#no but i seriously think this is the theme by the way

[moongirlcleo]

Folded Hands

❤︎  tags and content: strip poker, light dom themes, rough sex, aftercare, table sex, f!reader, caleb x reader, not proofread ❤︎  author note: check out all my fics by searching #moongirlcleo or on AO3

🔞NSFW content - Minors DNI 🔞 Dividers: @/cafekitsune  Fic: @moongirlcleo  

It starts with a bottle of wine and an innocent game of poker—just a quiet night on Skyhaven, something light to pass the time between missions and memories. But when the clothes begin to come off, the stakes rise higher than either of you planned.

For Caleb, restraint has always been second nature: in battle, in command, even in love. But when he sees you again—sitting before him, laughter on your lips and old longing in your eyes—he learns what it means to fold.

You don’t warn him that you’re coming.

You know his schedule by now—know the window when patrol shifts ease and the briefing rooms go quiet, when he might have a sliver of time to breathe without a headset pressed to his ear or someone barking his title down a comm line. It’s selfish, maybe, showing up unannounced, but something about Skyhaven’s artificial skyline and the faint hum of the platform beneath your boots feels too sterile without him.

You pass two levels of clearance before reaching his wing. The security personnel stationed outside glance at you but don’t question a thing—they know your face, probably know your name too. Caleb’s name gets you into places most people never dream of, and the thought settles strangely in your chest.

You pause outside his door, hand hovering near the chime for a beat longer than you mean to. Then, with a quiet breath, you press it.

The door slides open almost immediately, like he was already on the other side.

He doesn’t speak at first—just stands there in the entryway, jacket sleeves rolled to his elbows, dog tags peeking from beneath the collar of his half-buttoned shirt, hair still damp from a recent shower. There’s a moment of silence, but it isn’t awkward. If anything, it stretches soft and golden between you like the sun lingering just a little longer on the horizon.

Finally, his voice breaks it. “Pipsqueak. You came.”

You smile, tucking your hands into your jacket pockets. “I figured you might need someone to make sure you were still eating real food and not surviving off nutrient packs again.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Guilty as charged.”

You expect him to step aside, to usher you in like he always does, but instead he studies you for a second longer—eyes flicking briefly down your frame, as if double-checking you’re really there and not some illusion conjured by exhaustion or hope. Then he steps back, wordlessly holding the door open.

The moment you cross the threshold, the quiet hum of Skyhaven gives way to something softer—his space is dim, cozy, nothing like the sterile exterior of the station. A warm light glows from a small lamp near the couch, casting lazy shadows across the room. There’s a pot simmering somewhere beyond the partition, faintly spicy and comforting. And the faintest trace of your favorite scent lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable.

“Been working late?” you ask, shrugging off your jacket and draping it over the back of his chair.

“Always,” he says, closing the door behind you. “But… I’m glad you’re here.”

You glance toward the source of the smell, eyes flicking toward the kitchen. “You cooking?”

He nods, sheepish. “Trying to, anyway. Got roped into making a proper meal tonight. I may or may not have bribed someone on the logistics team for decent ingredients.”

You raise a brow, mock seriousness. “You bribed someone for dinner?”

“Only a little,” he says, lifting one hand in mock surrender. “I didn’t know you were coming, but there’s enough for two. Stay?”

You don’t even have to think about it. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you for a moment longer, the faintest crease between his brows, like he’s still calibrating the reality of you standing in his space. Then something eases in him—shoulders relaxing, expression softening—and he gestures toward the small dining nook by the window.

“I’ll plate up,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

And just like that, you’re back in orbit around him again, the two of you drawn together in quiet gravity, as if no time has passed at all.

Dinner is quieter than you expected, but not in a bad way. Caleb sets the table with military precision—two bowls of something simmered and savory, still steaming from the pot, a bottle of wine between you, half-full glasses catching the soft light like blood-red glass. You’re close enough to see the fine scar just under his jaw when he leans forward, but far enough that you still feel the distance he keeps around most people.

Except you’re not most people.

He waits until you’ve eaten a few bites before speaking, and when he does, his voice is softer than usual.

“So,” he says, watching you over the rim of his glass, “how’ve you been holding up?”

You shrug, rolling your shoulders as if it’ll shake off the weight of everything. “Same as always. Working, reporting, picking up intel where I can. Got clipped by a rogue Wanderer last week, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”

His jaw tightens just slightly. You catch it even if he thinks you won’t. “You shouldn’t be dealing with that alone.”

You offer a small smile, lifting your glass to your lips. “I wasn’t alone. Zayne had my back. We made it out clean.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes dropping to his plate. When he speaks again, it’s low, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you. “I hate that you’re still in the middle of all that.”

You tilt your head. “You think I should be locked away in here with you?”

He looks up sharply, but there’s no bite to your words—just a trace of amusement, tempered with something softer.

“I think,” he says after a pause, “that I’d sleep better if I knew you were safe.”

You don’t answer right away. The silence stretches, not uncomfortable, but full—like a breath you’re both holding, unsure when to let it go.

Eventually, you break it with a quiet laugh. “God, this wine is strong.”

He glances toward your glass, brow lifted. “Already feeling it?”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, nudging your plate away. “But in a good way. I think I needed this.”

There’s a flicker of something in his expression. You lean back in your chair, swirling the last of your wine lazily, and glance toward the side table where the deck of cards sits, half-hidden under a data tablet.

“Hey,” you say, catching his gaze, “still keep a deck around?”

His eyes flick toward the cards, then back to you. “Always.”

“Good.” You smirk, setting your glass down. “You up for a game of poker?”

He leans back, arms folding across his chest, that familiar amused glint in his eyes returning. “You’re tipsy.”

“Which means I’m just reckless enough to win,” you shoot back, giving him a mock-challenging look. “Unless you’re scared I’ll beat you again.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, already reaching for the deck. “You cheated last time.”

“Did not.”

“You stacked the deck when I blinked.”

“Prove it.”

He stands, pulling the cards free with a flick of his wrist, and walks slowly back toward the table. “You’re on, then. But I’m warning you... I play for keeps.”

You look up at him, heartbeat catching just a little at the way the warm light slides over the edge of his jaw, the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth.

“That so?” you murmur, voice soft with challenge. “Guess we’ll see what you’re willing to bet.”

And just like that, the room feels warmer. Not just from the wine. Not just from the way his eyes linger on you a second too long. But from something simmering beneath the surface—just waiting for one of you to fold.

<hr>

The cards move fluidly between Caleb’s fingers, shuffling in smooth, practiced motions, each flick of the deck precise in a way that feels entirely him—controlled, deliberate, like even this moment of downtime is something he needs to master. He sits across from you now, long legs stretched under the table, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fitted line of his jacket hugging his frame like it was made for him. There’s a slight crease between his brows as he cuts the deck, but it softens the moment he glances up and catches your gaze, a spark of amusement flickering there.

You lean into your hand, the curve of your mouth lazy. “You gonna deal, or just admire the cards all night?”

His gaze lingers on you, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Thought I was admiring something else.”

Your stomach tightens, not because of the wine—but because of that voice, that look, and the way he says it like he means every word.

He starts to deal, and the first few rounds pass easily—banter traded, hands won and lost. You bluff; he calls it. He folds; you grin. There’s tension simmering under the surface now, subtle but growing with each glance, each casual brush of fingers on the table or leg beneath it. The room is too warm. Or maybe it's just him.

“So,” Caleb says, tapping his cards against the table, “what exactly are we playing for?”

You shrug, watching the way the light catches in his hair, casting faint gold at his temples. “Didn’t set terms.”

He hums, as if weighing options. “We could make this interesting.”

You arch a brow. “Interesting how?”

He lifts his glass for a slow sip, gaze unwavering. “Loser of each hand removes something.”

There’s a quiet beat—just a moment where the air stills and your breath stalls—but then you set your wine down, fingers brushing your cheek as you pretend to think.

“You’re serious?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Only if you are.”

You meet his eyes, steady. “Alright, Colonel. But you’re going to regret this.”

He grins, all confidence and something darker beneath it. “Can’t wait.”

The cards are dealt. You lose the next round, of course—whether by fate or the fact that your mind is no longer entirely on the game. With an exaggerated sigh, you slide your sweater off your shoulders and toss it over the arm of the couch behind you. You don’t look at him, not directly, but you feel his eyes track the movement like a predator watching the first sign of weakness.

The round after that, he folds way too early.

You tilt your head, not bothering to hide your smirk. “Really? You’re giving up that easy?”

“Maybe I just wanted to even the field,” he says, and this time, he unzips his jacket.

He peels it off in one slow, smooth motion, the fabric whispering over his skin as he drapes it over the back of his chair. The dark shirt beneath fits him too well—clinging to the curve of his shoulders, the line of his arms, like a second skin. You swallow a little too quietly.

The game continues, barely. Small losses, smaller victories. Neither of you’s really trying it seems. Your bracelet ends up on the table. His socks go next. It’s almost ridiculous, but neither of you laughs.

It’s your deal. You flick a card onto the table with the sort of flair only three glasses of wine can inspire. “Call it.”

Caleb leans forward, folding his arms against the table, his voice quieter now. “Don’t tell me you’re throwing this one too.”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Who says I’m not just bad at poker?”

He tilts his head, studying you with a gaze that sees straight through your act. “You forget I grew up with you. I know when you’re pretending.”

You hold eye contact, the challenge clear, but so is the invitation. “Your turn.”

He looks at his cards, then at you. There’s a slow exhale, almost like he’s bracing for something—and then he lays them down.

A flush. A clear win. But he doesn’t smile.

“I had a choice,” he says softly. “And I’d rather lose to you.”

Then—without waiting—he reaches for the hem of his shirt.

This time, the motion isn’t quick. There’s no humor in it, no shrug. Just slow, deliberate movement as he drags the fabric up his torso, revealing inch by inch the toned expanse of his chest—cut with lean muscle, marked by faint scars, the synthetic gleam of his right shoulder catching faint light. His eyes don’t leave yours. If he’s giving you a show, it’s intentional. If he’s waiting to see how you’ll react—he’s watching closely.

The shirt hits the floor shortly after. And when the silence stretches, heavy and filled with a different kind of charge now. Caleb doesn’t reach for more wine. He just breathes slow and deep, bare and still, like the next move is yours to make.

<hr>

You should have folded.

The thought hits you a moment too late—right as Caleb places his hand down on the table with quiet finality, his cards a clean, easy win. He doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t need to. The way he looks at you, eyes steady and dark with quiet heat, is far more effective than any smirk or tease.

The silence that follows stretches, weighted and slow, and you feel it settle over your skin like the hum of something electric waiting to arc.

There’s no way out. You’ve lost the round. You take a breath, steadying your hand as you reach down to the hem of your shirt, feeling the faintest tremble in your fingertips—not from nerves, not exactly, but from the awareness that this moment has long since stopped being about poker. With careful fingers, you lift the shirt over your head and pull it free, the air cool against your skin as your bare shoulders meet the open room. You’re still in your bra, modest and simple, but under his gaze, it might as well be nothing at all.

You place the shirt beside your jacket with what you hope is casual ease, though you can feel your heartbeat stuttering just beneath your ribs. When you glance up, Caleb is watching you, unmoving, his expression unreadable—but the tension in his jaw, the way his gaze lingers, betrays him.

You clear your throat softly, needing something—anything—to cut through the moment.

“I, um… I need more wine,” you say, pushing up from your seat before he can respond.

You cross the room with too much purpose, your steps just a little too quick, the air against your skin feeling too sharp now, too exposed. Your fingers reach for the bottle, more for something to do than for any real need to drink. You’re not even sure if you meant to escape the moment, or if part of you just wanted to feel the cool glass in your hands before the warmth burning in your chest gets too much to hold.

But before you can pour, you hear the quiet scrape of a chair behind you, the soft sound of his footsteps—slow, deliberate—drawing closer.

You don’t turn. You don’t have to.

His presence fills the space behind you like a shadow stretching in the light—close enough that you can feel the heat of him ghosting along your back, but still not touching, not yet.

“You sure you need more wine?” he asks, voice low, with just the barest hint of gravel at the edges.

Your fingers pause on the neck of the bottle. “I’m just... cooling off,” you murmur, trying to sound breezy, unaffected, though your voice is already tighter than you’d like.

There’s a beat of silence, and then he hums—not skeptical, exactly, but amused in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

“That why you’re trembling?”

The words land too softly to be accusatory, but they knock the breath from you all the same. You close your eyes, just for a moment, and instantly regret it—because now every inch of him feels closer, like the air has folded in around you, and you’re standing in the center of a storm that’s just barely restrained.

You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him over your shoulder, and you find him already watching you—his gaze pinned to yours like it’s holding you in place.

“I thought you said you play to win,” you manage, your voice low, barely more than a breath.

There’s something in his eyes now, something deeper—desire, yes, but also something rawer beneath it, something like vulnerability wrapped in steel. He lets his gaze drop, tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your lips, then lower, lingering at the bare skin of your shoulder before meeting your eyes again.

“Maybe I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to lose,” he says softly, and there’s no teasing left in him now—just honesty, quiet and bare and thick with everything neither of you has said aloud.

You don’t speak. You don’t have to. Because then his hand lifts, slow and careful, and his fingers brush the side of your arm with a touch so light it barely registers as contact—just a whisper of skin against skin, a question asked without words.

You don’t pull away. And in that silence—warm, charged, breathless—the line you’ve both been toeing begins to blur, then fade entirely.

Caleb’s fingers linger at your arm, unmoving for a breath, and then they trail upward—slow and deliberate—sliding over the curve of your shoulder and up along your neck, his touch featherlight but sure. He’s watching you closely, as if waiting for hesitation, for a sign that you’ll step back.

But you don’t.

Your breath catches as his hand finds the edge of your jaw, thumb brushing just below your cheekbone, his palm warm and steady against your skin. And still, he waits—so close now you can feel his breath on your lips, but he doesn’t move that final inch until you do.

You lean into him, just barely, and that’s all it takes.

He closes the distance like gravity finally winning—no pretense, no gentleness, just years of wanting poured into the kiss as his mouth crashes into yours with an intensity that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not soft. It’s not polite. It’s a question, a claim, a thousand unsaid things slammed into one desperate kiss. His hand tilts your jaw up, deepening the angle, and you meet him with just as much urgency, fingers digging in the bare line of muscle at his side, pulling him closer, like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t hold onto him. His other hand braces at your waist, grounding both of you as your bodies come flush, heat meeting heat with nothing left between but breath and skin.

You sigh into his mouth—soft, shaky—and he swallows the sound like it’s the only thing he’s needed since he came back from the dead. You can feel it in the way he kisses you: the hunger, yes, but also the grief, the guilt, the impossible devotion he’s been carrying like armor. His mouth moves with desperate precision, lips parting yours like he’s memorizing every second of this in case it gets torn away again. When you pull back for air, just barely, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged, eyes fluttering shut like the moment is too much to hold.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, voice rough, thick with something cracked open and raw.

You nod, your fingers curling against the base of his spine. “It’s real.”

And then he kisses you again.

The second kiss is deeper, hungrier—less careful now, as if something inside him has cracked open and there’s no point in trying to put it back. Caleb’s hands slide down your back with firm, reverent pressure, like he’s relearning the shape of you by touch alone, his grip tightening when you arch into him.

Then—without a word—he pulls you back toward the table. With one swift motion, he sends the deck of cards, the half-empty wine glasses, everything scattering to the floor with a crash that makes your heart leap. The sound doesn’t faze him. If anything, it makes his breath deepen.

He looks at you, chest rising and falling with barely leashed control, his hands already sliding down to your hips, guiding you back until your thighs press against the table’s edge.

“I’ve been patient,” he says, voice hoarse and low, each word like gravel dragged across silk. “For years, I waited… I held back… but not anymore.”

You don’t speak—you can’t. Because the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only thing left in the universe that matters, steals every coherent thought from your mind.

He turns you with careful insistence, hands firm but reverent as he guides your body to face the table. You grip the edge, breath catching, the cold surface against your palms a stark contrast to the heat that radiates from him behind you.

When his hands return, they’re rougher now—claiming. He drags them slowly over your sides, then up your back, the tips of his fingers teasing the band of your bra. He bends down, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower, teeth grazing the skin just enough to make you gasp.

“You have no idea how many times I dreamed of this,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear as one hand slides around your waist, the other flattening over the small of your back. “Of you, right here—mine.”

The last word is a growl.

He presses against you, chest to your back, hips flush to yours, and you feel how hard he is already, the heat of it grinding just enough to make you whimper. His metal arm braces against the table beside yours—cold steel humming with quiet energy—and when you shift your hips back into him, he curses under his breath.

“That’s it,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, forcing them to part. “Keep doing that and I won’t last.”

He dips his head again, this time kissing down your spine, slow and reverent, but each kiss feels like a brand—like he’s marking you one breath at a time. His hands return to your hips, and when he straightens, you feel the weight of his stare on your back like a spotlight.

“You don’t get to hide from me anymore,” he says, hands gripping your waist like you might vanish if he lets go. “You’re mine now. Say it.”

You bite your lip, breath ragged. “I’m yours.”

Your breath catches when you feel Caleb’s fingers slide into the waistband of your pants, his touch both reverent and possessive, and though his movements are deliberate, there’s no mistaking the weight behind them—he’s not teasing anymore; he’s unraveling, and he’s going to take you with him.

He leans in close, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “Don’t move,” and the way he says it, low and threaded with rough restraint, leaves no room for disobedience, only heat curling low and fast through your core.

You brace your hands against the table as he begins to tug your pants down your hips, dragging the fabric with agonizing slowness, like every inch he reveals is something sacred, something he’s waited too long to see again. His knuckles brush your thighs, his breath warm against the back of your neck, and when your pants pool around your ankles, he lets out a quiet, nearly broken groan that vibrates straight through you.

It’s your panties he lingers on.

His fingers trace the waistband, sliding along your skin like he’s memorizing you by feel alone, and then, without warning, he curls his fist into the lace and tears it clean in one savage motion—just a sharp, decisive snap, and then nothing but cool air on bare skin and the hot, heavy sound of his breathing behind you.

“I’m not waiting anymore,” he says, almost like a confession, and the ruined fabric is discarded without care as his hands return to your hips, steadying you, grounding you, claiming you all over again.

His touch drifts lower, smoothing over the curve of your ass, then up the small of your back, the contact so firm and slow that it borders on worship, his thumb brushing along the dip of your spine like it belongs there. He leans down, lips pressing against your shoulder, trailing heat with every kiss as he works his way downward, pausing only to let his teeth graze lightly against your skin, the quiet sound of your gasp spurring him on.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he’s been holding back, “how many times I dreamed of this—of you, bent over in front of me, mine to touch, mine to take.”

The sound of his belt unfastening fills the silence like a drumbeat, followed by the low scrape of a zipper and the shuffle of clothing pushed hastily down his thighs, and then he’s behind you again, thick and hot and hard, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, coating himself in the slick evidence of how ready you are for him.

He doesn’t press in—not yet.

One hand anchors you by the hip, the other coasting along your front, splaying across your belly before drifting downward, parting your thighs further until you’re open for him, exposed and trembling beneath his touch.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” he murmurs, his voice cracking on the edge of a growl as he guides himself to your entrance, teasing the sensitive skin with slow, shallow strokes. “Thought I’d never get to fuck you like I always wanted.”

When he finally pushes in, he does it in one slow, brutal thrust, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs as your body stretches to take him, your hands clutching at the edge of the table for dear life. He doesn’t move right away—just stays buried inside you, fully sheathed, his hands tight on your waist as if he’s holding himself back from coming right then and there.

“Fuck,” he groans, low and guttural, his mouth pressed against your shoulder blade. “You feel like heaven.”

And then he begins to move.

Each thrust is hard and deep, perfectly paced to drive you wild, his hips slamming into yours with a rhythm that’s all hunger and dominance and years of frustration finally, finally, breaking loose. The table creaks beneath you, your legs spread wide, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room with every punishing snap of his hips.

His hand slides up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades and urging you further down against the table, and when your cheek hits the cool surface, your breath escapes you in a soft, desperate moan.

“You were made for this,” he growls, his mouth near your ear, the heat of his voice sinking into your skin like a brand. “For me. This body, this sound—mine.”

You manage his name on a broken gasp, your voice shaking, your body already on the verge of losing itself entirely as he continues to thrust into you, each movement rougher, deeper, more desperate than the last.

His hand slides between your thighs again, this time to circle your clit with unrelenting pressure, the pads of his fingers slick and confident, and when you cry out, he doesn’t stop—he doubles down, whispering, “Come for me. Let me feel you fall apart.”

And gods, you do.

The orgasm crashes into you like a storm, seizing you from the inside out, your entire body tensing, walls clenching around him as pleasure tears through your spine and explodes behind your eyes. You sob his name, breathless and undone, and he holds you through it, his hand on your hip tightening, the rhythm of his thrusts faltering as he loses himself in the feel of you shattering around him.

“Ah—fuck—gonna come inside you,” he groans, every muscle in his body going taut as he drives into you one last time and stills, buried deep, spilling into you with a guttural moan that’s as much pain as it is relief. His chest presses flush to your back, arms wrapping around your waist like he’s anchoring himself there, like he can’t bear the thought of letting go.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. The air is thick with heat, your bodies tangled, breath syncing in a slow, uneven rhythm that speaks more than either of you could right now.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you, the way his lips brush the side of your neck in a kiss so soft it almost breaks you, says everything he can’t.

The silence that follows is heavy. It’s the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones, warm and full, like the world has finally stopped spinning long enough to let you catch your breath. Caleb doesn’t move for a long moment, his chest still pressed against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s anchoring you to the earth itself. His breath ghosts over your shoulder in slow, unsteady exhales, his body still trembling faintly against yours as the aftershocks roll through both of you.

Then, with a gentle murmur—your name spoken like a vow—he presses a kiss to the back of your neck and pulls out of you slowly, carefully, as though he’s afraid he might hurt you if he moves too fast. He catches your waist as you sway slightly, already reaching for you before you even realize you need the support.

“Easy,” he says, voice low and still rough at the edges, but his hands are impossibly gentle. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him. You always have.

He helps you straighten, one arm still firmly around your middle as the other brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. When you glance up, your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you see all of him—not just the soldier or the survivor, not the boy who left or the man who came back, but Caleb, who looks at you like you’re the one thing that kept him tethered while the rest of his world burned.

Without a word, he leans in and kisses your temple, slow and soft, before guiding you gently toward the bed in the corner of the room. The lights dim as you pass—probably movement-commanded, but it feels like the room itself is exhaling.

“Stay,” you murmur, already missing the warmth of his body as he helps you sit at the edge of the bed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says immediately, brushing his thumb over your thigh as if to reassure himself more than you. “Just getting something.”

He returns a moment later with a warm, damp cloth and a fresh towel, kneeling in front of you like you’re something precious, like tending to you is the most natural thing in the world.

Caleb’s silent as he cleans you—tender, focused, his touch slow and steady as he wipes between your thighs, along the insides of your legs, his hand cupping the back of your calf as he works. There’s nothing hurried or clinical in his movements; everything about the way he touches you now speaks of devotion, of reverence, like this is part of the ritual. Like this is sacred, too.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking up to meet yours as he dabs the cloth gently between your legs.

Your voice is small, but sure. “Better than okay.”

A soft smile tugs at his lips, and he presses another kiss—this time to your knee—before setting the cloth aside and wrapping the towel gently around your hips. He helps you ease back into bed, pulling the blankets up over your shoulders, and then, finally, finally, he slips in beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight as his arms curl around your body and bring you close again.

You rest your head against his bare chest, listening to the slow, rhythmic thud of his heart as his hand drifts through your hair in lazy strokes, his other arm banded around your waist, holding you like you’re the last thing worth protecting in the universe.

“I missed you,” he says after a while, voice barely more than a breath. “Just—” his hand squeezes gently at your waist “— you. Everything about you.”

You tilt your head, fingers brushing lightly over the scar near his ribs. “You always had me. Even when you weren’t here.”

He doesn’t answer with words—just a long exhale, a kiss pressed to your forehead, and the way he holds you tighter like he’s finally allowing himself to believe it.

And in the quiet hum of Skyhaven, tangled in Caleb’s arms, with nothing between you but skin and truth, you feel more safe, more known, more his, than you ever have before.

[momo-minomo]

Fic Fairy Friday: Civilian Tim Giving The Batfam Heart Attacks

I know, I know, this week's theme is weirdly specific but I was originally going to theme this 'Tim Joins The Batfamily Early' but like half of the ones I wanted to rec has him joining them late but fit the vibes I wanted so… ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

BTW: Consider this a general TRIGGER WARNING. Jack and Janet Drake in the comics are, at best, neglectful parents and at worst vaguely emotionally abusive and physically threatening but no actual physical abuse. If the fic makes them more abusive than this canon baseline I will add a trigger warning. Feel free to let me know if you think I need to add an extra warning for something!

The Fic Fairy Friday Masterpost

Puzzles Made of Broken Glass by thatcuriouscat

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes retreats to his Mind Palace to think, to problem-solve. Superman has his Fortress of Solitude, reportedly. 9-and-five-sixths-year-old Tim Drake has his Blanket Fortress. Timmy Drake’s parents go missing. He’s the only one who notices.

Momo's Notes: I usually prefer to only rec fics that are complete but I occasionally make an exception for one that's exceptionally good and still regularly updating. thatcuriouscat is one of those authors that knocks it out of the park every single time and the characterizations are perfection so this fic is a must read. Tim's parents go missing so Detective Drake starts investigating even as his entire life, precarious emotional stability, and distressing lack of self-preservation is crumbling down around his ears. I love fics where Tim and Robin!Jason meet and become friends and the chapter where Tim and Dick meet had me squealing and kicking my feet.

One Smart Magpie by Marbles_and_Sweetpeas

Summary:

Tim Drake likes to think he's your typical 12 year old. Well, except for the sneaking around at night and doing detective work. And figuring out the Bats' identity. But that's it. Really. Except everything seems to be spiraling out of his control. Something serious is going on in Gotham, and Tim might be the only one who can put all the pieces together in time to stop it. Or: Tim is a crazy little detective who just wants to help in any way he can. Of course the Bats are going to adopt him.

Momo's Notes: Another fic for baby detective Timmy and joining the batfamily early! Tim is wandering around Gotham at night knowing the usual secrets he shouldn't know but also running his own investigations. He's trying to figure out the mysterious happenings in the city at the same time Jason, Dick, and Bruce are aggressively trying to adopt this sweet kid with zero self-preservation instincts or supervision. Timmy is seriously badass during this one while still being a kid overwhelmed with being in way over his head.

Holy security breach, Batman! by destiny919

Summary:

Janet finally shoos him away towards the hors d'oeuvres or drinks table with the tacit understanding that she doesn't want to see him again until the end of the gala. And probably not even then, it wouldn't be the first time the Drakes forgot to take him home with them and Tim had to discreetly call an Uber before the host noticed and made Tim embarrass his parents. For this gala, however, he almost hopes they forget him again, because tonight Tim has a plan. They're at Wayne Manor, and Tim is going to find the Batcave.

Momo's Notes: Short and sweet! Precocious 8 year old Tim decides to put his detective hat on while at a Wayne gala and manages to find and sneak into the batcave. Cue the distressed bat and bird noises!

A Brief Interview by Miss_Lazy_Tuesday

Summary:

When Damian finds a small child with an expensive camera on a rooftop in the middle of Gotham, he decides to follow in his father’s footsteps and take the boy home. After all, why should Bruce be the only one who gets to add to the family? Damian and Tim age swap fluff.

Momo's Notes: Short but hilarious. A version of a "Tim Joins The Batfamily Late" trope where he's the 8 year old fanboy to Damian's 14 year old Robin. Damian decides he's had enough of being the baby of the family and proves he's his father's son by picking up a new little brother while on patrol and bringing him home with no warning to the rest of the household. The others will surely marvel at his generosity and brilliance. Tim is mildly alarmed but mostly starstruck.

Boom, Boom, Pow! by LilaVaporizer9000

Summary:

If anyone asked the Batfamily which Robin had the funniest ’joining the family’ story? Well, everyone would start with, “Well it seemed like Jason had the spot taken for good after having the audacity to try and jack the Batmobile’s tires and hit Bruce with his tire iron.” And then they’d say, “But then tiny Tim decided to try and steal the whole thing.” Or: When Tim is 11 he figures it’s not hurting anyone if he. Ya know. Takes a picture in the Batmobile. But then the power goes to his head and all of a sudden he’s hacking the Batmobile and tearing through Gotham on a rescue mission.

Momo's Notes: Gearhead baby Timmy takes the Batmobile on a joyride and the Batfamily was never the same. Dick and Jason's budding rivalry has delightful Wayne Family Adventures vibes. If you've read WFA you'll know the chapter I'm referring to when you get to those scenes lol. They are such total goobers. Bonus points for the author including a link to a playlist they made for Tim's cringe car music. I love it when authors include a fanmix for the story.

bitty batty baby vigilante crew by deargalileo

Summary:

There were two kids up on the roof. They couldn’t have been older than ten, but frankly, they looked like babies. The boy had dark hair and a red jacket, while the girl was dressed in all purple with blond hair poking out from under her hood. Jason was pushing himself over the ledge before he could really think about it. What were two kids doing on a rooftop, in the middle of the night, in Gotham? the story of two kids conning their way across gotham, and (mostly) inadvertently into the batman family.

Momo's Notes: There aren't nearly enough stories of tiny Timmy meeting Stephanie early. The chaos and shenanigans those two get up to as teens are legendary. I don't know if Jason's nerves can handle them as kids with WAY more recklessness and distrust of authority.

Surveillance by smilebackwards

Summary:

Tim knows antagonizing Lex Luthor wasn’t exactly his safest move but the point is really driven home by the bullet to the shoulder. Or: The AU where Jason never died and Tim is a civilian who contributes to crime fighting by taking surveillance photos and leaving them on the desktop of the Batcomputer.

Momo's Notes: Here's an awesome 'Tim Joins The Batfamily Late' trope fic! His casual disdain for dangerous rogues who'd happily squash him like a bug combined with his careless disregard for his own health make for an especially stressed Batfam, especially Bruce and Jason. This one is actually part of a series and has TimKon! Score!

Northern Attitude (I Was Raised on Little Light) by theskeptileptic

Summary:

It's not Tim's fault Batman slept with his mom sixteen years ago, or Tim's fault that Bruce Wayne regrets signing away his parental rights fifteen years ago, but Jack Drake sure thinks it is. Now Damian is bugging him about cows and family and Jason and Dick won't stop kidnapping him and Bruce is acting like court orders don't matter, like he doesn't have a huge bat-shaped secret to protect from literally the whole freaking world. Why is Tim the only functioning adult in this situation? This was supposed to be coated in angst, but it fell in the fluff bucket instead. (So, update, some people are saying this may not be as fluffy as I am advertising it. I plead the 5th.)

Momo's Notes: TRIGGER WARNING for incredibly abusive Drakes here. That "fluff bucket" claim in the summary is definitely false advertising. This story is really good tho with some quality Tim and Damian bonding! The number of stress and panic induced heart attacks Tim gives the Batfam in this one is truly off the charts lol.

cards on the table by wesslan

Summary:

Tim's parents faked their deaths and fled the country years ago, but neglected to take him with them. He spent some time on the streets, and now at 16, he makes a living as a fortune teller, stalking and hustling the shit out of Gotham's elite by telling them eerily accurate fortunes based on the information he gathers about them. His life is peculiar but he wouldn't change a thing. When he gets booked for the big Wayne Halloween party, however, he finds himself getting all tangled up with the Waynes, and the more fortunes he tells, the tighter the snare becomes. or: Tim just wanted to scam Gotham's elite, not end up on the Batfamily's watchlist. But it seems they just won't leave him alone..

Momo's Notes: Another 'Tim Joins The Batfamily Late' fic! Despite Young Justice not appearing at all in this fic it still gives me the YJ98 vibes with all the insane plans and shenanigans Tim has up in the air, here. He's stalking half of Gotham's rich, famous, and dangerous so he can scam them all into thinking he's a legit psychic.

Latchkey by goldkirk

Summary:

or, How Tim Drake Found A Family, Became A Photojournalist, Learned To Love Coffee, and Grew Up, not necessarily in that order. Tim Drake is thirteen, runs the famous BatWatch blog that has spiraled hilariously out of control, has absentee parents that suit his purposes just fine, is training himself to run the streets at night, and is doing absolutely peachy, thank you. Alfred and Jason disagree, and get Dick and Bruce involved in figuring out their weird nextdoor neighbor kid’s life. Everything goes uphill from there.

Settle Our Bones by motleyfam, justbeyondstars, batmoniker

Summary:

Tim is good at galas. No, scratch that—Tim is great at galas. He’s been attending them ever since the age of three, when his parents first stuffed him into his little Gymboree tuxedo and gave him a stern lecture about ‘sitting quietly’ and ‘speaking when spoken to.’ He knows all the rules: what to wear, how to stand, when to smile, what to say, what not to say. He knows how to come across as polite and intelligent and charming, and on absolutely any other day, he would be rocking this. --- Or, my take on a ‘Tim Joins the Family Early’ AU, told through a series of sleepovers, most of which are unplanned. Featuring pre-teen Tim, Alive!Jason, and a whole lot of hurt/comfort.

Momo's Notes: The chances you haven't already read Latchkey and Settle Our Bones is slim if you're a Tim Drake fan but they are classics within the 'Tim Drake Joins The Batfamily Early' trope for a damn good reason so I had to include them on the off chance someone hasn't run across these amazing fics yet! TRIGGER WARNINGS for abusive Drakes! Also both of these series do a great job of depicting trauma recovery but that can also be triggering for some people so be careful.

PLAYLIST

Tim Drake Joins the Batfamily Early AU Spotify Playlist

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

can we please talk about tim mcgraw x cowboy like me

we can!

Looks like we're back to Singapore again!

First of all: hearing her sing Tim McGraw with her adult voice is sooooooooooo touching. I've said this before, but for instance, Fifteen being sung by a 30 year old hits SO MUCH HARDER than it does by an 18 year old, and completely changes the perspective on it; it's so much more poignant to consider it being told by someone with that much more life experience and that much further removed from their youth.

Similarly, growing up has the same effect on Tim McGraw to me. No longer is it a teenager singing about her boyfriend who moved away; it's a woman reflecting on the naivety of youth and how much simpler love seemed back then than it does now two decades on. It's one of those songs that truly does stand the test of time, because it takes on different meanings throughout the decades. (It's like the yeehaw version of Midnight Rain in some ways.) And I think singing it in a mashup like this only heightens that, because it juxtaposes the youthful innocence with the grown-up love in Cowboy Like Me.

Second of all: I knew she loved Cowboy Like Me but I don't think I realized just how many times she played it until I started getting these asks 😂

The theme of the mashup is: Cowboys listen to Tim McGraw too!

(I'm kidding... only not really lol.)

In all seriousness, I think the "hook" to me is the dance of the story:

But when you think Tim McGraw, I hope you think my favorite song / The one we danced to all night long, the moon like a spotlight on the lake... And you asked me to dance, but I said, "Dancing is a dangerous game" / Oh, I thought, this is gonna be one of those things / Now I know I'm never gonna love again

Because there are a few ways I could take it! One, it's a grown-up woman retelling the big love from her youth. Or another is that she's comparing love as an adult to the love from her youth. That first tender dance turns into a more nuanced, more loaded dance as an adult as life adds baggage to it.

I think it's a beautiful juxtaposition of how one's view of love might change over the decades, but not one's pursuit of it.

Also: You're a bandit like me, eyes full of stars / Hustling for the good life, never thought I'd meet you here -> He said the way my blue eyes shined put those Georgia stars to shame that night / I said, "That's a lie" is 🤌

I think I must be too tired to do this one because on the one hand, I feel like I have SO MUCH I want to say that I can't verbalize, but on the other, I feel like I have nothing to say because it's just a really beautiful medley.

I think it's interesting how Tim McGraw is a song that's told in hindsight; the relationship is already long over, and it's her hoping she'll be remembered and still be loved long after they've gone their separate ways and moved on. And then Cowboy Like Me is two people coming together despite all odds and vowing to stay together. So if I had to see it as one story, I'd say the girl who stays behind in Tim McGraw grows up and finally finds that love again that makes her feel the way she did as a kid.

I think my favourite bit is:

You're a bandit like me Eyes full of stars Hustling for the good life Never thought I'd meet you here It could be love We could be the way forward And I know I'll pay for it ... And I'm back for the first time since then I'm standing on your street And there's a letter left on your doorstep And the first thing that you'll read Is when you think Tim McGraw I hope you think my favorite song Someday you'll turn your radio on I hope it takes you back to that place

A) it sounds beautiful and B) it plays right into those themes of remembrance and memory and longing for youth and possibly even reclaiming youth.

And I also love the ending:

When you think Tim McGraw I hope you think of me ... You're a cowboy like me He said the way my blue eyes shined Put those Georgia stars to shame that night I said, "That's a lie"

So, is she remembering the cowboy long after it's over? Or did she find herself a new cowboy long after that first love? It can be taken either way IMO, and either way, it's an interesting story!

And that does it for mashup madness for tonight! Thank you for flying wavesoutbeingtossed airlines, please ensure you've collected all your belongings before exiting the aircraft ❤️ (also my inbox is still full so we have to hit a pause on the game until I catch up 😂)

[fuumiku]

Day 19: AU

Naga & researcher AU! Medicine expert Marcille is doing research on naga venom because it may have properties that could innovate pharmaceutics and could helo work towards immortality... My thought was that it causes paralysis in a way that keeps cells in stasis but idfk. So researcher Marcille Donato has to find a friendly enough naga gentlefolk to study and harvest venom from… Cue Chilchuck "I am sooo mean and dangerous, fear me or I'll do you in -proceeds to not do anything even when she sticks around and starts being clingy-" He had to grow harder and tougher it's a harsh world out there but he's a real nice guy… Just... Shouty... Marcille like "Actually I don't think you'll kill me if I stay here for some time to take field notes" and he gives up on denying it.

Pushing Marcille's "I want to study him like a petri dish" towards Chilchuck to the most literal I can

Maybe nagas have a short lifespan… Maybe to make venom strains the body and they have a faster metabolism. So it's kinda, the hope for her goals that he creates is also what kills him faster…? Like, harvesting the venom puts stress on the body because then it hastens to make more venom. And Marcille has to let her research about the far future of her friends go to instead enjoy her present with them...

Ok that's story info but design wise I also have to say, when I got to spontaneously choose how to color him I went with a Brazilian Rainbow Boa's patterns! Simply because I am biased and have one as pet. Are they venomous? ..... No. Do they have a fast metabolism? Snakes generally don't. Do they live in deserty places? A jungle actually. Did you know they are pretty close relatives to anacondas, they swim, burrow in the ground AND climb trees ☝️ They have really cool moon & star patterns lowkey and a nice kinda gold color, AND they're iridescent!!!! And those motifs always go so so hard with marchil It did send me spiralling though, like… A cornsnake or some plain brown snake would work really well for him, or a sand boa. And then I was thinking about his daughters and what species his wife should be and— black snakes often have really nice iridescence too, seriously look up black boas or indigo snakes, and now I'm thinking about Chil shining as some theme, like Marcille being like "noo you may not see it but you have plenty of qualities, you're a diamond in the rough"… Even if between the two of them Marcille is more diamond-like as far as he's concerned… The world looks so much more colorful when it's being reflected through her.

Pet snake pics just because under spoilers, she's called Mooncake and she has never done anything wrong ever in her life (except being a serial plant murderer)

She's shy. She also loves hollow logs <3 Snug nooks and crannies including using a layer of dirt as a weighted blanket. Return to earthworm

[anthurak]

So a few times now, I’ve mentioned the idea of Lute representing the ‘Adam’ to Charlie’s and Vaggie’s representing of Lilith and Lucifer, and Emily possibly representing Eve. Mostly in a joking and/or shipping manner in regards to the Toxic Yuri potential of Vaggie/Lute, the fun potential of Emilute or the possibility of Charlie and Lute having their own version of “Now, I am going to FUCK YOU!” (this time with actual fucking XD)

However, after giving it some more thought I’m now thinking more seriously in narrative terms about how Lute could actually make for a VERY interesting foil to Adam. Both as a character, and in terms of her relationship with Vaggie contrasting Adam and Lilith.

(Before I go any further I would like to clarify that YES, I am well aware that Vaggie ALSO has a lot of parallels to Lucifer as well. As I detailed here, I think it’s pretty clear at this point that Charlie’s and Vaggie’s parallels to the former’s parents really cut BOTH ways. This theory is simply focusing on the parallels Vaggie has to Lilith.)

The thing is, if it turns out that Lute has some toxic, repressed, homophobic hate-crush on Vaggie, and has had these feelings for much of the time they spent together but always considered them ‘wrong’ thanks to ingrained homophobia (whether coming from just Adam within the Exorcist organization or even Heaven as a whole), that would actually represent a PERFECT contrast to Adam’s relationship with Lilith.

Because Lilith and Adam were literally made for each other, were placed in an environment that pushed them together, Adam pursued Lilith, and Lilith rejected him.

Whereas Vaggie and Lute seem to have been two random people brought together for a job, could likely have been in an environment that wanted them (romantically) separate, Lute tried to repress/reject her feelings for Vaggie and ultimately it is LUTE who pushes Vaggie away.

Basically, Lute and Vaggie potentially feel like a perfect opposite of Adam and Lilith while still ultimately ending up in the same position. Arriving to the same destination but from a completely opposite direction.

Furthermore, I think this makes the potential of the show exploring an ‘enemies to (polyamorous) lovers’ plot with Vaggie and Lute not just interesting, but even narratively VIABLE.

Because while the relationship between Lilith and Adam is a bridge that has been THOROUGHLY burned at this point and likely never would have worked to begin with, there could still be hope for Vaggie and Lute.

Again, we’ve already seen a lot of very clear parallels drawn between Charlie and Vaggie with Lucifer and Lilith. And given how the latter pair’s relationship has developed some serious problems, I think it’s easy to imagine how Charlie and Vaggie could end up representing a major narrative foil Lucifer and Lilith, ie; Chaggie not making the same mistakes as Lucilith and generally succeeding where they failed.

On top of this, we’re also already seeing Emily showcasing some notable parallels to Eve in her dynamic with Charlie, something that gets even more interesting with the reveal that Lucifer, Lilith AND Eve seem to have had some kind of relationship together at one point, yet likely also didn’t end well.

Add onto that the potential parallels Vaggie and Lute could have to Lilith and Adam, and I think Hazbin could be presenting a major theme of ‘current generation not repeating the mistakes of their predecessors’.

And in Lute’s case, I think this could take the form of her essentially doing the opposite of what Adam did. In that while Adam seems to have thrown aside/repressed whatever resentment he had for Lilith (and Eve) leaving him and spent the last few thousand years partying in Heaven and once a year slaughtering sinners in Hell, I imagine Lute will instead only fixate harder on Vaggie and spend the rest of the show trying to get (very homoerotic) revenge on her and Charlie. To compare to a now-classic example of this trope, I think it’s easy to imagine Lute being the Catra to Vaggie’s Adora.

And yet, all this conflict ends up opening the possibility for Vaggie and Lute to actually talk about and gain some kind of RESOLUTION to the mutual issues of their dynamic. Whether it’s Lute venting/screaming her repressed issues/feelings at Vaggie, or both being put in a situation where Vaggie gets a chance to simply talk to Lute without all the fighting.

And of course, all this could lead to Lute getting de-programed off her long-ingrained homophobia. Maybe partly via a totally-no-homo rebound with Emily that ends up becoming VERY-homo?

All of which could ultimately lead to Lute reconciling with Vaggie and even getting together with her as part of the aforementioned polycule (aka, ‘Charlie’s Harem’).

In short, Vaggie and Lute could end up representing the biggest foil to Lilith and Adam by being a version of that relationship that actually WORKS.

[fipindustries]

So I've been thinking... why DO you think Dungeon Meshi was so successful? I mean, I love it, but it always struck me as a kind of niche thing, like 'All Tomorrows'. So seeing it get mainstream sucess is kind of surreal.

i think these things are always a bit of a roulette but

first of all the fac that ryoko kui is genuenly a good writer of high caliber in the most basic of elements such as comedy, dialog, plot of each individual chapter and overall structure. as well as a great artist with iconic, simple and appealing designs and a good detailed and realistic rendering of the world around the characters, but those things can be a dime a dozen, what is that makes dungeon meshi truly stand out...

the autistic angle cannot be dismissed as strong bait for nerds online, it is very present and very explicitly explored to a level of humanzation and seriousness not often seen. second everyone likes it when a silly story with a funny premise develps into something bigger and more complex with deeper themes. is a nice basic trick where you lower the readers expectations by presenting the story as almost a episodical gag per chapter silly manga and then you dash your expectations by making everything bigger, more consequential and more dramatic. the suprise that causes make everyone be way more impressed with the story than they would have otherwise been had it been all serious business from the start.

then there is the fact that EVERYTHING IS CONNECTED, EVERYTHING MAKES SENSE. this manga does truly a remarcable work in presenting incredibly consistent and thought of ahead worldbuilding and lore.

and finally the fact that its a manga take on western tropes, stories and conventions in a semi western setting, i feel those tend to be particularly successful if we look at vinland saga, berserk, attack on titan, full metal alchemist, and the list goes on

[nevertem]

Something about being stuffed into a role you're not supposed to be in.

Something about Ryou Bakura being Yuugi's friend and not his enemy, even if the Ring demands that role.

Something about Jounouchi being obsessed with proving himself to be an adult and a man when he's just a kid who wants to play card games with his friends. Even if his mom saw too much of his dad in him.

Something about Priest Seto being in the afterlife, so Kaiba was never his reincarnation to begin with.

Something about Kaiba taking on that legacy of blood and destruction when it was never his, he just wanted to be safe and protected and secure. Something about Malik Ishtar being associated with the sun when his history demanded he be underground. Something about Palladium Oracle's magic being piercing against Darkness when he took on the role of Dark Magician for three millennia.

Something about Yuugi Mutou being deemed a vessel when he's the King of Games. Something about Yuugi's ultimate dragon being the perfect counterpart to Blue Eyes. A dragon of destruction made of darkness to the ultimate engine of destruction of light. Something about Yuugi's story being about believing he wished for friends when Jounouchi told him that the only time he ever loved himself was when he was with Yuugi. Something about Yuugi being forced to a role he never wanted just because he was kind enough to believe in the good in people when faced with every reason not to.

Something about Pharaoh Atem being put in a face and body and life that was never his. Something about taking on being a literal shadow. Something about believing himself to be darkness. Something about everyone else believing he's darkness. When he was described by Shada and Dark Bakura both as light. When to this day people still call him darkness.

Something about Duelist beginning and ending with a TTRPG.

Something about the two souls of light and darkness being switched from the beginning.

Yuugi's ultimate monster is the dragon of destruction.

Atem's is the creator of light.

[s0fter-sin]

ghost who was chemically castrated by roba and soap who wants to help him to regain his sexual autonomy

nsfw, angst, roba, unnegotiated unsafe but consensual gun play, hopeful ending

💀🧼

ghost walks like it hangs low.

there’s a tilt to his hips and a spread in his thighs and johnny’s never been able to stop staring.

and ghost’s never asked him to.

he knows he’s seen him; he’s not exactly discreet. he swears he’s even seen him cock his hips out before to give him a better view. but he always pulls back just as they toe the line; verbal cold water on the tentative heat they almost can’t help but spark when they’re together.

it’s never a no; johnny’s not so selfish of a cunt that he’d push when he knows he isn’t welcome. it’s always a reluctance; an “i wish i could,” never in so many words. an open ended “but…” as ghost circles the reason without ever actually saying it. johnny knows it’s something personal, something more than a difference in rank could ever excuse.

so he backs off when ghost does, jokes instead of flirts and holds his breath through the agonising wait until ghost lets him in close again. waits to know if he’ll let him close again.

it’s almost anticlimactic, the end of their dance; his delicate steps and looping logic to work out why bulldozed as ghost comes out and says one random night, “i can’t fuck.”

it’s not bitter. it doesn’t grate coming out of his throat; he doesn’t spit it like it’s something to be ashamed, not twisted with insecurity as if it’s an accusation by an ex.

it’s a statement of fact.

“you can’t fuck,” johnny echoes anyway because even if it is the reason, the big why… it still doesn’t really answer anything.

“i can’t get it up,” he elaborates, this horrid blankness in his eyes like he’s reading from a script. “whatever you’re looking for, whatever you want- i can’t give it to you.”

johnny just looks at him, the chill air prickling his skin. “right,” he nods calmly. “because my interest in you starts and ends with your dick.”

that blank calm shatters. “johnny…” he warns.

“do you really think i’m that shallow?” he cuts in, curing himself for the way his voice breaks but he never thought ghost would think so low of him; that this whole time, ghost’s thought that’s the only thing he wants from him. “like i’d take you for a ride ‘n just drop you?”

“there’s a difference between not gettin’ it for one night and never gettin’ it at all,” ghost growls, turning his back on him to lean against the edge of the roof. his shoulders heave and the anger seeps from him in one long breath. “it’s not a hitch, johnny. not a performance issue or ptsd or whatever the fuck you’re thinkin’. it’s permanent. irreversible.”

irreversible.

johnny stops, cold creeping up his limbs and dousing his defensive anger. ghost is many things and when it comes to his words, chief amongst them all is deliberate. he didn’t say it’s unfixable. incurable.

irreversible.

johnny buries his selfish hurt and scuffs his boots, an unobtrusive warning of movement, and comes up beside him; just enough distance between them to catch their breaths. he leans back against the ledge and looks over the opposite side of the roof at the dark sky.

“mexico,” he murmurs. not an accusation. not even really a question but ghost collapses in on himself anyway; sinking into his crossed arms digging into the ledge.

“mexico,” he agrees just as quietly. “‘pparently, roba found it more entertaining to let me keep it but- cut the cords. more demeaning that way; cock’s gone, at least you don’t feel the urge. don’t have to look at the fuckin’ thing hang there when nothin’ fuckin’ works.

“it’s not ‘bout how i see you, johnny,” ghost promises and it’s almost apologetic. “but you like sex. eventually, you’ll want it. and i can’t give it to you. easier to just… not let it get to that point.”

johnny’s jaw flexes. everything in him wants to reject it, wants to protest that something as trivial as an orgasm is more important to him than ghost.

but he also knows words are useless here.

they stand there looking out into the gathering dark, tense silence hanging between them, and the only thing johnny knows is if he isn’t careful, he could lose the one person he cares about most.

💀🧼

ghost’s been uneasy since his abrupt confession.

he knows it was sudden, borderline cruel to dump his shit on johnny with no warning but he just couldn’t take it anymore; couldn’t take the back and forth when he knew it would never go anywhere, couldn’t take johnny’s hope when he knew he’d have to watch it twist into disgust and pity.

into disappointment.

he figures that’s the end of it; there’ll be no more flirting now, no more staring or heated looks, no more teasing him by spreading his knees out just to see the flash of hunger in his eyes. the control he felt playing with johnny knowing it was welcome, just because he could- he’ll never feel that again. not now that johnny knows the truth.

then he steps into his room to find johnny laying naked on his bed.

he’s not spread out like an offering, not throwing him some cheap sultry glance as he plays with himself. he’s not even hard; his cock limp over the cradle of his balls, his legs bent loosely together, arms under his head as if he’s settling down for the night.

ghost sighs and shuts the door behind him. “johnny…”

“i know,” johnny says and it’s gentle; not cutting him off, just getting his attention. “just… hear me out?”

there’s nothing else to say. there’s nothing johnny can say or do to fix his violated body. but ghost still crosses his arms and leans back against the door like he can anyway.

johnny pushes himself up and off the bed, closing the distance between them but still giving him enough space to breathe; to open the door behind him, to escape.

“i can never know what was taken from you,” he starts and ghost’s fingers dig into his arms. “i can never know what it means to you. and i can never get it back.”

he doesn’t break eye contact and slowly lowers himself to his knees. “but i can give you something else.”

“you?” ghost guesses flatly and as much as it warms his blood, as much as he’s imagined having johnny look up at him just like this… it’s still not enough to offset the sickening swoop in his gut when his cock doesn’t so much as twitch.

“i’m a nice bonus,” johnny purrs but his smile remains gentle. “but i’m not the main event.”

he lifts a hand and ghost readies to smack it away when he reaches for his thigh holster instead of his belt. he flicks the closing strap open and pulls his handgun, his favourite, free.

“you told me you can’t fuck,” he murmurs, popping out the clip. he taps it against the side and loads it back in with a practiced hit with the butt of his palm. “but fucking isn’t all there is.”

“johnny, what…” ghost starts just to cut himself off as johnny thumbs off the safety and loads a round into the chamber.

“you trust me?” johnny asks and it’s as loaded as the gun in his hand.

good then, that ghost knows the answer. “always have.”

johnny’s smile blooms with warmth, with pride, and it chases away any reluctance he could possibly feel. he lets him take his hands in his, wrapping them around the gun with his finger on the trigger guard. he brings the barrel up beside his temple, holding it steady before his hands fall away.

until it’s only ghost between him and a bullet.

johnny’s hands go to his belt, his movements slow enough for ghost to stop him long before he reaches his cock, forever hanging limp in his pants. but he just rubs the muzzle along his temple, almost nuzzling him with the gun as he pulls down his jeans and boxers.

he waits for johnny to take him in hand, maybe try and pantomime a handy, and his hips almost recoil at the thought.

but he doesn’t try to touch him.

instead, he takes his wrist and guides the gun to sit in front of his cock; angling it to follow the same slight curve he has then holds his hands behind his back like he’s standing at attention. he splays his knees wide, sinking deeper and ghost sucks in a harsh breath as johnny ducks under the gun; his eyes locked on his as he curls his tongue under the barrel and brings it into his mouth.

it takes every ounce of will he has to not let his hand shake around the gun as johnny gives it the slowest, messiest blowjob he’s ever seen; slowly rising higher on his knees, guiding the gun up with him as if it’s his cock hardening. his cheeks hollow as he sucks, tongue laving up the barrel and flicking out to play with the muzzle like a cockhead, moaning with every bob of his head until saliva drips off the metal and makes a mess of his chin.

ghost’s never felt so powerful as he does watching johnny hang off the end of his gun; watching his cock harden and drool between his legs without a single touch, knowing he could pull the trigger at any time and johnny would not only let him but he’d thank him.

the thought breaks him from his paralysis, drawing the gun from his lips and johnny immediately stills; rolling his wide eyes up like he’s trying to check on him. ghost pushes every ounce of heat into his gaze and cocks the gun to the side, slowly pushing it back in until johnny’s lips meet the trigger guard.

johnny whines as he fucks his mouth, thrusting his hips along with each long drag like the gun is an extension of his body; almost too rough as tears prick his eyes and his lips redden and bruise but he never asks him to stop; his cock leaking a puddle on the floor beneath him.

“you gonna cum for me, johnny?” ghost croons, holding back a groan when just his voice is enough to make him shiver. “gonna cum with my fucking gun down your throat?”

he gives a broken whimper, as close to an agreement as he can make, and ghost crowds in close. he grips the base of his mohawk, wrenching his head back until his throat is flush to the front of his thigh. johnny lets out a choked cry, eyes rolling back and he doesn’t hold back as he brutally fucks his face; feeling the bulge of his gun in his throat against his leg.

“come on, johnny; you wanna be my good little holster?” he growls and makes sure he’s watching as his finger moves from the guard to the trigger. “then take my fucking load.”

he forces the gun as deep as he can and johnny gags, his shaking body locking up as he cums untouched; painting the floor and ghost’s boot, cock twitching and pulsing hard enough to bump against his belly and leave a string of cum threading from it to his cock.

ghost watches him spasm and moan, his throat convulsing around the gun and a heated knot of satisfaction tightens in his gut; so close to the memory of an orgasm, he’s almost dizzy with it.

johnny slumps forward, his hands slipping from behind his back, and ghost quickly flicks the safety back on and drops to his knees. he slides the gun away and pulls johnny forward to collapse into his chest, taking his weight off his knees; his whole body trembling with aftershocks.

“you’re crazy, johnny,” ghost whispers, awed, and feels him smile against his chest.

“aye,” he agrees, voice raspy from his gun scraping up his throat. “how else am i supposed to prove that i mean it?”

ghost tries not to tense up; tries not to let hope sink its cruel roots into his chest. “mean it?”

johnny pulls back, his cheeks still flushed and sticky with spilled tears. “i’m yours, ghost; in any and every way you’ll have me,” he promises. “sex or no sex. this can never happen again and i’ll still never stop wanting you. it doesn’t matter to me as much as you do. you’re everythin’ to me, ghost. not your body; not what you can give me. just you.”

a knot crowds in his throat. “and you needed to deep throat my pistol to prove that?” he deflects.

and just like always, johnny lets him. “worked, didn’t it?” he winks. “you fucked my brains out.”

ghost rolls his eyes to hide the softness he knows is flooding them and helps johnny up and gets him into his shower; cleaning him of the sweat and cum and spit covering his body.

that ghost covered his body in.

his chest hitches at the reminder as he strips himself down to a single layer and all but falls into bed, tugging johnny in after him when he hesitates just slightly at the edge of the bed; splaying his still naked body over him, sated and loose.

“i really do mean it,” johnny whispers into the crook of his neck sometime later; when their breaths have settled and synced.

ghost sweeps his fingers up and down the length of his spine, skin he’s never seen. skin he now knows every inch of. “i know you do,” he whispers back.

and for once, he thinks it might be enough.

[lizzybeeee]

Inquisitor: "Is there any way Solas can be reasoned with?"

Me after Solas has killed Varric, used blood magic on me, trapped me in the fade, created the blight, made the titans tranquil/fucked with the dwarves, started the chain of events that led to Southern Thedas being destroyed, and stealing all my good gear from Inquisition:

[puppppppppy]

i feel like im not making any sense but does anyone else feel like there are stories that let u run with them and ones that spell everything out for you

[c1trvswurld]

Finally glad the mouthwashing fandom-at least on here- is finally coming around to see the idea that neither curly or jimmy are completely innocent nor should be babied or completely villainized because to do that you'd need to *checks notes*

Completely ignore how mouthwashing is a story of how systems of abuse are kept in power. Particularly rape culture and the patriarchy that encourages these actions while also encouraging bystander effect from other men close to predators...which is all encouraged under a system like capitalism.

Idk read more of tha rant in tags I got carried away I fear.

[shadystranger]

this moment so fucked up💀

[fluffypotatey]

That is, huh. A lot more of a thought out response then what I was going for lol. I was like “what little rat does that remind you of” “the dude spying in the castle just now” when I rhetorically said “what shadowpeach does that remind you of” and you debunked it 😭 but since we’re talking about this now

Wiki calls em “an interconnected, self-perpetuating cycle. Yin and yang can be thought of as complementary and at the same time opposing forces that interact to form a dynamic system. Yin and yang transform each other: like an undertow in the ocean, every advance is complemented by a retreat, and every rise transforms into a fall.” Idk about you but with Mac getting chaos powers, I figured the show might take inspo from this, what with the cycles and all too. There might be an opposite “order” power in contrast to Nines. If Pandora’s box is literal, MK is “hope” there’s a lot of other symbolism fandom likes the stereotypically portray into their ShadowPeach lol. But they have day/night too. Nobody has to think too hard to take inspo, and most shows don’t in my experience. Shout out to Ninjago and ATLA just mixing culture and language in a way that annoys people and placing it under one umbrella.

well i mean, lmk is already playing with the themes of order and chaos. except there Order was on the side of the antagonists while MK was Chaos (being the harbinger and all). we saw it with LBD and Azure and now with Nines

also, lmk’s order can be seen when it talks about Fate and Destiny and even the “story”, but in a way where they are shown as being too fixed and bureaucratic compared to the lessons being taught to MK and by MK which are “your fate (order) is your own and can only be determined by you.”

we had it with MK telling LBD “do you really think the universe cares about any of us?”

we had it when Macky told MK “if you tread the paths already carved for you, then you doom yourself into a self-fulfilling prophecy”

we have it even more explicitly in s5 from Wukong: “sometimes you need to carve your own path and fuck all the rest”

lmk is all about finding that balance between the chaos of your mind and the forced order of the world around you. our own daily ying and yang that we must balance, and that is why i don't place those themes with shadowpeach just because it takes away from the crux of the show where it’s original focus is on MK and how he changes and grow throughout the seasons

tbh i think their day/night themes with ying/yang are significantly minor. the major focus with them is the themes of betrayal and reconciliation and past haunts

[kyouka-supremacy]

///////

[samdyke]

Sorry, for the tmi, but I was going to say that I wouldn't make john a lesbian and then my pussy caught up with that thought and I almost fell over (from the horniness tbc)

thank you for speaking your truth. i understand.

[pickaropoprocks]

No idea what route they're gonna go for Kana5 but I do think that it would be absolutely hilarious if it was the most fluff a prsk key story has ever been, especially after all EN has been theorizing is that it's going to be absolutely devastating and have irreversible effects on Kanade's psyche