the hollow look in his eyes, and you hated how you weren’t sure whether to help him or keep your distance.

“I’m not… I’m not staying,” he said, as if it mattered, as if it would somehow explain everything. He was already backing up a little, his eyes darting nervously around, unwilling to make himself too comfortable. “I just need… I just need a minute.”

The rain outside started up again, a soft patter against the windows. It reminded you of the way you used to be able to shut everything out with just the sound of falling rain. But now, the rhythm only highlighted the awkwardness of the moment, the desperation in the air, thick enough to make it hard to breathe.

You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to fix things between you. Between all of you. It wasn’t like you were friends anymore. It wasn’t like you ever really had been, not in the way people normally were. You had both just been caught up in the chaos—together, but never really together.

“I know,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you expected it to be. “Just… sit. I’ll get something for your head.”

He didn’t fight you as you moved past him, toward the kitchen, towards the only thing you could think to do. He slouched into the couch, all that weight pressing into the cushions as if his body couldn’t support itself anymore, his face turned away from you like he was ashamed to be seen. Or maybe like he didn’t even care. You grabbed a towel from the bathroom, wet it, and returned, standing in front of him with it.

He barely looked at you when you knelt down, and there was a moment where you thought he might push you away—where you thought he might resist your help—but he didn’t. He just sat there, eyes half-closed, letting you press the cloth to the gash on his temple.

The blood came off easily, but the bruising was already starting to form. The damage was done. Whatever had happened out there, it wasn’t just a physical wound. It wasn’t something a towel could clean.

“I’m not…” He tried again, his words breaking the silence between you. “I didn’t come here to make things harder.”

“I know.” You didn’t know if you did know, but you said it anyway, because it felt like the only thing you could offer him. It wasn’t the comfort he needed, but it was the closest thing you could give.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You finished cleaning the cut, your hands trembling ever so slightly as you pulled away. You stood up and took the towel back, suddenly unsure of what came next. Maybe you could kick him out. Maybe you should.

But you didn't.

“What happened?” You asked quietly, your voice a little softer this time.

Dex’s gaze flickered to you, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, but he didn’t look away. For a moment, you thought he might say nothing, like usual. Like he always did.

But then he spoke.

“I killed—”

“No, I meant what happened. With you. What did they do to you?”

A beat.

“Fisk… he didn’t want me anymore. I—he…” His voice broke for a moment, and he quickly shut it down, running a hand through his hair, as if to regain some kind of composure. “I was a weapon. That’s all I’ve ever been to him. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

There it was. The truth, raw and unfiltered. You weren’t sure what to say, how to respond to something that heavy, especially from him.

“I’m not a weapon,” Dex continued, his voice suddenly filled with an emotion you hadn’t heard from him in a long time—regret. “I’m not supposed to be.”

And then, for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw it. A crack in the armor. A hint of vulnerability. It made you want to reach out to him, but you couldn’t move. You were both too far gone for that.

Instead, you huffed. It almost sounded like a scoff—almost.

“No one's supposed to be a weapon.” You paused, “but they become one anyway. Not by choice, not really. Y'know that?” He didn’t answer.

You placed the towel aside and sat down on the floor beside him, looking down at the floor for a moment. Then, you leaned your head back—resting it on the couch before staring up at him. Looking at him, not waiting—just letting the moment pass.

“You’re not a good person.” The words left your mouth before you could stop it. But your voice—it held no judgement, just stating it—as if you didn't need any other reassurance. Then, the corner of your mouth twitched. You weren't smiling, but you weren't frowning either. Your eyes drifted away from his face and onto the ceiling, contemplating for a moment.

“But so am I.” You added.

The silence engulfed the conversation, and you found yourself sitting through this moment of silence. For once, life didn't feel like it was rushing you—life was just… there. No quick turns or sudden changes of plan. . His eyes roamed all over you, from the curve of your mouth to your wandering eyes. The words caught in his throat as if he didn't know how to say it out loud. He swallowed his saliva before leaning back on the couch. The silence was heavy. Always too heavy for him. But there was nothing else to say, no, not really. Even if something in the back of his mind screamed still at him to say something

He didn't.

Your eyes went back to meet his hollow ones. He was still looking at you. A gaze between emptiness and something close to admiration, maybe? You didn't know. But you didn't want to press, didn't want to push this into something further than it already is.

So, you rubbed a hand over your face and stood up from the floor.

“I'm gonna go make tea,” you mumbled to him, loud enough for him to decipher.

Dex didn’t answer. He just nodded once—barely noticeable—and let his gaze fall to the floor, like he was ashamed of something, but he hid it behind rage. Anger.

You moved to the kitchen, not bothering to turn on the overhead light. The soft amber glow under the cabinets was enough. Familiar. Quiet. You filled the kettle with water, the metallic hum of the faucet and clink of steel echoing too sharply in the quiet. The kettle clicked onto the stovetop and you flicked the burner on, letting the gas catch with a muted whoomph.

Steam hadn’t started yet, but you leaned against the counter anyway, arms folded, staring at nothing in particular. Just the way the condensation gathered on the kettle’s side, the way the blue flame flickered underneath. Normalcy in small doses. It was all you could cling to tonight.

Behind you, Dex hadn’t moved much. You could feel it, the heaviness of him on the couch like gravity had a stronger hold on him than it did on anyone else. Like the earth itself wanted to drag him under. And maybe he was tired of resisting it.

“Chamomile or peppermint?” you asked, voice neutral, like he wasn’t some psychopathic killer—like he was still the Dex that you’ve known.

He blinked slowly. “Whatever you're having.”

You grabbed the chamomile. Something about it felt right—something calm in the middle of a storm. You didn’t rush anything. You didn’t speak much, either. There wasn’t a single word that could make this easier. There was no quick fix. You knew that. He did too.

The kettle let out a soft whistle—not a shriek, just a whisper of pressure releasing—and you poured the hot water into the two chipped mugs you kept in the cabinet above the sink. One had a faded logo from some forgotten diner. The other had no logo at all. You picked the plain one for him.

When you returned to the living room, you found he was still sitting in the same position, like moving would make this real. Like if he held perfectly still, he wouldn’t fall apart.

You handed him the mug without saying anything. He took it carefully—fingers trembling slightly as he wrapped his hands around the warmth. You sat beside him, the edge of your thigh brushing his. Not intentional. Not entirely avoidable, either.

Steam curled between you.

He took a sip. Winced slightly. Maybe it was too hot. Maybe he wasn’t used to warmth anymore.

You both stared ahead now. The television was off. The curtains drawn. It felt like a liminal space—like the outside world didn’t exist, and all that did was this tiny apartment filled with ghosts and steam and silence.

“I wasn't sure if you'd come back,” you sighed in between sips. “Wasn't even sure if you'd be—uh, alive.”

His gaze flickered over to you again. Assessing. Analyzing. You didn't look at him, you were looking down at your cup of tea—shifting your attention elsewhere—not to the man beside you. He didn't reply, nor acknowledged your statement. He just looked at you and took another sip from the cup.

You were tense, clearly tense. Maybe from the tension, or even from him. From the consciousness that you'd been sitting beside a murderer. A trained assassin. And that it was wrong. It felt wrong. He didn't let that observation slip away from him.

Then, you placed your cup onto the table. Took something from your pocket. Something orange and slightly translucent. Shifted slightly to angle it away from him. Trying to picture everything as casual and nothing out of the pocket. He felt the suspicion rise and the gears inside of his head slowly turning, but he didn't say anything. Not yet.

Lexapro.

You opened the bottle, wiggled a few pills out of it, and took them in your mouth. You swallowed them dry.. Even if it left a bitter taste from your mouth and down to your throat. You pressed the lid back on and shoved it back into your pocket.

He watched. Brows furrowed, gaze shifting from blank to intense. Way too intense. Like you had been hiding something from him this whole time. Well, you were—and he had a million questions running through his mind. Few sounded more like accusations.

He didn’t say anything right away—but you felt it. The way his posture shifted just slightly, like he was trying not to react, like he was holding something in. His jaw clenched and unclenched, his knuckles whitening where they gripped the mug. That blankness was gone from his expression now—replaced with something tight and unreadable.

“Since when?” he asked finally, voice low and even. Too even.

You didn’t look at him. You were still staring at the empty space where your cup used to be, suddenly wishing you hadn’t done that in front of him. You weren’t ashamed—just… tired. Too tired to explain anything.

“A while,” you replied flatly.

His eyes narrowed. “And you didn’t tell me.”

You blinked, then turned to him slowly. “You weren’t exactly reachable, Dex.”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue—like he wanted to say something about how that wasn’t fair—but he couldn’t. He knew it was true. He’d vanished. He’d left. You weren’t the one hiding.

You exhaled through your nose. Sat back on the couch. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said sharply, a little too fast. “You’re on—what, SSRIs now? You’ve got a prescription? What, you’ve been seeing someone?”

You didn’t like the tone. Not angry, not concerned—just picking at it, like he was peeling scabs off skin that hadn’t finished healing. A small scoff escaped your lips as you leaned against the armrest.

“Yeah, I've been seeing someone. That doesn't change a thing.” You replied almost dismissively. “Everybody's got their own issues, if you didn't know that, Dex.”

His gaze searched for yours, eyes darting from your lips to your own eyes. He clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the mug. He wasn’t angry. He was never angry at you—because the majority of the time—you were right. He was frustrated at himself for not catching on this. On the pills and on you.

“I should’ve caught on to that.” He muttered underneath his breath, his words were barely audible, but you heard it.

“No, you shouldn’t have.” You retorted rather softly. “You were busy with Fisk. Prison stuff, psych ward and shit. You couldn’t have caught on to that.”

And again, you were right.

He huffed at your words, not bothering to argue with you. Not now. Not ever. He took another sip before placing the mug down onto the glass table. He stood up from the couch, ignoring the ache in his muscles and the sting from his wounds.

“I’m go—”

“—No.”

Your hand caught onto his wrist, fingers wrapping around it. You felt his pulse beneath his sweaty skin. How it quickened by the second. How it stuttered the moment you touched him. As if he’d never had anyone touch him with tenderness in months.

“Where will you go?” You questioned. “Fisk is still out there. You’re—fuck.”

You laughed under your breath, the sound devoid of humor and rather filled with bitterness. Like you didn’t believe the words that just came out of your mouth. Like you wanted to hate him for what he’d done. To Foggy. To innocent civilians.

His head twisted, taken aback by the sudden touch. He looked at you, pupils blown and brow twitching. You weren’t looking up at him, you were just… staring past him. At the walls that seemed to be more interesting than him.

“You’re still… wounded. It’s late and—I don’t want to take any chances.” Your voice lowered into a whisper. “You can stay here for the night, really.”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. Like he was waiting for a catch or some kind of cruel joke behind your words. But he didn’t find any. He was just met with… care. Concern. Not some cheap performance of empathy, not some kind of fake sympathy. It was genuine.

The rawness of your words and the vulnerability of your voice almost made him feel like he was worth waiting for. Like he was truly someone to you. Like he wasn’t just a weapon. He felt special.

He nodded. Slow. Unblinking.

“Okay, ‘s that a yes?” You questioned.

His eyes stayed on you.

“For the night.”

And oh, how he wishes to stay here longer. Weeks. Maybe months. Or maybe forever.

Because you didn’t kick him out like he was a stray. You let him in, even after everything he’d done. He wondered, if you’d ever done this to anyone else. Accept them for who they are, like some loyal dog. It takes guts to be as kind as this.

But it didn’t matter, not anymore.

Not when it felt like he’d found his home. His North Star, if he was even worthy enough for them.

And maybe this was fate. Maybe he never needed to find them. Maybe he was supposed to stumble upon them. Like this.

And, honestly?

He wouldn’t want to find a North Star any other way.

Not when he’d found you this way.

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