#and they NEVER discuss his scars??

[fernsfabulousfloweringfacility]

i just feel like merthur deserved a bit more

[general-cyno]

Hey hey have you ever thought about how zoro breaks his body again and again for Luffy gaining scar after scar loosing eyes and shit trying to keep up with Luffy and his devil fruit and sanji with his genetically modified body. Do you think zoro wonders what will be the thing that tips him over the edge into death??? Do you think Luffy does???

well hello to you too, anon! sorry that it took me a while to answer but I love this and ended up typing a lot. so, I also apologize in advance for the long-ish read.

but yeah! actually I was sort of thinking about it thanks to some twts I saw discussing thriller bark again. I gotta say, perhaps I have a bit of a less angsty view? because the thing is... zoro's a pretty straightforward and single-minded character, which doesn't mean he's flat or lacking in depth, but his overall thought process isn't extremely complex.

though zoro treasures his life (just like his swords, both which he needs to achieve his goals), he's not naive. he knows death is a real possibility, more so in the pursuit of his dream. zoro says as much to sanji back in baratie:

zoro doesn't seek death, the opposite actually, and he refuses to die in situations he finds dishonorable or out of his control, but he's come to terms with the idea of his own death. aside from that (or additionally), zoro's most prominent traits are rooted in his deep sense of commitment, devotion and loyalty to what he wants and believes in - namely his dream and his promise to kuina. this aspect of his character doesn't change imo, rather it broadens to encompass luffy and the crew as well.

all this to say that albeit I've called it a sacrifice myself, I don't think what zoro chooses to do for luffy or the crew would count (for him) as such. it's just what he believes he must do - to achieve his personal goals as much as to ensure luffy gets to fulfill his own and to protect the crew as a whole, because they've all become intertwined with zoro's dream to begin with. especially where it concerns luffy. what good is ambition if I can't even save the life of my own captain? indeed, for someone whose end goal is to become the strongest, what's the point of doing so if his strength doesn't allow him to protect those who are important to him? the person who is most important to him?

so when zoro chooses to keep pushing himself to train harder/become stronger, to do the exchange with kuma, beg mihawk to train him or agrees to do crazy stuff like take the drug that will help him recuperate enough to fight but will worsen his injuries/pain tenfold the moment the effect wears off in wano - they're not sources of regret or decisions he sees as tragic sacrifices. he's quite like luffy too, who's made similar choices along the story.

the angst of moments like "nothing happened" for me lies more on the implications of what could've happened (zoro dying for real), what eventually did (almost getting killed in sabaody, the crew's separation) and what luffy's reaction would've been if he'd found out. I do agree luffy would ultimately respect his decision, what I don't usually agree with is that he'd be immediately okay with it. the last thing luffy wants is to lose someone he loves, less so if they get hurt trying to protect him. points at his backstory, marineford and post marineford. this is exactly why sanji insists on not letting him know.

on the other hand, imo, zoro's not trying to keep up with luffy per se... how I see it, it's more like meeting him halfway. when you're faced with how powerful luffy's become nowadays, it's easy to forget he's not infallible. luffy has weaknesses and shortcomings too. post TS zoro is even more aware of both of their limitations (he's the one who's literally experienced luffy's pain as if it were his own) though he's also become more confident in their strength and the crew's as well. zoro will do his best to stand by luffy's side and protect him/their crew, but luffy has to measure up! zoro has no qualms about reminding and demanding him to get his shit together. zoro might not reach luffy's levels of raw strength (and I'd argue he doesn't need to), still, there's other ways in which he makes up for what luffy lacks or can't do in certain circumstances. so if you ask me, it's not about keeping up - it's meeting each other in the middle and striding forward together.

as for sanji, a similar thing applies. for all their petty rivalry and their roles as crew combatants, it's important to remember sanji's more of a nurturer (he is the cook, after all) and his dream of the all blue has little to do with strength, unlike zoro's. his genetic modifications don't really become an issue (for the crew) until wano and if anything, rather than this setting him above zoro in terms of power/abilities or turning into something zoro has to catch up with, sanji relies on zoro to keep him in line if he ever endangers the crew because of it.

all in all, I don't think zoro's the type to wonder what's gonna make him kick the bucket, though he knows dying is a realistic possibility. plus, he's not the only relatively Normal Guy who's ever become crazy strong among DF users and other enhanced characters. rayleigh is a very good point of reference as to what zoro is capable of becoming or achieving, and it's no coincidence they share a bunch of a similarities too.

AND FINALLY LUFFY. I rambled about this in the tags of a post a while back but luffy is a bit of a more complicated case imo. the manga doesn't exactly provide insight on luffy's inner thoughts/feelings (he voices most of them anyway) and though he's not naive in this aspect either, especially not post TS, the story rarely lets him witness situations in which zoro's vulnerable or in real danger of dying. this leads to him sometimes coming across as insensitive or being unfair (by having almost unrealistic expectations wrt zoro) but part of it is that he sees zoro bouncing back from the seemingly impossible more often than he sees him down.

however, the way he loses his goddamn mind when mihawk hurts zoro at baratie, when kizaru almost kills him and as kuma sends him away in sabaody, is a very good indicator of how he handles the idea of losing zoro which is - not well. at all. OPLA also gave us a more blatant example of this with the near dissociation, panic, losing his appetite and actively refusing to eat etc when zoro's wounded and unconscious after his duel with mihawk.

whether he thinks about zoro dying or not is probably more headcanon/fanfic territory, since it hasn't come up in the manga itself. even so, I do believe luffy's the type who... deliberately does Not ponder about sad or potentially upsetting things. one very brief moment that stood out to me while reading was this:

luffy not wanting to remember when garp left him on his own as a kid and straight up getting mushroom-high after being separated from his friends? man.

despite his cheerfulness and confidence, luffy is at his innermost terrified of losing the people he loves and hates the idea of being alone, ever since he was a kid. he begged ace not to die, has fought time and time again to rescue his friends and bring back those who've left. zoro's not just his first crew mate but he's also been the most long lasting and steady throughout the story. as some people have pointed out - zoro is the only one of the east blue gang who's never left the crew, even if the rest all had very understandable reasons for doing it each time. so on a more speculative note, after all the losses luffy's suffered, I'd say wondering when or how zoro will die is something he'd very much avoid. the thought's likely pretty devastating. instead, it's easier to put his entire trust and faith into believing zoro will pull through anything, like luffy says in dressrosa, and zoro would accept no less than that imo - because that's the kind of trust/faith he places in luffy as well.

lastly, about the scars and such... this is where zoro and luffy's similarities are highlighted. when it comes to all the choices they make wrt their dreams or protecting their friends, those luffy understands well. he's pretty much the same as zoro in this regard. that's why he refuses to let buggy interrupt zoro's fight with cabaji and stops johnny and yosaku from interfering in his duel against mihawk, even if seeing zoro get hurt upsets him greatly. zoro and luffy match in many ways, their dreams and determination to fulfill them is one of them, no matter what they have to do or how many scars they collect along their journey as a result.

[torchickentacos]

There's not many things that unsettle me about myself, but the fact that I have a mysterious six inch long scar on my foot and no clue of why it's there is definitely one of those things.

[reblog-house]

Scar don't make your life series base on a mountain challenge.

[katsumox]

something about jason todd with a touchy!reader s/o is literally so yummie.

You’ve got him on his stomach, regrettably, he thinks, as you watch the hills and divots of his muscles roll and flex as he gets comfortable. The scarred herculean expanse of his back is exposed to you as you sit on his butt.

“Dunno why I agreed to this,” he frowns, not bothering to move his head, unmuffling his musings.

He really doesn’t; ten minutes ago you two were having a very civil discussion (read: arguing) about something or other. Next thing he knew, he was in your bed, on his stomach, half naked and under you.

“Cause you like me,” you sing, breaking him from his thoughts, as you drag manicured fingers up his back, pressing into his taut muscle, deftly massaging each sore part of him.

“You like this. ‘S okay to admit it,” you add.

He gives a noncommittal noise that gets cut off by a strangled gasp when he feels your hands pressing into the upper muscles of his back.

There’s a deep discomfort that settles in his stomach; he’s never been touched so lovingly, not without hidden motives tainting said touch. He isn’t sure if he should push you off him or beg you to keep going.

You hum as you work his muscles, letting his inconsistent breathing and occasional gasps guide you.

You continue rubbing him down, occasionally pausing to apply more shea butter to your hands before resuming your work.

You reach up to his neck, as he sighs. You press just a hair harder, feeling a knot loosen at the pressure. Jason inhales, trying to steel himself from any possible reaction.

Regardless of his efforts, a low “Fuck,” reverberates through his chest. He internally frowns at the sound of his low whine, sounding like a wounded animal. He reddens as he hears himself, internally cringing at his neediness, at your willingness, and the intimacy of it all.

“That was pretty,” you murmur, teasing lilt in your voice. He’s fighting the urge to shut down this moment of vulnerability the two of you are sharing. You know he’s really pushing himself, so you try to keep the extra teases locked away for another day, another less intense moment.

You shut yourself up, instead focusing your attention to Jason’s expansive back. You press harder in the same spot, shameless in your attempt to illicit more noises from him as you whisper, “Give me another.”

He shudders, giving a shaky exhale as he composes himself.

“You’re evil,” he grumbles, despite almost leaning up into your touch.

“So evil,” You smile, “Totally evil.”

Not once does your touch on his back falter. He hums in agreement, softly smiling into a pillow.

“Incredibly evil,” Jason sighs. “Lucky I like your evil ass.”

“Aw,” you say, “Red’s finally going soft. I got you up under me and now you don’t know how to act. ”

Jason can hear the smile in your words. Choosing to ignore it, he closes his eyes and focuses solely on your touch.

“Yeah,” He mumbles, before pausing to consider his words, “Goin’ real soft, only for you.”

[roseghoul26]

Cooper Howard | The Ghoul x fem!Reader

Synopsis: After being captured by The Ghoul, he had dragged you through the hot desert of the Wasteland. You were so thirsty, and you’d do anything for a drink of water. And you meant anything. Tags: Smut, Practically No Plot, Humiliation, Begging, Spit, Blowjobs, Throat Fucking, Thigh Riding, Biting, Hate Sex(?), maybe OOC The Ghoul but I think I got it right, Not Beta Read, there's still consent because i can’t write severe noncon Author's Note: i had so many “why am i writing this” moments yet i still finished it i’m so sorry. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been this thirsty in your life. 

Scratch that, you don’t think anyone’s ever been as thirsty as you currently are. 

Even though you had no saliva left to swallow, you tried anyway, your throat feeling like sandpaper. It caused you to cough, earning a disgruntled noise from the ghoul currently holding you hostage. 

The Ghoul. Infamous bounty hunter and the cruelest person you’d ever met. Of course, you only found out who he was after he captured you. You’d never even heard of a ghoul until a few days ago, your sheltered life in Vault 14 withholding information about the surface to you. 

You wished you were back home, suffocating as it was. At home, you wouldn’t be forced to walk countless miles under the boiling Wasteland sun. At home, you wouldn’t have a lasso around your neck, preventing you from running off. And even if you did manage to somehow escape the rope confines, you’d seen how accurate of a shot he was. He’d kill you before you managed to keep a foot away from him. 

You glanced back at him, The Ghoul, who had his sawed-off shotgun casually trained on you. He seemed unaffected by the heat, by the sun beating down on your faces. His hat made sure of that, and you supposed that you didn’t have to worry about sunburn if all your exposed skin was melted by radiation.

It had been hard, looking at him at first. After spending your entire life surrounded by “normal” humans, it was a shock seeing him for the first time. You’d seen burn scars before, sure, but never this severe, every inch of him covered in them. Of course, that wasn’t the most off-putting part. That had to be the complete lack of nose, an empty socket where the cartilaginous appendage should be. 

It unsettled you deeply, but you found that you couldn’t stop looking at him, a sick part of your brain enjoying it. You didn’t dare delve into that part of your mind right now, though, your current circumstance is significantly more important. 

He had stopped you in Filly, and after a brief discussion had decided that he was taking you with wherever he was going. You had no say in the decision, and even when you fought and kicked and screamed he still managed to get you bound. A few people tried to help, not because they cared about you, but because they had also wanted to get their hands on a “Vaultie”. Apparently, you were worth something to them up here, a commodity of sorts. It made your skin crawl. You’d gotten firsthand experience, then, of how good of a shot The Ghoul was. 

How you longed to be back in the stuffy Vault, working as a teacher to those kids. As annoying as they were, at least they weren’t currently threatening your life, or making you walk to who the hell knows. You’d take that over this any day. Hell, you’d take latrine duty with overflowing toilets every single hour over this. 

You fixed your attention back in front of you, the endless stretch of sandy dunes in front of you broken up by partially destroyed houses and skeletons of buildings. Your feet were in incredible amounts of pain, every step feeling like you had fifty pounds of bricks attached to your ankles. And that thirst, never ending, overwhelming thirst you felt nagged at you, consuming every thought of yours. You’d take anything to drink now, even that definitely radiated puddle you’d passed hours ago. Or was it minutes? You couldn’t tell.

You knew dehydration had long since started affecting you. You were no longer able to form sweat, and you were certain that your body was slowly cooking from the inside. You were almost certain it would be a better fate than whatever The Ghoul was leading you towards. 

You hadn’t even realized he’d stopped until you felt a sharp tug at your throat, nearly toppling you on your ass. You heard him chuckle as you steadied yourself, and you shot him a glare. Even faced with death, you weren’t going to let yourself be treated like this. “We’re stopin’ here,” he gestured to a dilapidated building to his right.

You had been surprised when he spoke the first time, not expecting a southern drawl. You’d never heard an accent like his before, only ever hearing them on the Holotapes your Vault would play for movie night. You’d also believed them to be fake, or to have died out with the rest of humanity. You had to admit, the one good thing to come out of this whole experience was hearing his voice. 

Momentarily confused as to why you were stopping, your eyes focused, and you realized that the sun was half set. You’d learned rather quickly that it was suicidal and stupid to travel across the Wasteland at night, after an almost perilous encountered with what you assumed to once be a bear. You’d barely escaped with your life, climbing a tree until the creature grew disinterested and found new prey. 

You almost wished it had torn you apart then. 

Apparently you were taking too long, and you felt another tug at the rope, pulling you closer to him. “Ain’t got all day, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The name was anything but sweet, saying it with so much condescension that it made you flush angrily. At least, that’s what you told yourself. 

Grumbling something under your breath, you stormed past him, another low chuckle leaving him. “Nothin’ good is gonna come from that mouth on ya,” he threatened, waving the gun at you in a go on motion. 

The shifting sand nearly caused you to stumble as you ducked into the house through a window, and your eyes struggled to adjust to the low lighting. Holding your breath, you listened for anything else in the house besides the two of you, and when you were met with only your heartbeat, you continued further in. 

Entering what used to be the living room, you saw a large couch, still in relatively decent condition, and luckily free of decomposed bodies. Any wood furniture, however, had already decayed, leaving only fragments where they once stood. You realized that if you were to sit on the couch, it would probably crumble under the weight.

The Ghoul entered behind you, and you made your way down the hallway, checking each room for anyone or anything that could do you harm. The first room was a bathroom, sand filling the bathtub like it was water. Out of desperation you almost tried to turn the handles on the sink, lift the seat of the toilet, do anything for a drop of water. But you refrained, not willing to stoop to that level yet. But you could feel that you were close. 

The next room was a large master bedroom, completely destroyed from when the bombs fell. Sand covered everything, and the walls had practically caved in, leaving you exposed to the outside. There was no where you would stay there willingly tonight. 

The third and final room was also completely devoid of life, but the empty crib in the middle of the room had you gasping, and you heard the click of a gun behind you as The Ghoul prepared for anything. You quickly shut the door. “Nothing, sorry,” you managed to croak out, and you heard him scoff.

However, you saw that he did manage to catch a glimpse of the room before you closed the door, and in those still human eyes you saw something flash through them. Sadness? Longing? Anger? You couldn’t tell, but you sure as hell weren’t about to ask him about it. 

Living room it is, then. Heading back to the original room, you watch The Ghoul sit on the couch, right in the center of it. It held, surprisingly, but you could hear the wood groan in warning. Spreading his legs, you watched him tilt his head back, a content sigh leaving his mouth. 

If you had the energy to blush, you would’ve as you watched him, finding yourself having to look away. Maybe dehydration was messing with your brain, the way you thought that was attractive. What the hell was wrong with you, you thought. 

Thirst quickly chased those thoughts away, and you attempted to lick your dry lips, your tongue mostly sticking to them instead. You were about to go explore the bathroom until you remembered the rope around your neck. 

Like he could read your thoughts, you watched him regard the lasso in his gloved hand. “You gonna run off on me if I take this off, sweetheart?” 

You shook your head, excited to have the irritating rope no longer chafing your neck. “You’ll kill me before I could,” you responded, voice barely a whisper.

The Ghoul barked out a laugh. “Damn right I will.” He considered your response for a moment, and you fully believed that he was going to keep it there. That was until he stood, almost inhumanly fast, approaching you with long strides.

Holding your breath, you felt his tug the rope off your neck, those eerily human eyes never leaving yours as he did. You flinched when you felt one of his leather-clad fingers brush over the irritated skin. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest, mostly because of fear, but also for another reason that you refused to name. 

With a satisfactory smirk, he looped the lasso back onto his belt. You quickly exhaled when he stepped away, eliciting a coughing fit, which was dry and only irritated your throat more. Fuck, you were so thirsty. 

The Ghoul sat back on the couch in that same lounging position, and you debated sitting on the floor in front of him, but you feared that if you rested now then you’d never get back up. You watched him set a lantern on the ground, the weak oil based contraption the only source of light in the entire room. You didn’t ask why he didn’t start a fire; you also learned to not do that early on too. 

So you remained standing, even though your feet screamed for relief. You ignored them, shifting to try and alleviate the pain slightly. Rubbing your neck, you could feel that he hadn't once taken his eyes off of you, and it was making you increasingly unnerved. “You gonna stand there all night?”

You crossed your arms. “Yes.” You tried to sound defiant, but it came out more like an airy noise.

“Suit yourself, then.” He rolled his eyes, making a show of getting comfortable on the couch. “It’ll be a long night for you, that’s for sure.”

Swaying, you leaned your back against one of the barely-standing walls, screwing your eyes shut. You occupied your thoughts with memories of home, trying desperately to ignore the pain. You were mostly successful, that was until you heard the sound of a canister being opened. 

Curious, you opened your eyes back up, nearly falling to your knees when you saw him drinking from a circular canteen. You must’ve made some noise, because he was now smirking at you. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and you watched a droplet of precious water trail down his scarred chin, dripping onto his dusty clothes. 

“See somethin’ you want, sweetheart?” He was unabashedly cocky with his tone. 

You son of a bitch, you thought, glaring daggers into him.

“Now, now, no need to be like that,” he chuckled, taking another sip. “Just tell me what ya want.”

He wanted you to ask for it. He wanted you to be at his mercy. Groaning, you rest your head back against the wall. You don’t think you’ve ever hated anyone as much as you hated The Ghoul. Any humanity left in him had been stripped away, leaving behind a cruel excuse of a human. Despite that, you couldn’t deny the way your heart continued to patter in your chest as he stared at you expectantly, that cocky attitude doing things to you that would leave anyone who knew you horrified.

“I…” you tried to talk, but your voice proved to be too scratchy. Clearing your throat as best you could, you tried again, ignoring the way he looked at you like a predator would his prey. It was similar to the bear from earlier, but you’d take that now over the ghoul in front of you. “I need water.”

He tsked, crossing a leg over his lap. “And here I thought you Vaulties were raised with manners.”

It took everything in you to not just snap at him, but that would leave you without any water. “I need water, please,” you gritted out. 

The Ghoul shook his head disapprovingly. “Shame,” you heard him mutter, before he was slowly pouring the water out onto the floor behind him.

Sheer panic tore through you, and if you were able to form tears, they would be in your eyes. “Wait, wait, wait,” you pleaded, your voice cracking and breaking, and you lunged forward. The click of a gun had your blood going cold, but he at least had the decency to stop pouring. You held your hands up, taking a few steps back.

Registering that you weren’t going to attack him, he lowered the gun, but he still kept it on his lap. If he had any eyebrows left, you’re sure one of them would be raised, waiting for you to continue. 

“I’m- I’m sorry,” you stammered out, keeping your hands in the air. “I just… Can I please have some water? Please, I-I… I need it. I’m begging you… please.” You wondered if he could even make out your words. 

You watched his eyes travel up and down your body, and he cocked his head. “Are you?” You made a confused noise, and he chuckled lowly. “Are you beggin’ me?”

One problem that you always had at the Vault is that you never knew when to shut your mouth, and what you said next certainly made it clear that you hadn’t learned yet. “You want me to get on my knees, then?” You had meant it sarcastically, and you immediately regretted it when his eyes went dark. 

You heard the creak of the couch as he planted both feet on the ground, leaning forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His guns barely stayed in his lap, but he didn’t seem to care. “Now that you mention it… yeah.”

Humiliation warmed your cheeks, and you nearly let your pride stop you from sinking to the floor, but then you saw the way the canteen hung precariously in his hand. Damn it all. Taking a deep breath, you lowered yourself slowly, unable to look at the man, not wanting to see his victorious reaction. The sand shifted beneath your knees as you rested on them, but you could barely feel the relief your feet finally felt.

“Can-”

“Closer,” he cut you off gruffly. “And I want those eyes on me.” His voice had turned husky, and you realized he was enjoying this. Were… were you enjoying this too? You honestly couldn’t tell.

Wordlessly, you obeyed, shuffling forward until your knees bumped into his shoes. Your ears burned worse than they did out in the sun, and you wished it would just explode and incinerate you right now. “Eyes up, sweetheart,” he practically purred. 

You took a moment to prepare yourself before you were looking at him through hooded eyes. The brim of his hat cast a shade over his face, and you could only see the hungry glint in his eyes matched with a predatory smirk. Oh, he was loving this, and you couldn’t help but squirm under his gaze, heat pooling in your belly that was quickly doused by shame. 

“Can I please have some water? Please? I- I’m really thirsty and… just a bit. Please.” 

His grin grew more as you begged, and you sagged with relief when he brought the canteen closer, no longer dangling over the back of the couch. “See, that ain’t so hard now, was it?”

“I’m sorry,” you found yourself apologizing, for what, you weren’t quite sure. You weren’t too upset about it, though, especially when he brought the canteen to your lips. 

“Head back,” he ordered, and you did, your neck straining at the angle. You swore you heard him groan when you parted your lips, never breaking eye contact with him. The water was disgusting and acidic, but damn if it wasn’t the best thing you’d ever had the pleasure of drinking. He poured it into your mouth, and you desperately swallowed every single drop, the dryness in your mouth and throat instantly being quenched. 

But it wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t help the disappointed noise you let out when he ceased the pouring. “More, please,” you found yourself whining, any remnants of shame tossed out the broken window you’d climbed into.

“Manners, Vaultie,” he growled.

“Thank you, thank you,” you repeated like a mantra, and The Ghoul let out a pleased hum. Thirstiness still clung to you like a second skin, but you felt better than you had moments ago. Some of your energy had returned, and you felt like you were no longer in the grasp of death. 

“You want more?” He asked, and you immediately nodded.

“Please,” you whispered, and you saw something almost wicked pass over his features. 

“Don’t worry,” you felt one of his gloved hands sneak around your back, collecting a handful of hair and tugging, forcing your head back even further. You cried out, a mix of shock and pain. “You’ll get more. Just keep that pretty mouth wide open, just like that.” His normal drawl had turned into an almost rasp, and you shuddered. 

You watched as he took a swig for himself, but he didn’t swallow, keeping the water in his mouth. Confused, you closed your mouth, but as soon as you did you felt him pull hard at your hair. Obediently, you opened it back up, a shaky exhale leaving you.

If he had a nose, it would be currently pressed up against yours. He adjusted so that he was practically towering above you, and man did the angle kill your neck, but you didn’t dare complain. With increasingly widening eyes, you watched as he slotted his mouth above yours, not touching, but you could still feel the heat from his body. 

You nearly flinched when you felt the water hit your mouth, fighting every instinct that told you to shut it. The act was filthy and degrading, but you’d be a liar if you said it wasn’t getting you incredibly aroused. Your Vault-Tec suit was becoming suffocating; it hadn’t even felt this bad when you were outside. 

As he sat back on to the couch, his lips glistened in the dim light, stray remnants of water still coating them. As you held the water in your mouth, he frowned disapprovingly. “Do I gotta spell it out for ya?” He shifted forward again, grasping your face. “Swallow.” 

When you did, he let go, tapping your cheek lightly. “Atta girl,” he cooed, and you sputtered, cheeks growing warm. Shifting where you sat, you tried and failed to relieve some of the tension in you. You thought you were subtle in your movements, but his sharpshooter gaze locked onto it immediately. 

He laughed, a mix of surprise and condescension in one. “This gettin’ you turned on? Maybe you ain’t all that innocent, Vaultie.”

You eyed the half-hard tent in front of you. “I’m not the only one,” you grumbled out, and he laughed again. 

“I ain’t the one on my knees, sweetheart.”  Scoffing, you watched him lean back again. You expected him to say something, do something, but he simply watched you with anticipatorily. Something shifted in the atmosphere, and you realized he was putting the situation in your hands, wordlessly asking you how far you were willing to take this. 

You needed this. You needed him, as bewildering as it was for you to admit to yourself. 

Desire running deeper than that for water coursed through your veins, and you nodded. “More.” You both knew that you weren’t fully talking about the canteen in his hand. 

“Good answer.” Before you could even register, he was gripping your face again. Fingers pressed into your cheeks harshly, opening your mouth back up. Taking another swig, you expected him to repeat what he’d done last time, but you were startled when you felt his lips on yours. 

It was a strange kiss, his closed mouth against your open one, but it didn’t stay like that for long. His lips pulled apart, and without needing further prompting you swallowed another precious mouthful of water. You could feel that bastardly smirk against your mouth, and if you were anywhere near being able to create a coherent thought you would’ve said something. 

But you didn’t, you couldn’t. It was like you were caught up in some haze, but you were sent out of it when you felt his tongue sweep into your mouth. You’d kissed a few people, sure, but never like this. It elicited a startled noise from you that had him pulling back an inch, and you had to fight yourself to not chase after his lips.

“Never had that before?” He chuckled, and he found your following silence an adequate enough answer. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin you.”

He didn’t even give you a moment to react before he was crashing his mouth back against yours. It was all tongue and teeth and it had you moaning, and you felt the grip on your face tighten. Your head spun, and you tried to keep up with his movements, but you ended up just letting him take over, moving his mouth against your however he’d like. 

He nipped at your lower lip with his teeth, and your hands shot out, no longer able to just keep them idly in your lap. You found purchase on his thighs, the sinewy muscles tensing under your touch. But the grip on your face tightened more, almost incredibly painful. Your eyes shot open, alarmed, and a pained noise left you. 

He had pulled away again, a string of saliva still connecting your mouths, but he was glaring down at you. “You better watch those hands.” Even though his voice was husky, the threat didn’t make you any less terrified. 

You were confused, and you watched his eyes trail down to his lap where your hands were. Unable to move your head, you had to strain your own eyes to look down, and sheer dread washed over you when you saw his gun still in his lap, your hands a mere inch away from it. 

“I- I wasn’t… I didn’t… ” you gasped breathlessly. “I didn’t know! I- I’m sorry! Please.” Out of all the times you’d begged and pleaded tonight, this time had to be the most genuine. Immediately retracting your hands back to your lap, you awaited his response tensely. What you failed to notice was the way his eyes darkened as you groveled, his pants growing tighter.

His gaze returned to your face, and out of the corner of your eye you watched as he moved the gun from his lap into his hand. You half expected him to point it at you next, but you let out a very audible sigh of relief when he set it on the couch beside him. It was completely out of your reach now, but he could still easily grab it. 

He loosened the grip on your jaw, still holding it, but no longer digging into your flesh painfully. “I won’t stop you next time,” he growled, and it took you a second to register what he was saying: he won’t stop you next time because you’d be dead as soon as you began to reach for it. 

You nodded as best you could. “Good,” he’d lost the threatening tone, but his voice was still gravely and raspy. “Now, where was I?” His eyes flicked down to your lips, and you sure they were swollen and shiny. “That’s right.”

Like nothing had happened, he returned to his ministrations, teeth grazing your bottom lip again. You hesitated when you set your hands back on his thighs, gaining more confidence when he didn’t stop you. In fact, he was actively encouraging your explorative touches, a pleased noise rumbling his chest as your fingers trailed up his thighs. 

Another swipe of his tongue and a particularly harsh bite had you gripping onto him, barely able to find purchase on the thick material of his pants. You desperately needed air, but he held his grip on your jaw, seemingly unaffected by the issue you were having. Did ghouls need to breathe? It seemed like they didn’t, because he had yet to tear his mouth away for air once as he first kissed you. 

As your hands reached his belt, it was then he finally tore away, a groan leaving him. Sucking in as much air as your lungs could handle, you ran your touch across the prominent bulge. You felt the hand on your jaw go lax, falling to his lap. “You gonna take care of that?” He was giving you another out, giving you an opportunity to stop you from doing something you could regret. 

Rationally, you knew you should stop here, and pretend like this didn’t just happen. You knew the version of you from the Vault would do that. But this new part of you, exposed to the Wasteland and the savagery of the surface world found that you wanted to continue. Besides, you were probably going to end up getting killed in the next few days; why not have some new experiences before your time was up.

You didn’t respond, you simply began to undo the buckle of his belt. You couldn’t get the thing off of him, so it just rested open on his thighs. “Oh, you’re filthy,” he chuckled, spreading his legs even further apart while leaning back against the couch. “Go on, sweetheart. Let’s see what that mouth’s good for.”

This also wasn’t your first time in a situation like this. You’d only ever done it once, but you apparently weren't too terrible at it, as he frequently requested for a second time, but you always turned him down. You kinda wish you hadn’t now, wishing you had more experience now, but a part of you knew that this was about to be incredibly different from anything you would’ve experienced in the Vault.

With hands that you prayed weren’t incredibly shaky, you pulled down the zipper of his pants. He kept his eyes locked onto you the entire time, darkening even more as the unzipping noise hit his ears. You couldn’t bring yourself to look away from him, no matter how hard you wanted to. Something about his expression had you locked in, and you shifted again. 

“Don’t let me stop ya,” he rested his arms along the backside of the couch, and you realized you’d just been sitting there. Steadying yourself, you slipped your hand into the confines of his pants, underneath the waistband of his briefs. You heard him let out a small hiss when your fingers brushed over his cock, and you desperately wanted to hear him make more noises like that.

It took a bit of maneuvering before he was free, head brushing against his navel. The skin was pocked like the rest of his body, which you were expecting. What you weren’t expecting was how long he was, much longer than your previous encounter.

Before you could let nerves disarm you, you moved closer to him. Bracing your hands back on his thighs, you kissed his tip, and you heard his hiss again. Sneaking your tongue out, you ran it up his length, pressing another kiss when you reached the top. “Don’t tease,” he growled, tangling his gloved fingers back into your hair. 

When you took him into your mouth, he let out a noise that sounded like a laugh and a sigh, the grip on your hair growing painful. It didn’t deter you, rather it drove you wild, and you took as much of him as you could. When he hit the back of your throat, you had to stifle the urge to gag. Taking the rest of him in one of your hands, you began to bob your head, hollowing your cheeks. 

You couldn’t see the way his eyes locked onto his cock leaving and entering your mouth, but you could hear the small grunts he made in tandem with the movement of your head. He kept his hips surprisingly still, but his fingers were somehow getting even tighter, as if all of his restraint was being poured into his grip, and it was on the verge of snapping. “You can take more.” It wasn’t a question, and you felt his press down on the back of your head when you had him fully in you.

Startled, you tried to make a noise, but the vibrations just went straight to his cock. He groaned, louder this time, and he didn't let up. “Relax,” he bit out, and you tried. You really did. Taking as deep a breath you could, you forced your muscles to relax, your hands going back to his thighs. Tears sprung to your eyes as you really tried not to gag, but a garbled sound still left you as he pushed himself further down your throat. 

“Fuck,” he drawled out, “just like that.” It felt like five years had passed before your nose was finally pressed into his skin, his cock fully sheathed down your throat. Tears dripped onto his skin, but he didn’t seem to feel them. Your scalp stung as he lifted your head up, and you took in a shuddering breath, your lungs screaming for air.

You didn’t have a long reprieve before he was shoving you back down again, and even though the intrusion wasn’t new it still caused you to make an awful noise. It took him pulling you off again for you to realize what he was doing; he was fucking your mouth, using it for his own pleasure like you were just a toy. The realization had you moaning, the discomforts becoming an afterthought as he chased his pleasure, your own growing. 

Your Vault-Tec suit was becoming unbearable arousal tightening in your core, and you snuck a hand down between your legs, trying to touch yourself through the thick material. It didn’t help, but you still tried anyway, desperate for any sort of relief. The Ghoul laughed, not letting up the way he moved your head. “Oh, sugar, is suckin’ my cock gettin’ you bothered?”

Your head spun, the new nickname and the crude words making you dizzy, and you let out what you hoped was a confirmatory sound. He only huffed in response, and you could tell that he was starting to get close to his release. His hips had started to buck, albeit slightly, and his groans had turned to unintelligible moans. 

He cursed again, and you were barely able to glimpse his head roll back, hat hitting the ground. He didn’t care, continuing to fuck your face, and you desperately ground against your hand. “So good, fuck,” he panted, and you let your eyes flutter shut.

They shot open when you heard him moan your name, but you had little time to appreciate the way he said it. He pressed down hard on the back of your head, holding you there, your nose pressed flat against his body. A plethora of curses fell from his lips as he came, his cum spurting deep down your throat. 

He let go, hands falling to his sides, and you removed yourself, coughing and gasping for air. Your cheeks were wet with tears, your jaw aching, but it was the best pain you’d ever felt. He stared at you with lustful eyes, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. 

Holy shit. You were tired, but you wanted more. But you weren’t expecting him to do anything else tonight. This wasn’t a partnership; he’d gotten his release. You’d need to deal with it on your own. 

So caught up in what you were expecting, you gasped when you felt his lips graze the corner of your mouth. His hand cradled your cheek, leather growing damp, and you felt his lips brush the tears that had fallen on the other cheek. You realized he was licking your tears away, and when he registered that you noticed he chuckled, muttering something about not wanting to waste water. You let out an airy chuckle in return, still not fully wrapping your head about what had and what is transpiring. 

“Guess one good thing came from that mouth,” he teased, referencing his earlier threat. He tugged you up, and you stood with knees shaking like a fawn. You’re certain you looked like a mess but he either didn’t care or really enjoyed it. 

You really had no idea what was going to happen next. You observed him with wide eyes, and you couldn’t help the bewildered look when you saw him stroking himself, still rock hard like he hadn’t just come. He chuckled when he saw what had caused you to react. “One good thing ‘bout bein’ a ghoul,” he rasped. “Stamina.”

His own raked down your body, honing in on the way your thighs pressed together, and they flicked back up to your own. “Take it off.”

You didn’t have to be told twice, the zipper on your suit quickly becoming undone. Even though the air was hot, it still felt nice against your hot skin. He didn’t blink as you undressed, eyes clocking in every new inch of exposed skin. Tugging it down your shoulders and off your arms, you let it fall to the ground, the material pooling at your ankles. 

Left in only your bra and underwear, you kicked the Vault-Tec suit off your feet, and you stood there, unsure. “All of it,” he continued, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

As you reached for the clasp of your bra, you watched him lean forward slightly, eyes watching you like you were the most delicious meal he was about to devour. Tossing the garment beside you, you reached for the waistband of your underwear. He raised a hand, making your halt, your fingers barely looped under the band.

With two fingers, he gestured you forward, grinning when you complied easily. His hands batted away your own, and you felt he begin to peel it away himself. He was almost eye level with your navel, and you felt his breath caress your stomach. It was like he was unwrapping a present, the way he ripped it down your legs, and it fell around your ankles like the suit. 

You were hardly able to kick it away before he pulled you onto his lap, your hands bracing against his still clothed chest. The couch made a very audible noise, on the virgo of collapsing, but neither of you seemed to hear it. One of your legs straddled his thigh, your bare center pressed against his pants, no doubt soaking the material.

 “You’re wearing too much,” you found yourself commenting, and you felt him chuckle. He took his hands off your waist, holding them in front of you so you could clearly see him take off his gloves, tossing them by his gun. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, realizing that that was all you were getting from him. 

You weren’t complaining, though, when his bare hands touched you for the first time. Along with the marred skin, his fingers were calloused, years and years of harsh life, fighting, and shooting making them so, but they were the best things you’d ever felt touch your soft skin.

He seemed to be having similar thoughts, humming appreciated as he felt your body, fingers dancing up your sides. Goosebumps erupted across your skin, and you sighed as he continued his exploration upwards. Worn hands cupped your breasts, fingers toying with your perked nipples, and you unconsciously pressed your chest forward. “Look at ya,” it felt like he was mostly talking to himself, “you ain’t gotta mark on your body.” You felt his mouth graze your breasts, lips ticking you as he spoke. 

You jumped when his teeth made contact with the delicate skin of the top of your breasts, and he chuckled. Moving lower, he took one of your nipples between his lips, his hand making sure the other one was receiving the same attention. His tongue flicked, sucked, and the occasional nip had you crying out, jolts of pleasure shooting through your body. One of your hands settled on the back of his head, the other sneaking back between your legs.

With that surprising speed, he caught your wrist, not even tearing his mouth away from you. You let out a noise of complaint, and you could feel him grin. His hands left your breasts, settling back on your waist, and you felt him begin to rock you back and forth on his thigh. With every rock, your clit ground against the tensed muscle, and you let out small moans, small waves of pleasure crashed through your body.

When he felt you begin to move on your own, he let go, returning his touch to your breasts, playing and massaging them as you got off on his thigh. His mouth trailed up your body, leaving a trail of small kisses and ginger bites, your once smooth skin now slightly indented. Having been worked up for a while, you felt that you were growing close to release, his ministrations bringing you closer. 

He was at your neck now, and he bit particularly hard at the thick tendon there. He laughed when he felt your hips begin to rock harder, and you felt his tongue smooth over the bitten skin. “I-” you tried to speak, but an airy whine from your throat cut you off. Your thighs were trembling, and you could feel the damp patch that had formed on his pants, but you couldn’t be bothered to feel embarrassed right now. 

“You close, sugar?” Not trusting your voice, you nodded instead. “Fuck, yeah you are. C’mon, let me feel ya,” he groaned, mouthing at your neck. 

It only took a few more rolls of your hips before you came, his name tumbling from your lips as a loud cry, pleasure igniting all your nerves. Your stubbed nails dug into the back of his head, and he growled. Your whole body was trembling as you rode out your high, only ceasing the movement of your hips when it became too overstimulating.

A shocked laugh left you, and you slumped forward. That seemed to be the last straw for the couch, the furniture collapsing beneath the two of you. It nearly caused to tumble off his lap, but you felt his hands secure under your thighs. He stood, holding you like you weighed nothing, and your legs instinctively wrapped around his body. 

He eased you to the ground, the sand digging uncomfortably into your skin, causing your back to arch off the ground to avoid feeling it. You couldn’t help the gasp you let out when you watched him shrug off his jacket, tucking behind you wordlessly. These small glimpses of humanity you’d seen from the Ghoul, like when he saw the crib, or when he gave you a way lead you to believe that maybe he wasn’t as bad as you originally believed him to be.

Well, you still hated him, and you were still his captive, but you realized that he wasn’t a complete monster. It was moments like this, where those high walls he’d built to survive in the Wasteland began to crumble, and you could see glimpses of the man you assumed he once was.

He didn’t give you much time to reflect, though, because his lips were crashing against yours, and all thoughts disappeared. Your legs were still wrapped around his waist, and you could feel his cock pressed against your folds. He didn’t press in though, and you whined against his lips, moving your hips as best you could to try and get him to move. “Whatdya want, sweetheart?” He murmured, nestling his head in the crook of your neck. 

“You,” you gasped out.

“I’m right here,” he chuckled a bit, and he still didn’t move.

Groaning, you ground against him again, trying to get him to just push himself into you. He groaned, yet he still didn’t move, his resolve stronger than you anticipated. “Fuck me, please,” you choked out, and you could see him smirk in satisfaction. 

He didn’t respond, and you felt him press into you, sheathing into you with a single thrust. Similar noises of pleasure escaped both your mouths, and your fingers wove into the fabric of his shirt, desperately trying to find something to grip onto. He stretched you out so well, and you gasped when you felt his hips press against you. He was so deep inside of you, father than any other person you’d taken to bed, and it overwhelmed you in all the best ways.

“Sugar, you feel incredible.” You babbled something in response, and you hated how proud he looked. He didn’t give you time to adjust before he was setting a brutal pace, hips snapping against yours. The sound of skin on skin and your cries of his name filled the room, and you swore if you gripped any tighter on his shirt that it would rip.

Small puffs of air tickled your neck with every thrust, whispers of your name hidden in the gasps. Fingers dug into your waist, most likely going to leave marks in the morning, your once smooth skin littered with marks of him. You couldn't see what your body looked like right now, but you had a pretty damn good idea, and the picture you visualized in your mind had you clenching around him, causing him to falter, albeit it only for a second.

Despite the slight overstimulation you were feeling, you could feel another orgasm begin to form, slowly but surely. Letting go of his shirt, you grasped at his face, pulling back up for another breath-stealing kiss. You were so caught up in the way he continued to thrust into you and the way his mouth slotted against yours that you failed to notice the way one of his hands left your waist. 

You broke the kiss with a startled yet pleased nosed when you felt his fingers begin to work at your clit, rubbing fervent circles into the sensitive nerves in time with the thrusts of his hips. “Cum on my cock, sweetheart. C’mon,” he groaned out, and your head hit the ground, barely softened by the jacket and the sand. 

His name had turned into soft pants, unable to form a coherent thought as he relentlessly fucked you. The added stimulation brought you closer to the edge, and you tried to let him know you were getting close. “Go ‘head, lemme feel ya,” his accent had been cranked up to a hundred, and in any other situation you would’ve found that funny. 

With a final cry of his name, you came again, your vision going white as you temporarily spaced out, the pleasure too overwhelming. When you came to, he had pulled out of you, leaving you empty and shivering. You watched as he stroked himself a few more times before he came all over your stomach.

It was only the sound of breathing in the room now, both of you just staring at each other as you calmed. Relaxing on his coat, you watched as he stood, tucking himself back into his pants as he did. Closing your eyes, you focused on your breathing, jumping when you felt a cloth on your stomach, wiping away his release from your skin. 

He didn’t say anything, tossing the cloth to one of the corners of the room when he was done. He placed your clothing beside you, before sitting and resting against the collapsed remnants of the couch, head rolling back. 

Groaning, you broke free from the post-orgasmic haze you were in, sitting upright. Both pleasure and pain still lingered in your muscles, making your movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Slipping on your undergarments, the dampened fabric of your underwear was incredibly uncomfortable, but you gritted your teeth and ignored it. After putting on your bra, you debated putting on the Vault-Tec suit, but the idea of putting it back on made our overheated body cry. 

The Ghoul watched you as you redressed, thinly veiled desire and interest flicking in those eyes. You were now sitting upright on his jacket, and you got up onto your knees, freeing the garment and holding it in your arms. Scooting towards him, you held it out to him with shaking arms, almost like a peace offering. His eyes didn’t leave you as he took it, setting it beside him.

Before you could decide that it was a bad idea, you sat down next to him, shoulders brushing. If he was surprised, he did a good job of hiding. Exhaustion returned, and you felt your eyes begin to flutter close, head bobbing as you struggled to stay awake.

It was your turn to be surprised when you felt him pull your shoulder down, resting your head in his lap. You were even more surprised when he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the material thin enough to not overheat you. You glanced up at him with wide eyes, but he avoided your gaze, staring at the half-standing wall in front of him.

“Rest. We’re leavin’ at sunrise.” His voice was hoarse, back to that commanding tone from earlier. 

Getting as comfortable as you could, you let your eyes shut, sleep beckoning you. You had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, but as you felt his fingers comb delicately through your hair, you knew that he was no longer going to be following his original plan for you.

[thelikesoffinn]

„Astarion ending as the Vampire Ascendant is the correct ending for him, because it is what he wants.”

That is a claim I’ve been seeing pop up more and more often these days. And I think it’s both a very bold and a very odd claim to make.

But first things first: Hello, I’m a licensed social worker! So far, I’ve worked with children, refugees and youths with behavioural issues stemming from bullying and or abuse.

Please be aware that I will be mentioning different kinds of abuse, coping mechanisms, and victim/abuser relationships. If any of this is difficult for you, don’t force yourself through it. My jabbering about a traumatised vampire is not worth your wellbeing, not ever.

I will, however try to stick to Astarion and not use other examples. If, in any case, I do use a non-Astarion example, I’ll add a warning beforehand so that you can skip the part. And I’ll make it clear what will be discussed in the next bit, so that you have a chance to skip it entirely.

This is an effort to make this as accessible as possible for everyone that wants to indulge on a mad woman’s rambling – and I know there’s a few people that like this sort of stuff!

And, uh, there's obviously spoilers for all three acts. Serious spoilers, even.

Before I can get into the whole ‘why Astarion didn’t really want to ascend,’ we need to understand him a little more. And to understand this pretty boy’s brain, we first need to understand the gist of what we’re talking about when we throw around the word ‘abuse.’

“Abuse” is when someone is treated with cruelty, violence, or neglect – often to bad effect – on a regular basis. Repetitively. Check’s out for Astarion, I’d say, but we all knew that already. I mean, if one thing was obvious, it was this.

1. Astarions Abuse

Next we need to look at what kind of abuse Astarion faced over his long years of torment, seeing as different types of abuse will have different effects on the victim.

Not that that is anything we have to worry about with him – Astarion won the abuse lottery, to put it bluntly. In a horrible game of fate, he got everything. He himself indirectly mentions all the types of abuse he faced, albeit never using the correct terms.

The first we properly notice – fitting, seeing as it is often the most obvious form of abuse – is the physical abuse. Astarions scars are probably the biggest tell Larian could shove down our throats, only underlined by Astarion’s tale about the night itself. About how Cazador ‘misspelled something’ every time he flinched or screamed and had to do ‘many corrections. On top of this, Cazador locked Astarion up for months on end and tortured him – or had him tortured – on a regular basis both as a rite and as a punishment.

Next up, we have the fact that Astarion was forced to basically prostitute himself repeatedly. This is what we call sexual exploitation.

“I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master.” – Act 2

Two hundred years is a long time, filled with great many people. Now, we don’t know how many of those people actually tapped into the sexual exploitation and how many he could just lure back with other means, but the fact that it happened a lot is undeniable.

Next we have a form of abuse that we often disregard in adults: Neglect. It sounds odd, I know, saying that a fully grown adult was neglected. They can care for themselves, can they not?

Well. Yes and no.

Adult neglect is proceeded by the condition that one adult has to lean on another adult to fulfil their needs for whatever reason. This could be anything, from disability to income-based issues.  

Seeing as Astarion had absolutely nothing, while Cazador had everything, we can assume this was the case. Cazador had the house, the money, the power. Astarion owns but one pair of clothes, assumedly, that he has fixes over and over again. Fair to say, that’s pretty neglectful. (And it’s one more reason to shower the guy in pretty armour and camp clothes. Go ham, people.)

Last we have the form of abuse we actually get to witness later in the game – emotional abuse.

Once again, it’s undeniable that this happened. Especially since we’re all seeing it in the flesh upon meeting Cazador in his crypt.

“Have you no respect for yourself?”

“I strove for perfection in all things. Even those as imperfect as you.”

“A pity you amounted to so little, despite my efforts.”

“A pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything.”

All Act 3, Crypt

Here we have just a few examples of things Cazador throws in his face. It’s like reading a textbook on emotional abuse, this one (and it’s definitely a reason to throw hands).

Blaming the victim, keeping their sense of self and their self-worth as tiny as possible to make them cower and flee. A true classic.

This pretty much shows that Astarion suffered all forms of abuse we commonly see and it is implied – once again by Astarion himself – that at least a few of those instances were ritualistic.

Now, what does that mean exactly? Well, I fear I need to use a real example here, so please skip the next paragraph.

Ritualistic doesn’t refer to a proper ritual – it can, but that’s mostly a thing for those in a cult. So, we’re not necessarily talking about a ‘Vampire Ascendent Ritual’. A husband, beating his wife every evening after his third bottle of beer is also called ritual abuse. It happens regularly. It is part of a routine. Both parties know what will happen.

I can’t find the exact quote, so I’m working of my memory here, but at one point he said that when Cazador invited him to eat and he said yes, he would be served a putrid rat. If he said no, he’d be beaten.

The way it was phrased made it clear that it happened more than once and that Astarion clearly knew what would happen. So, this can be classified as ritualistic abuse.

2. A Note on Conditioning and Compliance

By default, abuse victims are conditioned to behave a certain way or in a certain fashion. This is a natural response to avoid further abuse.

In Astarion, the thing we see most often is his inherent need to please. Not literally, he doesn’t mind being an arsehole. But he initially feels the need to follow Tav’s orders, even if they go against his own wishes.

This can be clearly seen in the conversation with Araj Oblodra. Astarion very clearly doesn’t want to bite her. He doesn’t. But he will do so, if Tav tells him to. This behaviour is not conscious – he doesn’t know why he does it, he just does – and it is to be expected. This is how he kept himself save for two centuries, so of course he will fall back into his usual pattern when the pressure is high.

This goes hand in hand with the fact that most abuse victims don’t fight. Maybe initially, but not after long term abuse. Especially not after two fucking centuries.

This is true in Astarion – offered by his ‘siblings’ during act 3 and unhappily acquiesced by the man himself. Astarion stopped fighting and, once again implied, cowered, and did as he was told in order to survive.

3. The Astarion we know and love

Obviously, all that abuse does have an impact on our vampire boyfriend. He shows various common signs of abuse and just like with the forms of abuse, Astarion raked every coping mechanism he could find. (Not really, but it feels like it.) It’s also important to note that nearly all of the following things happen inwardly. Astarion is not one of the victims, that tries to rationalise and minimise the actions of his abuser. Quite the opposite, actually.

I’ll note from the beginning, that rationalisation will not be covered in this bit, as most examples will be important later on. But he definitely does it.

One of his biggest skills is to hide every ounce of fear or hurt behind sarcasm and snarky theatrics. He doesn’t seem to hide his anger much, though, so that’s something! Our boy is cool with anger, not so much with being afraid.

“Ahahaha, now that you mention it….I might have done…that.” – Act 3, regarding the Gur children

“The thing that will decide my fate forever more? Yeees, it’s been on my miiiind. Why?” – Act 2, regarding the Ritual

And there’s many more instances that prove this. Honestly, half his dialogue is sarcasm, so it would really be too long to get into and we all know what I mean, right? We have alltalked to the guy before. It’s obvious that he’s sarcastic to a fault.

This goes hand in hand with his penchant for defensiveness. I would personally state that he’s simply not really good with guilt. When talking about fear, he usually just opts for sarcasm or avoids the topic completely, but guilt especially has his defences going up. This is also when he’s most likely to shove all the blame off to Cazador.

“Don’t look at me like that. Cazadors orders.” – Act 3, Crypt

“I just did what I had to!” – Act 3, Crypt

And don’t get me wrong, he does that anyway. And with good reason. Astarion didn’t have a choice for the most part, but he’s still easy to shove things off.

This kind of connects to his penchant for denial.

Astarion doesn’t really like to talk about most things. He firmly believes he is an ‘action’ sort of person that just does instead of plans, which invertedly just means he’s great at pushing the thinking stuff away. He also likes to get rid of stuff, so that he doesn’t need to face it ever again.

“I never want to see these little scraps of misery again. The world doesn’t need to know my shame.” – Act 3, about the children

And yes, this partly rings true. He’s probably ashamed and doesn’t want anyone to know what he’s done. But it’s also very clear that he himself simply doesn’t want to face his own actions, something that is just  underlined by his extreme willingness to red rid of the other spawn.

As mentioned by Astarion himself, he’s big on manipulation. I mean, I don’t think there is much explaining necessary. The guy is willing to do a whole lot in order to get what he desires – which mostly revolves around safety and survival, to be honest – and he’s not really shy about it either. And that’s despite the fact that he doesn’t really like intimacy – especially in form of sex.

It’s not a secret that Astarion is not big on sex and anything surrounding it. This goes far enough for people to consider him either ace or ace coded.

A claim that, personally, I’m not super in line with.

Now, it’s not entirely wrong and if this is your head cannon I’m surely not going to stand in your way – but on a larger spectrum, I think he’s more traumatised than ace. And while those go hand in hand sometimes, it’s a bit difficult for the ace community if you attach traumatised characters to them because it can fuel a whole lot of stigma that is honestly neither needed nor wanted. But I digress!

If it comes to his own behaviour, he’s great at minimising his mistakes. Honestly, he’s a master of minimisation. A very obvious and famous example would be:

“’Killed’ feels like a…strong word. Not many corpses have your vigour.” – Act 1, after killing Tav

Astarion. You literally sucked poor Tav dry and left them flopping around, cold, and dead. Killed is exactly the right word and we all know it.

“Quite the deviation from my usual routine. Capture, not lure. I didn’t bring them in with sweet rolls or anything.” – Act 3, Gur Children

This is another attempt at minimising what he did, if a bit less obvious because at this point there isn’t much he can say. But at least he didn’t sexualise the gur children, right? They’re still spawn but whoo, at least that didn’t happen.  

The next point would be dissociation, which is extremely common in abuse victims – of all forms of abuse.

Astarion himself mentioned certain moments that could be classified as dissociation over course of the story, which is probably the coping mechanism I personally expected the most.

The pale elf has a penchant for violence, but he’s not entirely shameless or abhorrently vile, which gets clearer the more the story progresses. So, two hundred years of forced prostitution, torture and doing whatever other horrible things? Yeah, I’d be more surprised if he didn’t dissociate.

Examples of that would be:

“A moment of disgust to push myself through and then I could’ve carried on, just like before.” – Act 2, after Araj

“I felt nothing the moment I handed them over.” – Act 3, Gur Children

“Did you enjoy it? It felt like you weren’t fully there.” – Act 1, Tav after Sex

The latter is generally more of an assumption than actual prove, but with context it does make sense.

The last common sign of abuse we find in our boyfriend would be his low self-worth. It’s a consistent trait that stays over the course of all three acts, noticeable in many different conversations.

We can see it in his reaction to wanting to break up before finishing his story. We can see it in his genuine surprise when Tav picks him over any of the other characters. We see it in his insecurity whenever Tav asks to sleep with another character. He’s fine with it, but he still worries their decision to sleep with someone else is based on something he did.

It eases up ever so slightly after Cazador is dead, but even then he’s still struggling which is once again perfectly illustrated if you try to break up with him.

“Oh shit. I- Did I do something wrong?”

That is the first thing he asks and I think it speaks for itself. He genuinely doesn’t believe he has much to offer and for Astarion, it’s likely that Astarion will always be the problem.

4. "Oh, I tried them all none of them answered.”

Another big thing that’s important to note, is that Astarion was never saved. No one came to save him from Cazador. There was no darling boy on a white steed riding into that castle to rescue him and princess carry him away. Not even the gods answered his desperate calls.

So, he never received any kindness or luck. To him, the world seems as cruel and horrid as before because he didn’t have the chance to experience goodness in two centuries.

But worse than that, he didn’t even get to save himself. Astarion didn’t stand up to Cazador, he didn’t run out of his own might.

He was beaten to near death and ‘saved’ by Cazador, who would become his abuser.

He tried to save someone and, in turn, was locked up and starved for an entire year.

He was abducted by mind flayers, i.e., saved from Cazador, only to end up tadpoled and on the cusp of getting a fancy, squiddy beard.

Anything that’s good, any kindness, any selfless action…it all came with a ginormous price tag.

5. Over the Course of the Story

Astarions behaviour changes a whole lot over the course of three acts – which is important once we talk about his quests climax – so let’s review what we’re working with!

Act 1 Astarion is guarded as fuck. The man has walls around him that are so high, even the gods can touch them.

A lot of his behaviour in act 1 revolves around staying save and staying liked. He lies, manipulates, and flutters his lashes in order to get what he wants and needs. Instead of asking, like Wyll, Karlach and Gale do, Astarion uses all he has to offer to get by. He is still very much in survival mode and tries to weasel his way through an unfamiliar situation with familiar methods.

On top of that, and most notably, he’s absolutely not fond of kindness or selflessness.

#I saved a child and now my boyfriend is mad

Here, we are most likely to gain disapproval for doing the decent thing – unless you sent him outside for a minute whenever you’re being a good person.

And I’d assume that this is because of two things.

First: The very traditional ‘Why not me?’

As I mentioned before, Astarion wasn’t saved. He hasn’t experienced kindness in a very long time so seeing that the world is literally filled with kind people is hurtful. Why didn’t anyone save him? Why was he left to his own devices for so long? Why should he care about others when it’s so clear that no one ever cared about him? No, dead to all of them. If he didn’t get it, neither will they.

“And what am I owed? What about the injustices I suffered? Am I not entitled to anything?” – Act 3, Crypt

“I was in the prime of my life when I was turned. Everything was taken from me too.” – Act 3, Crypt

And secondly is the fact that, as I mentioned, goodness always has a price. And it’s one most people won’t be willing to pay. That’s how his life has been, so why would theirs be different?

This is precisely why Astarion may disapprove of kind actions, but he mostly neither approves nor disapproves if Tav asks for payment. That’s just how the world works.

Once you venture out into act 2, after getting to know him a whole lot more, he starts to mellow a bit – if only towards Tav.

“He’s afraid, so afraid, of everyone but you, who she should fear the most.” – Sceleritas about Astarion

His approval is a lot easier to gain – or at least keep! – and he tends to approve of some more proper actions. He doesn’t throw a fit if you promise to find Mol, he approves of Tav being kind to His Majesty, of saving Aylin and he even approves of Durge apologising to Isobel after threatening to rip her to pieces.

He's slowly starting to open up, allowing Tav to see some parts of him he previously kept hidden. He accepts their offer to help, if hesitantly and, by god, the man starts experimenting with boundaries.

The social worker in me is shedding tears at this. It’s my favourite thing to see in my clients and it’s no different here. Yay to saying no!

Of course, it’s still a bit hit or miss. If Tav urges him to bite Araj, for example, he will only to later notice that he didn’t fucking have to. He recognises this on his own and he calls Tav out on it. Just like he calls them out on not helping him with his Orthon quest.

Good job, chap. Good fucking job.

And the growth-train won’t stop going even as we reach act 3.

In act 3, there’s not many things he disapproves as of right now – those he does, mostly have to do with how Tav treats him and not with anyone else. In fact, he’s more likely to approve good behaviour now, like giving Yenna food or money.

And yes, we need to consider that this could simply be because he gets used to Tav’s behaviour and just learns to roll with it. But it’s also highly likely that he notices that there’s truly good people around. At least one person. And that person is not only good, no, they’re in the process of helping him break free once and for all.

They’re helping him save himself.

By act 3, he has learned that he can absolutely say his piece where Tav is concerned and he’s more likely to disagree with them on certain things. It’s seen during a lot of small dialogue that he’s no longer terribly afraid to be honest with them, willing to listen and talk and he’ll ask for help if he needs it.

“I can do this. But I need your help.” – Act 3, Crypt

Something that can be viewed both positively and negatively is that he’s definitely loyal to a fault. He will stick by Tav’s side, no matter what.

“I really hoped we could avoid being pawns for a dark god, but here we are, I suppose. I’m with you, my dear, wherever this might lead.” – Act 3, After Jaheira confronts durge

As I said, this can be both positive and negative. On one count, it’s a recipe for disaster, seeing as he could be waltzing into a really bad situation for Tav alone.

But on the other side…this is a man who only cared about himself because that is the only person he could afford to care about. He needed to survive. He now has enough room to breathe and the capacity to care for someone else and I’d be inclined to count that as a good thing.

6. The Crypt

All the progress he made in act 2 and 3 is nearly tossed into the wind as soon as the crew enters Cazadors castle.

It’s not an immediate thing, of course.

At first, Astarion tries to stay light and simple and he hides behind flippant tones and relaxed faces. The way he recounts this is almost comically disinterested and the façade is actually quite good.

It’s start’s cracking after we meet Godie, one of the people who tortured him on more than one account, but he mostly manages to remain as upbeat as one can honestly expect for the first half of the journey.

All that, however, is done for the very moment we meet Sebastian. His mask not only slips, no, it full on shatters and there’s none of his apparent lightness left.

Which, of course it does.

The man is suddenly faced with years and years and years of victims. Innocent, unlucky people he lured back to his master over two centuries. People he liked, people he pitied.

“It’s sickening, seeing them again.”

It’s basically a room filled with guilt, exclusively for Astarion. And, as we mentioned before…Astarion is not great with guilt.

The guilt, however, is not where it ends.

No, he’s also faced with reflections of his own past. The spawn pose as reminders of what he did, sure, but also as reminders of what he was.

Weak, desperate, hungry.

There’s an abundance of images of his worst moments, reflected back at him in the thousands. It’s probably like staring into a funhouse mirror, but instead of seeing yourself in a funky way he just sees everything he so desperately doesn’t want to be.

“It should be [who I am]! I don’t want to be like them. They’re pathetic, horrible…”

He’s forcefully made aware of how darn weak he can be, which claws at all the wounds he’s barely had time to close. Something, he of course won’t admit if asked.

“THEY DO NOT [remind me of myself]. That weakness in me is dead, IT’S DEAD. I have a higher purpose.”

The high pressure of the moment brings out all of his act 1 traits in but a few moments. You can pretty much watch how he starts to shut down mid conversation, one of his old walls snapping back into place to remove himself from the situation.

Thing is though, walls usually become a bit brittle after disuse. Especially when talking to a person you don’t usually want to wall out.

Or, in his case, when talking to Tav.

After meeting Sebastian, Astarion shows extreme reactions to Tav nudging any of his weak spots. His reaction varies on whatever choice you make, but it ranges from aggression to defensiveness, to denial and even to downright begging Tav.

“Don’t hate me. I just did what I had to. I swear I did what I had to.”

This probably the most shocking out of all of them, since that is not something we got to witness before. The begging is likely a mixture of intense fear of losing Tav, his low self-esteem and pre-Tav behaviour, since we can assume that Cazador made him beg more than once.

Another old coat he puts back on would also be the least surprising of them all.

Manipulation.

He falls right back into it, using Tav’s affection to get what he want if we trigger the right action.

“If they die and I ascend, I won't have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I'll be free. Truly completely free. Isn't that what you want?”

This, to me, was probably the biggest tell that Astarion was back in survival mode. He’s panicking, for fucks sake, and who can blame the guy? He’s back. He’s about to face down his abuser.

Of course he’s fucking panicking.

Panic leads to an increased craving for safety and, in his case, power. This is why he clings to Tav, why he begs them to love him still. And this is why he jumps head first into the rationalisation pool.

“I will need to sacrifice them all if I want to perform the ritual. - [You can save them.] – What’s the point? They're as good as dead! I thought they were dead. If they are unleashed, they will cause incredible carnage. […] They must die. Better they serve a purpose.”

Another textbook example.

They must die anyway. They’re basically dead. No need to save them now. They’re dangerous, I’m doing the right thing by sacrificing them. I already thought they were dead, so it’s not changing anything for me. They’re a lost cause and I deserve  all this power. I deserve it, because I suffered and nothing will change if they die.

So, seeing as we already spoke about his usual behaviour in act 3 – behaviour he showed after we allowed him to breathe and be himself for a while – I think we can fairly easily conclude he’s not thinking straight.

Astarion is right back in survival mode, where all that matters is he himself. If it weren’t for the seven thousand spawns, he might have moved through this more gracefully, but seeing those tipped the scales and Astarion is absolutely losing it.

Remember that for the last section, per favore.

7. The Ascension

“Astarion wants to ascend and Tav manipulates him into doing what they want.”

That is basically the essence of what people often claim and I can’t help but shake my head at such a blatant disregard of everything he has become. This is completely ignoring the change and growth he has gone through over the course of their journey.

Astarion wants to be free. He wants to be safe. That does not mean he wants to ascend.

And the claim that Tav manipulates him into doing anything is even more baffling. We are all aware that Tav is not manipulative by nature, yes? That is entirely on you. You decide who your Tav is.

And then let’s remember: Astarion is panicked. He’s afraid and he’s not thinking straight. His abuser is on his knees before him and he still feels so weak. And there’s seven thousand spawns that need handling.

Astarion is very much not okay right now.

In fact, reading his thoughts just proves this theory.

“You can see the fear in his eyes but also the hunger. The thick smell of blood in the air and the promise of power being so close is intoxicating to him. All he can see is the power of the ritual and the freedom that power brings. The freedom to do anything. To be anything.”

Tav, however, has none of those problems. They can actually see beyond the current situation and they are fully aware what the consequences are. Astarion is not. As we previously established, Astarion is a doer. Not a thinker. He didn’t think this through, not at all.

The only thing Tav is doing – the persuasion roll – is reminding him of the very real consequences he is facing. The consequences he hasn’t thought about before.

"I know you think this will set you free, but it won't. This power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador."

And that is the kindest thing Tav could do in this situation. They’re not bodily dragging him away from Cazador. They’re not even telling him to not do it. They’re just offering him the truth. He can do with that information whatever he desires.

“Astarion cries when he doesn’t ascend, that just shows that it was the wrong choice.”

A hare-brained point that I thankfully have only seen once so far.

That crying? That is healthy crying.

That is him, crumbling under the stress that suddenly dissipates. That is him mourning two hundred years of torment. That’s him letting out feelings he hasn’t been able to for centuries.

And, for the love of god, try to put yourself in his shoes.

Two hundred years of torment, ended in but a moment.

Astarion was abused and tortured for so long, afraid for so long only to see his tormentor die just like that.

Cazador died within a moment and all Astarion needed was a darn blade. Of course he fucking cries.

Seeing how pathetic a being the very core of your life’s misery actually is hurts. It hurts like hell because not only are you finally free – free! – no, you’re faced with the fact that this pile of nothing, the thing that’s bleeding out right in front of you…this was what tortured for so long.

This thing hurt you so much. That guy took everything from you, everything you once were, and broke it again and again and again over years.

You were so scared of this thing.

And yet he has the gall and the gumption to die just like that.

It was so easy.

And yet you suffered for so long.

8. Evil Playthrough?

An evil playthrough is really a different setting altogether.

All of this, as you can probably tell, is really only applicable on a good playthrough. Realistically speaking. I’m not sure how the game mechanics handle it.

On an evil path, Astarion never really gets to experience kindness and goodness. Evil Tav will just prove him right in his believe that the world is a vile and cold place, meaning that he realistically would be more inclined to actually want to ascend.

9. Final Conclusion

I think all of this should be enough to make it clear that no, ascended Astarion is not the best ending for the guy. In fact, it is probably the worst. Because it’s just him, running away. He’s running into a lonely and cold state of being, where cruelty and power lord over everything else and he’s running because he’s terrified of being hurt again. He’s running despite desperately wanting to stop running.

“I'll spend the rest of my life running watching the shadows, never feeling safe…no, this has to happen. Here and now.”

And, the worst part is: Nothing about Astarion is left after he ascends. Even his tone of speaking gradually changes, his theatrics fading. He’s slowly losing himself, until there’s nothing but an evil caricature left.

So, in the end, ascension will have proven him right.

That version of him is dead.

[kteezy997]

The Emperor's Wife// Paul Atreides

Warnings: angst, unrequited love, slow burn kinda

"That princess shall have no more of me than my name. No child of mine nor touch nor softness of glance, nor instant of desire." The promise of Paul Atreides as he ascended your father's throne was held true for some time. But his words began to falter in time, against his will.

He married you, but remained loyal to his concubine, Chani. But he did acknowledge that you had a literary nature, and he entrusted you to sit in on his council meetings as Emperor. The more time you spent around each other, the more you became companions, and the more he relied on your mind to help him keep a balance of things.

You noticed as Paul started to become more relaxed around you. He'd even have a laugh with you now and then. It was clear that he valued your friendship as much as your ability to write and make sense of things.

One day Paul joked that Chani was his wife of passion and you were his intellectual wife. Your feelings had started to form into deep admiration for your husband, so his words were course against your ears. Though you knew that this was the way it had to be, it wasn't any easier to hear him say it.

But there was a look from him, a look where he scanned you, slowly, from head to toe. Your special training had kicked in. You could feel it; it was desire. He thought his momentary glance would go undetected, but that was nary the case.

All the late evenings in the council room, all the discussions you had about history and his interest in your writings, it all bubbled up to his vow being broken. You caught his gaze in a meeting later, and his green eyes could no longer lie to you. He was curious and desirous of you. But he could not do anything about it. He simply could not act on it.

But you, on the other hand, were tired of the intellectual relationship. This feeling was different for you, and you never expected to fall for him. Your body ached, your skin burned for your husband. Even if it was just once, you had to have him.

You hated to admit to yourself the jealousy you felt toward his Fremen woman. You wanted to feel what Chani felt. Just one full moment of Paul's desire. You needed his touch. To exchange passionate breaths with him. To have the weight of the handsome Emperor on top of you. To have his eyes on you, and only you.

..........

You ventured to Paul's sietch, into the private apartment he shared with Chani. The Fremen in the village knew you, so they did not try to stop you, or persuade you to leave. They welcomed you with respect, as you were indeed Muad’Dib’s wife.

The room was quite plain and modest for an Emperor and his woman. The bed, however, looked cozy with glow globes on either side. The scent of cinnamon and coffee hung in the air, laced with the spice melange.

You hoped he'd come soon. You hoped he would be the first one in, and not Chani. You didn't know what to say to her, if that would be the case. She had always been pleasant toward you when you were around her, but you didn’t know if her attitude would remain the same if she knew you wanted to bed her man.

You hoped that he wouldn't be harsh towards you; that he wouldn’t be angry about you invading the space he shared with his concubine. You liked to think that you had broken his walls and exposed the tender side of him. You sat on the bed, waiting.

Finally, you heard footsteps approaching, there was a tired huff from the person outside the door, and you knew the voice instantly. Paul came in, pulling off his still suit the second he entered. He didn't see you at first. You saw his shoulders and chest as he rid himself of the rubbery material. He was strong, with hard muscles and pale skin with minor scars here and there.

You could smell the dirt and sweat that he carried. It did not deter you in the slightest, but made you more eager.

He could sense you there. You knew he could.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, without even turning to face you.

You took a shaky breath, then answered, "I wanted to see you, Paul."

He finished freeing his arms from the constrictive suit, turning to look at you sitting on his bed. "And why?"

You were excited just seeing his shoulders, but now you saw his naked chest, his hard pectoral muscles and small nipples. You nearly shuddered with need. "I-uhm," I want you. "I wanted to make sure that you saw how bright and beautiful the two moons look this evening. And maybe you'd like to see my latest Muad'Dib chronicle?"

Paul nodded, "Hm." He stepped over to the window, looking up at the moons, "They are quite beautiful tonight."

You rose from the bed, joining him by the window. You could really feel his presence now, as you usually didn't get quite this close to him. His scent was stronger, too. "I brought my latest writings. If you want to read."

"Sure. You may leave them here."

He was so polite, but never overly kind. He couldn't disrespect Chani. But you so wanted things to change between you and your husband.

"Paul, I really came here to talk to you about something."

He took his eyes off the night sky outside his window and looked into your eyes. "Go on."

Your heart started thumping in your chest, you cleared your throat. "Well, I do not wish to overstep, but I think you and I have both come to enjoy our time together. I think it is safe to say that we are good friends now." You got stuck for second as you got a close look of the sweat glistening on his skin in the glowing light of the dark room.

Paul softly smiled, giving you a nod to keep going.

"But, I need you to know that no matter how amazing the moons might be on a starry night, it is no match for the way I feel when I look at you."

His expression fell, and he shook his head, "Y/n, please. I am very flattered. I appreciate you, and I care for you."

You butted in, "I can sense that you desire me, Paul. You've already broken your oath. I know that you feel distant towards your concubine, and I wonder if it has anything to do with how you feel about me."

He chuckled, walking away from you, "I thought you said you didn't wish to overstep?"

"I cannot help it. I'm sorry. But you know my training." You genuinely didn't want to disrupt anything between him and Chani.

He ran his hand over his face, pushing away the exhaustion of the day, trying to make sense of his own feelings as well. "Y/n, you aren't wrong. Chani knows that my sentiments for you have shifted."

So he admits it!

"You haven't bedded her for weeks now, have you?" you prodded, carefully.

"No," he stepped closer to you, towering over you by several inches, "not that it is any of your business."

"I don't want to make you angry, Paul. But I have seen the way you look at me, the way you brush passed me during council. You've preferred spending more and more time with me lately." You took a step forward this time, just a foot's length away from him.

Paul let his guard down, knowing that you were right about everything. His face softened, and he brought his hand up to caress your face. His hand had been roughed up by the wind and sand if the desert, but you could still see yourself melting against it as he touched you.

Paul went on to say, "You should know by now how I feel for you. But it cannot be. I made a promise. I don't ever want to be cruel to you, my y/n." he licked his dry lips, and you noticed just how blue his eyes were as a result of spice addiction. "I did not marry you for things such as love or children, you know that."

"Yes, I know." you sighed, having heard that piece of information a hundred times during your marriage. "My husband, you are a loyal man. I admired you for that, but I don't wish for anything more than the same love that you have for your concubine. You can share that tenderness with me."

He said nothing, but kept his hand on your cheek, gazing at you so fondly.

You could sense him breaking for you. "Paul," you leaned closer, placing your hand on his exposed chest, "I have seen the way your eyes narrow at me when I bow before you as my Emperor."

Then, his hand wound tightly into your hair, and his lips were being smashed against yours. He pulled you against him, he moaned into your kiss. His hands were on your body, sliding up the curves of your hips.

Your body was electrified, you ran your hands through his hair, not caring how sweaty he was. The hunger was equal on both sides.

Paul pulled away suddenly, sighing as he turned away from you.

He was still wrestling in his mind, you knew it. "I need you." you said, melancholy taking over your tone as you started to believe he was going to refuse you completely, "I need my husband. I want to made love to by Muad'Dib." You went over to him, looking at his back you noticed a scar, larger than the others on his body. You wondered if the mark was result of a fall on a sand dune or maybe the consequence of riding the great sandworm. You reached out, cautiously running your finger along the scar.

He shivered at your touch, but he didn't shy away.

You decided that maybe this plan was fruitless, that he wouldn't, and never could love you the proper way in which a man loved his wife. "Paul, if you do not love me, I will leave now. You'll never see me come back to this place. I will accept being wrong. Things will go back as they were."

"No, please, don't go." he faced you again. He relaxed more, his body language and the look in his eyes was more at ease.

"Then stop me, my dear husband."

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @softhecreator @tchalamss @bitchyunknownuser @lixzey @kpopgirlbtssvt @ducktapebar

[its-shells]

“So,” Grian says, “this is awkward.”

Scar says nothing. Scar had said nothing for quite a while, honestly, sitting cross-legged in the void and playing with the hem of his cloak. Or with the flower stems woven through the hem of his cloak, as it were. Lilacs and poppies. Grian had thought it painfully ironic the first time he saw them. Scar hadn’t. Not until now.

“So,” Grian says, again, “I can explain? I think?”

He can hear stifled giggles behind him, Scott and Pearl discussing the last moments of the fight. He feels Martyn’s heated glare between his shoulder blades too, knows that he’ll be getting an earful about taking his final life whenever the fourth winner can get his hands on him, but at least Martyn’s been kind enough to leave him at the mercy of the fifth for now. Or not kind enough, as it were. Whether or not Scar has any mercy for him is an open question.

“Explain what,” Scar says. It’s not a question, which is just as well, since Grian doesn’t really have an answer.

Can he explain?

“Well,” he says, “there’s these death games.”

The death games he technically started, and then technically couldn’t stop. The death games that weren’t meant to be blood sacrifices, but probably count as happening on somebody’s altar. The death games that no one ever wins, but technically–

“Technically, the people who win them get to keep their memories.” He scrunches up his nose. “Or, uh, recover their memories of the previous ones, I suppose. Which is what’s happening to you. And Martyn, and Pearl, and Scott, and I was the first, so–”

“One heck of a headache, right?” Pearl yells behind them. “Was even for me, and you’ve got four whole timelines to deal with!” She flops backwards onto the floor, which is the void, pressing the back of the palm to her forehead theatrically even as she peers up at Scar through parted fingers. Scott rolls his eyes and grabs her hand.

“Give them a moment, Pearl,” Grian hears him whisper. “I know you weren’t there for Third Life, but I’ve explained it to you a dozen times, so–“

“So,” Scar says. “Third Life was real.”

It’s a strange way of putting it for someone who hadn’t remembered it at all until now.

“That’s a strange way of putting it for someone who hadn’t remembered it at all until now,” Grian says, because he’s always loose-tongued after dying. Scar stares at him, unblinking.

“That’s a strange way of thinking for someone who declared the first ever game a double victory,” he says. His head is tilted to the side.

Grian stares back.

“That didn’t count.”

“It didn’t not.”

“You didn’t remember until now.”

“I didn’t not.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Doesn’t it?” Scar shrugs. He plucks a flower from between the dark threads. It’s a poppy. “No less than the rest of it. No less sense than me waking up with sand between my toes, or burns on my arms, or bamboo in my pockets. No less than the dreams. Those didn’t make sense either.”

“It’s not like you ever asked me to explain.”

“Would you have?”

“Not the point.”

“Isn’t it?”

Pearl is still giggling. Martyn is still staring. Scott is quiet.

“Maybe it is,” Grian admits, quietly. It’s not an apology. It never will be.

Nor is it forgiveness, when Scar leans forward to tuck the poppy behind his ear. Nor will it ever be.

Sure feels like it sometimes though.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Baby, Mine

Azriel x Reader - Angst/Fluff - One shot

Rhys returns from under the mountain and Azriel’s life is changed forever as a bond snaps with the female his brother brings back with him. After an unexpected pregnancy is revealed, Azriel strives to show his mate just how much she and their child mean to him. Please read warnings below.

Warnings: discussion of rape and S/A, pregnancy resulting from rape, mentions of trauma, language, mention of pregnancy termination

“We should get up. My stomach’s growling.”

“And I thought it was just the little one chatting with my shadows.” Azriel teased, flushing beneath her gaze as his scarred fingers traced lightly over the growing swell of her abdomen, becoming more apparent by the day. He’d been nervous touching it for the first time, like he’d desecrate that precious life force growing underneath with his hands that had inflicted so much pain. But the way her eyes lit up the first time he touched it, he never wanted to forget the feeling of love and joy radiating into him through that newfound bond. It was beautiful - made him feel worthy of helping raise the beautiful life she was bringing into the world.

Though her stomach growled again, she made no move to get up, and by the way her hands were holding onto him, Azriel knew better than to go retrieve a plate from the House of Wind’s kitchen for her. So he sent a shadow beneath the door to see if Nuala or Cerridwen were there and if they could bring leftovers in, that is if Cassian and Mor hadn’t devoured the entire breakfast already.

“How’s she doing?” Rhys asked into his mind.

“Better than some days but not great, Rhys.”

There was a pause before Rhys’ guilty voice reentered his conscious.

“She’s the most selfless person I know, Az. I’m glad you two have eachother. But if she needs anything, if you need anything, let me know.”

And she was. Selfless in a way that Azriel couldn’t fathom. Selfless in a way that made his gut churn, a way he wanted to roar at the moon and the stars, and anyone who would listen. Selfless when she should have never had to be. She was bright and radiant and kind. The world looked at her and saw ethereal sunshine, walking starlight, unfathomable beauty both inside and out. But there was darkness and pain there too, so buried down deep that only Azriel could feel it in the middle of the night as whimpers disrupted her sleep.

So many nights Rhys would have to come in and cradle her mind, send her soothing thoughts and visions of anything beautiful that could mask the perils that haunted her dreams.

Azriel hated himself for it, the jealousy. He wished he could soothe her in that way but no matter how much love he sent through their bond, that darkness rooted itself so deeply within her that sometimes it took significant power from Rhys to reach it.

As if Rhys wasn’t already fighting his own trauma and waging against the insurmountable guilt he carried after being under the mountain, plus worrying about Feyre in the Spring Court. And that wasn’t to say Y/N was a burden in any way, though she felt she was. It killed Azriel to see both his mate and his brother fighting so much grief and not being able to do anything about it.

She’d have been better suited to be Rhysand’s mate than Azriel’s own by their intertwined traumas, by their ability to put themselves aside for a better world. Azriel, of course, fit into this court of dreamers but she… despite only being here for such a short period of time, she was the biggest dreamer of them all.

Another rumble from her stomach snapped Azriel out of his thoughts, mentally noting to Rhys, “She could use breakfast.”

“I’ll send some for both of you. You need to take care of yourself too.”

Azriel smelled the salt of her tears before he saw the silver lining her eyes. Propping himself up on an elbow, draping a wing over her, he began to ask softly, “Hey-“. Her head immediately shaking and she choked on the word, “No.”

“Baby, I know what you’re thinking and it’s not a burden. He just wanted to know if you needed anything.”

She took a few deep breaths, willing away those tears. “He doesn’t have to check on me. It’s my f-“

“Stop that. Listen to me, I’m always here to listen to you and I know that you’re dealing with complex emotions and trauma that I cannot even begin to fully fathom but this.. it’s not your fault.”

Her eyes welled up further as Azriel continued,

“I don’t want to lecture you or invalidate what you are feeling. Your emotions are justified but… these thoughts will eat you alive, they’re vicious lies that have been conditioned into you, and I can promise you that nobody blames anything on you. This entire family is so fucking grateful to have you as a part of it. In a world of darkness, where you had every right, every reason to bring that darkness with you, you chose light.”

He choked on his words as those tears flowed down her face. “You chose light when it only brought more darkness upon yourself.”

She cut him off. “She’s not darkness.”

Azriel raised an eyebrow. “She?”

And through her tears, he saw the slightest gleam of radiance in her eyes. “I can just feel it. Feel her.”

Azriel pressed a kiss to Y/N’s belly. “Yes, you are absolutely right. She is not darkness - she’s a beacon of light, the brightest star in the sky, perhaps aside from her mother - but the mental load you are carrying, it is dark and it’s heavy. And yes, you would carry darkness with you regardless of this spark of hope” he rubbed her belly in tender circles for emphasis. “But I know that mind of yours. That you are telling yourself that you’re a burden, that you made the wrong choice, when there was no wrong choice.”

At this point, the tears were streaming down her face, his shadows dutifully whisking them away, but only gratitude and love flowed from her.

A knock came on the door. Azriel’s eyes glazed over as Y/N recognized the telltale signs of what was happening. A line creased in his brow before she placed a gentle hand on his arm. “It’s okay, he can come in.”

“You sure, my love? He understands when you need space.”

She nodded. “I know but I think I need to see him today.” Azriel brushed his thumb in soothing ministrations across her abdomen until she pulled her night gown back down to cover herself.

The door creaked open and Rhys padded over to the bed, guilt and adoration limning his features. “Hey, starshine.” She blushed at the term. She hated her own name after Amarantha had called it so many times under the mountain. Rhys had begun calling her Starshine in secret due to her Day Court origins and the fact that he was convinced she’d been more suited for the Night Court.

Rhys had been drawn to her under the mountain, something about her reminding him of his brother. Rhysand could admit that Azriel was the most beautiful of the three brothers, his features seemingly crafted by the gods themselves. But if Azriel’s features were crafted by the gods, Y/N’s were crafted by the Mother herself. Aside from that, she had a quiet presence, though far less stoic and broody than Azriel’s, it was more of a quiet, gentle grace. A grace that Amarantha had tried so hard to shed her of but was never quite successful.

Amarantha, of course, made it her mission to both seek pleasure from her and torment her. When she never fully broke, Amarantha decided that instead of throwing her to the dark corridors she stuffed most lesser fae in, she’d make an excellent play thing. She looked mostly High Fae after all, yet had enhanced sexual appeal due to her nymph ancestry - perfect high and round breasts, long legs, a firm yet supple ass, and an arousing scent - needless to say, Amarantha delighted to add her to her roster of bed chamber accompaniment.

Y/N and Rhys developed a quiet understanding of each other and the roles they were forced to play in the year that she’d been under the mountain before Feyre arrived. They did not grow close enough for Amarantha to become concerned but enough that she knew her play things got along well enough to bring them both into her chambers at the same time.

Rhys would never forget the first time Amarantha had forced he and her into her chambers at the same time. Y/N tried to be strong, and she was. Another aspect of her that reminded him of his brother.

But she began to crack slightly, and Rhys knew Amarantha would make it so much worse for her if she did. So he did the only thing he knew to do and held her mind. He showed her visions of the Night Skies of the Night Court, the spirits of Starfall, the laughter of a family surrounding a table in a beloved restaurant, anything that could help her through it.

As he held her mind, she’d unwittingly sent visions from throughout her twenty-two years of life prior to being captured and brought under the mountain. She was loved deeply by her family who had little more than love to give. Eventually they had been murdered by Amarantha’s cronies at the age of nineteen - she’d been able to escape and live among the High Fae who sneered and objectified her, but offered enough coin to sleep with her to keep a roof over her head.

Rhys had determined that night that if they ever made it out of there alive, he was taking her to Velaris with him. She’d never live like that again.

He even smiled at the thought of introducing her and Azriel when she was ready to meet his family, already picturing his brother’s rose-dusted cheeks in her presence.

“Thank you” Azriel’s low voice withdrew Rhys from his thoughts, taking the plate from his hands.

A familiar scent wafted off of Rhys to Y/N. Pregnancy had heightened her sense of smell substantially.

As she sniffed the air Rhys gave a soft, sad smile at the eye brow she raised at him before asking, “Where is she?”

He shook his head, darkness rolling in waves off of him. “Tamlin locked her in his fucking manor. She had a breakdown.”

Her face drew tight. “That bastard!” Azriel flinched at the rage flowing down the bond. “She must have been terrified.”

“She certainly terrified the servants in his manor. She shrouded herself in darkness and nobody could get through to her.”

“He doesn’t deserve her.”

Rhys nodded. “He doesn’t.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Rhys. Where is she?”

“At the Town House.”

Her eyes blew wide. “Cauldron boil me, is she staying?”

Azriel smiled as he felt her excitement flow into him. A bit of that Day Court sunshine returning to her.

“I don’t know. She knows she can’t tell anyone if she goes back, but…”

“I felt it through the bond, Y/N. I think she’s here to stay.”

Azriel’s shadows agitated at the pause in verbal conversation, chattering back and forth,

“Secrets”

“Secrets”

He rolled his eyes and dismissed them, already knowing there were some things that remained between just Y/N and Rhys. He’d accepted it the very moment he’d shown up after he received word that Rhys was finally home and the bond snapped as soon as he laid eyes upon the radiant female by his side. He knew it snapped for her too when she walked right up to him, touched the hands he tried to hide behind his back, her eyes speaking everything she couldn’t. “I see your scars. I bear them too.” And pressed a kiss to each hand.

“Do you want me to leave? I assume she’s at the Town House but I’m sure she’ll be visiting here too, yes?”

Azriel bristled. No way in hell was Rhys going to make his mate leave, whether this home was his or not, she had a right to be present wherever she wished.

“Easy brother.”

Azriel shook off the feeling. The mating instinct was still so strong that he had a hard time not jumping in to defend her at the thought of any threat, physical or emotional.

“Y/N” Rhys took her hand.

“Don’t bite my head off for holding her hand, either.”

Azriel huffed before firing back to Rhys’ mind “I can’t wait for you to find your mate someday so you can see what it feels like to be so wound up like this.”

Rhys only gave a small, secret smile in return.

Y/N interjected. “Are you two done gossiping or can I know whether I should pack up or not?”

“This is your home just as much as it is my home. You are my family and I want Feyre to meet all of you. Cassian has already barreled through the door of the Town House along with Mor begging to be fed. Feyre went up to nap and recollect herself.”

“Can we have dinner with her… if she wants to?” She asked softly with a mixture of excitement and nervousness to her voice.

Rhys gave a nod. “I was thinking that same thing. Would you be comfortable?”

She nodded before the reality of the situation caught up with her.

“Y/N.” Rhys leaned in, gently tilting her head up to look at him. “I am not ashamed of you. I will never hide you or the life you are selflessly bringing into this Court of Dreamers.” His eyes lined with silver. “And I will always be so proud of the love that you both share. I knew from the moment I met you that my brother would adore you. And the fact that you two are mates? It’s one of the greatest things to come from that shit hole of a mountain. A reminder of the beauty that can prevail, even after the most dreadful of circumstances. I love all three of you.”

Azriel held his mate closely, ensuring she felt just how loved she truly was.

“She kicked for the first time the other day.”

Rhys raised a brow.

Y/N let out a sigh. “Ugh, you two are so skeptical. I really believe that this baby is a girl.”

Rhys eyed the scarred hand protectively placed over her round bump, so many complicated emotions running through him, with love being the strongest.

“Feyre will likely ask questions tonight regarding all of us, our stories. Nobody has to share anything they do not wish to, but you also may share if you are comfortable doing so. I would really like for Feyre to become a member of the Inner Circle-“

Rhys looked to Y/N rolling his eyes at the smirk and waggling eyebrows she gave him.

“Stop that. My point is just that, I would like for her to know all of you. I know she’ll love you all just as I do. Hell, she’ll probably love all of you before she’s ready to even fully tolerate me.”

Azriel let out a chuckle as his mate quipped “Tell me the story of the time she threw a shoe at you. It’s my favorite!”

“You cruel, lovely little thing.” Rhys laughed. “See you both for dinner.”

As Rhys exited them room, Y/N sighed. “You were awfully quiet.”

Az nudged her. “And that surprises you?”

“Okay, quieter than usual.”

Azriel pulled her in close, peppering kisses across her forehead. “I just don’t want you to do anything you’re not ready for. You are still healing and now you’ll be facing someone else that was under the mountain with you.”

“She saved us all, Az.” She looked up into his hazel eyes with nothing but genuine adoration. “Without her, I never would have met you. And what kind of existence would that be?”

She began picking at the plate Rhys had brought in. Letting out a moan as the flavors burst on her tongue.

Az couldn’t help the involuntary twitch of his wings at the sound.

She laughed. “Don’t get any ideas until I’m finished with my food.”

Azriel raised his palms. “I’d never get between my pregnant mate and her meal. With the way she’s started moving, she’d likely kick me away anyway.”

She took another bite while nonchalantly commenting, “I thought of a name for her.”

“Oh yeah?” Azriel’s brows raised in anticipation of a potential name for their child.

“Azure. The same blue as the skies. I thought…”

Azriel cut her off, marveling at the name. Whispering more to himself than her. “Blue like the Day Court skies, blue like the skies that I love to take you flying in.”

She flushed. “Yes, exactly. And though it’s a different shade of blue, like your siphons.”

A lone tear escaped his eye. “And,” she continued with a coy smile. “We could call her ‘Az’”

Azriel sat still for a moment. And she would have thought he didn’t like it had it not been the rush of pure shock and awe flowing through the bond.

Suddenly he took her face in his hands, barely giving her time to swallow the bite of bacon she’d just taken, and crashed his lips into hers. And after her lips were swollen and puffy from the heat of his lips, he began pressing kisses all over her belly, whispering between them, “I love you, little Az. I love you more than the skies I fly in. More than my own name. More than any dreamer could dream of being loved. I can’t wait to fly you through the open skies, and show you every shade of blue this beautiful world has to offer. Nothing in this world matters more than you and your mother. I couldn’t be more proud to be your father.”

And he meant it. Every single word. The blood running through the baby growing inside of his mate didn’t need to be his, what mattered was the love flowing within the child and he intended to pour every single ounce of love he had into their baby.

It was Y/N though who broke down at those words. She and Azriel had spent every free moment together since meeting. He’d healed her in ways that she never could have dreamed. Finding her mate changed the time after Under the Mountain from the lonesome trauma reckoning hellhole she’d anticipated and into a time of healing. He listened to her, understood her, let her set the pace in every aspect. And he’d shared his trauma with her, all of it.

The child who had been abused by a wicked stepmother and horrid step-brothers, overlooked by his own father had grown up to be loving, caring, and patient in every way. And now, he was going to be the parent of a child that was not his by conception, choosing to love the child just as he would his very own. A vow he’d sworn in their mating vows and sealed with a bargain.

“What is it, love?” Azriel wiped away her tears.

“Stupid hormones. I just love you so much and I need you to know that you are so much more than I ever could have dreamed of. If I had to, I would go through it all again as long as it led me to you.”

Azriel’s eyes began watering again. “Look at us, Y/N. We’re quite a sight. Whatever you say tonight, just don’t let Cassian know that I’ve gotten so soft.”

Her glassy eyes sparkled as she gave a sweet smile. “I have a feeling that softness has already been there, my love, I just had the privilege of coaxing it out of you.”

He smiled. “Truth Teller personified.”

————————-

“We’re heading up now.” Rhys’ voice cut into Y/N’s mind.

“Are you sure about this, Rhys? Most of them do not know what all happened under the mountain. What if it’s too much for Feyre to take in?”

“She’s my mate, I have to hope that she will love and accept us all in time. It may be a lot to meet us and hear our stories but they’re a part of us, a part of loving us. I’m worried about Cassian scaring her off more than anything.”

“Valid concern. See you soon. Despite the circumstances, I’m so happy she’s here.”

“You know,” Rhys chuckled. “I feel the same way about you, Starshine.”

“You flatter me. Now enjoy your flight with the literal girl of your dreams.”

“She’s glaring daggers at me right now. Pray I make it there alive.”

“Where’d you go?” Az nudged.

Leaning into her mate’s side, embracing the warmth of his arms wrapped around her shoulders she replied, “Rhys and Feyre are on the way.”

“Are you ready for this?” He asked.

“I’m sure you can already feel my nerves down the bond but I appreciate you for asking.” She teased.

Azriel kept his pace slow as they wound through the hallways of the House of Wind toward the dining table. “If you’re not ready…”

She took a steadying breath. “No, he needs to get off on a solid foundation with her. And Cassian, Mor, and Amren have eyed us for a while, they realize that something is off. Plus, I mean, look at this thing.” Her delicate hands found her stomach. “They’re going to figure out that the timelines don’t match up soon enough.”

“Our girl IS growing.” Azriel spoke, not missing the opportunity to feel the life growing within his mate.

She teased, “You’ve referred to the babe as “her” a few times now. Coming around to the idea?”

“I know better than to go against your intuition.”

With that, Y/N gave a wicked grin. “Mother knows best.”

As they approached the dining room, Azriel pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’ll be right by your side.”

She beamed. “And I’ll be by yours too, with whatever you may share tonight…and forever, of course.”

As everyone arrived and gathered at the dining table, Y/N couldn’t help but admire how lovely Feyre and Rhys were together. Though she hated the situation that brought her there, that Tamlin tried to hoard her away in his manor, she couldn’t help but feel joy knowing that she was finally beginning to see the true Rhysand.

The Inner Circle kept up with the typical antics and plenty of laughter filled the space, but the conversation eventually turned more serious as everyone took turns giving Feyre insight into themselves.

Feyre looked to Y/N with curiosity. “You were under the mountain, but Azriel was not?”

Her hands shook as she prepared to share. A warmth covered them as Azriel gave a gentle squeeze, sending waves of that reassurance in abundance. She took a breath.

She began by sharing the background of her family, their deaths, that she’d sold her body to survive afterward, how she’d only been under the mountain for a year before Feyre arrived.

“You didn’t know Azriel before they took you?” Feyre asked. Not harshly, just inquisitively.

Y/N held her head high. Her story was not one to be ashamed of.

“I did not. Rhys was one of the only souls to show me kindness under the mountain. I have nymph ancestry with primarily High Fae features. Amarantha took an interest in me and….”

An unreadable expression covered Rhys’ face. This was his trauma too, but he gave a reassuring nod.

“She began taking me to her chambers. I had no choice. It was warm her bed, or face physical torture until death.”

Feyre flinched along with Rhys. Y/N recognized that they were remembering the human girl Amarantha had tortured to death just before Feyre’s arrival.

“She also, against our hopes, realized that Rhysand and I had an understanding of eachother - serve her or die. Being the lust-driven wretch that she was, she began taking us both to her chambers. There was no room for weakness in there. She wanted us just weak enough to submit to her, but we had to remain strong in every other aspect. The first time she had Rhys and I, together,” she cleared her throat, giving pause before continuing, “Rhys saved me. I began to crack, and he held my mind. I will let Rhys speak on his own trauma and the mental load he carried, but he didn’t hesitate to help me get through it. It was not the last time he had to help me through it.”

The table was completely silent. Heart-wrenching expressions filled each face at the table. Palpable rage could be felt radiating off of Amren, though her face remained straight.

Her voice began cracking. Azriel pulled her close into him. “When you saved us,” She looked to Feyre. “I don’t mean to fawn or gawk over you, but Feyre, you did save us.” Feyre gave an empathetic look, nodding to Y/N to continue. “Rhys brought me back to Velaris because he couldn’t bear for me to return to the life I was living, because this Court of Dreams is made up of individuals who have lived through terrible traumas and, despite every reason to lead bitter lives- have chosen to dream of a better world. To fight for a better world. And he knew a certain Shadowsinger and I would get on quite well. In fact, he’s been a smug bastard ever since over just how well things went between us.”

“When I met him.” She stared lovingly to Azriel who swallowed a lump in his throat. “The bond snapped between us immediately. The same day I was brought here, I met my mate.”

Instinctively she placed her hands on the swell of her abdomen. “Rhys gave Azriel leave to spend time with me, for him to help me through the aftermath of what I’d been through…”

“But two weeks after arriving back, my scent began to shift.” Mor’s brows furrowed in contemplation.

“I became very sick shortly after that. Rhys called in a healer, Madja, who confirmed that I was two and a half months pregnant.”

Cassian audibly gasped and Mor murmured “Oh my gods.”

Azriel kept his composure for the sake of his mate, but this was killing him. His brother and his mate being forced by that fucking witch. “Azriel is not the biological father of this baby. The child was conceived under the forced coupling of Rhysand and I by Amarantha.”

Feyre’s face was a mix of sadness, and rage, and sympathy.

“There were options to terminate the pregnancy. However, due to my Nymph ancestry, such options can have negative, potentially deadly effects. Aside from that, though I never planned to have a child - I couldn’t bear the thought of losing another family member. Rhys, after losing his family, felt the same, which he only expressed after I shared my feelings with him. He was completely supportive of any decision I made.” Feyre looked to Rhys and then back to Y/N, no negative judgement written on those lovely features.

Y/N looked to Azriel with a loving grin “And Azriel- he took me to a priestess that night. We both wanted to accept the bond from the moment we met, the connection was unbelievably strong, I never believed in the power of the bond until I found him. And now because he’s ever the romantic, though I see him already blushing at the mention of it, he wanted to make a vow before the Mother - a vow to love me no matter what choice I made, a vow to love the life within me as his very own child, to love and cherish us both until his last breath.”

She pulled the sleeve off of her shoulder, revealing the intricate tattoo solidifying his vow.

“And Rhys,” She gave a soft smile. “He made a bargain to love and care for this child and to recognize Azriel as its father. We will not hide the parentage from our child. And Rhys, I know, already loves them dearly, but mine and Azriel’s decisions for our baby come first and will be respected as any biological parents would.”

She’d left out the part where Azriel had gone under the mountain to investigate later on and found that Amarantha had begun supplying a fertility tonic instead of birth control to Y/N after the Calanmai that Rhys had gone to the Spring Court and seen Feyre. Though she didn’t know who Rhys saw, she likely suspected he’d developed interest in someone else and become jealous, hoping an accidental pregnancy would either create a rift in any potential relationship or, even worse, that the baby could be used as leverage against him.

The table remained silent until Rhys chimed in. “So my brother is my child’s father. I’m sure stranger things have happened.”

Despite that sadness the Inner Circle felt, Rhysand’s comment elicited smiles. Azriel gave his brother a nod of thanks for breaking the tension while affectionately caressing his mate.

Mor eased the tension further by chiming in “Y/N! You are further along than we realized which means….. we get to go shopping for our newest family member sooner!!!”

Feyre decided soon after that she would like to work with the Court of Dreams.

————————-

Epilogue

Because his mate was always right, Azriel was indeed the father of a beautiful little girl, clever and stubborn like her mother, and the light of his life. Her mother the sun, and she the moon.

He and Rhys had just returned from taking “Baby Azzie” who was now a toddler to get pastries along the Sidra. Azriel returned with his half-asleep daughter in his arms, who perked up upon seeing her baby brother cooing in his bassinet. “Nyxie!!” She yelled, hurrying over to the winged babe. Rhys, however, arrived with numerous shopping bags in his own arms.

Feyre, who had been lounging with her head on Y/N’s shoulder gave the two a big smile. Y/N raised an eyebrow. “All of that better be for Nyx.”

Azriel and Rhys shared a laugh before Rhys spoke. “Well, half of it is, but only because someone batted her little lashes at us repeating ‘Brother, present. Brother, present’ until we took her into what is conveniently her favorite toy store.” Az cut in, “And because my brother is getting soft in his old age” before Rhys could remind Azriel that he was, in fact, the older of the two, Az continued, “Rhys had to buy something for her for every item she picked out for Nyx.”

Y/N groaned. “Cassian literally just bought her five new toys and six new outfits on their last outing.”

The raven-haired toddler with her mother’s nose and radiant skin, Rhys’ smile, and by some gift of the Mother - had Azriel’s golden-flecked hazel eyes, toddled up to Feyre, giving her a big hug. She then turned to her mother, leaning in to whisper something, that came out as quietly as a yell. “I got something for sissy too. Daddy has it in the pocket realm.”

Y/N’s face flushed as Rhys and Feyre gaped. “So much for keeping that a secret for a little longer.”

Feyre squealed leaning in and throwing her arms around Y/N. “I thought that maybe I was getting allergies, your scent hasn’t been as strong but you were glamouring it!”

Rhys pulled Azriel into a long hug, then walked over to Y/N with a wide smile, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Azriel placed a hand on his chest as he took in the sight of his blended family. It wasn’t what he’d ever expected but, to him, it was everything.

[gojonanami]

ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD - NANAMI KENTO

✴︎ summary: aka nanami is totally fine and alive. after shibuya, nanami lets you tend to his burns and have an honest discussion about what happened there and what it means for your future. ✴︎ contents: hurt/comfort, fluff, spoilers/discussions of what happens to nanami in shibuya, and of course he survives, he's fine (copium), nanami being a girl dad (b/c you know he would be the best dad - i mean he is already). ✴︎ wc: 1,469

Refusals came first when it came to Kento. 

“Ieiri can take care of it—” 

Especially when it came to taking care of him. 

“But I want to, Kento,” you say softly, burn kit prepared by you and Ieiri in hand, your fingers curling tighter around the handle, “I don’t want to push you to do something you’re uncomfortable with, but I want to help,” for all of the times that you couldn’t. 

It has been a month since Shibuya. A month since Gojo had been sealed. A month since all hell had broken loose. 

How has it only been a month? 

And it had been only two weeks since Kento had been allowed home, to rest, allowed to be extracted from Shibuya from Shoko’s treatment area. His eye was unsalvageable — destroyed in that octopus special grade’s domain, and his body — burned severely by that volcano special grade. He would have to wear an eyepatch for the rest of his life. And reverse cursed technique only did so much, but they couldn’t heal burn marks.

Half of his body is wrapped in bandages — if you hadn’t been lucky enough to get Kento out of that situation with the curse you now knew as Mahito — you don’t know what could have happened. 

You were lucky. Lucky to have found him after being split off. Lucky you knew how to get to Shoko quickly. Lucky that she was able to save him. 

Luck. Luck. Luck. 

Was this really luck? To make it out half burned and half alive? Was it luck that you saved him or would it have been kinder to leave him? But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You were selfish — you needed him, you wanted your future with him, you wanted him to live. 

You couldn’t let him go. Not yet. 

It wasn’t time. It wasn’t his time. 

He only sighs at your words, “Okay,” he relents, sitting up on the bed. 

“First we have to remove your bandages, and then I’m going to inspect the burns to make sure they haven’t been infected or—” 

“You don’t have to tell me everything, sweetheart, I know what you have to do,” he says softly, and you swallow thickly, nodding.

Your fingers are gentle as you undo the bandages, first starting with his hand and arm, before moving to his shoulder, and then finally his face. Nasty raised burns marred his skin, raised and ruined marks that clawed over his smooth flesh. The marks ravaged half of his body — the other half he was barely able to protect with cursed energy. 

You hid your frown as you looked at them — why was it him? That question kept replaying in your mind. It was pointless to ask. It was asking why tragedy struck one person rather than another — it was chance, it was happenstance, it was fate. 

But you wished fate had chosen another — hell, you wished fate had chosen you. 

Your hands are washed and gloved as you examine him for any signs of infection — discharge, abnormal discoloration, and the last sign — warmth, “I’m going to just check some areas of your skin for any warmth — okay?” and Kento nods, his gaze downward. Your fingers are gentle — a featherlight touch as you check, fingers tracing his hand and up his arm, across his shoulder blade and back, until you reach his neck and face. Your fingers end up caressing his face, cupping it as you stare at him. 

He’s so beautiful. 

Each scar is a reminder of how hard he fought — even against monsters beyond any of any sorcerer’s imaginations, defended his comrades, protected students, and somehow had never given up. Even when it would have been understandable to do so. He still stood on his two feet, unwavering in his determination to live — and it wasn’t even for himself. Sorcery was an individual sport, sure, but sorcerers pass the baton all the time, and they choose to fight for one another, as well as themselves — if only to make the next fight easier for their fellow sorcerers. And you knew he was fighting, fighting to come home to you. 

How did you ever get so lucky?

“I understand,” Kento says, drawing you from your reverie, “I understand if you feel differently about my appearance — it will be harder for me to be mobile, the burns could constrict me and my eye as well. I understand even, even if it changes how you feel,” his tone was forced evenness, but he couldn’t hide the slight waver from you — Kento only ever wavered when it came to himself. 

You pause for a moment, “It does change how I feel,” and his eye slides to meet yours, hardened and accepting, “it makes me only love you more,” and Kento blinks, ocean blues filled with water, “Kento, these scars, your injuries, they show how much you fought to come back to me — how much you fought to protect our students — how much you sacrificed just to keep fighting,” your voice cracks, “how could I ever see you as less than for that? I love you so much, Kento — I just wish I could have done more for you,” 

His fingers find yours, curling around them, “Done more? You saved my life—” 

“Did you want to be saved?” and your question makes him pause, and your words tumble out of you, a confession you never wanted to make, “Yuji heard you — heard you say how tired you were — asking yourself if you’ve done enough, did I just put you in more pain by making you stay—” 

And he’s covering your mouth gently with his palm, making you stop, your tears streaming across his knuckles as you cried, “I never wanted to stop fighting to come home to you. I’m grateful you saved me,” he said softly, “every moment of pain is worth it, worth it because I get to be here with you. I get to have more time with you, with Itadori, with Ino, with everyone else,” he gives a terse chuckle, “I am tired, tired of jujutsu, tired of risking my life, tired of seeing those I love risk my life — but I came back for a reason, and I came back for you,” his lips curl into a smile, “and you, I could never be tired of.” 

You can’t stop crying now, tears falling from your eyes, as you wipe them, “I’m going to have to change my gloves now,” and he laughs, pressing a kiss to your gloved hand. 

“Change them, I’ll be here,” and you have to hold yourself back from hugging him — you need to put his ointments and lotions on and then bandage him up, and then — then you could hug him. But for now you settled with pressing a kiss to his cheek, and then cupping it. 

“I love you,” and you didn’t know, but he knew, he knew then, more than ever, that he wanted to marry you. And he would ask — but not now. 

So he smiles instead, “I know, I love you too.” 

“We’re going to be late!” you wait outside, arms crossed, “Kento?” 

“Don’t worry, we’re here,” and he’s stepping out, daughter in his arms, as you raise an eyebrow, “Mio wanted me to carry her.” 

“You’re going to spoil her rotten,” you roll your eyes, walking over to your husband and one year old daughter,  “she’s going to be daddy’s little princess at this rate — aren’t you, baby?” you kiss her cheek, as Kento watches you. 

“Like mother, like daughter,” and you gape at him, as his lips curl, as he carries his daughter to the car to strap her into her carseat, “are you coming?” 

You step over to the car, standing as he finishes buckling Mio in, and he turns to face you — the scars on his body remained, but healing with each day — his other eye hidden away under an eyepatch, but he still looked just as handsome the day you met him at Jujutsu High for the first time, if not more so (it was definitely more so, you often teased him, that emo haircut was definitely not attractive). 

“Sweethe—” he raises an eyebrow, before you lean up to kiss him, wrapping his arms around his neck, and he melts into the kiss, brow furrowed as you pull away, “what was that for?” 

And you shrug, “Just because, now come on,” you climb into the seat beside your daughter. 

“If we’re late for this meeting at Jujutsu Tech, it will be because of your kiss,” he warns, catching your eye with a smile in the rearview mirror as he starts the car. 

You only grin back, as your fingers find Mio’s tiny ones, “Don’t worry, we have time.” 

And you did — you had all the time in the world. 

✴︎ a/n: so this is some hardcore copium that @laneysmusings claimed i owed after the five times nanami fic. and who am i to deny? but also nanami is fineeeee. just a little scratch.

✴︎ tag list: @ghost-with-a-teacup, @itsseaberri, @himboelover, @sampam0260, @tiredkitten, @angelltheninth, @kateshappyplants, @neon-crow, @akaashi-todorki, @juniperjunpei, @what-the-stories-have-foretold, @purplecandygerl, @trenchcoat-idiots, @crimsonstarrr, @tirouxdreemurr, @dazaifungus, @the-apple-rose, @just1nee, @weirdanddorkyrambling, @goatlings-world

[undercoverpena]

it means something

joel miller x f!reader | masterlist

summary: compliments don’t fall from his tongue, but they drip from his eyes. They land on your skin, healing scars that don’t show; they make you glow, and feel like something worth choosing.

to @joelsflannel, i took aspects of all your prompts. i tried to make it fluffy, her a little romantic, i tried to give you a quote that i hope you adore, with a man i know you already love. and i sprinkled in a hard day for you, but with some stress-easing fun to unwind with. merry christmas <;3

wordcount: 3.2k warnings: softer!joel, soft sex (p in v), talks of love, jackson era joel, mentions of ellie, joel in a towel (like damn). written for @pedrostories secret santa event.

You’re tired, drained.

Somehow, you find yourself able to drag your feet from the livelier part of Jackson to the quieter, almost more peaceful part. The soles of your boots draw lines behind you, all of which will likely be covered by the newly settling snow within the hour.

It's picturesque, this place. The kind of location you expect would have once been on postcards that people would be sent to loved ones saying 'wish you were here'.

You don't have to wish.

If your eyes weren’t like pinholes, you’d take a second to admire it.

Stamp your boots in one spot, and enjoy the crunch of it under your feet. A thing you’d do on any other day, if not for the fact, that you were so ready to be in the warmth, to be with him—to curl into him and breathe in his scent.

The kind of scent which buries itself into your nose, to your soul. It wraps its fingers around you and digs its clutches into you. Not that you complain. You'd bathe in it if you could, happily letting him smear it over your skin whenever the two of you have the chance.

It’s why you continue to move. It's why you force one leg in front of the other, muscles begging for reprieve.

By the time you’re up the steps, fingers wrapping around the handle of the front door, you realise how badly you wish to shed your layers. Desiring nothing more than to slide out of your coat, unwrap your scarf, remove the hat, gloves and second pair of socks.

Twisting the handle, the door doesn't fight letting you inside. Instead, it welcomes you. Allowing you to move quickly inside, more than anyone would expect from someone so fatigued—removing the layers, hanging each in turn on the rack beside his.

A sight which tugs at something inside you. It loops its fingers around that feeling within, gently pulling—it is all warm, unexplainable; all hard to describe, but the closest word is lovely, nice—welcomed.

That feeling had been born before the end of days, but it had been nothing but an ember then. Now, it was a roaring fire, all lit by him.

You're sure he knows. Not that either of you talk about it. It added to the long list of things you never speak, not for his sake, but for yours.

Even when you first began your… thing with him, you’d found it as difficult as him to know what to call it. Especially, when it had all happened so randomly, with no explanation or sight that it would occur. It just did.

Smiling, you allow yourself a moment to think back to it. How warm it was. How the setting sun smudged an array of shades across the sky, how you'd been bitter about something, mumbling under your breath until a noise cut through your dismay. His laughter. All gruff and born from his throat. It had expelled into the space between the two of you, cut through your bad mood.

Because it had been louder than you’d ever heard it as the two of you walked back, as you did on so many other nights. But that night had felt so different—and it was.

One moment you were staring, and the next his lips found yours, all chapped, but soft. His fingers around your cheek, whispering your name so gently. Stroking your skin, all worn, a bit rough.

Now, the two of you are a habit. A routine.

Nothing has ever been discussed, nothing ever exchanged. Just some nights you ate dinner with him—knee pressed against his. Sometimes your things sat along his in his home, bobby pins and whatever book you were reading.

Some days Ellie let herself into your house, had made a bedroom out of one of your spares, and sometimes she asked if you wanted to come round to theirs.

The only constant thing is that at least once every week, your limbs found themselves tangled with his. His mouth latched itself onto your neck, hand grasping at your breast, fingers pinching the peak of your nipple as he gruffly told you how hard you’d gotten him.

You liked it. Craved it.

Enjoyed the way you took him apart as he focused on making you a mess.

You liked seeing his salt and pepper curls cling to his forehead, liked running your nails through the hair on the back of his neck—back arched into him, feeling fuller than you’d ever imagined you could. Hearing his gruff voice in your ear, saying words he'd never say if he wasn't buried to the hilt inside of you.

But then, you only call him Joel when he's between your thighs too.

"Miller?"

His name rings around the first floor of the house.

Checking the package in your pocket, you sigh as the day drips from your tight muscles. Hand moving to rub the back of your neck, staring at Ellie's half-open comic and the pencils you'd lent her over the table.

You knew she wouldn't reply, not when tonight was movie night. A Christmas one, she'd told you. She had already let it slip she was going, told you as she kept watch on the door so you could continue your surprise for him.

Her request for you to join her faded when you looked up at her, likely seeing the same look which now greets you in the dust-covered mirror.

Kicking off your boots, and removing one layer of socks, you sigh at the way your feet can all of a sudden breathe—even inside his thick socks. Wiggling your toes, you smile as you begin to curl and unfurl them, before your hand finds the bannister, dragging yourself up the stairs until you reach his room.

His empty room.

Heart falling, you consider calling out again. Using his first name this time—letting each of the four letters carry around the house.

But, his bed looks comfortable. It calling to you. Somehow finding yourself lying on it, your face pressed into his sheets, your bones and muscles sighing in relief that you're in a bed.

Eyes wishing to flutter shut, body unwinding against the mattress, the sheets. It’s on the third heavy exhale, do you realise you hear water. It falls in pitters and patters, distantly, likely from the bathroom across the hall.

That’s when a smile curls across your face because you’ve always found comfort in the sound of running water.

Whether it’s rivers or rain, and showers or leaks. It reminds you of calmness, of things fading from reach—washing away, starting anew. Memories of times trying to colour themselves in your mind, fading before they do as sleep tries to coax you away.

The only thing which displaces the grip sleep has on you, is the comforting sight that comes to a stop at the foot of the bed.

Steam swirling around him, all broad shoulders and still damp skin—the hair on his chest, arms, and stomach, clinging in half-swirled curls and straight lines, the towel clutched at his hip.

The first time you saw Joel Miller naked, you’d almost lost the function to speak. All man—all soft and muscle simultaneously. Something constructed from fantasies, made in real life, carved and moulded by hands you think never thought he’d be real. You were close to not being able to speak all over again now.

Eyes tracing, outlining and shading—squirrelling away a sketch of him you’ll think about when the other side of the bed is cold and not filled with him.

“Didn’t hear you come in.”

You hum, lifting up onto your elbows, admiring him, finding him doing the same—even if you suspect you’re not half as good-looking right now as he is.

Least of all when he takes your ankle in hand, moving you sideways with him as steps between your legs now hanging off the bed, the fabric of his towel brushing over your jeans, his palms coming down on the mattress on either side of your neck, staring at you with a look of concern.

“Y’not been sleepin’?”

“Just been busy,” you reply, arms looping around his neck. “Not lots of time to rest.”

You suppose at some point between summer and winter, things became soft—less about need and company, and something along the lines of real.

In another world, one not ridden with fungi and death, you suppose it would have been labelled, added something which tied the two of you together—something meaning more to others than it likely would do to you.

Smiling, you force your eyes to open properly. Watching that look of hunger slowly bleed out over the concern, vanishing entirely when you smirk. If the two of you were different, you suspect you'd tell him you miss him. Tell him you've thought about him.

Instead, you whisper, “Want you, Joel.”

Even more so when you trace the words over his mouth. Aware of his hands on your jeans, and how he's popped open the button, how he's dragging down the zipper. The fabric freely slides from your skin as your hands slide down, dropping to the towel at his waist—thumb digging over it, all ready to pull, unravel it. “Need you.”

His eyes narrow swallowed in darkness. “Yeah?”

Nodding, you roll your lips, dragging your fingers to the tuck, undoing it, not taking your eyes off him. Seeing something in his eyes that is more than just reciprocation of the words spoken, but the ones left unsaid.

“You want me?”

However, you’ll have me.

You’re not sure you speak it, but you're sure he hears it all the same.

For how aloof people think he is, he’s a man who listens—not just to the crunch of branches and the rustle of trees, but to the things people don’t say. He hears their secrets and pulls away their lies. Skills he told you one night he levelled up in when the world tried to keep taking more than it had already.

You suppose it’s how he knows you, your body, what you want and what you crave.

More so as he tangles his tongue with yours, all heady—gripping him firm, tightly as his fingers snake between the two of you. Desperation thrumming through your fingers as you push them into his skin, into his muscles—feeling the coil tighten as he moves his fingers with nothing short of precision. Knowing you, having mapped you out, learnt your cues—it’s why you don’t fight it, the incoming wave ready to drench your taut muscles, let him undo you, unravel you out so you’re nothing but spread out for him.

He likes it like that, you can tell. Likes how you surrender to him, how you lay out for him, letting him move you how he needs you.

It used to be rough, desperate—pure carnal. But, it’s been replaced by something else, something not soft or romantic, but you’re sure it’s a distant relative.

Once you’d gotten a bruise on your hip that pulsed, shifted in shades from being nudged against your kitchen table. Now when he leaves them, he traces them with his thumb, hoping to suck out the sting. Because now you’re treated to comfort—too recently washed bedding and his fingers inside your cunt as your body bends into him, practically curls, sings, hums.

“Always so fuckin’ tight for me.”

Compliments don’t fall from his tongue, but they drip from his eyes. They land on your skin, healing scars that don’t show. Each lick of his gaze makes you glow, and feel like something worth choosing, having been picked, plucked—and placed on some mantle you don’t even mind being perched on.

Wrapping your fingers around his wrist, breathing a struggle, practically gasping, you mumble his name—murmur it, almost a whine. “Fuck me now, Joel. Want you inside of me.”

Then, you’re overwhelmed.

Bathed in both the scent of fresh soap, dewy skin and absolute fullness. Your legs wrapping, crossing at the ankles as he slides into the hilt—pausing, just as he always does, fingers brushing over your jaw until he’s tilting your chin.

That same look—the one you first witnessed after the kiss under the dusk.

It doesn’t vanish until you show him, either in a whisper of the magic words or a movement he can read as a spell. Your hips rolling, rocking—please, please.

Your hands take in the feel of him breathing, the way his chest expands, fills with the knowledge, the realisation, nails digging, almost all in order. One he answers, delivers, fucking stamps.

Joel makes your toes curl, makes white noise appear in your ears, and makes you forget every important thing you’ve ever filed away. All hot, scorching against your skin as you grasp him closer, hoping you’ll be smothered in burns—hoping the same when you swallow his grunts, his hisses off your name. His hips pistoning, aiming to send you over the edge before him, hands—riddled with the evidence of his survival and his new hobby keep you rooted, don’t allow you to wander off into bliss without him.

“Too good f’me, sweetheart.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, right against your pulse, before he licks against what beats under your skin.

You snort amidst your whine, clutching all the strings which keep you whole as you close your eyes—banish him from looking into your soul. He’s seen all there is there, let him in before, provided flashes, evidence of your shattered soul and broken mentality. It comes to the surface easier here, when your walls suck him in, and your body calls for him in a chorus of pleading and begging.

Because you’re close—not needing too much from him tonight, the sight of him is enough. The knowledge of his existence, knowing he’s yours without confirmation.

“There, right there,” you moan, heels digging into the base of his back, feeling the jostle of him, the way he rears and fucks.

He smirks, shifting, just enough to make the head of his cock hit the spot which makes your thighs shake, tremble, fucking quake. His mouth still split open, words there on his tongue, all ready to drape over your skin—

But, you just feel it’s incoming arrival. All white-hot, blinding—too much pressure, yet needing just a little bit more. Your body is not yours, mind empty, gone, faded. You want to sink your teeth into him, bite down, cut into him and leave a mark like the ones he leaves inside you each time the two of you do this.

Because it means something. This. The two of you in this little house in fucking Jackson. Doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?

“Yea’,” he grunts, palm on your face, tilting you up roughly, forcing your eyes to open.

And you swear he smiles when they flash open. You swear it.

“Means somethin’, sweetheart. This—fuck—us.”

The words grind into you. As though he's the pestle and your mortar. Your breath is lost, unable to be grasped, your body hanging, pleasure a bigger force—swallowing the room, casting you in shadows and misting over you—until you cry out. Squeezing, fluttering.

Not able to see anything but his face, the look on his face—the twisted expression of his lips and the deepness of his eyes. More black, than brown—but they’re somehow still soft, still full of something you hope is pleasant and full of emotions.

It only vanishes briefly when he spills inside of you.

When he collapses on top of you—his heart hammering against your ribs. And, even if it isn’t the first time, you feel yourself still—pause, no rash movements, because this is nice, this is something you want without asking for it.

“Can’t believe I can hear y’brain already.”

Snorting, you roll your eyes, glancing over—finding his lips have slid into his cheek.

It gnaws at you, the reason for your lack of sleep. The thing which you've traded hours of rest for. That dormant part pushed to the edge by exhaustion, now awake and very much worrying.

“Got you something,” you whisper, biting your lip, watching his brows furrow and lines appear between them.

Standing up, you steal the dressing gown from the back of his door—the one you’d traded for months ago. The one which is far too big, even for him, making it only cosier when you borrow it. Shooting him a smile, you almost disguise it, worried it's far too soft, too normal, before you mumble about being right back.

It's a hurry to the front door, all feet hammering down on wooden steps before your hand digs in your coat pocket, retrieving the wrapped thing you’ve lost shuteye over.

When you enter, he’s under the sheets—hair at odd angles, looking both a mixture of energised and fucked out that you wish you could paint with your fingers, so you'd forever have it.

“Didn’t wanna give this to you on the 25th—just in case you popped a vein trying to figure out what it means.”

Kneeling on the bed, you take a levelling breath, before handing it to him. His eyes travelling from you to it, fingers taking it—all delicate, measured. Before he unpeels the ribbon, undressing it with more care than he often shows you, before it rolls free of the paper you managed to find. It catches the ceiling light, glinting, gleaming, the handle looking even more detailed in this light than under the candles you’d had to use to remain discreet.

In your hand, the knife had appeared large, and menacing. In his, it looked right.

Yet, his face looked as though it was anything but.

Enough for you to prod, needle. To nudge closer on your knees, to smooth out the sheets and then flick your lashes up, finding him already staring, weighing it up—whatever coated his tongue, had been written in his mind.

“Sweetheart… I don’t… I don’t deserve this—”

More words fall in silence, not quite spoken, yet somehow loud.

Enough for you to say his name, to rest your knee on the bed and deeply sigh.

“You…’m not a good man.”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Crawling up, placing your hand on his chest, you take a shaky breath. “I’m not sure I care.”

And you don't.

Because it's easy to feel something for him, to love him. It's natural, there one day and the day after. It wasn't hard or difficult, but very fucking easy.

Your mouth even opens to say as much, but you close it again before a syllable is muttered.

Wrapping the gift, he moves it from between the two of you, to the bedside table. His fingers linger, hovering over the carved wood—the one which caused splinters and made your eyes almost cross over. “Y’should. M’not an easy man to love.”

“I disagree,” you whisper, fingers having slid up to the base of his neck, your fingers teasing his curls. “Since I’m pretty sure I already feel those things for you.”

His brows lift, and you smile—letting it speak the words you can’t say, and you’re sure he’s not willing to hear.

“Don’t sweat it, alright? You’re mine, I’m yours. Yeah?”

Nodding, he bites his cheek, placing the knife back into the packaging—moving it, replacing what he’d been holding with your wrist as he pulls you close.

“Got you somethin’ too.”

Nose bumping his, you shift closer, thighs finding themselves on either side of him—his hands finding a place on them, sliding up, callouses grazing on your skin, before squeezing.

“But y’gotta wait until the 25th. Like a good girl.”

Smirking, you cup his cheeks. "Okay, Miller. I'll wait."

an: merry christmas, i hope you love this <3

[dekariosclan]

NSFW Gale Headcanons (18+)

Some (soft and sexy) thoughts about being loved by the Wizard of Waterdeep…

Gale doesn’t “dabble” in things. He has no interest in being a Jack of All Trades. No, Gale wants to master things. He wants to be the best at things: Magic, the Weave, Wizardly knowledge, etc. For him, true joy isn’t in trying something different, but in becoming an expert in his favorite subject. And guess what? His new (and permanent!) favorite subject is YOU.

Gale, while waxing poetic, has often compared himself to a book: “I require only your gentle hands to turn my pages.” And this is true of how he thinks of you, as well. You are his most treasured Tome, one that he intends to study thoroughly again and again, delighting at finding new passages that he may have overlooked, or finding new meaning in a sentence he’s read a thousand times before. And like a beloved novel written by a favorite author, he will never grow tired of reading you.

But he wants more than to just understand you. He wants to know how to captivate you, the way that you’ve captivated him, body and soul. He loves you more than anyone, and he wants to show you, in more ways than just words and professions of love will allow.

He wants to know exactly how to pull you into an embrace and where to place his lips on your neck to make you shiver. What words to whisper into your ear to make your knees go weak. He wants to know what secret fantasies you have, no matter how outlandish they may seem, because aren’t you clever? You’ve gone and made a wizard fall in love with you, and nothing is impossible for a man who can craft illusions with his hands—nevermind what he can do with his tongue.

And Gale wants to indulge you. He wants to please you, because he will never grow tired of seeing the endless depths of love and adoration in your eyes when you look at him. Something he never saw, no matter how hard he looked, or how long he looked, into Mystra’s eyes.

One important note: Gale is a monogamous lover. He is not a boring lover.

He wants to know how to make you cum the fastest. How to make you cum the hardest. He wants to make you scream his name so loudly that the Gods can hear it. He loves to taste you, after a grueling trek, after a cleansing bath, in the night or in the morning. He’s made it his personal mission to worship your body in every way possible.

Gale will run his fingers (and lips) gently over your scars. He doesn’t find them to be imperfections. They are key chapters in the story of you, and all the more precious because they make you real. A real human with real flaws, just like him.

Lingerie will be met with an appreciative rumble from Gale, (he always enjoys discussing what’s on your hind—ah, MIND…) but he honestly finds you gorgeous in all states: Dirty or clean. In or out of your armor. Naked or clothed.

He rather likes it when you tease him, especially on the battlefield, when his eyes are already drawn to you like a moth to a flame. The way you position yourself a certain way to allow him to see a hint of your naked thigh under your armor is always…appreciated.

But if you really want to drive him wild? Buy him a book detailing some new positions for lovemaking that you think he would be interested in (and that you haven’t tried yet) then watch as his eyes roll back in his head with pure lust. And if it’s a first edition copy? He might actually pass out as all the blood leaves his head for…another part of his body.

After you both have worn yourselves out reenacting the positions described, and often (at your insistence) more than once, he’ll lie awake thinking about how much he adores you until you both drift off to sleep.

And then…at other times…

…he’ll lie awake and stare up into the cosmos, his arm around you as you sleep with your head on his chest, and he’ll think of how he once dreamed of becoming a God. And how it was you, and the thought of losing you, that stopped his foolishness, and allowed him to rewrite his story. To prevent it from becoming a tragedy.

Then he’ll press a kiss into your hair, softly, so as not to wake you, and thank all the Gods above that he’s not one of them.

He couldn’t imagine how unbearable eternity would have been, if it meant he couldn’t have you.

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this. 

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces. 

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds. 

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now. 

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin. 

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height. 

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents. 

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with. 

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?” 

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse. 

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door. 

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.” 

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.” 

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket. 

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt. 

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess. 

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic. 

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”  

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.” 

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt. 

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.” 

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you. 

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.” 

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.” 

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after. 

It was so quiet here. 

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you. 

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down. 

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’. 

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open. 

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind. 

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light. 

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back. 

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it. 

You are made of memories. 

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?” 

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.” 

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror. 

Tall; formidable. 

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him. 

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise. 

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.” 

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping. 

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation. 

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care. 

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting. 

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed. 

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork. 

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting. 

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp. 

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?” 

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you. 

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him. 

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.” 

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?” 

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind. 

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet. 

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?” 

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt. 

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood. 

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness. 

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better. 

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass. 

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb. 

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?” 

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone. 

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours. 

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.” 

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone. 

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists. 

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities. 

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace. 

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur. 

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?” 

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.” 

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?” 

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree. 

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building. 

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so. 

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another. 

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears. 

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull. 

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him. 

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs. 

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull. 

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.” 

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard. 

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway. 

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was. 

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips. 

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning. 

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow. 

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.” 

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing. 

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling. 

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back. 

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.” 

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents. 

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.  

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence. 

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully. 

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly. 

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin. 

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath. 

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame. 

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.” 

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast. 

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him. 

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to. 

You loved each other. 

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms. 

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be. 

What should be. 

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17. 

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity. 

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures. 

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen. 

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy. 

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power. 

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging. 

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street. 

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing. 

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.” 

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location. 

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop. 

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you. 

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on. 

Not you. 

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love. 

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic. 

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up. 

Emmett was a snake. 

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman. 

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch. 

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now. 

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues. 

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista. 

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation. 

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!” 

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line. 

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in. 

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing. 

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him. 

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you? 

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known. 

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze. 

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight. 

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before. 

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete. 

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion. 

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat. 

It’s nothing. 

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over. 

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding. 

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse. 

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You��re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.” 

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet. 

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression. 

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.” 

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight. 

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base. 

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter. 

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.” 

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.” 

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh. 

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you. 

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers. 

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping. 

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming. 

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump. 

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter. 

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded. 

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully. 

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping. 

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means. 

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond. 

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables. 

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful. 

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall. 

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture. 

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door. 

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her. 

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost. 

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture. 

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses. 

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say. 

But this is something else. 

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.” 

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it. 

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose. 

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried. 

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them. 

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once. 

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak. 

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.” 

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose. 

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive. 

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality. 

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic. 

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife. 

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors. 

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath. 

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop. 

But the brain is a funny thing. 

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout. 

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe. 

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs. 

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace. 

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting. 

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own. 

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open. 

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths. 

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back. 

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.” 

Your chest is heavy. 

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.” 

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?” 

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind. 

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers. 

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much. 

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words. 

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form. 

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants. 

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for. 

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away. 

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room. 

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor. 

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this. 

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment. 

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.” 

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess. 

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow. 

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily. 

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.” 

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him. 

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.” 

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum. 

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all. 

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial. 

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed? 

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked. 

“I love you.” 

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all. 

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment. 

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that. 

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

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[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for being honest about what I would change about my boyfriend?

🥊🥊

I’m a cis guy (22m) and I have a boyfriend that’s transgender (20m). We’ve been together for 2 years.

My boyfriend is a very cute guy and he gets hit on a lot in queer spaces tbh. even by lesbians, and they fully see him as a guy. He’s just very sweet and approachable I guess. A lot of people tell him he’s super attractive and I agree, but there are just certain things about his body that don’t appeal to me.

We were at a friend’s birthday party. People got drunk, I was tipsy. We played this game that was like cards with questions about relationships/love/intimacy on them and the whole group would discuss.

One of the questions was something along the lines of "If you could change anything about your partner, what would it be?" Or whatever.

Now, I went first and said I’d probably make him less hairy and get rid of the dark spots in his crotch area and his acne scars. He has some discoloration around his private areas from a rash he got when he was like 13 and some faint scarring from pimples I guess. It’s not an issue, but definitely not my preference. Plus he can’t really shave clean down there because he has thick hair and it always makes him get those razor burn bumps or whatever. Fine by me, he’s hot as hell either way.

Plus, he has a lot of discoloration around his shoulders, back, chest and face from severe acne outbreaks from his puberty and then later again when he started taking testosterone. It’s calmed down a lot, but the scarring is still very prominent. It’s not an issue, just not very pretty to look at.

Please don’t get me wrong. He’s an incredibly attractive person, I just wish his skin was a little prettier. It’s a bit of a turnoff, that’s all. It never stopped me from being absolutely enamored with him.

But when I explained this, a little less explicitly than this of course, the group went dead silent. Everyone was staring at me, some of the girls even clasped their hands over their mouths etc.

When I looked at my boyfriend he was completely pale and was just blankly staring at me before getting up and saying he needs to pee. I just said okay and then gave the card to the person next to me. She very quietly said she’d take away her girlfriend’s anxiety because it hurts her to see the person she loves like that. That’s when it sort of dawned on me that I messed up and that I was way out of line for saying these things in front of our friends.

He apparently left soon after that, which I only found out through a friend. I was a little confused but figured he was just a little embarrassed. We don’t live together, so it isn’t unusual for one of us to leave before the other. But then I found out that his best friend left with him because he was sobbing and couldn’t stop.

I tried calling him and texting him for multiple hours and didn’t want to overstep any boundaries by just popping up at his home, so I gave up and eventually went home. That was two days ago and I still haven’t heard from him. He’s usually a very clingy and noisy person and always sends me small updates throughout the day, but I haven’t heard anything from him the entire time.

I’m so scared. I love this guy so much, he’s the sweetest and the single most interesting person I’ve ever met in my life. I know he has a lot of severe insecurity issues around his body, especially regarding his scarring. But it’s all gotten a lot better in recent months and he even began to love how hairy he is because it makes him feel euphoric.

Now I can’t help but feel like I took that away from him because of some stupid game. But at the same time, I don’t think it was fair for him to just up and leave without talking to me. We could’ve talked it out and I just wish he would communicate with me.

I already know I was a bit out of line for this, but I just tend to be uncomfortably honest. He knows this and loves me for it, so I’m confused why he’s THIS upset about this one. He’s never gone this long without talking to me.

Am I the asshole? I was just playing the game. I don’t think it’s fair to call me cruel for this just because other people are scared to be honest and say shit like they’d take away their partner’s mental illness. It’s so fake and that shit just pisses me off. Everyone has something they would change about their partner’s appearance.

[roseghoul26]

Cooper Howard x vault born reader. She's from one of the more messed up experiment vaults, when she uncovered the truth of the vault she runs away from it. The first interaction they have is when he tells her he fucking hates vault dwellers and she tells him "I don't really give a shit what YOU think of me". She's been in the wastes a good long while, has a lot of skills and they end up traveling together and getting close. The area she is naive in is sex her interpretation is it's boring, and hurts. He of course tries to explain that it's not suposed to feel like that. They become really close he asks if he can show her which she agrees, she cums harder than she ever has before he has to remind her to breath through it, maybe she squirts and is embarrassed he realizes it's new for her, tells her it normal and that he loves it. Bonus points for: squirting, choking, hair pulling.

Cooper Howard | The Ghoul x fem!Reader

Synopsis: A discussion with The Ghoul reveals things that you never wished to tell him, including your views on intimacy, and lack of experience. When he offers to show you what you were missing out on, how could you say no? Tags: Not Beta Read, Prompt Request, Backstory for Reader, Virgin Reader, Inexperienced Reader, Banter, This one might be even more OOC for The Ghoul, Soft Ghoul, Smut, Squirting, Doggystyle, Hair Pulling, Dirty Talk, Choking, Confessions (kind of) Author's Note: i know that vault 75 is actually like on the other side of the us from where the show takes place but this vault always stuck out to me so i needed to use it for the prompt lmao.  also thank you anon for the amazing prompt (and my first ever request :D) ! i hope this fulfilled it sufficiently!

If you’d told yourself a year ago that you’d be traveling the surface with an irradiated man dressed as a cowboy who only kept you around because you could make him his drugs, you’d call yourself insane, and rightfully so.

But here you were, following after him like an obedient soldier, just like you were raised to be. For the past few months, you had wandered alongside The Ghoul, searching for your purpose on the surface. There was a deal between you two; he’ll travel with you, and you’d make him the chems that stopped him from turning into a feral. 

It was a reluctant acquaintanceship at best, The Ghoul keeping you at an arm's length, and you didn’t blame him. The reason he had difficulty trusting you fully was because you were vault born, which he made abundantly clear when the two of you first started traveling. You spent the first eighteen years of your life in Vault 75,  where you were trained, both mentally and physically, to become the perfect soldier and scientist that would bring justice to the surface world. That had been your life’s goal, up until you turned eighteen. 

Along with the rest of the top peers, you were selected to make your way to the surface. But before you could leave they provided a vaccine, claiming that it would build immunity against the radiation that still plagued the earth. 

In actuality, it had been a sedative, and you remember awaking some time later, suspended in a glass chamber. For days, months, years, you weren’t quite sure, you were prodded, stabbed, cut open. It was pure agony, moments that you only remember in your darkest dreams, leaving you panting and shaking. To this day, you still weren’t fully sure what they had done to you, but you knew they had quite literally taken things from you that you’d never get back. 

Somehow, you managed to break free of the sedative that they continuously pumped into your body, keeping you alive yet without control of your body. You weren’t certain how you managed to escape, but you remembered that your hands and knuckles were bloody pulps, glass embedded into the flesh, fingers broken and mangled. Even now, you could still see the scars that still lingered, and the way your fingers looked off, bones not set right. It caused you issues and aches, but luckily today was a low-pain day. 

A gruff drawl snapped you out of your reminiscing, and you looked up from your hand into the eerily human eyes of The Ghoul, who had stopped in front of you. “What?” You had missed what he said. 

“The fuck you doin’?” 

“I… my hand hurts,” you lied. “Sorry.” 

He angrily grumbled something under his breath, yet you watched him dig into one of the pockets of his trench coat. He pulled out a small pill bottle, and after double-checking the contents he tossed it to you, and you caught it with your non-injured one. “Keep yer head on,” he added before turning to keep walking. 

You didn’t have to look at the bottle to know what he’d given you: painkillers. He’d always give them to you whenever your pain would flare, and each time you reevaluate your relationship with him. You couldn’t figure out if he detest you or cared about you, whether he saw you as a friend or foe. He was a confusing person, and his hard exterior and guarded responses to your questions made him hard to understand. 

“Thanks,” you mumbled, and if he heard you he didn’t respond, just continuing to walk away. Tucking the pills away, you jogged to catch up with him, keeping a few feet distance between the two of you. 

Looking around, you tried to make some sense of the dilapidated buildings and cracked roads, creating an image in your head of what you imagined the town to once be. Full of energy, full of life, able to roam without fear of being killed by man or creature, or fear of being slowly poisoned to death by radiation. 

There was a row of buildings on either side of the road, most caved in, but there were still a few that remained, windows shattered or boarded up. Rusted mental skeletons of cars littered the road, you and The Ghoul having to weave around them. Glass crunched underneath your boots, and you swore you stepped on a few bones. 

Glancing at the road, you noted how elongated the shadows were, and you didn’t have to glance behind you to know that the sun was setting, night right on the precipice of falling. Not wanting to become a late night snack for a deathclaw or some ferals, you cleared your throat, getting the attention of The Ghoul. He stilled, turning his head over his shoulder to look at you. “We should find a place to stop soon.”

You watched him debate it for a second, eyes flicking from the setting sun to the walk in front of him, then to the buildings on either side of you two. Eventually he came to a decision, sighing. “There’s a standin’ building’ down a little ways. We’ll stop there.”

You were eager to finally rest, the rifle in your hands was becoming heavy and the straps of your backpack were digging into your shoulders, so you had a bit more energy in your step as you continued down the street. As you reached the end of the street, you were able to see the building he had mentioned. It was an old shop of sorts, any signs long since gone, but it looked still relatively intact.

The Ghoul got there first, like he normally did. Opening the door with one hand, he held his gun in the other, raised and ready to shoot. He swept the room as he entered, and you follow hot on his heels, gun at the ready. 

In the dim light, you were able to see rows of shelves in the main area, a small desk with a register tucked into the left corner. There was a closed door behind the desk, and another on the rightmost wall of the building, also closed. 

Stepping further in, you were able to start making out the contents on the shelves: boxes and packages of food, no doubt beyond edible, labels faded away. But you also saw a few cans of food littering about, but you’d have to look through them once you’d cleared the building. 

Focusing back on the task at hand, you watched him peer into the far right room, before turning and speaking to you. “Check the desk,” he kept his voice low, as to not alert any possible dwellers. Nodding, you carefully made your way over to the desk, eyes rapidly scanning your environment. 

You tried to open the door, but it merely rattled against the frame, locked shut. If you had the tools, or the patience, you would’ve tried to pick the lock, but you didn’t care that much. Besides, if there was anything in there that was alive, it wouldn’t be able to get you. 

The desk didn’t have much to offer, either. Partial destroyed papers dotted the desk, and the register sat broken and open, robbed of the pre-war cash that once resided in it. You were a tad bit disappointed; it always made for great kindling. 

Searching through the rest of the drawers, you only found garbage, and after a few moments you gave up trying to find anything of value. You slowly made your way back over to The Ghoul, who had better luck than you with his door. You could hear him digging through drawers as you entered, and you were sure to make some audible noise so as to not startle him. 

It was a small living area, a twin bed tucked into the corner, as well as a kitchenette and small desk. A TV and couch sat in the center, and you saw another door, opened by The Ghoul, which you presumed was the bathroom. “Not bad,” you commented. This was truly one of the better places the two of you had stopped at; this at least had four walls and a roof. 

He grunted in response, still rifling through drawers. “Find anythin’?”

You shook your head. “I’ll go look again,” you responded, and before you backed out of the room you dumped your bag on the floor. You sighed happily at the relief, rubbing your shoulders as you began to look through the shelves again.

You didn’t bother to look at the boxed goods, heading straight to the few canned items you saw. The cans were still whole, thankfully, but the labels were long since gone. Shrugging, you grabbed the cans, about four in total, and brought them back to the other room, dumping them on the counter of the kitchenette. 

“What’s that?” You heard him ask, spurs clicking on the linoleum floor as he came over to you. The room was now illuminated by a small oil lantern placed on the desk. 

“No idea. But they’re still good. Probably.” You spoke as you moved to sit on the counter, legs dangling. Man, did it feel good to sit after walking all day. You reached for your knife, cursing when you felt empty space instead, your knife in the bag instead of on you. 

Before you could even get down, The Ghoul handed you his knife, the blade glinting in the low light. He pointed the handle towards you, and you took it from him, and you murmured a small thanks. You got to work opening the first can, hunger making your stomach rumble. The knife plunged in and out of the tin top, peeling back the rest once you got most of it cut. 

It was an almost gelatinous red substance inside, with darker red, round something suspended in it. It smelled sweet, sugary even, and you tried to tilt it into your mouth, but it didn’t budge. Maybe it had gone bad, then. 

Confused, you reached down to the drawer that was in between your legs, managing to get it open enough to reach your hand in. You grabbed the first utensil feeling thing you could find, and to your delight it was a fork. You didn’t waste any time, taking a decent-sized forkful and bringing it to your mouth. 

It was overwhelmingly sweet, and you’re sure you made some face, because The Ghoul was chuckling lightly. It wasn’t bad, but it almost hurt to eat, and the gelatinous nature of it made it stick to your teeth. “That’s whatcha get for eatin’ unlabeled food.”

You shook your head. “It’s not bad. It’s just… sweet.”

He hummed curiously, and you offered the can to him. You laughed when he eyed it suspiciously. “I promise you, it doesn’t taste bad. And I haven’t poisoned it,” you teased.

“I’m surprised you haven’t,” he grumbled, but he took the can from you. 

“I wouldn’t,” you grabbed and handed a utensil to him. “I rather like your company.”

See, as fun as it was to be out on the road, nothing but the endless horizon in front of you, it was the nights that you truly cherished. He didn’t talk much while you walked, keeping a literal and metaphorical distance between the two of you. It was like when he was on the road, he was The Ghoul, a cunning and vicious bounty hunter. But when it was just the two of you, secluded away in some abandoned house, around a fire, wherever, it was like the human side of him resurfaced, leading way to conversation and… friendship? 

You had no idea if he considered you a friend, but you knew you considered him to be one. It wasn’t like you had any other person in this wretched world, your “friends” from the vault turned enemy. As a wanderer, it was hard to build and maintain relationships with other people, so you chose to just stick with The Ghoul. 

And you wouldn’t lie, there was something beyond “friendship” that you felt for The Ghoul. It had taken too long for you to even admit that to yourself, so it was unlikely that you were going to admit to him. Besides, it went against everything that you were raised to believe, and even though you’d long since left the vault, their ideas were still ingrained into your brain.

“Not sure why,” he muttered before eating a spoonful of the mysterious substance. You were barely able to see it, but his upper lip twitched into an almost smile. You always liked when he smiled. It was rare for him, a genuine smile. He’d sneer and smirk, sure, but it was those true smiles that got your heart beating faster and your knees getting weak. You refused to name the reason why your body reacted the way it did, not wanting to face the reality that you felt something for The Ghoul just yet.

“It’s pie filling. Cherry pie filling, to be exact,” he lifted up another spoonful, one of the dark red balls on it, covered in the sheer red substance. 

“Cherry pie filling?” You said each of the words as their own question. You’d never heard of any of what he was talking about. 

He rolled his eyes, handing the can back to you, and you took another bite. You still weren’t used to the sweetness of it. “Fuckin’ vault dwellers,” he sighed. “Cherry’s a fruit. Pie is a pastry. Filling is what you put into pie.”

It didn’t clear up anything, but you nodded anyway, not wanting to annoy him further. “Interesting.” Taking one final bite, you set it next to you, moving on to the next can. You were in the middle of opening the second one when he spoke

“You mean to tell me they didn’t have pie in your vault?”

You weren’t expecting his question, and you halted mid-cut. He never asked you about the vault you grew up in, and you never told him anything besides the name and that you left. He made his opinion on vaults and vault dwellers abundantly clear when you first met all those months ago, back when your relationship was a tenuous allyship. You hadn't cared what he thought about you and your old life then, telling him straight to his face, and you certainly didn’t care now. But it was curious that he was willingly asking you about it now. 

“No,” you drew out the word, mildly suspicious. “If it didn’t have good nutritional value, then it wasn’t allowed. So no candy, no sugary drinks, no pastries. Nothing like that.” You answered while opening up the second can, and you recognized it immediately: sweet corn.

He didn’t ask any further questions, so you didn’t elaborate. Not needed to do a taste test of the sweet corn, you set it aside, then opened the other two cans, which were baked beans and tomato soup. Wordlessly, The Ghoul grabbed two of the cans, making his way over to the couch, and you followed behind him, the other two cans in your own hands. 

Sitting side-by-side, the two of you ate in silence, and you propped your legs up on the coffee table in front of you. The two of you would eat half the can before passing it off to the other. It was how you shared your dinners for at least the past month. 

It didn’t take long for there to only be the pie filling left, and you held it in your better hand. Even though you’d been free from the vault for some time, a part of you still felt wrong for indulging in a treat like this. Pushing those memories aside, you took another bite before passing it to the man next to you. You jumped when you felt his gloved fingers brush yours, and you missed the way he knowingly chuckled. 

Sighing, you sat back against the couch, ignoring the armor that dug into your shoulders, and you found your eyes flicking back down to your hand. You traced over the scars littering it, a familiar pattern to you at this point, and you flexed your fingers. They popped and cracked, bending unnaturally, and it caused a small jolt of pain to shoot through the nerves. You hadn't realized your eyes weren’t the only one on it until you heard the man beside you speak. “How’d that happen?” 

Now you were suspicious; he sounded like he actually cared. “Did you get replaced with a synth?” You asked, bewildered. 

He rolled his eyes in response, taking another bite before setting the can on the coffee table in front of you two. “I realize I don’t know a lot ‘bout you.”

“I didn’t think you cared,” you admitted. “But,” you added when he glared at you, “if you really want to know, I got it by punching something. Repeatedly.”

“If that’s your fist, I’d hate to see the other person,” he muttered. 

“Something, not someone. It was, well, glass.”

“Why the fuck were you punchin’ glass?”

“It was the only way I could escape.” You laughed humorlessly when he glanced at you, confused. “What, you think I left the vault freely?” You shook your head. “After my eighteenth birthday, they trapped me in a chamber so they could harvest stuff from my body, pumping me full of sedative and rapid-healing agents. Something about creating the ‘perfect human’. Eventually, the drug they used to keep me docile stopped working, and I was able to smash my way out. I’m pretty sure there��s some glass still left in my hand,” you chuckled, stopping when you realized he wasn’t joining in. “It’s fine. I’ve repressed most of the memories anyway.”

“Not well enough,” he muttered more to himself, and you couldn’t help the small bit of dread that washed over you at the realization that he knew about your nightmares. They made you feel weak, and you didn’t want him to think you were. 

“Well, I….” You trailed off with a sigh, finding it not worth it to try and disagree, sitting back on the couch. “Rude.”

“So you do have nightmares.” He chuckled at the glare you gave him once you realized you fell into his trap. “Are they ‘bout that?”

“Is this an interrogation?” You asked, getting defensive. “Why the fuck do you care? You haven’t before.”

“If ya paid attention, I said I barely know anythin’ ‘bout you. Figured if we’re gonna continue to travel I should know more besides your name.” He sighed before adding, “This ain’t an interrogation. You… you can ask me whatcha like.”

His reluctant openness made you feel more comfortable, and you relaxed a bit. “Really?”

“Sure, why the hell not. But answer my question first.”

There was silence for a few beats. “Fine. Yes, they’re about when they had me trapped. It’s… it’s mostly the pain I remember. And their faces, the people who raised me, who I trusted.  watching me through the glass. I forget most of the details when I wake, but that’s what sticks out.”

The Ghoul didn’t offer any verbal response, merely nodding his head slowly. You prayed that he couldn’t see the way your hands shook as you willingly brought up those memories in your brain. You shoved them away, forcing a light smile on your face. “My turn.” Adjusting so that your back rested against the arm of the sofa so you were facing him now, your knees tucked up to your chest. “What’s your name?”

He scoffed. “Out of all the questions, that’s the one ya go with?” 

“You don’t have to-”

“Cooper. Cooper Howard.” His response cut you off, and a small smile lifted the corners of your mouth. 

“A pleasure, Cooper Howard,” you smiled gently. It was hardly noticeable, but something shifted in him when he heard you say his name, but you weren’t quite sure what exactly. 

He cleared his throat while adjusting in his seat, his eyes flicking away from your own. “Better not make me regret tellin’ ya that.” 

Your slight smile fell at his semi-threat. “I’m assuming you don’t want me to call you that, then.” His responding silence was answer enough, and you didn’t press it further. “Do you got any more questions for me?”

“Plenty,” he seemed more comfortable now that the attention was off his past life. “Why the hell are ya still travelin’ with me?”

You thought of your answer for a moment. “I wasn’t lying when I said I enjoyed your company. And it’s not like I’ve got any place to go.”

“We’ve traveled to plenty of towns. Why don’t ya just stay there?”

“Do… Do you want me to leave?” It almost hurt to ask. You thought things were amicable between the two of you, and the thought of leaving your one “friend” was something you truly did not want to think about.  

He regarded you for a few moments, eyes dancing over your face. “I suppose not,” he finally sighed out, crossing his arms and resting against the back of the couch.

“Good,” you tried to not sound too relieved. “You’re stuck with me.” You swore you saw a smile tug at his lips.

“Unfortunately.” He didn’t sound too upset about it. “Anythin’ else?”

“Why didn’t you kill me when we met? I tried to rob you, and I’ve seen you kill people for less. You had the gun right to my head; why didn’t you pull the trigger?”

“That’s two questions.”

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed. “They’re the same damn thing. Just… why didn’t you kill me?”

“I dunno why I didn’t kill ya right away. Somethin’ made me hesitate. And then once I realized you was a vault born, I figured I could get a good amount of caps for you, so I kept you alive.” The Ghoul sighed. “I expected to only keep ya ‘round for a week. But then you saved my life, even though I had ya captive, and I couldn’t bring myself to sell you. That’s when I set you free.” He chuckled as he reminisced. “But for some fuckin’ reason, you decided to stick around, and I thought I was gonna regret not killin’ or sellin’ ya.”

“Do you regret it?”

“That’s three questions now, sweetheart.” Your cheeks grew warm at the nickname. It wasn’t the first time he’d called you it, but it always elicited the same reaction from you. “But no. It’s nice, havin’ someone you trust enough to watch your back. After years of solitude, wanderin’ this godforsaken Wasteland with you has been a pleasant change.”

You don’t think you’ve ever heard anyone regard you so kindly, which was insane because of who it was coming from. “Thank you,” you responded, sincerely.

“Before I inflate your ego any more, it’s my turn. Do you miss life in the vault, back before all… that?” He gestured to your hand. 

“Honestly, you’d think I would,” you chuckled. “No danger around every corner, no radiation, no worry about dehydration or starvation. It was secure, but so constricting. Every part of my life was monitored, from the foods I ate, to the things I did, to the people I spoke to. If the higher ups didn’t like it, they’d make me change. If anything threatened the ability to become the most optimized person, then it was removed. I’ve had more freedom during the time I’ve spent up here than I did for the first eighteen years of my life.” You took a breath. “So, no, I don’t miss it.”

It went like that for a good while, you weren't quite sure how long, and eventually the two of you finished off the pie filling. Questions were shot back and forth, and you learned some things about the man beside you that you never thought you’d know. He learned more of the experiments led by Vault 75, and your role in it. You refrained from asking him about his life before becoming The Ghoul, and although he didn’t say it, you could tell that he was grateful. He had long since shed his coat, draping it across the back of the couch, down to only a once luscious blue button down. His hat was also off, sitting on the table alongside the now empty cans. 

You had asked him about the strangest person he’d met, and he was recounting this one “doctor” he’d met in Filly, with greased hair and a rotted cap, selling ailments for quite literally every predicament. “Pretty sure he was fuckin’ the livestock,” he added, and you gapped at him, horrified. “Strange fellow indeed. But, after that it probably has to be this vault born I met, who no matter what I do, refuses to leave.”

“I’m second after that? I… fuck you!” You’d never sworn at him before, but now felt like a good time to change that. 

His brow raised, shocked, and he grinned at you. “Looks like I’m rubbin’ off on ya, sweetheart.”

Rolling your eyes, you tried to hide your own smile behind your knees, which were still tucked up close to you. “It’s your turn. Although, I don’t know if I wanna respond after you insulted me like that.”

“My apologies,” he responded, not sounding sorry at all, especially with the way he continued to chuckle as he thought of a question. “Did ya have friends? Lovers, perhaps?”

If you weren’t blushing because of the nickname, then you certainly were now. It was a taboo subject in your vault, having lovers. Romantic companionship was seen as a hindrance, a liability. “I had some friends, sure, but they all turned out to be back-stabbers or were taken like me. I don’t know if they survived; I couldn’t stop to rescue them if I wanted to live.” You shook off the bit of guilt you felt when thinking of the others. “But I wasn’t close friends with anyone. As weird as it is, you’re the closest thing to a true friend I’ve ever had.”

“You only answered half my question.” Damn him. “Any lovers?”

“No.” Your hand was looking quite interesting now, and you traced over the familiar pattern of the scars again. 

“‘No’? That’s it?” If looks could kill, The Ghoul would be six feet under right now. “Touchy subject?” 

You realized that no matter what you said, he was still going to continue to ask. Groaning, you let your head sag back off the couch, not wanting to make eye contact with him when you responded. “We weren’t allowed to take… lovers. There were no romantic relationships allowed in the vault; they were seen as a liability. And I know that they’re not, but it’s been drilled into my brain that they’re wrong, that they’re… improper, and I’d rather not talk about it.”

When he didn’t respond, you thought he lost interest in the subject, and you slowly began to lift your head back up. “How the fuck did you guys repopulate?” And there your head went back down, face burning. 

“IVF. They took the eggs and sperm from the captives, as they were the best genetically, physically and mentally, and then put them in the body of one of the scientists.” You chose to not add the fact that there was an entirely real possibility that you had a kid or two.

“So no sex then?”

Something like a groan and a curse left your lips, and you squeezed your eyes shut, embarrassment and something else washing over you. How you wished for a raider or synth or anything to break down the door and kill you. “No,” you responded, and you missed the way his gaze locked on to you, intrigued by your answer.

“So you’ve never-”

“No!” You didn’t let him finish his question, not caring about what you just admitted to him.

“Not even after you left?”

“No.” You were getting really tired of your same responses. 

“Why not? It ain’t like you got your vault monitoring everythin’ ya do anymore.”

“Well…” you sighed, running a hand over your hot face. “It seems boring, from what I heard. I’m just supposed to, I dunno, sit there in pain while they use me for their own pleasure. It’s never appealed to me.” That last part was a lie, and you both knew it. You just wanted to hold on to some semblance of your pride that was lying in tatters around you.

He had the audacity to laugh, and you wished the couch would just swallow you whole. “I dunno who told ya that, but it ain’t like that. Not even fuckin’ close.”

Shakily, you exhaled, your heart feeling like it was about to beat out of your chest. You couldn’t believe you were having this discussion, with The Ghoul of all people. His next words had you going deathly still, staring wide-eyed at the mildewed ceiling. “Can I show ya?” 

In just one sentence, he managed to change the entire atmosphere of the conversation, of your relationship. You wouldn’t deny, the idea of being intimate with him was appealing, and definitely not the first time you’d thought of it. What made this time different, though, was that you didn’t push those thoughts away, disgust and shame not overwhelming you. And it was also different because this wasn’t just a scenario that you’d played out in your head, alone while you slept. No, this was actually happening. 

“What?” You managed to stammer out, sitting up slowly. Your mouth went dry at the way he stared at you, almost hungrily. You squirmed under his intense gaze, which seemed to please the man. 

“Can I show ya what it’s supposed to feel like?” He repeated again, and one of his gloves hands crept across the couch, resting an inch away from where your legs were. “If ya don’t want this, just say the word, and we can pretend like this ain’t ever happened. But I can promise ya won’t regret it.” For once, you were grateful for his self-assurance and cockiness, as it bolstered your own confidence in your decision. 

It felt like five hours had passed before you nodded, and you felt his hand brush up your clothed calf, gripping the muscle lightly. “Lemme hear ya say it, sweetheart.”

Even though it was far from the first time he’d called you sweetheart, the implications now made your face burn even more. He made it sound dirty, and you had to take a breath before speaking. “Show me.” Your voice barely came out as a whisper; any louder and you feared it would crack.

You let out a startled noise when he pulled you close to him using the hand on your calf, the action effortless; you’d forgotten how unnaturally strong he was. You were now laying down fully on the couch, hair splayed out around you. He moved between your legs, hands now braced on either side of your head as he leaned above you. His face hovered a few inches from yours, and you could feel his breath as he spoke. “You gotta let me know if ya don’t like somethin’, deal?”

“Deal.” 

You shivered when you felt him caress your cheek, a surprisingly gentle gesture from the rough man you knew. He smiled at your body’s response to him. “Finally,” he muttered out, but you didn’t get a chance to ask for further elaboration before his lips were on yours. 

Unlike his touch, they weren’t gentle, almost bruisingly strong against yours. You groaned, and you could feel him smirk. The hand that had been touching your face settled, grasping the side of your face in a warm, gloved palm. The other hand remained braced by your head, keeping him upright. You found yourself latching your own around his wrist, the other grabbing a handful of his shirt, trying to find some way to keep you grounded. 

Kissing felt even better than you’d imagined it would. You didn’t think it would be so enjoyable, feel so good, so right. It was like his lips were made to slot perfectly against yours. If you concentrated hard enough, you could taste cherry pie filling the both of you had eaten. You jolted when you felt teeth tug at your bottom lip, a droplet of pain in the sea of pleasure, and your grip tightened even more, threatening to tear the clothing. You didn’t think he would mind. 

Energy pulsed through your body, and you found yourself unconsciously beginning to move, your hips moving in small circles. A familiar tension began to form in your lower body, something you felt during your late night thoughts of The Ghoul. Even though it was only just forming, you’d never felt it this intensely before, and you were desperate for some kind of relief. 

An amused chuckle left him, pulling away slightly to do so. You almost whined at the loss of contact, and you attempted to pull him back down with the hand that currently had a fistfull of his clothing, but he didn’t budge. “Eager?” It was a rhetorical question, but you found yourself nodding anyway. 

“Please.” What you were asking for, you weren’t quite sure. Your words trailed off into a sigh when you felt his lips return, this time along your jaw by your ear. He left your cheek, running down the front of your body tantalizingly slow. 

“Where’s these manners comin’ from?” It sounded like his voice had turned raspier, and it elicited a shiver from your body, his lips still pressed close to your ear. “If this was all it took for ya to start actin’ all proper, then I would’ve done this weeks ago,” he teased, and his fingers ran underneath your breasts. 

Maybe it was his lips on your skin, or the way he pressed his body into yours, or the way he touched you, but you lost control of the words tumbling from your mouth. “I would’ve let you,” you admitted, and even though it was quiet you heard his breath hitch. 

“Yeah?” His voice had somehow gotten even raspier, and he groaned when you nodded. “Fuck, sweetheart,” his teeth nipped at your earlobe before moving further down your neck. You no longer felt his lips; instead you felt tongue and teeth leaving marks, growing more fervent as he descended. 

You let go of his shirt, your fingers popping uncomfortably, yet you paid it no mind. You rested your hand on the back of his head instead, almost immediately pulling it away, unsure if he wanted to be touched or not. But you felt him gently grab your wrist, bringing your hand back to where it had once been, making an approving noise when your fingers made contact. 

When he reached the strap of your shoulder armor, you felt him immediately get to work at losing the strap, and you sighed in relief when fresh air hit the newly exposed skin. He tossed it to the side somewhere, and it didn’t take long for your chestpiece to join it. The only thing left on the top half of your body was your bra and tank top, yet you felt completely naked, both because of the lack of armor and the way his eyes bore into your body.

His eyes trailed over the top of your chest, which was rising and falling rapidly, greedily taking in the swell of your breasts. You gasped when he took them in his hands, kneading and toying with the tender flesh. Even through the thick material of his gloves and your clothing, you could still feel his heat. But you wanted to feel him closer. You wanted to feel his bare hands on your body. 

Before you could even comprehend what you were doing, you were tearing off your tank top, throwing it somewhere in the room. You arched your back, your chest pressing further into his touch, and he groaned. Reaching behind, you had enough confidence to unlatch your bra and remove it, but not enough to look him in the eye. Your cheeks were burning, a flush creeping down your neck. 

“Fuckin’ perfect,” you heard him mutter, and his praise gave you enough confidence to finally return your gaze to his, expecting them to be locked on your chest. And they were, at least until he felt your eyes on him. His pupils were blown out, irises gone, and the almost predatory smirk on his face made you look away again, the tension in your body growing. 

“Take them off,” you whispered when his touch returned. His movement stilled, much to your dismay. “Your gloves,” you pleaded. “Take them off.”

When he didn’t respond, you forced your attention away from the ceiling, breath catching when you looked into his eyes. “And here I was praisin’ your manners,” he rebuked, and even through the lust in his eyes you could see a playful glint. “C’mon, you can do better than that.”

“Please take your gloves off,” you responded immediately, not caring if you sounded desperate. “I wanna feel your hands on me, please.”

“Much better,” he practically purred, and you watched him bring a hand up to his own mouth, tugging the glove off his hand with his teeth and letting it fall, landing on your body. It almost felt wrong to see his hands without gloves on them; it felt like he was more undressed than you.

He wasted no time in returning his now bare touch to your breasts, and it felt better than you thought it would. Fingers dexterously toyed with your now perked nipples, pulling little noises from you. You never thought it would be enjoyable to have someone playing with your breasts like this, but you were happily proven wrong.

It was when his mouth joined the fray that your noises turned louder, his lips wrapping around your other nipple. When his teeth grazed the sensitive bud, your hips bucked right against his, and you felt him groan against your chest. Wanting to hear that noise again, you repeated the action, and your ears were blessed once again. 

But your victory was short lived, and the hand that had been by your head the entire time finally moved, pressing your hips down into the couch. “Behave,” you heard him growl, not halting his attention towards your chest. But you did see his eyes flick up, making it look like he was glaring at you, and you found your mouth going dry. You nodded, not finding it in yourself to go against him just yet, to see how far you could push him. You hoped there would be a next time.

He continued to lavish your chest for a few more moments, swapping his hand and mouth, continuously building up that tension in your core. You fought against the desire to move your hips, his “threat” still ringing in your ears. Your hand was still resting on the back of his head, trying and failing to keep your nails from digging into his scalp. A particularly hard suck had them biting in deep, but any apology you had died on your lips at the sinful moan he let out, followed by a string of expletives. You took a mental note to do that again later.

With a pop, he removed his mouth from your chest, and he let you pull him up into a searing kiss. His hand sneaked down between your bodies, which you only realized when you felt his fingers run beneath the waistband of your jeans and underwear.

He pulled away, sitting back on his heels, and you weren’t quite sure who was panting heavier. You immediately missed the feel of his body over yours, the comforting weight of him, and you couldn’t help the small pout that formed on your lips as you tried and failed to pull him back down again. “Please,” you whispered, hoping that your words would convince him. And you could tell they almost worked, his jaw clenching as he grit his teeth. 

But he didn’t relent. Instead, you watched as he began to slowly unclip your gunbult, your armor, your kneepads. Every bit of protection against the Wasteland stripped from you, joining the pile on the floor, leaving you only in your clothes. It was freeing, yet a bit nerve wracking, your chest continuing to rise and fall rapidly. 

You tried to lean down to help with your boots, but he swatted your hands away, silencing any rebuttal with a look. It took a few moments, but he eventually was able to remove your boots and socks, but you barely heard the sound of them hitting the floor over the loud heartbeat in your ears. He practically ripped off your pants, his patience becoming thin because of the boots, but you were just grateful he didn’t actually ripped them. Good clothing was hard to come by.

His gaze was locked onto your lower body as he eased off your underwear, the final article of clothing on your body joining the rest. You were almost glad to be rid of them; they were cold and uncomfortable, and damp, for some reason. But it didn’t seem to put off The Ghoul. In fact, it seemed to please him immensely, an almost proud grin on his lips.  

You quickly grew embarrassed under his ravenous gaze, his eyes trailing over every inch of your body. You tried to close your legs, or at least tuck them to your chest to try and cover you, but he was having none of it. Two hands, one gloved and one not, wrapped around your ankles, pulling them back down and out. “None of that. Lemme see ya.”

Swallowing, you relaxed, at least as well as you could. It became easier when you saw how much he was loving your body. His eyes jumped around, like he was trying to memorize every detail of you. “Like I said. Fuckin’. Perfect.” You weren’t expecting the sheer honesty in his voice. 

The hands on your ankles began to slowly trail up, making goosebumps appear on your skin. It was like your skin was a million times more sensitive when someone else was touching you. You got lost in his touch, your eyes fluttering close, simply enjoying the feel of another person. 

They shot open when his touch suddenly left, and you gaped at him, confused. You watched him adjust so that he was now sitting normally on the couch, resting against the back of it. 

You understood, though, when he patted his legs, wanting you on his lap. With shaky movements, you complied, but were once again confused when he stopped you, hand resting on your shoulder. Wordlessly, he turned you so that your back was to him, and you let out a startled noise when he roughly pulled you onto his lap, his still clothed chest pressing into your bare shoulders. 

Moving the hair from your neck, you felt his lips return their ministration on your neck, and your head rolled back, giving him more access. Both hands were on your body, ungloved one returning to your breasts, the other skating down the side of your body. You gasped when it began to inch towards your center, and you felt him chuckle. “So sensitive,” he commented almost absentmindedly.

You felt him grip your thigh, spreading your legs even farther so that they went around his own, now using his knees to keep your legs open. It left you completely exposed and at his mercy, but you felt comfortable, safe even. Relaxing fully against his chest, your head now rests on his shoulder, and if you strained enough you were able to look at him. It was clear by the expression on his face that he was enjoying this just as much as you were, if not more.

He reached his hands around your body, and began to pull the glove off his other hand. You stopped him with a gentle grasp of his wrist, tugging his hand to your mouth. Just like he did, you took the material between your teeth, and he was able to free his hand with a tug. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Think ya can do one for thing for me?”

“Anything,” you responded, and you felt two of his fingers, the middle and ring, trace your bottom lip. 

“Anythin’?” You nodded, not caring what that might imply. “Well, I’ll have to keep that in mind. But first,” those fingers tugged at your lip, “get those nice and wet for me.”

Even though you weren’t quite sure what you were doing, you parted your lips anyway, taking the digits into your wet mouth. Slowly, you began to bob your head up and down, running your tongue along the textured skin, barely tasting the saltiness of it. Whatever you were doing seemed to please him, because you felt his chest rumble with a groan. 

Before you could build a rhythm, he pulled them out with a pop, and they glistened in the low light. He didn’t give you much time to observe them, though, because before you could process he was running them through your folds. The sudden touch in your most sensitive area made you try and shut your legs, but his knees made it impossible.

His chest rumbled with a light laugh, and you were confused as to what could possibly be amusing him. “Guess that wasn’t necessary; you’re already so damn wet for me.” You detected another hint of pride, this time in his voice. 

Another swipe had you moaning, but then you felt his fingers locate something between your legs that made you cry out, your legs jerking involuntarily. “There we go,” he rumbled, and he focused his attention on that area, fingers pressing firm and slow circles into it. You weren’t quite sure what he was doing, but it felt incredible, the tension that had slowly begun to rescind returning. 

You tried to tell him, but it came out as a garbled moan instead. “Feel good?” It was another rhetorical question, and you yet again nodded, and you watched his lips quirk up. 

“Ghoul…” you moaned out, one of your hands reaching behind to hold the back of his head, needing something to hold onto as he continued to pleasure you. 

For the first time since you’d met him, something like self-consciousness flicked across his face, gone as soon as it came. “That ain’t my name, sweetheart. C’mon, lemme hear ya say it,” he almost sounded desperate as he talked. 

It took a moment for your lust-addled brain to remember what he had told you earlier in the night. “Cooper…” you sighed out, and he bit back his own moan, and you felt his hips jump the tiniest bit. 

“And I thought I liked hearing ya say my name, but fuck, I like hearin’ ya moan it a hundred times more.” You realized that when you had seen something shift in his eyes when you first said his name was disdain, it was actually the opposite. That realization had you smiling, and you managed to pull him down into a messy kiss, the angle too weird to allow a proper meeting of your lips. 

But it wouldn’t have lasted long anyways, another few moments of his fingers making you cry out again, that tension beginning to become unbearable, like it was just on the precipice of snapping. “Cooper.” It came out as a moan, but with a hint of confusion and worry behind it, unsure of what was happening with your body.

“You close?” 

“Close?” You had enough focus left to be confused, and even though his fingers didn’t yield, you felt the rest of him go still. 

“You’ve never… oh, fuck,” his voice turned husky, almost like a growl, “am I gonna make you come for the first time?” He sounded elated. It just created more questions, but another swirl of his fingers made all thoughts go out the window.

You fidgeted and squirmed, trying to escape the onslaught of things you were feeling. “Relax. I promise ya, this’ll feel good.” And because you trusted him, foolishly or not, you did relax, no longer fighting against him. It felt like you were a dam that was about to burst, and you barely registered that your nails were digging back into his scalp until you heard one of those delicious moans escape his lips.

That sound triggered something in you, and all at once that tension snapped, exploding like something that was pulled too tight. Pleasure ignited your body, making it feel as light as a feather. Every nerve in your body was humming, and you swore you blacked out for a moment. 

His voice, gruff yet a bit concerned, brought you back to your body. “Breathe,” you heard him say, and you realized the dizziness you were feeling wasn’t just because of the mind-shattering pleasure you’d just felt, but you indeed had stopped breathing. Inhaling shakily, you felt some of that dizziness leaving now that oxygen had returned to your lungs. 

An uncomfortable jolt had you glancing down between your legs, where he continued to pull every last bit of pleasure from your body. “S’too much,” you managed to slur out, your voice quite hoarse. He halted, thankfully, resting his hand on your thigh, still close enough to your center that you could feel the heat from his hands. 

“You alright, sweetheart?” He sounded mildly amused, and if your muscles weren’t currently jelly you would’ve hit him. 

“I… what did…” you said between gasping breaths, trying to get your heart rate back down. 

“You just came. Rather loudly, at that,” he teased, and your incredibly hoarse voice made sense now. You were suddenly very glad that you were in the middle of nowhere. 

Turning so that you were able to face him better, you felt the material of his pants rub against your bare legs, which wouldn’t have been too weird if it weren’t for the fact they were wet, borderline soaked. The hand that had just been resting on your thigh was brought into view, just as soaked as his pants, and you watched as he examined his hand, almost transfixed. “And messily,” he added, and you felt your cheeks burn even more than they already were. 

You opened your mouth, ready to apologize, but nothing but an airy noise left you as you watched his tongue run from up from his wrist to his fingers. A pleased hum left him, his eyes never once leaving your own as he continued to clean his hand, like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted, even better than the desert you had shared. There was a stir in your gut at the action, what you now assumed to be arousal coming to life as you continued to watch him. 

When he caught you staring, his lips twisted into one of those smirks that made your stomach flip. Turning fully in his lap so you were now straddling him, you tugged his wrist far enough away so that you could kiss him. You groaned when his tongue swept between your parted lips, his slightly damp hand holding the side of your face gently. 

With shaky fingers, you began to try and unbutton his shirt. You didn’t get far before he was suddenly standing, and even though he had an arm tucked beneath your thighs, you still clung on to him, legs and arms wrapping around him tightly. Not once did he remove his lips, even when he bumped into a few things on the way to the bed. It was like all that mattered was you and the way you felt. 

The bed, which was barely big enough for one person, let alone two, squeaked obnoxiously when he lowered you onto it, but neither of you paid attention to it. And it wasn’t like you had to worry about anyone else hearing. Like on the couch, he hovered over your body, arms braced on either side of you. His lips were back on your neck, giving you a few moments to take heaving breaths of air. 

For once during the entire night, you knew what was about to happen next, but even though you could feel anxiety threaten to grip your mind, you managed to shove it off. It was easier when you focused your attention on the man in your arms. His continued attention was nice, but you wanted, needed more. “Cooper, please…” you trailed off, hoping he got what you were asking for.

And you know he did, because you felt his lips curl into a smile against the skin of your neck, and he lifted his head up. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him so care-free, and the sight had your heart swelling, a small gasp leaving you as well. He looked good like this, and a part of you craved to see it for days to come. 

“What was that, sweetheart? I didn’t quite hear what ya said.” For a moment, you retracted your previous stance, embarrassment making your ears burn. You either wanted to kiss or slap that shit-eating smirk off his face when he noticed how bashful you’d grown. “I’ll give ya whatever you want. All ya gotta do is ask.”

Your pride and embarrassment were at war with your desire, but a winner was quickly decided. “Please, I need you, Cooper.”

Apparently that wasn’t good enough, because he didn’t move. “You need me to…?” You groaned in frustration, and you tried to get him to just forget it with a roll of your hips, trying to make him break. It seemed to almost work, but you felt him press down firmly on your hips, pinning you to the bed. “That ain’t gonna help ya. Use your words.”

You sighed, finally relenting. “Fuck me, please,” you whispered out, and it finally seemed to do the trick.

“Atta girl,” he praised. “Go ‘head and roll over for me.”

As much as you wanted to be able to see him clearly, excitement had you turning over anyway, now on your hands and knees. The position was revealing and it almost felt degrading, but yet again you felt at ease, anticipation making your heart beat fast. Turning your head, you were able to see him a bit, and a moan slipped from your lips when you heard the sound of his belt being undone, the sound of a zipper following suit. This was really happening. 

One of his hands gripped your hips, and you felt his still clothed legs pressed up against the back of your own. His cock, warm and solid, pressed into your entrance, a low groan pulled from your lips when he breached it. It was only the tiniest bit painful, not as bad as you initially believed it would be, like a muscle being stretched, which was earlier overshadowed by the pleasure it brought. He let out a groan of his own, the fingers on your hips digging in harshly. 

Inch by inch, you felt him press himself fully into you, both of you letting out similar sighs when he was fully sheathed. Cold metal bit into your skin when his hips were flush with yours, the buckle of his belt no doubt going to leave imprints on your skin. He stilled once he was fully in you, giving you a chance to get adjusted to him, which you were grateful for. You could tell that it was taking every ounce of restraint in his body to just sit there, though, and it only took a few moments until you felt like you were ready for him to move. 

All it took was you wiggling your hips for him to get the message, something like a sigh of relief leaving his lips. Slowly, he pulled out of you, fingers never once letting go of their grip. The sensation made you moan, and you could feel him everywhere, hitting all the right spots as he pulled out.

You grasped at the barely-together bedsheets, probably creating new holes in the fabric. It was less uncomfortable when he pushed back a second time, and you felt your head go limp between your arms, his name falling from your lips. He started creating a rhythm, hips beginning to pick up the pace. His hips snapped into yours, slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed.

You could do nothing but take it, pleasure making you lose control of your body. Your cries were becoming increasingly louder, that familiar tension returning, and you tried to bury your face in the mattress. 

That was until you felt him grab a fistfull of your hair, yanking your head back up. It hurt, but it felt wonderful, and you felt yourself tense, a wanton moan louder than anything previous escaping you. “Fuck, ya like it rough?” His pace quickened, his cock spearing you relentlessly. It filled something in you that you didn’t quite know you needed, a craving satiated that you didn’t know you had. But now that you had it, you needed more of it. 

You nodded, at least as best you could, the grip in your hair keeping your head still. It took you too long to realize that he was using the leverage from his grip in your hair to pound into you. “D’ya know how fuckin’ incredible ya feel?” He panted. “This cunt was made for me. For me to ruin.” 

“Cooper,” you cried out, and he groaned in appreciation. 

“Fuck, that’s right. Who’s fuckin’ ya this good? Who’s ruinin’ ya for any other?”

You certainly weren’t expecting him to be this vocal, but you were far from complaining. His voice, which normally electrified you, was driving you insane, the tension building up tenfold. You tried to say his name again, but it came out incoherent. “Oh, sweetheart,” he cooed before laughing lightly. 

You were so close to your release again, and you could feel moisture run down your thighs, but you had little mind to be embarrassed now. “Cooper,” you were able to sigh out. “I’m… I’m close.”

His grip turned vice like, and you’re sure your neck would be hurting later because of the angle, but you didn’t care. “Let go. C’mon, lemme feel ya cum on my cock.” His words left no room for debate, so who were you to go against his orders? After a few more thrusts, you felt that tension snap again, pleasure once again washing over your body, making your arms turn to jelly. Panting, you collapsed on your arms, face squished against the mattress, the sound of slick skin on skin the only thing you could make out.

You didn’t stay down for long. Both hands wrapped around your front, pulling you flush against his body. He continued to thrust into you, and you felt another release begin to build, but it was too much. You made a sound of protest, something like you couldn’t come again, but he shushed you with kisses on your cheeks, which were damp with tears and sweat. “Just one more, sweetheart. You can do it.”

Nodding shakily, you felt his continue to fuck you, one arm wrapping around your stomach, the other holding right above your breasts. A startled noise left you when you felt his hand wrap around your throat, survival instinct kicking in immediately. With wide eyes, you twisted out of his grasp on your throat, panic evident on your face. 

He had let go as soon as he heard any sound of protest, but he still lingered close by. “You trust me?” He asked, somehow still able to form a coherent sentence. 

Your answer came immediately; you trusted him with your life. Why else would you travel the Wasteland with him? You nodded, a soft yes leaving you as you did. He pressed another grateful kiss to your cheek, a wordless thank you, and you felt his hand return to where it was. You still tensed when you felt his grip return, unable to turn off the instinct to be free of someone choking you, but you provided no further protest. 

Fingers squeezed against the sides of your neck, and like with your hair he used the leverage to snap his hips up into you. Even though it was harder, you were still able to breathe, your gasps and noises labored. Yet you still found yourself growing dizzy, the restricted blood flow making you so, which just heightened the pleasure you felt. 

Your third and final release of the night barreled into you, completely catching you both off guard. Your mind was so fuzzy; you couldn’t even get his name out. You were quickly snapped out of that haze when you heard him moan your name. Not sweetheart, not Vaultie, not any other nickname. Your name. 

He eased you to the bed, hand leaving your neck, and you let out a small whine when you felt him pull out of you. You felt empty, lacking, and even though you knew it would upset your overstimulated body you wanted him back in you. 

You had just rolled onto your back when you felt something hot splatter against your skin. You watched slack-jawed as he stroked himself to completion, his release painting your skin. The sight caused the flames of arousal to reignite, but you tried your best to snuff them out; you needed a moment. 

He sagged forward when he was done, arms once again bracing him from completely falling on top of you. Silence now filled the air, which was significantly warmer than it was a bit ago. It was you who moved first, grasping the side of his scarred face and pulling him in for a gentle kiss. It was short, but probably the most passionate of the night. 

When it broke, he sat up, getting up and off the bed and towards his belongings. You let out a noise of protest, and he just shot you a teasing look. “I’ll be back in a sec. We gotta get ya cleaned up,” he gestured to the remnants of him on your skin, and you watched as he fished out a canteen, before searching the area for something else. 

You decided to glance over your body as you waited for him to return. Your skin glistened with sweat, and you could see various marks littering your body; you didn’t want to know what your neck looked like, where he focused a lot of his attention.

The feeling of the bed shifting snapped you out of your examination, and you regarded the man who sat beside you with a soft look, and you were surprised when he returned it. It quickly turned into a scowl when you felt a damp cloth brush against your stomach and breasts, the cool water making you hiss. 

When he was done cleaning your skin, he handed you the canteen, and you took a few sips. You’d long since gotten used to the acrid taste of the Wasteland’s water, so it didn’t bother you, and you watched him finally kick off his boot. He was still fully dressed besides that, shirt sticking to his body.He set it beside the bed once you finished, before eying the bed that you were currently laying on.

“What?” You cringed at how raspy your voice sounded.

“Just dunno how I’m gonna fit.” In the back of your mind, you worried that he was going to push you away after all was said and done, so you were quite relieved to find the opposite happening. 

With a grin, you scooted back until your head rested against the thin pillow, before opening your arms to him. Shock crossed his features for a split second, before a grin of his own grew on his lips. He was still hesitant when he entered your embrace, but he relaxed almost immediately, especially when your hands ran soothingly up and down his back. When you pressed a kiss to the top of his head, he practically shuddered, his face nuzzling into your skin. You wondered how long it had been since someone showed him affection like this. 

You held him for a good while, your body calming down, and you thought over the events that had just transpired. Weirdly enough, you thought less about the things he had done and more of the words he said, especially right at the beginning. “Cooper?” You called out hesitantly, almost immediately regretting it. “Do… Can I call you that?”

He had raised his head when he heard his name being called, and you watched him debate it for a second. “Only in private. I’ve gotta reputation to uphold.” His response was gruff, but there was something warm in his eyes. 

It made you giddy, that he trusted you enough to call him by his true name, and you hoped you weren’t smiling like a fool. “Alright, Cooper. What did you mean when you said ‘finally’?”

He chuckled lightly, propping up a big so he could respond properly. “What, ya thought this was a spur of the moment decision?” He shook his head. “Sweetheart, I’ve wanted this for a while.”

You gaped at him, stunned. “You… you have?”

“How could I not? I mean, look at’cha,” his eyes trailed appreciatively over your still naked body. “But you’ve got a fire ‘bout ya. You ain’t afraid of this world, even though you damn well should be. You ain’t afraid of me, even though I’ve given ya plenty of reason to be. You’re a fighter, and I… I admire that ‘bout you. I-” He caught himself, like he said something he wasn't supposed to. “I’m too sober to be discussin’ my thoughts with ya. All ya gotta know is yes, I have.”

You were once again left stunned, so you let your action speak for you, pressing another kiss to his head, trying to ignore the way your heart soared. You felt him shift upwards, and he kissed your proper. It was another short yet passionate kiss, and when he broke away he rested his head against yours. 

“You wanna know somethin’, sweetheart?” His voice had dropped lower, and that familiar dark look was back in his eyes. So much for snuffing out the arousal you felt. He smirked when you nodded vehemently. “You wanna know the real reason why I always take first watch when we go to bed?” You felt his grasp one of your hands, loosely enough that you could pull it away if you wanted to, and he brought it between your bodies. You gasped when you felt the hard tent in his pants, having tucked himself away when he got up, but you knew it wasn’t going to stay like that for long. 

“It’s ‘cause you do this to me. You should hear me out there, moanin’ your name like I do, imaginin’ your hand wrapped ‘round my cock instead of mine.”

Your tiredness was completely forgotten, the pleasant ache in your muscles nothing more than a gentle distraction. “Can you show me?”

“Fuckin’ gladly, sweeheart.”