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spider-stark · 4 months ago

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THE GOLD TANKARD

Benjicot Blackwood x Smallfolk!Reader

Summary - Benji is a regular at the tavern you work at—and you're starting to think he's forgetting his coin on purpose.

Warnings - fem!reader, kieran burton fan cast, all characters 18+, suggestive/sexual language, not edited bc I'm lazy and wrote this for fun in like an hour

Word Count - 650+

!MINORS DNI!

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

The Gold Tankard was a shit-house of an inn. Famous mostly for its basement-tavern, it had been built ages ago in the heart of Pennytree—a derelict village lying smack in the center of the disputed border of House Blackwood and House Bracken.

After many, many years of existence, the Tankard has fallen into a blatant state of decay. Cracks spiderweb up the side of stone walls, woodworms infest the cedar roof overhead, and the carpets are stained with beer and piss and gods-knows-what-else.

Still, it remains in-business—bringing in coin from the many knights and men traveling through Pennytree, so desperate for a hot meal and a bed that they’re willing to overlook the scuttling bugs and musty aroma.

And being the resident barmaid isn’t so bad, you suppose.

At least, not when Benjicot Blackwood is a near-nightly patron of the Tankard. While he's forever forgetting his copper, he's always quite creative in finding other ways to pay for your service—and you have found the Lord to be quite talented with his tongue…

His grip tight, Benji drags you up the dimly lit stairs leading from the tavern to the narrow halls of the inn above.

“M’lord,” the title slips past your lips, giggling as you protest, “my shift isn’t over! The girls will be needing me behind the bar and–”

Benji cuts you off with a groan. Tugging your wrist, he shoves your back flush against the chilly stone wall, caging your body with his. “Is that all you care about? What the girls need?” He leans in close, the tip of his nose brushing against yours. “What about what I need?”

Pure, unbridled lust dilates his pupils, his storm-cloud eyes nearly devoid of color as they drag over your face. They snag on your lips—and, instinctively, he rolls his hips against yours, a growing hardness pressed to your thigh.

“I care about getting paid,” you choke out, clawing at the remaining shreds of your composure. “Not all customers are as mingy with their coin as you, M’lord.”

Warmth fans across your cheeks as Benji huffs a laugh. “So you think I’m mingy, do you?”

A scowl twists your features, heat rushing to your cheeks. You can tell from his tone—so impish and cheeky—that he’s poking fun at you. What word would a highborn girl have used, then? Oh, you’re so frugal M’lord! So utterly parsimonious!

Shoving against his weight, you grind out, “I have work to tend to, M’lord–”

Benji’s grip on you tightens, his other hand coming to cradle the side of your head, fingers weaving themselves into your hair as he presses you back against the wall—harder this time.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive, love,” he tuts, lips grazing against your cheekbone, leaving soft kisses in their wake. “You know how I adore your little commonors dialect.”

Your eyes narrow, frustration bubbling up inside of you.

“If you wish to insult someone, then I may suggest the whorehouse down the street, M’lord. Barmaids are not forced to endure such abuse—especially from unpaying customers.”

“Abuse?” Benji’s breath tickles your ear, a shiver crawling down your spine. “Is that what I’m doing?” He pauses, teeth nipping at your earlobe. Your breath catches, and you feel him smirk as he purrs, “Abusing you?”

Your pulse races, your heart hammering against your chest so fiercely that you fear Benji can feel it, his chest pressed firm against yours. You feel dizzy and off-balance, unable to think of anything other than him—his fingers twined in your hair, his lips on your jaw, his cock against your thigh.

You feel it waning—the last bits of your composure, torn to ribbons under his touch. It’s only when his mouth comes to rest against yours, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, that you finally give in.

Between strangled moans, you say, “You’ll have to be quick."

Benji’s grin is painfully arrogant as he rolls his hips again. “Oh, baby—” a low, raspy chuckle sets a fire in your belly—“quick isn’t in my vocabulary.”

a/n - idk man I can't write smut so this where it ends I guess lmao. kinda wanna explore more with this reader cause I like the idea of a lil barmaid and benji but we'll see!

as stated in warnings, this wasn't edited in the slightest and I wrote it super quick last night, so apologies for any errors!

tag list 🫶🖤 - @bearwithegg @jacaerysgf @lenasvoid @valdezthg @xzydra11 @snixx2088 @lianna75 @kennafild @ghostinvenus @heystaystray @but-i-write-so-i-must-count @a-song-for-ages @nixtape-foryou @kezibear

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she-whatshername · 1 month ago

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It’s time for a Sleepy Tyrrish Men Headcanons

Featuring this drama llama, Xaden

How does he sleep: arms crossed hanging upside down from the ceiling like the little bat gremlin he is

Lolol

Though I imagine it’s very stoic. On his side like Bodhi or asleep on his back. If he’s face down on his stomach that means he’s exhausted. Let him rest.

How many Pillows: two large pillows

Any blankets? Okay let’s talk about these sheets. Xaden has a comfy ass bed. Softest sheets, fluffy pillows and a thick quilt and fitted sheet. He is the king of lies turndown service and lives to fold down the sheets on your side of the bed each night as a silent invitation to snuggle up with him

If you’re out late his shadows are roaming around Riorson House looking for you. And id he’s late to bed and you fall asleep waiting up for him he picks you up to take you to bed and his shadows are pulling the covers up on you

Also, if you were ever like, I want new pillows or new sheets, he’d have it done. He wants you to feel comforted and safe in his room and will do everything you ask to make his room to your liking.

Like when you struggle to stay warm at night for whatever reason he’s employing Bodhi and Garrick to weave a warming rune into the blankets to keep you warm (because I just know those two are resourceful like thet and Xaden has trust issues to ask anyone else)

Nightmares? Yes. he hides it well and will not talk about them with you. However his eyebrows always give it away. If you see him asleep either his brows furrowed or narrowed with concern, gently caress his skin to soothe him back to sleep

Cuddler? Oh yes. He’s the type of Cuddler who likes to melt into you. He wants to cuddle with all his skin pressing against your skin. He loves to tuck you into him, with your forehead right at the level of his lips so he can press his face into your hair and pamper you with kisses

I know this fucker lives for some gossip too. He likes to wrap himself around you and be all warm under the covers and just talk shit lolol. He would absolutely be that guy who not only gives you the space to talk about your day but is actively invested in it. He is the drama and lives for it too. When you’re feeling overwhelmed and stressed he will tell you some old Basgiath gossip he unearthed while sneaking around in the shadows to help lighten the mood. I know this man knows some tea.

Does he snore? very lightly. He’s very much like Bodhis headcanon because brothers

Goodnight kiss? Forehead kiss every night. He also loves a slow, sensual kiss that leads to some intimacy but there will always be a forehead kiss

Bonus: hair braiding before bed. We know this sexy little weirdo has a thing for hair so I think he enjoys domestic activities like braiding your hair before bed, brushing it, or (for my bonnet folks ) massaging oils in your hair and wrapping it for you. He sits behind you on the bed, strong legs on either side of you while he has his hands on your hair. He doesn’t get a lot of time with you throughout the day but he looks forward to these moments most of all. When you offer to return the favor he will always oblige but the moment you run your hands in his hair he tenses up, moans a bit and then he’s all over you lolol

Is he waking you up for late night smooches? This is Xaden, of course he’s always UP to go DOWN if you know what I mean. He’s always looking for ways to love on you. Like if you breathe on him while you’re asleep he’s kissing you awake with that look in his eyes that means you’re in trouble but the best way possible.

#fourth wing #the empyrean #xaden riorson #tyrrish men headcanons you didn't ask for

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syrupgirl · 2 years ago

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Sully men and the language they love in

+incl Neteyam, Lo’ak and Jake <3

NETEYAM

Quality time & acts of service

๑༄ ‧₊˚ This guy just wants to be helpful and be able to be with you whenever he has spare the time. I think being so close to his siblings made him love spending quality time with people he loves so that definitely translates into his relationship with you

⤷“Neteyam, where are you going?” Neytiri questioned, placing down the basket she attempted to weave.

“yn is going to help me with my free diving, maybe even teach me how to hunt.” He sounded giddy and was clearly ready to go. His mother smiled and looked down at her lap.

“Alright, do not get into any trouble.” Neteyam nodded frantically and without another second he took off towards the shore.

“Surely it cannot be that different than what Tsireya has been teaching us.”

The two of you bobbed up and down in the water, letting the waves gently jostle you while you taught Neteyam.

“You are right, not too different. But hunting under the water asks you to be able to move your breath around your body in a different way that just free diving.” You explained.

The distance between you closed and you placed a hand on Neteyam’s chest.

“Imagine the breath you take flowing all throughout your body.” His chest slowly expanded and deflated under your palm. “Like…Rain trickling from leaf to leaf, like wind weaving itself through the trees.”

Neteyam’s snorted and you whined, “Come one, you almost had it!”

He continued to laugh and brought a hand up to his face.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. It’s just…The way you explained it. I could tell you were really trying to explain it in a way that you thought I would get.”

Heat crept up to your face and you looked away, a little embarrassed.

“I thought it might help you..,”

Neteyam’s laughing died down and he took your hand in his under the water, feeling a little bad.

“It did, I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. I think it is adorable you are trying to…customise your teachings for me.” He brought your hand up to his chest again and took a deep breath.

“Now, tell me what to do again.”

LO’AK

Gift giving & physical touch

๑༄ ‧₊˚ I don’t know about you, but I can totally imagine Lo’ak bringing you things he finds pretty or things he thinks you will find pretty. It might just be me over exaggerating that lone wolf, not-like-other-guys quality about him but in my head, he’s quirky like that

⤷”Lo’ak? Lo’ak!” You called. He was just next to you…Where could he have wondered off to? Leaping over a small creek, you continued to scan the foliage around you maybe to catch a glimpse of him.

The ground was moist beneath you noticed as you sat down, opting to wait for Lo’ak to turn up again like he always did. Your eyes drifted shut and you let yourself away with the gently breeze that combed and wove itself through the tall trees and colourful bushes. So caught up in the environment around you, you didn’t notice the sneaking footsteps behind you.

Lo’ak crept up behind you, a colourful flower in between his fingers. While sneaking through the thicket, he had noticed it and was immediately entranced by it’s delicate petals and long stamen. After sayings a quick prayer to Eywa in exchange for this beautiful gift, he plucked it and made his way back to you.

Now right behind you, he gently picked up the long braid that protected your tsaheylu and wove the stem through the intricately woven hair. You gasped and turned around suddenly, your hair slapping Lo’ak right across the face and he sputtered.

“Oh, Lo’ak! You scared me!” You gasped and punched him pathetically in the arm. He laughed and came to sit next to you.

“There was a flower, a pretty one. I thought you might like it.” He gently picked up the large plait and showed where he had woven the flower through. A smile settled across your lips.

“Thank you, Lo’ak, it’s beautiful.”

Lo’ak said nothing just smiled bashfully and shuffled a bit closer to you, threading his fingers through yours.

JAKE

Words of affirmation & physical touch

๑༄ ‧₊˚ Over the years, the world has worn on Jake. He’s a father and he will stop at nothing to protect his family. He worries, worries, worries CONSTANTLY, so the days where he can let the weight slip from his shoulders and just gather you in his embrace and shower you in gooey loving words feel all the more sweet to him.

⤷“Whose kids are those?” Jake sighed as he fell down next to you. “Not mine, that’s for sure. I was never that hyper as a kid.”

A laugh bubbles up from your stomach as you adjusted Tuk on your chest.

“Are you sure? Maybe they don’t mirror your childhood, but they do remind me of when you first arrived here. All clumsy and eager in your new body.” He laughed at that and wrapped his arm around you.

The sound of the boys in the river playing not far away washes over the two of you both. After a while, you remove Tuktirey from your breast and up to your shoulder to clear her airway of bubbles.

Jake’s eyes lingered on you and his youngest and smiled. He brought a hand up to gently pat her back and Tuk responded with a gurgle. He took her from your arms and lay the baby across his chest, then pulled you closer by the arm around your shoulders.

You nestled yourself into his side and lifted a finger up to stroke your baby’s cheek. She cooed and you both smiled.

“I don’t say it enough but,” you turned your head up to look at your mate, “thank you.”

“For what?”

“For everything. For them-” he looked to the direction of his other children who were still occupied in the stream “-for her-” now looking at Tuk “-Everything. I don’t know where I would be today without you.”

No words were needed after that. As a tear rolled down your cheek, you closed your eyes and rest.

#not beta read #not beta'd #avatar fanfiction #avatar imagine #avatar x reader #neteyam x reader #lo’ak x reader #jake sully x reader #neteyam #jake sully #lo’ak #avatar #avatar way of water #avatar 2

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marcsburnerphone · 1 year ago

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PLAY DIRTY

(Captain John price x fem! Reader)

Summary: based on this request

Warnings: angst, John is a bit harsh, they have sex what can I say? Nova is readers callsign, reader definitley has father issues but it's okay me too, I'm not sure what else let me know if there’s anything more.

4,315 words later

———————

“So how’d you sweet talk me into your task, what did you say?” You questioned gaz as you both walked down the hallway. The 141 was no joke and insanely challenging to get into for the few who did.

“Didn't take much honestly you have awards and medals for your service that can get you at an even higher rank.” He replies honestly.

“Don’t compliment me.” You laughed and nudged his shoulder as you both turned into the common room. And that’s when your eyes caught sight of him, a 6 foot something hunk of fine.

“Who’s that?” You whisper into your friend's ear pointing with your eyes.

“No way.” He laughs as his eyes follow yours to the one and only captain.

“What?” You questioned.

“That’s captain price, your new captain.” He smiles looking down at you and the way your eyes widen.

“Why did I think he was older and not as handsome.” Your mind blown he was the captain and you were meant to work for him now. He’s your superior.

“Because you’ve seen him in the only photo there is of him around and it was ages ago.” Gaz answers.

“Holy shit how are you not fucking your captain.” You say as you move closer to him clearly in view as you both head to approach him.

“Maybe because he’s a man and my captain.” It was an obvious answer.

“Makes sense.” You shrug your shoulders.

“Captain, this is your new recruit.” You stood proudly next to gaz and stuck your right hand out.

“Nice to meet you captain.” You smiled slyly, giving him your most precious eyes.

“Yeah you too, soldier.” He shook your warm hand firmly giving you a quick glance up and down.

That’s how it all started, the flirting and your comments that would make his eyebrows raise at your bluntness, the ones that would make him tell himself he’s too old for you, that he’d corrupt your beauty, that he was a man with too much experience in every way. Nothing about his denial towards you ever put you off though it only made you want him more.

———-

“Hey handsome.” You quip to the much older man as you head into the kitchen on base to make yourself a cup of tea.

“Hello soldier.” He replies in a very monotone voice.

“Come on, give me more captain.” You kinda joke.

“Soldiers should be in training.” He sighs out turning towards you and leaning his lower back on the counter watching as you lean your head on your hand and give him a sweet smile.

“I was actually just on my way too that.” You laugh nervously and leave feeling accomplished now that you’ve gotten your daily dose of flirting with the man in.

———

“Him right there.” You say trying not to fully look at him even though ghost and soap are full on staring at the guy even after you said to not be obvious.

“He has a micro penis?” Soap says seeming a little shocked cause he’s not looking at a scrawny soldier no, he’s looking at someone who’s built and tall with facial hair and tattoos, literally the picture of masculinity.

“Guys yes like he’s medically been diagnosed with that condition.” Simon lets a small sigh out which means he’s amused.

“That’s definitely um something Nova.” Ghost replies as he sips through the straw he’s carefully weaved under his mask.

“Right.” You’ve grown more than comfortable with these men and had no problem on your behalf talking about your sex life, and anyways they seemed entertained by it.

———

“Wow captain looking awfully good in that uniform.” You smile up at him with your hand above your eyebrow blocking the sun from your gaze.

“Okay you’ve done your diligence now please get back to work.” He has come to the realization that you're not going to relent anytime soon.

You practically skip away after that and join the soldiers in flipping tires through the dirt.

“She’s beautiful price, why don’t you ever flirt back?” Soap questions the captain bewildered about the opportunity he’s missing out on.

“Cause she’s much younger than me Johnny I ought to be old enough to be her father.” The captains’ eyes remain on you only a second longer before he walks away.

———

“No new hookups lately nova?” Soap asks as you all sit in the helicopter on your way back from a successful mission.

“No actually.” They all looked slightly stunned, you’ve given them so many stories about the same guys usually but sometimes different soldiers in the last 8 months but now when the topic came up you were quiet.

“Is there a boyfriend or something?” Gaz question being closest to you he usually knew there was this one guy at least that was let’s say friends with benefits.

“No, I just haven’t been into anyone like that.” You shrug smiling at the look on their faces.

“Well okay then I guess I’ll tell you about this lady I was with a few nights ago.” Soap goes on to tell the most in depth story of his most recent lay that left you all wanting to jump out of the moving vehicle mid air.

Your cut of sexual interaction didn’t go missed by the captains’ ears also, he wondered what it’d be like to have you as his, sweet yet sexy you. He didn’t let his imagination last too long though before he reminded himself of the hefty age difference between the two of you.

————-

“Hey guys, hey captain.” You approach the group that’s sitting in the corner of the room giving price those eyes, the ones that say enough without saying anything at all.

What you mistakenly didn’t notice was the general who was sitting in the seat with its back facing you. You cringed inside at the possible lecture you’d be getting later. Regardless it was too late to leave now and forced yourself to sit next to soap.

“Hello general.” You smile politely.

“Well hello Ms.Nova.” He replies giving you the same smile.

Maybe you’d get out of this but you don’t miss the way the generals eyes bounce between you and price or the way prices jaw ticks when he notices it too.

———

When the general leaves you are about to get up and leave till the captain begins to speak.

“Sit down nova.” You squeeze your eyes shut and retake your seat glancing to the nervous eyes of your friend across from you.

“What for?” You say hoping the more oblivious you ask the softer the blow is.

“I’ll make this clear once and once only, I don’t want to be with you, I have no desire towards you and never will. That small comment could’ve put my career in jeopardy. This ends now. Do you understand me, soldier? I am your captain and that is all.” He says with a hint of disgust, you nod your head at his deep merciless tone that made the others in the room turn their heads.

“Goodnight team.” You leave without another word and in smaller words fucking book it to your room.

Yeah sure you’ve been shot twice, maybe cut a couple of times. You’ve even been beaten bloody by enemies but this hurt was stemming from inside. It was bleeding into your veins and to your eyes that fell out in the form of salty water.

————

The next day it was obvious you cried, the puffiness under your eyes wasn’t going to relent even with an unbelievably priced eye cream.

So you steer clear of your buddies and go to do dirty work and clean out oil tanks from the military machinery with a team much lower rank than yours.

Later as the day time bled into the night you were starving, you did not miss the work it took to get you where you currently are. But you didn’t want to have dinner with the team so you took a protein bar from the vending machine and settled into your room for the night.

“You think she’ll show?” Ghost questioned gaz.

“No he was harsh, she's been into him since she’s seen him.” He cuts the conversation short when the captain sits down in his usual chair next to the couch the boys sat on.

“Anyone seen Nova today?” Soap asks not noticing price sitting in this big chair of betrayal, the same one that got you in trouble.

“Nope.” Gaz awkwardly answered.

—————

A mission was coming up and there was no way in hell you could miss briefing, you hadn’t really spoken with the boys in a couple of weeks and haven’t sat with them in about a month.

But it didn’t go unnoticed by anyone that you started talking to a new recruit who was admittedly very handsome. Giving him your million dollar eyes and that soft laugh that price had grown accustomed to only being used on him. Now it was making him grit his teeth hearing you display it for someone else.

“Hey you.” Soap slides up next to you as you make a cup of tea.

“Hi soap.” You answer shortly but sweetly.

“So what have you been up to, we haven’t talked much and everyone has got boring lives.” You laugh at him and sigh as you stir your sugar in.

“I've been helping another task with training.” He Hums at your reply.

“Is that where that man is from?” You laugh at his nosy self.

“Yes, if you must know that Is where he’s from.” He looks offended when you say this and it scares you that you’ve ruined yet another thing.

“Of course I must know your my best pal.” You breathe out in relief and sip from your cup.

“I’ll give you the details once we finish this briefing.” You wink at him and he fist pumps himself with a satisfied “yes”.

—————

You haven’t seen him in awhile and that isn’t normal especially cause he’s your captain but not once has he questioned your whereabouts.

You’re all sitting around a table in the usual briefing room, a heavy awkward silence fills the room once he walks inside with those Manila folders.

“Hello everyone, nice to see you again, soldier.” You give him a small emotionless nod and avert your eyes to the boot that knocked yours under the table.

You always knew ghost had a little soft spot for you and this was his way of comforting you.

This felt like the longest fucking briefing of your life. He went on and on and on. For the first time since you’ve met him you wanted to tell him to stop talking.

“Nova are you paying attention?” Price questions you in a similar tone he used to lecture you.

“Yes.” You say obviously, and it lacks flavor. It lacks that seductive tone and those big doe eyes you give him.

“Nova you have to understand that just because I set things correctly between us doesn’t mean you have to be this way.” He argues suddenly.

“You're my captain, no more no less you will be treated as such is that understood sir.” You look directly into his deep colored eyes.

“Watch your tone soldier.” You let out a laugh, not of humor but of disbelief and just shake your head in silence.

“Price we need to finish the um briefing before there’s no more dinner left in the hall.” Ghost interjects what was the start of an argument and steers the conversation back to strictly work.

It ends finally the meeting is called to a finish and once again you're the first one up and out. Soap catches up with you and doesn’t let you forget you owe him details and gaz follows shortly after. It’s ghost that stays behind with price for a moment.

“Why is she being that way?” Price asks ghost as he collects the left behind papers from the table.

“Did you think she’d be the same after you talked to her in the way you did?” It’s an honest question as he looks at the captain.

“All I did was ask her to stop with the comments.” He shrugs as if it was no big deal, as if it was a simple and kindly delivered request.

“No you put a very strong boundary down and now you don’t like it, nova isn’t just our team mate she's our friend and a hell of a good one. You asked her to just be your soldier and rejected her in a cruel way.” Ghost was nothing but respectful to his superior but wasn’t scared to tell the gods' honest truth.

“Hm.” Is all the captain said before shoving the files into a cabinet and walking out.

———-

Himself and Simon met you and the rest of the group down in the dining hall where the three of you had already begun eating.

“So we’re talking and he’s like there’s a bit of green in your eyes, and I’m thrown off guard cause there is but I hadn’t even noticed he was looking me in my-.” You quiet down when the captain takes his seat at the table and shovel some food into your mouth.

Gaz goes to tell you food can wait till later until he feels the weight that slides in next to him.

“I’ve changed the schedule, since the mission is up and coming we’re going to do some group training tomorrow.” You roll your eyes to yourself which doesn’t go unnoticed by just about everyone.

“Is there a problem?” He asks you curiously.

“Did I say something?” You look up to your teammates for an answer than to him.

“Soldier, if you don’t like my rules and my ways of being then by all means throw in a form of withdrawal and you will be sent back to your old task.” You take a deep breath and all the boys are begging silently you’ll back down even though they knew if it had been them in your situation they’d throw it all to hell.

“Okay, where can I find a form of withdrawal?” He didn’t expect that one bit, his thoughts stutter as he examines your features for an ounce of bluffing but he comes up empty.

“Let’s settle down.” Soap says completely unwilling to lose you to the grumps’ shitty behavior.

“You know what captain down worry about it I’ll go ask my last superior for one.” You slam your tray on the table when you get up and leave.

“If you liked her you should’ve just told her, hell price she tried with you and it’s only you to blame for how she’s treating you don’t make us all lose her just because you did.” Soap stands up next to leave and decides he will finish this meal in your room with you.

———

“Here you go captain, it’s signed and completely filled out.” You say handing him the fucking god forsaken form he stupidly brought up.

“No.” He pushes it out of his sight and away.

“Excuse me?” You're confused, who just says no like that.

“You will stick with this task soldier. We won't let these petty feelings get in the way of the bond you’ve built with my team.” Price demands as he continues to sign documents not sparing you a look.

“No I want out, it's not up to you.” You argue shoving it down onto his desk.

“Like hell it’s not nova!” He raises abruptly from his chair slamming his hands on the table like a madman.

“You don’t know what you want captain and I will not be made confused by someone whose job is to make things fucking clear.” Emotion laces your voice and the thought out plan you had before coming in here falls to pieces.

“I want you for Christs sake, is that clear enough now.” He’s too loud for the things he’s saying and you go to shut his office door.

“What changed hmm all of a sudden you want me after you basically called me unattractive.” You get louder pointing a finger into his chest.

“I never called you-.”

“Like hell you didn’t, you said you weren’t attracted to me and never would be. What changed?”

He couldn’t take it, the spot you stood centimeters away and almost half a foot below him those eyes that were awaiting him for an answer. Before you could process it he leaned down and smashed his lips into yours letting his rough and calloused finger lift your chin up.

“No.” You push him off of you trying to keep the wall you built up and he backs up like he’s committed a crime. Then you grab him by the gear buckled to his chest and bring him down for another kiss.

He brings his hands beneath your bum and to the back of your thighs to hoist you up around his waist. Your teeth clash and the kiss is hungry. Your soft whimpers seep into his mouth making his pants grow tighter by the second.

He lays you down on his desk, clearing it of papers by simply wiping an arm over it letting them fall to the floor. His mouth falls to your neck as he explores trying to find what spot makes me squirm.

“Captain, someone can walk in.” You try to say breathlessly and he rips himself from you and in the quickest second he’s locking the door.

“Now they can’t.” He says before he’s on you again standing between your legs, dragging your shirt off as if it’s his enemy while he presses his needy bulge into you

He places kisses all over you for all the unspoken words he wanted to say. His hands are working the button of the cargos that always look way too good on you in a dying need to get them off. He swears he unlaced your boots so fast that the pads of his fingers have fabric burn. It’s too much all at once, you're such a sight and he needs to breathe and think but there doesn’t seem to be time for that with the way his body responds to you.

“Darling, I need just a small taste, is that okay.” It’s more of a forewarning cause before you respond he’s on his knees kissing up your soft legs and pulling your panties down.

He’s never been so hungry, he’s never felt so starved from something in his life. For a man who can get anything he pleases you’re the one thing he swore he wouldn’t let himself have.

But now the way you're arching into the heat of his mouth with his head between your thighs unashamedly devouring you with lewd noises and grunts he can’t contain, it's hard to believe he’s ever restricted himself of such pleasure.

“Princess, tell me what you want?” He says as your slick is still on his mouth and mustache and goodness is it a sight to see.

“I’ve been telling you for months it’d be cruel to make me ask again.” You say breathlessly as your first orgasm settles through your body.

He kisses up your navel and to your swollen mouth leaving the remnants of his effect on you on your lips.

“Please captain.” You’ve never felt so needy.

“Shhh don’t worry darling it’s yours.” Another day at another time he’d let you beg pretty for him but not now.

He works himself out of his cargo pants, letting the fabric pool around his ankles. He hasn’t been this hard in years. Never been so utterly turned on and merely desperate for a bit of your attention. He runs his index finger through your folds gathering the slick that basically spills from you to lubricate his cock.

“Sweetheart I’m sorry I ever hurt you.” He admits as he takes in the unbeatable picture of you splayed out for him, cheeks stained a shade of pink and loose hairs framing your perfect face.

“Well isn’t it a good thing you can make it up to me.” He laughs and places a deep kiss to your lips before nudging the tip into you. He’s teasing you, seeing if you’ll push Down or make any movements as it rests where you so desperately want him.

And you do.

So subtly your hands drag your body a tad but down the desk making him slide a measly 2 inches in out of the seven that are there. You moan sweetly at that, John is a big man and now you know that it’s a universal thing throughout his whole body.

“Say captain I want to stay in your team and I’ll show this beautiful desperate cunt some mercy.” He says as your eyebrows that were screwed up in pleasure change to ones of a desperate woman.

“Captain, I'll stay in your team gladly forever now please John.” He plunges into you with one swift thrust. You’d almost seen heaven before, more times that you can count but nothing in this moment can compare to the feeling of being absolutely filled by John price.

His slow and languid thrusts are driving you crazy but by the looks of his face this won’t last long.

“You’re only driving yourself crazy, captain I’m a patient woman.” He was indeed but he needs to steady himself before this is cut all too short.

He pulls fully out before slamming back into you. Your curves ripple with the movement and he wants to grab every part of you that he can and is disappointed at the fact he was only given two hands to worship such a body.

“My. doll. my. Sweet. Fucking. Girl.” he thrusts with every word. He’s deep. So deep. One of your legs is thrown over his shoulder and the other is held at his waist. Your sweet praises make him feel like a king, a true emperor.

He can feel you approaching another orgasm. The way your hands pull on the gear still attached to his chest pulling him to your lips as you lean up a bit accommodate the left over space. You moan into the kiss and his sweet and steady pace is now nothing short of a masterpiece. He’s got you undone in seconds. Eyes in the back of your head and hands gripping those muscular arms you could just bite.

“Good, very good.” He follows after, fucking you full of his seed. He can only pray that you’re on the pill.

He pulls out with a deep gravelly groan and lifts his pants up to buckle ‘em. When he’s done he places a kiss on your ankle grabs a few tissues to clean the mess on your thighs but pushes a finger into your sensitive cunt to stuff his seed back into you and grabs the cargos you came in and shuffles them around your ankles to pull them on.

“Wait, where are my underwear?” He chuckles deeply as the pink pair you walked in with on are tucked under his vest peeking out slightly.

“You're a dog, really.” You smile as he brings you up and helps you get your bra and shirt back on. He placed loving kisses on your nose and forehead as an afterglow takes over your features.

You stand and he hooks his hand beneath your armpits when your knees buckle a bit.

“Don’t let it make you too cocky.” You laugh at the boost that for sure went to his ego and he tilts his head with a smirk.

He lets you go for a second to pick up the papers he dropped and wipes the spot on the desk that your arousal spilled onto with the pair of panties and then retucked them. He whips his around towards you at the sound of his door being unlocked and rushes to relock it.

“Where are you goin?” He questions as you stand there

hand still hovering over the knob.

“You don’t want me to leave?” The look of shock on your face makes him want to tear through this building and find whatever assholes have let you leave after sex.

“No I don’t want you to fucking leave, you stay inside.” He’s in disbelief as he stares into what has easily become his favorite pair of eyes.

“Okay I’m sorry.” You feel very vulnerable now under his stare.

“Don’t be.” He says softly as he ushers you to sit on his chair while he finishes picking up the files, quietly cursing himself for being so erratic cause now he’s down on the floor reaching under the cabinet to collect the last of them.

When he’s done you stand up so he could sit and he does but not without pulling you atop his lap. You sit sideways and rest your head on his shoulder as he rips apart what you originally came in here to turn in and a small smile can’t help but find its way to your sleepy features.

“Sleep my love, I have a long while to go till these are finished.” There was no protest as he leaned back to ensure your comfort.

To be truthful those files did not get finished cause he spent merely two hours staring at how your quiet snores escaped the smallest gap between your lips. Even when he tried to get them done he simply couldn’t not when you were nuzzling closer to him every time he accidentally removed his hand from your hip nevertheless paperwork could wait.

His dolls’ comfort came first.

————-

Not attracted to her my ass📮

Comments and reposts are greatly appreciated <3

Request are open<3

#captain price x female reader #john price #task force 141 #captain john price #john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #angst #price mw2 #barry sloane

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pennyserenade · 11 months ago

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the devil hath power

pairing: coriolanus snow x f!reader, coriolanus snow x you, coriolanus snow x nameless reader (no use of y/n) rating: e (explicit, 18+) tags/warnings: talk of sex work (sometimes negatively), sex work, dubious consent, illusions of sex, talk of previous sexual acts, class differences, classism. word count: 4.4k summary: Coriolanus Snow catches up with an old acquaintance. Neither of them really recognizes the other, not in any way that matters, but that's just as well for the scion of the Plinth family fortune. Well, until the meeting takes a turn he hadn't expected it to. a/n: well. fiction is such a slippery slope sometimes. i in no way condone the actions of coriolanus snow, nor am i romanticizing him or what he would come to do later. i think he's a vile person. having said that, i wouldn't consider this a scathing, well-crafted critique of him, either. i wanted to explore this character, to see what made him tick by putting him in a situation where he has to confront issues he merely bumped into in the book/movie. there is a high possibility of a part 2.

part two | part three

She had not asked for Coriolanus’ name because she had not needed to. Tonight, when she had turned to look at him, she knew. His white locks had been made iridescent under the shine of the club lights and he had pressed an orderly hand to the crease of her elbow before leaning in and asking her about her services, but even beneath the cool facade of his professionalism, she knew. Even despite the fact that she hadn’t seen him since they were children, she knew.

Illuminated in a soft hue now, Coriolanus looked sharp. He was not only angular, having retained the features of his youth, but honed in, acutely attuned to the surroundings in which she had taken him. Dressed in his Capital attire, he achieved the effect of looking both handsome and ever-important, even merely standing at the end of her bed, arms bowed behind him. His eyes, seas of piercing blue typically, were darker now, covered by the veil of orange thrown from her bedside lamp. He looked impossibly grown, so much older than even herself, the way adults had when she was a child.

She would describe him as a statuesque beauty, with hair so blond it faired white--like stony marble under a wash of sunlight. He had bow lips, long lashes, but they were paired with a generous nose and hard, serious eyes, masculine twists meant to overrule how pretty he indeed was. He reminded her of the paintings of kings, standing ramrod straight, noble in essence as much as material. Beneath her gaze, he attempted to wear a face of careful neutrality, and it worked—aside from the occasional tic of his jaw.

The backsplash of her bedroom, which had smelled vaguely of mildew for a long time, and which was void of any real material excess, seemed to embarrass them both. She was not used to men like him—men who had a sense of themselves within these four walls. Seduction was easier when men were rendered stupid by their desire, but Coriolanus seemed neither possessed nor particularly interested in his. If he was aroused, the sleek design of his suit did much to conceal it. Given, she had not so much as taken off a single layer of clothing but then, most men were stumbling at the door frame of her apartment building, swelling from the mere anticipation of what she offered. But not Coriolanus. He studied her with a surgeon’s precision, clinical and measured.

His throat bopped and their lapse of silence, which had begun after she had escorted him out of the club, continued on, steady. She’d been with men like him before, many of them. They all had the designs of fortune and wealth written into their fates, had since they were born, but eventually it ran deeper, weaving into their accents, their dress, their stance, their occupations, their beliefs. Rumor had it that Coriolanus Snow had his sights on the presidency. She could see it to be true. Word of mouth had it that he was already what they called a Gamemaker’s assistant, and young one. Brilliant, tenacious, and perfectly angry. It was odd to see him as such, having remembered him as something of a precocious fawn—a white haired boy who sat quietly and absorbed the world through azure eyes when they were children. But then this was life.

If wanted her to she'd praise him for the Games, tell him about the brilliance of his young mind for contriving such a sinister punishment for the little ruts of the Districts. She’d done it before. At first it had felt like selling a part of herself she had not been prepared to auction off, but it came to mean next to nothing, just another act. Like the men that entered her ruined home and laid her down despite the noxious fumes of an expired dream wafting around them, she felt as if this interaction did not count. As if it wasn’t real. They grunted and huffed and used her, but she used them, too. For money. For power. Sometimes even for pleasure—but very rarely.

“Do you want me to undress?” she spoke demurely.

His face contorted with a flash of distaste before it went back to cool indifference. She made a note of this. Vulgarity, directness—it was not his flavor. Maybe he liked Avox silence; men had such proclivities. The rich and powerful typically had wives who could play the part of the beautifully silent, but some of them still wanted it.

He wetted the bottom of his lip. “I remember you.”

“Yes. I studied with you,” she confessed. There was no point in lying.“As children. Not so much when we got older.”

“Right,” he nodded, “I knew you looked familiar.”

He began to inspect the meager contents of her room. Everything felt anachronistic when he stood next to it, ugly and decrepit in comparison to his modern look. He picked up a music box she had been gifted as a child, his lips twitching into a grin as the ballerina began to twirl mechanically. For a moment he watched it, filling the entire room with the melodic sounds of her childhood. It was dream-like and bitter.

Did he remember what she had looked like back then? How the sleek red uniform fit her, or how the shiny Mary Janes on her feet were always polished, or how the ruffles of her white socks were perfect, never out of place? They’d all been so grandiose before the Dark Days, so conceited and pleasantly happy. And now—well. This.

The lid of the box snapped shut. Over his shoulder Coriolanus said, “As I grow older, I’ve begun to find music terribly frivolous. I’m sure you can agree.”

He continued to look, fingers poking around in trays of old jewelry, picking up compacts of makeup and smiling softly as he turned the items in his hands. “It’s like a museum,” he whispered. His eyes searched out for her. Something infinitely softer took hold of him for a moment. “This is what I remember from before…Incredible.” Then, almost instantly, a perceptible change: “Why, if you sell yourself to clients as rich as you do, do you live in squalor? Surely you don’t do what you do for fun?”

The criticism latent in his tone made her defenses rise, but her resignation made her stronger; she sat up, stock straight, and looked at him through a narrowed gaze. This wasn’t the first time a man of his stature had done something like this. It was common at first. They snapped at her like she was the one who had guided them here, but eventually they accepted it for what it was, or they pretended it wasn’t anything at all.

“Why are you here, Coriolanus?” she asked evenly.

The compact was replaced on her table as he turned to face her fully. He smiled and somehow it was cruel because it belonged to him. “Because I want to know,” he answered, “how the other half lives.”

Her lips twisted up. “The other half?”

“Those who didn’t make it out of the Dark Days. Those who have resorted to—“ he swung his hand, motioning to the room, to her “—to this and other acts like it.”

She turned to look out the window. Outside the Capital sparkled in the night; it was a city once again bustling with life, beautiful and ornate, no doubt at the bloom of its productivity. This view made everything seem worth it at times. “And your estimate?” she asked.

“Not finished,” he answered plainly.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched him shrug off his overcoat. He slung it over a wooden chair that sat by the door.

“Sorry there’s no coat check; I’ve seemed to have left it in the past,” she taunted.

He answered her sharpness with a look of haughty disdain.

“Bad customer service,” was the remark that carried over to her — a verbal tsk tsk. There was an impishness to it, too. Her inability to read him from moment to moment — or rather, the fact that she was constantly having to reanalyze him — was confounding. It discontented her.

“Mr. Snow,” she began, but he interfered almost immediately.

“Please — Coriolanus.”

Her eyebrow rose. “Is that what you prefer?”

He read between the lines, smirking. “It’s what you said before —it’s what you prefer.” A laugh, less wicked than the smile but not entirely void of it, sounded through the room. It was so goddamn rich, not velvet and warmth, but cold, calculated. Like the cool of gold on warm skin. “Believe it or not, I’m not here for the sake of illicit pleasure. I can’t say this particular occupation feels me with—“ He waved an absent hand “—joy, for lack of a better word.”

She breathed out through her nose. “Do let us not pretend that you don’t know the word lust. Arousal. Horny. You’re brilliant, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you know about these things?”

His angular jaw ticked once more. “Whores are all so crass, aren’t they? The ignominy of being a body that someone can buy–doesn’t it make you sick?”

She scoffed. “You’re terribly repressed, given that you sought me out.”

He shook his head, as if steadying himself. “I want to be President one day and I’m not so naive as to think what you do isn’t in demand—or that it will ever cease to be. Especially here.” His anger began to ebb as he continued. “People are crass; it’s human nature. We are all brutes, primal, ugly when it comes down to it. You watch the Games–you see” His took up his rigidity once more. “I want to learn about it, what you do. The ins, the outs.”

She stared unblinkingly at him.“That information will cost–a good deal,” she said.

A flicker of a smile twitched at his lips. “Everything does eventually. That is one thing I do admire about your occupation: it is purely transactional. Perhaps if love was half as simple as this, you wouldn’t have a job.”

“Perhaps not. But it isn’t.”

“No,” he shook his head, “It’s certainly not.”

She smoothed out the fabric of her dress. “Why me? There’s many women who do what I do.”

The question incited him. She was beginning to pick up on the patterns of his erratic behavior; there was a flare in his eyes, a perceptible twinkle, and his eyebrows lifted slightly. And his lips—they twitched whenever he felt something strongly. “I watched you for a few weeks and I noticed that you were more clever than the other women. They were tactless, too obvious. But you—you played the game beautifully, like it was an art.” He seemed to smile to himself. “You dress Capital, you talk Capital. If you’re hungry, you don’t make it too obvious. You’ve gone into painstaking detail to ensure that you’re undetectable and people want you more for it.”

“So you picked me because I have manners?”

She wanted to guffaw, to tell him no, but something told her not to. It was not fear as much as the slow drip of anticipation. He hovered near her like a predator getting ready to pounce, a glimmer of unnerving honesty shining in his darkened eyes, and she could see him now for all he was. But she could not understand him. This incited her.

With the unwavering confidence of a young God, he lifted his chin up and said, “I picked you because I think you know better than most what it is to hunger. You remind me of myself in that way.”

Maybe this should’ve repulsed her most of all, to be put in a box so narrow, so utterly against how she viewed herself. But it didn’t; it made her comfortable, not pilant to wishes but more certain of her own. He’d done a fine job nitpicking her up until this point, but now she had the upper hand again. This was her domain, her game.

The smug smile that grew on her lips was a mirror of his own. Without taking her eyes off of his, she rose to her knees on the bed and crawled to the end, the blue velvet of her dress pillowing around her knees, her waist. He was an avid watcher, seemingly holding his breath as her arms reached behind her and unzipped the dress. The fabric slipped down her arms, unveiling a creamy silk bra, so thin as to be transparent.

“It’s new,” he spoke softly, surprised. He seemed to be questioning this. His eyes looked to hers for answers—or maybe they were trying not to look elsewhere, lest they find something they liked.

“My home may be out of fashion but I am not,” she cooed. Charm. He wanted charm. She could see that plainly now. Coriolanus was a man who needed to be in control but he wanted to be seduced. He was just like the rest of them.

Peeling off the rest of the cocktail dress, she bared to him the matching cream bottoms, which were just as sheer as the top. She knew what he could see: her mons pubis, the seductive patch of hair that promised more. And he looked, too. Of course he did. They all said they wouldn’t and then they did and this man, however brilliant he may be, however cool and calculated, was just like the rest of them. This simple fact thrilled her more than anything had in a long while.

To think if life had gone the way it was supposed to, she might’ve married someone like him. Maybe it might have even been him. His family had come from what her mother would’ve referred to as “good stock” and his father Crassus had been a close acquaintance of her father’s. It seemed, however, that Crassus had prepared more adequately for his own children than her father had his. If she hadn’t contended with the fact so long ago, she might’ve hated Coriolanus based on the simple fact that he’d remained intact after the war and she hadn’t.

“I won’t sleep with you for money,” he spoke up. His voice did not quiver but she could sense the weakness settling in.

Her fingers tucked beneath the collar of his dress shirt. “And I won’t sleep with you for free,” she said in response. She leaned close to him, so close she could feel his breath on her face. “And moreover, to answer your question from earlier: there’s no ignominy to being a body for sale because it sells for an awful lot, Coriolanus. I’m wise with my money. I’m headed towards a staggering amount of wealth, and I’ve got good sense. You pegged me right, but you also got me terribly wrong.”

“This place—“ he began but she cut him off.

“Is hollowed out and pathetic, I agree. But one day it won’t be, and when that day comes I won’t take people like you to it.”

Another lip twitch. “How much?”

“For what?” She smoothed out the fabric, running her hands down his arms.

“What you do—your services.”

“It depends.”

He stiffened. “On what?”

“What they ask me to do. How long. Where. Who they are.”

His head hung before he came out with his next sentence. “And for me, what would it cost?”

“What do you want?”

“This is hypothetical,” he reminded her coolly. Placing his hands over hers and moving them, he attempted to sway them back to their uneven dynamic. She could feel the tremble in his hand as he did.

“Hypothetically, what would you want?” she corrected. She sat her hands in her lap.

“Tell me what you do.”

“That’ll cost,” she reminded.

Though he smiled, she could tell his patience with her was wearing. “I’ll pay anything,” he repeated. For effect or perhaps for power he added, “And I do mean anything. If you want to once again take your rightful place amongst the people in the Capital, I’ll see to it.”

She licked her lips and considered him. “For a man who hates people like me, you’re sure forgiving.”

“Like I said, you remind me of myself.” He gripped her chin between his fingers and she gasped from the unexpected coldness of his flesh on hers, but did not flinch. His hold was not rough or commanding, but oddly familiar, almost affectionate.

“When I was younger, there was this girl,” he began, staring down at her lips, “She was just someone in a dark alleyway that my friends had gotten me as a dare. We kissed and kissed, but it felt like nothing. It was just kissing—and that’s what I thought it was for a long time. It wasn’t particularly exciting, nothing to ruin yourself for. Then there was another girl.” His jaw set. “I’m sorry to say I loved this girl, to the point of destruction, to the point of foolishness. After her I understood why a man might seek girls like you out. I find it distasteful, but that’s what we are as a people. Stupid, primal. We want it all and we always have. That’s why the Districts came to be, and why they always will be.”

He let her go. She watched carefully as he stepped back and began his searching pace around her room once more. His movements carried more deliberation, and none of the objects kept his attention this time. She let him speak, let him run himself into whatever dark, myopic hole he was headed towards.

“They like their cocks sucked,” he spoke with open vulgarity, almost as if delighting in the freedom of the word. He was like a school boy who tries out a naughty word for the first time and finds it fits in his youthful mouth too well; he’ll go his whole youth trying not to say it again around the adults. “I imagine rough too, and in impersonal positions, except for those few unexceptional men who have wives that don’t particularly like them or want them. Maybe they don’t even have wives, your men.” He laughed through his nose at the idea, and let himself get carried away in the broken world he made of these men. “Yes. You’ve got insecure men at your door, ones who are ashamed and pleading and they fuck you like you mean everything to them. They hate themselves and what they’ve done. Weak men who can’t cope with their power or their riches. I knew a man like that. He would’ve paid you billions. Would’ve asked you to marry him before you even touched him out of some imagined indenture he had to people like you.”

Coriolanus smiled ruefully, but his voice was hard and bitter. “He was a goddamn fool. Not all are like that, though.”

She caught his eyes in her old vanity. His eyebrows rose in question. She nodded, though not necessarily in agreement with anything he said. She wanted him to continue.

“Sometimes you get men like me. Of course not exactly like me, but they aren’t the weaker of us. They’re strange, exotic, and think that whatever takes hold of them will ruin them one day so they’ve got to go to you. They can’t ask a Capital girl to do what they want. It depends on the upbringing, but I imagine these men have a wide selection of desires, some decidedly repulsive and some so wholesome, so mundane, you find them endearingly, or even irritatingly, prudish. For example, a man who likes to get on his knees and taste you.”

Her mouth opened as if to speak, and he seemed to sense this imperceptible movement, turning around. She looked at him and he, back at her. “It’s not repulsive,” she said softly. “Nothing I let them do to me is ever repulsive. I have my boundaries.”

This seemed to excite him most of all. “Of course. Where’s the line, then?”

“When they ask me to pretend to be a District girl. That one…your tribute—“

“Lucy Gray,” he whispered. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she heard reverence in his voice. Anguish.

“Her. I got a lot of requests for a while.”

She could not tell what went over him in that moment, only that it was overwhelming. He ran his hand through his hair and swallowed hard. “And you never did that?” he asked her, his tone almost accusatory.

She was happy to answer honestly: “Never.”

He nodded, pacing the floor again. He was more manic, as if set off by this information. “Do they tell you secrets, these men?”

“Yes,” she answered simply.

“Do you tell their secrets?”

She shook her head once in answer. He was made of stone, total nothingness. “Not once. It’s why I’m so popular,” she added. He nodded.

“Your favorite clients, what are they like?” This question seemed like a throwaway, one he asked because he couldn’t think straight.

She frowned watching him. “They’re somewhere between the men you call weak and the ones you think are most like you. Some of them are young, about our age. There’s nothing wrong with them, not even what they ask for.”

He continued his pace. “And what do they ask for?”

“For normal sex, sometimes slow, sometimes fast. Sometimes they just want to kiss me. One of my favorites asked me about my life, this room, the hallway, the pictures no one ever seemed to notice. In turn told me about himself. He wanted normal conversation, a man and a woman speaking as if nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. He wanted to pretend, I guess.” She shrugged. She didn't remember his name, only that he was important in an insignificant way—at least that’s how he described it. She never saw him again.

“What else?” Coriolanus began to slow. He chewed at his fingernails and remained vaguely distracted.

“Another came in his pants, tasting of me, like you called it.” He wasn’t one of her favorites, but the vividness of it did what she wanted it to: Coriolanus appeared interested. He titled his head to the side, as if approving of the story. She was putting on a show for him. If he was more transparent she could imagine him asking for more like that. So she gave more. “And another wanted me to rub against him, clothed. He wanted me to sit in his lap and make myself orgasm. And another, he wanted to watch. Some men are like that. He stood where you are now and he touched himself as I spoke. And another touched himself while I touched myself. Though I guess you figure that might be crass.”

His sleek suit did little to conceal what the last image inspired in him. A red tint gathered on his cheeks and he raised his hand. “That’ll be enough.”

She stopped speaking. A seed had been planted, and this victory was hers even if she did nothing with it. How terrible this was for a composed Coriolanus Snow. His hand clutched at the bedpost and he looked at her then with unflinching distaste. And then it came: a wave of astounding want when the band of her thin bra slid down her arm. She reached out for him but he did not go.

“Why?” he whispered.

She looked up at him earnestly. “Why not?” she returned.

Cupping her cheeks in the hollow of his hands, he leaned in and kissed her with a bruising intensity. No affection, no illusion. He kissed much like he did business: straight to the narrow point. It was the shortest minute of her life and yet also the longest. When he released her, he looked as he had before. Strong. Unwaveringly cool. His blue eyes shut her out and his freshly kissed lips did not even so much as twitch. But something had changed.

“That’ll be enough,” he echoed again. He was trying to find strength in his convictions, but not doing very well with it. It was not often he found himself in the position of relenting his control, but where there was hunger, there was a divine need to quelch it, no matter the cost. And he did hunger: for knowledge, for desire, for her. How he despised the pang of it in his chest, no foreign object but an unwelcome visitor.

His finger trailed down her neck to her shoulder. He took the strap of her bra between his hands and drew it down. She let him. The anticipation came back to her. He was like a game, something she would contend with later. It was like her job, like her position in life: things she dealt with one incremental step at the time until what was big felt little. This would not make her a bad person.

She shimmed the fabric beneath her breast and he looked apathetic, almost as if she had driven him past the point of even frustration. But the bulge in his slacks grew. Pride swelled in her chest but she remained stoic, pliant, hoping against hope that he’d give in, do what a thousand men before him had done, if only she could convince him it was his doing. What a better way to learn what the Capital wanted than to experience it for yourself? She wanted to ravage him, to take from him his stubborn distaste, to make him into one of those pathetic, warbling men in his imaginings. One day you’ll be ruined by this.

But sense came to him, bit by bit. He heaved a sigh, as if disappointed by some external factor that had forced his hand, and returned a silky strap to her shoulders. She watched, both surprised and confused. He smiled, but it was void of anything substantial as joy. Maybe there was defeat, but she wasn’t sure.

“I’ll be seeing you,” he said, stepping towards the door and towards his coat on the chair. She watched the muscles of his back ripple beneath his shirt as he slipped the red fabric back on, quietly astounded by the abrupt way he had changed track.

“My money,” the words found her.

He nodded his head, but did not turn. “You’ll get it,” he promised. His voice bounced off the door, hollow and thin.

She eyed him carefully, waiting for him to open the door and escape out of it. She wanted him to. There was a certain cowardice to this action, too, something that she could cope with and he wouldn’t be able to. His hand went to the door, white on gold, and he clinched it. “Next time, the game will be different,” he said.

And with those parting words, he was gone.

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veronicahairreplacementcenter123 · 3 months ago

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munson-blurbs · 4 months ago

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@corrodedcoffinfest Day 30: Fame and Fortune

Word Count: 722/Rating: G/Pairing: none/CW: angst, betrayal, Corroded Coffin is famous/Tags: Eddie Munson, Gareth, Jeff, Grant, angst, fortune telling, state fair

Divider credit to @silkholland

“Thank you, Texas!” Eddie shouts into the microphone. He’s met with thunderous applause as the crowd cheers.

He’s drenched in sweat, his shirt practically stuck to his torso, and he peels it off the moment he gets backstage.

“Dude,” Jeff grins, “that shit was awesome!”

“Biggest crowd we’ve ever played for,” Grant agrees, wiping his face with a towel.

Eddie pulls on a fresh shirt and ties his hair back in a bun. The cool air on the back of his neck feels heavenly. Performing was hot enough between the bright stage lights and constant movement. Add in the Texas heat and they were, almost literally, cooked.

Eddie is more than ready to get back to his air conditioned hotel room, already imagining the mountain of food he’ll order from room service.

“Wait, guys!” Gareth calls out. “Can we, like, explore the fair while we’re here? Get security to take us around?”

Eddie groans. “I’m exhausted.” Grant and Jeff nod in agreement, but Gareth is relentless.

“C’mon. Just to get cotton candy or something.”

Jeff considers the idea. “I could go for cotton candy,” he says with a shrug.

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Fine. We’ll get some cotton candy, and then we’re outta here.”

Security pushes through the throngs of people, stopping only when Grant taps one of the guards on the shoulder and asks if he and Jeff can ride the Tilt-a-Whirl.

“Guess it’s just us, Big Guy.” Gareth claps Eddie on the shoulder and takes a messy bite of cotton candy. “What d’you wanna do?”

“Go back to the bus and sleep,” Eddie grumbles, but the drummer ignores him, tugging him towards a small purple tent.

The inside is dim, illuminated only by flickering battery-powered candles. When Eddie’s eyes adjust to the darkness, he realizes that Gareth has pulled him into the fortune teller’s tent.

An older woman smiles from where she sits, her wrinkled hands on a crystal ball. “I am Madame Yma,” she says. “Are you here for a reading?”

Eddie shakes his head, but Gareth practically shoves him into a chair. “Don’t you wanna see what your future holds?”

“Not particularly.”

Madame Yma heaves an impatient sigh but musters up a smile. “Come, let me see what the universe has planned for you.” She eyes both young men, adding, “for five dollars.”

Gareth slaps a five-dollar bill on the table, and Eddie knows there’s no way out of this now. Fine. He’ll sit here and listen to whatever bullshit tale this woman weaves, and Gareth will be a few bucks poorer. No skin off of his back.

The fortune teller holds Eddie’s hands, palms up. “It appears that you have a creative personality,” she begins. “And that your headstrong demeanor may cause fractures in your platonic and romantic relationships.”

“She’s got you there,” Gareth says through a mouthful of cotton candy.

“Speaking of romance…” Something glitters in the woman’s blue-gray eyes. “Your love line shows some conflict in your love life. And your destiny line shows that you will receive help from someone.” She pauses, considering. “You consider yourself an independent person.”

Eddie nods emphatically at this, despite her not formally asking a question.

Madame Yma clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “You pride yourself too much on your ability to be alone. That will be your downfall. You need to learn how to rely on others, and to appreciate the people around you.” Her gaze briefly lands on Gareth, though her words are aimed at Eddie. “You will have to choose between the people who have consistently been by your side, and the temptation of a stranger. I suggest you choose wisely.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. How did she know? She couldn’t know; there was no way—

“What?” Gareth barks out a laugh. “Nah, this is ridiculous. Eddie’s not abandoning us, and he wouldn’t be ‘tempted’ by some random person.” He tosses his empty stick in a nearby trash can and turns to Eddie. “C’mon, let’s go see if those guys survived the Tilt-a-Whirl.”

“Y-Yeah.” Eddie books it out of the tent, half-heartedly nodding as Gareth blathers on about a new song he’s been workshopping.

He tries to focus, but it proves impossible. All he can think about is the contract he hurriedly signed earlier today, already mailed back to his agent.

A contract for a solo album.

#corroded coffin #corroded coffin fest #eddie munson #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #eddie stranger things #eddie munson fanfic #gareth emerson #jeff corroded coffin #grant corroded coffin

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scrollsfromarebornrealm · 4 months ago

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desertwalkers- roadside encounter

“Why do I have to escort you two?” Sebastian grumbled, but there was no heat in his voice.

“You’re escorting him, not me.” Augustine responded, jerking his thumb towards Mathye. “And this is part of your community service, remember? It’s what you get for not telling us about Two-Timin’ Tom.”

“I would like to point out in my defense that it was questionable telling you all about him.” Sebastian retorted. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders. His gunbreaker leathers felt far more comfortable than the poorly-fitted suits he’d been wearing. And thanks to Riven gleefully flinging what amounted to his entire wardrobe into a fire once his secret had come out, they were all he had.

“Have the fiends gotten that bad that two guards are needed instead of one?” He asked.

“Not a matter of getting bad, just that the normal people for this route have gone missing.” Mathye responded from the wagon. He shifted his weight on the bench, swapping the chocobo-reins to his other hand.

“Missing?” Sebastian repeated. “Isn’t that…normal for out here?”

“Isn’t normal when a Weave-Witch can’t find a trace of them in the aether.” Augustine’s eyes surveyed the road ahead and the bush surrounding the trio. “Anything else—aye, it’s ‘normal’.”

“No trace of them in the aether?” Sebastian’s eyes widened. “But that…doesn’t make sense?”

“It doesn’t. And the witches out here can’t come into Stonewood—too sensitive to the railroad and the mines. They rely on these supply visits to keep going.” Mathye clicked his tongue at the chocobo, who uttered a soft wark and picked up its’ pace.

“It’s something the Dustwatch’s been meaning to investigate, but between that mess with Gaius and the fiend attacks surging, there’s not been any time.” Augustine frowned. “I’m hoping the witches might be able to tell us a little…” His head popped up, a hand going to his gun at the same time Sebastian reached for his own gunblade. Behind them Mathye pulled on the wagon-reins, eyes narrowing. In the middle of the road were two elven men. Both were dressed in simple white tunics and pants with blue embroidery. Seeing the trio, one of the men held up a hand in greeting.

“Hallo friends!” He called out. “Lovely day, is it not!” They appeared to be weaponless, and Sebastian exhaled.

“Don’t seem like they’re…” He trailed off as he glanced to the side. Augustine’s skin had paled, and his fingers were gripping the butt of his gun tightly. Mathye’s expression had become unreadable.

“Augustine? Mathye?”

“Say hello and keep going.” The Dustwatch Deputy ground out.

“What?”

“Say hello and keep going.” Augustine repeated, his voice flat. Exhaling, he forced himself to let go of his gun, keeping his hands down by his sides. The trio advanced on the pair, who moved off the road to give them some room. Up close, both elezen had short-cropped hair—one brunette, the other blond. They both had the same beatific smile, and Sebastian felt distinctly uneasy. Mathye and Augustine both muttered greetings, and the gunbreaker did likewise. The tension stayed with the trio until they rounded the upcoming bend. The moment the elven pair were out of sight, Mathye pulled the wagon to a halt.

“Get in.” He ordered. “And hold on.”

“Wait-what?”

“Do as he says!” Augustine snapped, hurrying to the wagon’s back. Sebastian followed him.

“What’s going on?” He demanded. “Did you know those two?”

“Don’t know them, but I recognize those colors.” Mathye answered. “Get in, shut up and hold on. We need to get to the witches’ village faster.”

--- desertwalkers master post here

#ffxiv #wild west: xiv au style #desertwalkers

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eilinelsghost · 11 months ago

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An Anchor Incarnate

A septet of double-drabbles for @searchingforserendipity25. Seren, you're an absolute gem of a person and I'm so glad to have gotten to know you this year. I hope you enjoy this horseshoe fic of the Tragedy Brothers!

He is nearly weightless.

Gelmir expected his arms to strain under the weight of this soul new-wrought, to feel in his body the same gravity that sang within him; for he had known the moment his brother first breathed of Arda—presence rippled along his spirit like daybreak. He had rushed back from the orchards at a sprint, reaching the gates just as his cousin passed in search of him.

But the bundle Guilin sets in his arms is feather-light, wrinkled as a mole-rat, and snuffled grunts rise from the woolen wrapping as the infant settles in against his brother’s chest. He is not even the length of his forearm.

Gelmir holds him like glass.

“Speak, onya,”[1] Guilin urges, then laughs as the tiny face turns to root against Gelmir’s arm. “Speak, that he might know thy voice.”

He draws a finger along Gwindor’s cheek. It is impossibly soft—like freshly risen dough, he thinks in quick amusement, the loaves his mother kneads each enquië[2]—then he shifts to trace his finger along the tiny row of fingers. “Gwinig,”[3] he murmurs as they fold around his knuckle and he too laughs, delighted. “Take my hand, little one. I am here.”

When he shoves the barrel aside, Gwindor is already shaking, his breath coming in gasps and fingertips bloodied from scrabbling against the rock and wood. Gelmir swears under his breath and pulls him free of the crevice. Foolish children…he must have been wedged there an hour or more, alone in the back wall of the wine cellar.

“Hold thine eyes to the far wall.” Gelmir’s arms are about him as he collapses against the stone. The boy has ever feared the dark, the many small, constrained places within the caverns that lurk sightless and breathless amid the stone—the other children have learned of it. “Match thy breathing to mine. Slower, honeg, steady and full.” The child’s hands tremble as they clutch his brother’s tunic and Gelmir runs a hand over the matted hair, slowing the rhythm of his own breathing. “Number the gems of the sky, gwinig. Can you say them with me? Twenty stars in Heaven’s Hunter.”

Faint and shaking, Gwindor’s voice joins the rhyme, “Seven in the Sickle bright.”

He rests his head against his brother’s shoulder and Gelmir feels the drumming pulse begin to steady.

“Thirteen stars crown Anarríma.”

“A thousand weave the netted light.”

Gelmir kneels. The air of Tol Sirion is crisp with the bite of early spring, the river full and singing. It is fitting, he feels, cohesive in some way to join the King’s Guard here on the watchful isle, the waters rushing past in chorus with his own spirit.

“Hold my oath bound in love and fealty,” Gelmir recites while the king grasps the proffered hilt, “my service in steadfast faith.”

Gwindor watches at their father’s side, his face eager amid the gathered crowd. His features have begun shedding the roundness of childhood and Gelmir feels a pang at the shift.

“All my days I pledge in service to my king. Bond of word made bond of heart, unto death defending with blade and body.”

His brother had held the new sword in awe when Gelmir dressed for the ceremony, his fingers tracing the signet of the Guard.

When I am of age, I shall follow after thee.

Gelmir shivers again. A foreboding arose at Gwindor’s words that had nearly turned him from this rite. But still he kneels, still he binds his oath, still he bows under the blessing and takes the sword the king returns to his hand.

The gates open to admit two shrouded figures—Atani men, the both of them. Dark-eyed and sharp-featured, they linger in the arched passage and ask for the lord of the tower.

“Gorlim!” Edrahil’s voice carries through the courtyard, broken and hoarse from the battle, half-choked by the smoke as his sprint outpaces Orodreth’s. “Arthad!” He is beside them in an instant and catches the foremost by the arms.

Guilin cannot hear the words that pass between them, but he watches the desperation carve lines upon the captain’s face.

They are lost, then.

He is not dead. Gwindor was adamant when Edrahil returned in the night, haggard and wounded, empty handed. The host had been swept in two and the king ambushed with the remainder of his guard. He could not reach them. My brother is not dead. I would have felt in my own if his spirit had gone.

Would Gelmir’s brother be adamant still? Guilin strains his ears as Orodreth reaches the passage and the message is delivered. He cannot hear a word. With an effort, he draws his eyes from the gate and turns them to Gwindor in a hopeless query. His son’s face is a mask, expressionless.

Edrahil kneels. The air in the great hall is taut like the aftertaste of lightning. It is fitting, Gwindor feels, a recompense in some way that they share the same fall—his king who led them to ambush, the captain who returned without his brother.

No oaths of faith has he broken this night, Gwindor reflects as Edrahil returns the crown to the king’s hand. His own were broken upon Tol Sirion when the messengers came. He had looked upon the king’s prostrate form and foresworn any fealty the moment they bore him to the healers while Gelmir was forsaken in the Fen. And Barahir’s men said the prisoners were blinded.

“You remain my king,” the captain’s voice rings out, “and theirs, whatever betide.”

Gwindor feels himself tense at the words. Somewhere within him a child’s outrage clamors, for they have turned on Felagund like wildcats, toying and wearying before the kill.

All my days I pledge in service to my king. Gelmir had sworn it so. Gelmir had wished it so.

Yet still Gwindor stands in silence.

Finduilas shifts from his side and for the first time he knows her anger, cold and sharp, and their mingled thought fractures.

Gwindor’s breathing is frantic. His fingers claw at the rock and his palms slip on blood, on the sludge that seeps through the mine shafts.

He should never have attempted it. The stone scrapes each shoulder, it keeps his head bowed nearly to his wrists. He can hardly draw a breath.

A scream presses at the back of his throat.

Close thine eyes, gwinig. The memory of his brother’s voice is precise. Number the gems of the sky.

“Twenty stars in Heaven’s Hunter,” he whispers in a shaking sob, dragging himself forward. “Seven in the Sickle bright.”

The Talath Dirnen opens around him, the vast canopy of sky soaring beyond sight. He breathes deep of that imagined air and remembers his hair trailing through the wind. He had clung to his brother’s waist against the speed of their father’s stallion and Gelmir’s hand rested over his wrists in reassurance.

Gwindor fills his lungs and forces himself forward as wind brushes his face in tandem with memory and he shivers.

Wind brushes his face.

His eyes fly open and a sliver of sky blazes through the slag, Elbereth’s jewels fierce and brilliant, welcoming as he pulls himself free of the mines.

He is nearly weightless.

The fëa is present, tangible and steady, but the hröa is an afterthought. It hovers, insubstantial yet beneath the hoary yews, an uncertain companion in the spirit’s venture.

Gwindor knew the moment his brother’s decision was made—warmth rippled along his spirit, presence he had not felt since the horror of Anfauglith—and he passed Námo’s messenger as a blur upon the plains, galloping north ere the summons arrived.

The fëantarwa’s[4] stillness is disorienting after the mad rush. But the figure that stands before him is whole, achingly familiar, his spirit as vibrant and fierce as the hour he rode north from the guarded isle.

Gwindor steps forward as one in a dream.

He will not see you, the Maia at the gate had advised. The body is capable, but oft we find the soul carries forward its wounds till the healing is complete. Speak early that he might know your voice and find an anchor incarnate in the memory.

“Mírenya.” Gwindor’s voice trembles through the silent grove as he reaches out, his own sight fumbling through his tears, and he grasps his brother’s fingers within his own. “Take my hand, dear one. I am here.”

1. onya: son 2. enquië: Eldarin six-day week 3. gwinig: baby, little one (Elvish play-name for the little finger, used by and taught to children) 4. fëantarwa: garden of the spirits (lit: spirit-garden)

#gelmir #gwindor #drabbles #my first attempt at short forms #the silmarillion #everything goes in a circle basically #my fic

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coco-bean-1218 · 11 months ago

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Well-Behaved Women Never Make History

Prologue: Part Three: "Brains, Bravery, and now... Wings."

Chapter Soundtrack

Summary: Claire breaks some important news to her family.

A/N: Hi, everyone! Welcome to Prologue: Part Three: of Well-Behaved Women Never Make History! This is the final prologue part before the actual story takes place! I'm very excited about this one, and I hope you are too! As always, feel free to like, comment, and reblog.

Warnings: Swearing, Claire getting confrontational

Taglist: @whollyjoly @footprintsinthesxnd @panzershrike-pretz @xxluckystrike

Monday, January 5, 1942 Downtown district of Detroit, MI, USA ---

The January chill nipped at Claire’s cheeks as she hesitated on the snow-dusted sidewalk outside the recruitment building in Downtown Detroit. A mosaic of colorful signs emblazoned with military insignias adorned the facade, each vying for the attention of potential recruits. She adjusted her glasses and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear while absorbing the gravity of her surroundings.

"Army," "Navy," "Marines" – the words seemed to leap out from the posters, resonant with the call of duty and patriotism. Men, young and vibrant, streamed past her, their conversations a cacophony of hope and bravado. She drew in a deep breath, trying to still the fluttering in her chest.

With one last glance at the sky, now an expanse of solemn gray, she pushed open the door and stepped into the maw of the recruitment station.

Inside, the air buzzed with the energy of hundreds of young men, their voices merging into a symphony of determination. They clustered around tables where uniformed officers sat, clipboards at the ready. The clatter of typewriters punctuated the murmur of conversation, each keystroke a testament to the momentous decisions being made.

"Hey, watch it!" a recruit barked as Claire narrowly avoided bumping into him amidst the throng.

"Hey, I'm walking here!" she snapped back, her eyes darting around the vast room, "Fucking dumbass." Her heart hammered against her ribs; this was more overwhelming than any college exam hall.

Claire moved slowly through the space, her senses alert to every detail. She watched fingers grip pens with purpose, heard the scratch of signatures committing lives to service. Each step brought her deeper into the belly of the beast, the air thick with the scent of ink and anticipation.

She took another step, drawing closer to the heart of the station, to the precipice of her own journey. And somewhere amidst the clamor and the fervor, Claire began to find her footing, charting a course through the crowd toward the destiny of her choosing.

Claire's eyes swept over the sea of uniforms, her gaze landing on a poster that stood out from the rest, its bold letters calling to those brave enough to leap from the skies. "Join the Airborne," it beckoned, the image of a soldier descending from the heavens both terrifying and exhilarating.

"An additional fifty dollars in pay," she murmured to herself, fingertips grazing the edge of the poster. Her mind leapt to textbooks and lab fees; this could be the answer she'd been searching for—a way to fund her dream of medical school. The sum was significant, a beacon of hope amidst the turmoil of war.

With a determined step, Claire navigated through the throngs of eager recruits, each stride carrying her closer to the possibility of a future shaped by her own hands. As she sought the Army's station, a table draped in blue caught her eye, the acronym 'WACs' emblazoned across the banner.

"Women's Army Corps..." she read aloud, thumbing through a pamphlet that lay amongst a neat pile. The words within spoke of service and support, of roles unimagined by women just a generation prior. For a moment, her heart wavered, the path of a WAC presenting its own allure.

"Could I really do this?" The thought hung heavy as she slipped the pamphlet into her pocket, a tangible reminder of choices yet to be made.

Her pursuit resumed, weaving between desks and dodging elbows until she found herself standing before a sign marked 'Army Enlistment.' She exhaled sharply, the weight of decision anchoring her to the spot, the pamphlet's presence in her coat a secret whisper of potential futures.

Each step was a silent conversation with herself, every heartbeat a question of courage, and with the pamphlet tucked close, Claire advanced toward her chosen battleground.

Claire's steps echoed against the marble floor, a cadence of resolve amidst the clamor. She halted at a long table adorned with crisp, official-looking documents and flags representing various military branches. Her gaze scanned the area, seeking the sign-up for the Airborne, when she was suddenly anchored by a familiar face.

"Peyton?" Claire's voice lifted in surprise, her eyes widened as they settled on her best friend standing behind the table.

"Claire!" Peyton squealed. The warmth in her brown eyes mirrored the joy dancing across her features. "What are you doing here?"

Claire leaned forward, palms pressing against the cool surface of the table. "I could ask you the same," she teased, but her laughter held an undercurrent of nerves.

"Got myself a job," Peyton replied with a proud lift of her chin, "Helping Uncle Sam find his soldiers. And you? Don't tell me you came to wave the boys goodbye." The quirk of Peyton's eyebrow signaled she expected a more profound truth.

"I'm here to... I want to sign up for the Airborne," Claire said, her voice lower than she intended. She brushed a stray lock of brown hair behind her ear.

"Airborne?" Peyton's eyebrows shot up, a playful smirk teasing her lips. "My, aren't we the brave one?"

"Someone has to be," Claire retorted, though her heart thumped erratically at the reality of her words. Inside her coat, the WAC pamphlet felt like a secret confession of her hesitance.

Peyton reached beneath the table, sifting through papers with a purposeful intensity. "Well, if it's the sky you're aiming for, let me help you take flight." With a furtive glance around, she leaned closer, conspiratorially, "I'll snag you a form."

"Be careful," Claire warned softly as Peyton reached across the table, her fingers dancing swiftly over the stacked papers before procuring one of the coveted Airborne sign-up sheets.

"Come on," Peyton whispered, tucking the sheet under her arm. Together, they navigated through the swell of bodies, finding sanctuary in a quiet corner draped in shadows.

"Feels like plotting a secret mission," Claire joked, but her hands trembled slightly as she accepted the pen from Peyton. The weight of her decision pressed down upon her, each tick of the wall clock punctuating the urgency of the moment.

"Imagine, us girls changing the world," Peyton said, her voice a soft blend of wonder and conviction, "Seems like only yesterday we were both little girls wishing our fairy tale dreams."

"Changing our own worlds, at least," Claire replied, her smile tinged with the gravity of their unspoken dreams. She looked down at the form, each line a step closer to a future where fear mingled with hope, and the prospect of 50 extra dollars meant more than just money; it represented freedom, education, and a chance to make a difference.

"Are you ready for this?" Peyton asked, concern lacing her question.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Claire responded, her hand tightening around the pen. But in the sanctuary of her mind, she whispered a prayer for courage, for strength, and for the wisdom to choose the right path.

"Here, let's start with the easy stuff," Peyton said, pointing to the top of the form. "Name, date of birth, address..."

"Right." Claire filled in the blanks, her handwriting a neat script that belied the churn of her stomach. "I never pictured my twenties would look like this."

"Nobody did," Peyton agreed, leaning in to read over Claire's shoulder. "But we play the hand we're dealt. You've got a good one, Claire. Brains, bravery, and now... wings."

"Potentially," Claire mused, her gaze flitting to Peyton's own untouched sign-up sheet for the WACs. "It looks like we're both seeking some altitude."

"Seems so." Peyton's smile was a brief flash, her attention returning to Claire's form. "Next, they'll need your medical history. Any illnesses, surgeries..."

"Just wisdom teeth," Claire chuckled, checking the corresponding box. Her thoughts drifted again to the extra fifty dollars the poster promised, an amount that could put a dent in her medical school expenses—if the war didn't claim too much first.

"Emergency contact?" Peyton's voice cut through her reverie.

"Mom and Dad," Claire responded automatically, scribbling down her parents' details. Her heart clenched at the thought of their reaction; she hadn't even broached the subject with them yet.

"Alright, almost done," Peyton encouraged. "Just need your signature and—"

"Hope," Claire finished quietly, the pen hovering above the paper. She drew in a deep breath and signed her name with a flourish that felt more defiant than anything she'd ever done.

"Done." Claire set the pen down, her pulse racing as the realization of her commitment took hold.

"Then that's it," Peyton affirmed. "You're on your way, Claire."

"Thanks to you," Claire said, her gratitude genuine. She folded the form, the creases crisp under her fingers. "Now, let's get this turned in before I lose my nerve."

"Lead the way, soldier," Peyton said with a grin, and together, they stepped back into the fray, their bond a thread of certainty in an uncertain world.

Claire clutched the folded form in her hand as she glanced sideways at Peyton, who was busy scanning the room with an intensity that matched the gravity of their surroundings.

"Are you going to join the fight too?" Claire asked, her voice barely above a whisper, betraying a vulnerability she kept well-guarded.

Peyton turned toward her, her eyes holding a glint of resolve that seemed older than her eighteen years. "I’m considering the WACs," she admitted. "As a war journalist. Someone has to tell our stories, right?"

"Right." Claire nodded, pride swelling within her chest at the thought of her friend capturing the essence of these tumultuous times. "You'll be great at it."

"Thanks," Peyton said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "Now, let's get you officially signed up."

They approached the bustling table discreetly; Peyton’s movements were deft and quiet as she slid Claire's form amidst a stack of others. The act was so smooth it was as if the paper had sprouted wings and settled itself among its brethren. No one noticed, no heads turned—they were just two young women in a sea of anxious faces, all united by a common cause.

"Call me later?" Claire's heart thumped loudly, her mouth dry.

"Of course." Peyton's smile was a lifeline. "And Claire? Be safe."

"Always am," Claire replied with a wink she didn't quite feel. Then, with a quick, tight hug that carried the weight of unspoken fears and shared dreams, they parted.

Claire stepped outside into the brisk January air, pulling her coat tighter against the winter chill. She could still feel the echo of Peyton’s embrace as she hailed a cab. When the old yellow car pulled to the curb, she saw the driver through the rolled-down window, his cap slightly askew.

"Where to, miss?" he asked gruffly, the lines on his face deepened from years of squinting into the distance.

Claire told her address, her voice steady even as her hands trembled.

As the taxi lurched forward, Claire leaned back against the worn upholstery. The city passed by in a blur of gray and white, but all she could see was the future unfurling before her, uncertain yet fraught with possibility. She gripped the strap of her handbag, the texture suddenly grounding her racing thoughts. What would home look like when she returned? Would the familiar streets whisper tales of her courage or sing laments for her absence?

"Almost there," the driver announced, snapping Claire back to the present.

"Thank you," she murmured, her mind already drifting to the announcement she would soon make. The door to her life as she knew it was closing, and with every turn of the wheels, she felt a step closer to the woman she was destined to become.

The rhythmic clacking of the typewriter keys filled the kitchen, a syncopated counterpoint to the soft scratching of pen on paper. Claire stood in the doorway, her silhouette hesitating against the afternoon light that filtered through the lace curtains. She watched as her mother's fingers danced over the black and white keys, her concentration never wavering even as she reached for her coffee cup with her free hand. Her father, meanwhile, was hunched over a notebook, his furrowed brow casting shadows over the figures he diligently noted down.

"Mom, Dad," Claire's voice trembled slightly, betraying the nerves she fought so hard to conceal.

Her mother stopped typing mid-word, the carriage hanging in limbo. She looked up, "Claire, honey, you're back early. Is everything alright?"

"Hey, kiddo." Her dad glanced up, a flicker of concern crossing his weathered face before he set his pen aside. "You look like you've got something on your mind."

In the brief pause that followed, Claire could hear her own heartbeat, a frantic drumline marching toward an inevitable revelation. She took a deep breath, the scent of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the faint trace of a candle, grounding her resolve.

"I ran into Peyton downtown," she began, the words spilling out more easily than she anticipated. The mention of her best friend always had a way of easing tension in the room. She moved closer, coming to rest against the edge of the kitchen table, her hands gripping the polished wood.

"Is that right?" her mom asked, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "And what's Miss Peyton up to these days?"

"She's working at the recruitment station," Claire said, watching as her parents exchanged a quick, unreadable glance. "Actually, I..." she paused, gathering the shards of courage that felt scattered within her chest.

"Actually, what, Claire?" her dad prompted, leaning back in his chair, his eyes kind and attentive.

Claire's glasses slipped slightly down her nose as she met their gazes, the world around her momentarily out of focus. She pushed them up with a resolute finger.

"I have an announcement to make," she stated, the words solidifying into reality the moment they passed her lips. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a caged bird yearning for the freedom of the skies, "I've decided to enlist. I joined the Airborne to be a combat medic."

Her father raised his eyebrows, "The Airborne?"

"You do know what that means, right?" her mother questioned in disbelief.

"Yes, I do," Claire said sternly, "And I also know that there's an additional 50 dollars in pay. That could go towards college and med school."

"Honey," her mother sighed, "Med school is expensive. That could cover a textbook, maybe two."

"Yes, I know," Claire kept her ground, "And you guys always say I need to be more mature and independent. Well, here's my chance, all while gaining medical experience. Imagine how that will look on med school applications."

Her mother crossed her arms, "Now, Claire, when we said more independent and more mature, we didn't mean jump out of a plane into a war zone."

"But, you guys have also told me to take risks, to stand up for myself and what I believe in, to not let people walk all over me. What is it that you always say, Mom? A well-behaved woman never makes history. That's what I'd be doing - making history!"

Her father chuckled, "Man, when this one tries to make her case, she really makes it."

"And besides, I only applied. It doesn't mean they'll take me," Claire shrugged.

"How does it feel fighting with yourself," her father said to her mother, laughing.

Mrs. O'Connor glared at her husband, "Oh, hush."

Claire laughed at the teasing between her parents. They had said many times she was her mother's daughter.

"Can you imagine? She'll probably argue with her CO," her father said, shaking his head.

"Of course," Claire stated boldly, "You know me."

"Or argue with the enemy itself and they'd back down," her mother retorted.

Claire laughed, "That's the plan."

Her mother then leaned forward, her voice now gentle yet steady. "Claire, we've always encouraged you to follow your dreams, to forge your own path. And if this is what you truly want, then we support you wholeheartedly."

"You know we'll always have your back," her father chimed in.

The creak of the stairs announced Emma's arrival before she appeared, her eyes questioning as she took in the sight of their huddled assembly. She leaned against the doorway, her silhouette softened by the hall light spilling into the living room.

"Everything okay?" Emma asked, her gaze flicking between her parents' drawn faces and Claire's determined stance.

"Yeah, I joined the Airborne to be a combat medic," Claire said nonchalantly.

Her sister stopped in her tracks, "Huh. Well, that's something you don't hear every day. Good for you." Emma smiled and patted Claire's shoulder. "If anyone can do it, it's you." She then shifted her gaze to their parents, who exchanged a glance and nodded in approval.

"Besides," Claire added with a mischievous grin, "Who knows? I might catch the eye of a handsome paratrooper who's just dying to break through these walls." She shot a knowing look at her mother, who laughed.

Unbeknownst to Claire, a couple of thousand miles away, that young, handsome paratrooper was also breaking the news to his parents and siblings about his brave decision to join the Airborne.

---

#band of brothers #band of brothers oc #my first oc story #my ocs #well behaved women never make history #wbwnmh #easy company #hbo war #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers x ofc #chuck grant x ofc #chuck grant #eugene roe #eugene roe x ofc #original female character #ofc

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moonslesbology · 1 year ago

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The Lucky One I

prologue - next chapter

YEARS HAD PASSED AND NOTHING ABOUT FINNICK ODAIR REALLY CHANGED, ALWAYS REMAINING THE KID WITH CUTS ON HIS HANDS AND HIS HEART ON HIS SLEEVE. Though, he was always annoyed at Eleanor for taking longer shifts than necessary at St Magdalene Rossetti and exhausting herself to an unneeded extent. That was his only complain, though Eleanor didn't care though. She preferred the serenity of a doctor's office over the dead silence of a house. Yes, she was only seventeen, but doctors in District 4 were a rarity, not to mention the teenager had been learning all you can about anatomy since she was eight.

She had decided that her potential future as a doctor was much more plausible than becoming a career, fully leaving the academy after Finnick's games just two years prior. Though both Annie and Finnick were annoyed at Eleanor, they both understood why she made her choice.

So, instead she traded her knives and spears for needles and a pair of surgical gloves, content with a life of service to her community. Every year she watched as innocent children were saved in reapings, and while she couldn't save them from the games, she could save them from the grief and guilt.

Eleanor Eves, District 4's local sweetheart, was nothing short than a gentle being with a softness for children, flowers, and her best friends, Finnick Odair and Annie Cresta. If she wasn't working in St Magdalene Rossetti, she was always seen with them, mostly her and Annie tackling Finnick whenever they had a chance.

There wasn't a single bone in her body that allowed Eleanor the ability to take a life.

Breathing in heavily, Eleanor rubbed her eyes as she opened the door for Mr Ives, an older man with greying hair but warm eyes. Everyone knew of his unlucky streak down at the docks, always managing to cut his hands with the knives he weaved through the scales of fish caught at sea.

Mr Ives, a man who seemed to have a streak for always cutting his hand whenever he cut the fish, seemed overtly fond of the brunette for her sweetness. Men from The Quay had brought him in just fifteen minutes before and he had adamantly insisted only Eleanor stitch up his cut. He had known her since she began working properly and trusted her to work on his wounds after she had expertly patched him up after a nasty cut on his hand, something her mother's unsteady hands struggled to do. At the time, the thirteen year old was figuring out the busy environment of a doctor's office, and watched as her mother struggled to steady her hand over Mr Ives' bleeding wound. Eleanor had logically gone and took the instruments off her mother, patching him up quickly and without many words. Ever since then, it was always Eleanor who helped him.

"You know Sweetheart, you have a real talent," Mr Ives had remarked, wincing as Eleanor injected the Morphling into his arm. She unwrapped the cloth that had been tied over the cut, immediately wiping away any of the excess blood. She grabbed onto the thread, tying it to the needle, before exhaling as she began sewing up the cut.

Eleanor gave him a small smile. "Believe me I wouldn't be this good if you didn't get injured this much, Mr Ives." She laughed apologising as she saw him wince slightly from the sight of the needle. "How's Martha and the baby?"

He gave a laugh. "The little lady's getting proper done with the kid, I'll tell you that." Mr Ives was a sweet man, Eleanor always thought so. He had always given her family extra fish whenever he could spare some. He was eternally grateful for her mother helping his wife get through a nasty case of the flu two winters prior and by association, was in debt to Eleanor. "She keeps demanding I wash in the garden since she pukes whenever I'm near her after my shifts."

Eleanor shook her head. "She is seven months along now and fish does smell bad when it's on you." Eleanor ignored the playful glare Mr Ives gave her. She decided on changing the topic. "Do you guys have any name ideas?"

"None Sweetheart." He shook his head with a laugh. "Wanted to call her Eleri and Martha nearly throttled me. She said that name made her feel sick as a fish." She laughed as he rolled his eyes, mimicking Martha's thick District 4 accent with a shake of his head. Martha Ives had come from The Cove, a region seemingly alienated from the rest of District 4. Their accents stood out like sore thumbs and Martha's was thick and rich, something Mr Ives adored.

Eleanor grinned, finally finishing off the stitches. She finally cut away at the thread, patting down on the stitches before pulling out a bandage. She wrapped it carefully around the hand, finally nodding up at him as she finished. "There, you better go home now." She told the man with an authoritative tone. There was a hint of playfulness in her voice as she instructed him. "No fishing for at least a week. Keep the stitches dry and come back in about a week. Mary'll remove them then." She pulled Mr Ives into a hug, laughing as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

"Sweetheart you are an absolute gem!" He laughed. He reached into his pocket, trying to pull out any spare change he had, only for Eleanor to shake her head at him. "Oh come off it, it's the least I can do."

She shook her head adamantly. "Policy is policy, Mr Ives. We don't care about money here, we aren't struggling for it at all. Now go, I don't want to see you until Martha has the baby."

He kissed her on the cheek once more, getting up and leaving the room. Eleanor sighed heavily, grabbing the cup of water which sat on the desk and taking a sip. She yawned, rubbing her eyes slightly. Then, she finally heard his voice and sobered up, blinking quickly to wash away any feelings of exhaustion.

Finnick Odair despised the days where Eleanor worked longer than necessary. Sometimes, his hatred took the literal form of him storming into St Magdalene Rossetti, just like today. As much as he tried convincing her otherwise, often using the excuse that he misses her way too much, Eleanor always found herself spending most her days cooped up with foolish men who injured themselves down on the docks. It wasn't a bad job per say, just tedious with how frequently the same men came back constantly.

As Finnick walked in, Eleanor exhaled heavily.

There were several ways in which Finnick Odair could be here:

A. He's injured.

B. He helped someone get here injured.

C. He simply wanted to annoy her.

Most the time, well at least nowadays, C was always the most logical and most likely explanation. "I swear to god, Finnick, you better not be injured again!" Eleanor raged as she walked around the room, pulling out bandaids and gauzes. She could already hear his choked laughs, rolling her eyes as she finally got off the ground. Finnick was stood in the centre of the room, holding a bouquet of tulips, scratching his head with a bashful smile. Her eyes softened, a blush already brewing on her cheeks. "Flowers?"

"Tulips," He grinned as she finally stood next to him, Finnick moving to smell the tulips and sighing breathlessly. He watched with fond eyes as she grinned at the bouquet, clearly not expecting the gesture. "My favourite which should be your favourite."

Eleanor grinned, a small blush already coating her cheeks. She couldn't help the way her heart fluttered as she took the tulips, holding them up to her nose and smelling them with a sigh. She wondered if flowers meant anything to Finnick, and if so, did they mean anything because he was giving them to her?

"Flirt with me when I'm not working, Odair." She rolled her eyes as he audibly groaned, quickly moving to grab a vase from the window. She gave the flowers one last smell, placing them in the empty vase and turning to see Finnick simply grinning at her. She gave an exhausted smile, hoping her cheeks weren't obviously red. She hoped she could just pass them off as a small sunburn if they were. "Seriously, why are you here?"

"Can't a guy miss his best girl?" He gave a lopsided grin, bouncing from one foot to the other.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. "Bother Annie, I'm sure she's not busy." She sighed, placing the bandaids down on the desk. She could feel Finnick's eyes on her, those stupid sea green eyes fixed on her figure as she finally took off her scrubs. "Don't tell me, you can't find her."

He nodded. "She's a good hider." Finnick scratched the back of his head with a bashful grin, watching Eleanor with a warm gaze.

"We always did beat you at hide and seek."

Finnick's eyebrows furrowed at Eleanor. "You mean, Annie, always beat me. You just followed her." He gave a laugh as Eleanor pushed him a way, scoffing in offence. Finally though, he held his hand out to her, looking at the clock momentarily before deciding for the both of them what they'd do next. "Come on, you're taking a break. Tell Ida and Margaret you're clocking out. You need a break."

Eleanor shook her head. "No, I've only got," she paused, looking at the clock before counting in her head. "four more hours." But it seemed as though Finnick wasn't having it, grabbing onto Eleanor and dragging her out, much to her protests. It seemed as though both Ida and Margaret were elated seeing the pair, waving Eleanor off with grins. "Finnick!"

Finnick grinned back at her, practically skipping alongside her. "You've been working all day! Have some fun!"

#The Hunger Games #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair fic #finnick odair #fanfic #Annie Cresta #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair x oc #finnick odair angst #finnick odair fluff #annie cresta x fem oc #lgbtq #the hunger games x oc #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen #haymitch abernathy #mags flanagan

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preciouslandmermaid · 1 year ago

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quiet fury in your head [v]

Dream of the Endless x F!Reader / Sandman Fanfiction

Note: I wrote this in a day and it’s pretty short and it’s mostly just PINING. YEARNING. PINING. No use of Y/N. See part 1 for all the tags tbh.

Warnings: None

(Read on AO3) || (masterpost for other chapters)

1789

Dream sits across from Hob and twists the small, black onyx ring that he’s chosen to wear on his smallest finger. Your magic—your dream-weaving abilities given to you by Desire—they thrum with pulsing, hot energy that coaxes down his spine and across his collarbone. It is as delicate as a kiss. It is as burning as molten, hissing magma. Hob glances down the ring.

“I’ve never know you to…” Dream stares at him, impassive, “well, I suppose I don’t know you at all.”

“You do not.” Dream replies stiffly. But the rest of their conversation draws short as a woman enters wearing a golden cloak, her brown hair fashioned in an up-do, flanked by two men holding knives.

He returns to the Dreaming. The leaves rustle with his disconnected mood. It takes him no time at all to find your presence within the Dreaming. You are a magnificent bright light that shifts in color depending on your mood. Today, the color is periwinkle and pensive.

***

You wag your small, white tail. The child—you don’t know her name—pours you another cup of tea. Her stuffed animals blink at her. You often use your shape-shifting abilities to traverse the Dreaming. You think this child would see you as a nightmare if she saw you in your true form. Your pointed ears suddenly perk. A sensation—a familiar smell—sharp, acidic tickles your wet nose. Fear. The child is afraid of something...That isn’t unusual. Children are often afraid of many things—darkness, thunderstorms, being left alone. But this fear is different. A shadow creeps across the floral parlor. You strain to sense anything else. The shadow fades. The child’s dream continues. Something haunts this one. You leap from your chair and sniff around the carpet, though it only smells of tea leaves and the child’s creativity. The child scoops you up in her tiny, thin arms and deposits you back onto your chair.

“No, no Stinky! Our tea party isn’t over yet.” She chastises. Before you can resume your tea party, however, Morpheus arrives and the dream vanishes to some other corner of the Dreaming, leaving you and Morpheus standing across from each other alongside a canal in a city of Moroccan architecture. The murky canal waters ripple as three giant, red koi fish swim past. The air smells of freshly baked bread and cigar smoke. A few Dreamers walk along a stone bridge several feet away. Yet, no one pays you any mind.

You say, “You could call rather than pull me from a dream.”

“This is more efficient.” Jessamy lands on his shoulder.

“Very well.” You sigh, “how can I be of service, King of Dreams?”

“Follow me.”

You fall into step behind him. You admire the stern, tense line of his back and the sharp cut of his cloak. He has not touched you since Desire came to visit all those years ago. You suspect that your shared kiss was merely a lapse in his judgment. An error—one that he would not repeat. You try not to dwell on his absence or his coldness. His aloof nature does not harm your pride. It is safer if Morpheus is untouchable. Badb’s prophecy will not come true if keep distance between you. He will be your undoing. Those were your sister’s words. Her final prophecy. Yet Morpheus treated you as he treated all his subjects. He requested your help from time to time, but that was all. Any fire that once burned between you had turned to ash.

Dream glances to the side and your heart squeezes at the clear line of his profile, his lush mouth, his nose. His arm extends and sand swirls around his feet. His power ripples through the Dreaming—through you. Your teeth clack together as you suppress a shiver. Perhaps the fire still burns within me.

“Do you not like the dresses in your room?” Jessamy asks. Morpheus gave you a room inside his castle complete with a bed and wardrobe. You touched none of it. You laid in open fields when you felt like resting—although you did not sleep or dream. You walked barefoot through the Dreaming, your dark dress carried the rips and tears from Lugh’s spear like scars.

“I wear this to remember and honor them.” You lift the tattered sleeve of your dress back onto your shoulder. And to punish myself. Macha’s generous laughter rang inside your ears. Badb’s crows nibble at your fingertips. Lugh’s spear glistens with the blood of your sisters. I do not deserve the comfort of new clothes. My sisters are dead and forgotten and only my tie to the Endless has saved me from the same fate. Once Dream releases me, I will bury their tokens as Desire instructed me, and only then will I allow myself the pleasure of grief.

“Do you see it?” Dream asks, pulling you from your reverie. You gaze toward the white sands. They roll and shift as if breathing. The Dreaming is alive as he is. A reflection of his power, his creativity. The fine specks of sand tickle your face as they slide across your jaw and cheeks.

It takes a moment, but in the cloudless blue sky, you see the shimmering shapes of floating translucent jellyfish. Their bodies plume outward and then relax like a parachute as they meander through the air. You can feel Dream’s eyes on you, but you don’t turn toward him. You keep your focus on the creations. This is why he brought you here. It’s not to show off. In the past, whenever Dream brought you to a location in the Dreaming, there was always something to be altered, or fixed, or improved upon. This is your service to the Dream King. Your penance for a transgression that occurred over a thousand years ago. Morpheus uses your insight to shape the Dreaming. You see the Dreaming differently than his creations do—because you weren’t made by him—and you see the Dreaming differently than a mortal would.

“Something is missing.” Your fingers twitch at your sides. If you had your dream weaving abilities, you would fix the problem yourself. But, you gave those powers to him as a show of good faith. You no longer ran and hid from Morpheus within the Dreaming. You are compelled to serve him. It was your final command given to you by Desire. Once you were free of Morpheus, you would be free of all the Gods and all the Endless. You would create your own destiny.

You sink onto your knees in the soft, warm sand. You use your finger to draw shapes and Dream’s shadow looms over you. Once finished, you look up at him. His lips purse softly, his fathomless eyes regarding you and your drawings. His eyes meet yours. Electricity runs through your veins like lightening running through a storm cloud. You wish—foolishly—that he might arch his spine and brush his cool, dry lips against yours. You push the thought from your mind.

You say, “Every creature deserves to rest.”

Dream straightens and the Dreaming shifts at his beck and call. A formation of tall, canyon rocks burst through the sand. The jellyfish float around them and land inverted on the orange scraggly rock faces. Their tentacles pulsate upward and gradually slow as the jellyfish stop their cycle of endless swimming. You rise to your feet and brush the hard grains of sand from your knees.

“Do you include yourself in that sentiment?” His rough and pleasant voice envelopes you. You focus on the sleeping jellyfish. You envy their peace and their simplicity. They will live forever in the Dreaming with Morpheus watching over them. You wonder if Dreaming creatures mourn and if they grieve as Gods do. You haven’t interacted with many of the Dreamings’ inhabitants. You keep yourself contained to visiting the dreams of mortals—it helps to keep yourself connected to the outside world and learn how humanity fares without your influence. I know the humans still have their wars, and battles, and strife….they just don’t do it under my name anymore. You doubt the Men of the world remember your name at all. Desire called you ‘forgotten’ and you are inclined to believe them. I wonder if Lugh ever became a saint as he wished. I hope they burned him regardless.

You close your eyes and finally answer Morpheus, “No.”

The warm wind stirs.

“Are we done?” You say before Dream can respond. You don’t want to think of the past anymore. The past has serrated edges. And your heart only has so much room before it starts tearing at the seams. You must keep moving, like the giant koi fish in the canal, otherwise you’re afraid you’re going to break. I don’t deserve to grieve my sisters. Not until their tokens are laid to rest at the Heart Tree and my spirit is free to travel the mortal world and astral planes.

His voice is soft, “Yes, we’re finished here.”

You nod stiffly and turn on your heel to leave him.

“Until next we meet.” He says to your retreating back.

****

Dream watches you leave him with his heart lead-weight at the center of his chest. The Dreaming shudders around him like a sigh. Your tattered dress: I wear this to remember and honor them. Your closed eyes and forlorn expression. You are a creature of grief, and rage, and patience. He has no doubt that you are just biding your time until he releases you.

Yet, as the years pass, Dream is finding it harder and harder to let you go. You will likely never return to the Dreaming once you are gone. And he is selfish. He enjoys your presence here even as he keeps you at arms-length. No matter what Desire said and promised—he cannot trust his sibling. You ensured Desire would not meddle, but who knew what influence his sibling still had on you.

He couldn’t risk it. The bright blue sky overhead rumbles with storm clouds. Dream lifts the collar of his coat and begins his solitary walk back to his castle.

#morpheus x reader #dream the endless x the morrigan #dream the endless x reader #the sandman fic #dream x reader #reader insert #the sandman x reader

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wheretheharekissesthefox · 1 year ago

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Deep like water: Chapter 3 – Impressing Mystra

(Trigger warnings: angst, life crisis, graphic description of evil magic that tries to consume the human body, shitty goddess behaviour)

Gale grew into a dashing young man with brown shoulder-length hair, intelligent eyes, and elegant hands. He was the spitting image of his mother – and he was proud of it. A single earring in the image of Mystra's symbol dangled from his lobe.

Men and women stumbled over their own feet when looking at him, contemplating if they should ask him out for a date. Gale didn't see any of it, he had only eyes for his goddess.

But for some reason, it was very difficult to make friends. Gale didn't understand why. He tried his damn best to be friendly, polite, and courteous. The problem wasn't his behaviour though, but rather his reputation. As a prodigy of the Goddess of Magic herself, the son of Morena Dekarios, and the pupil of Elminster Aumar, people had prejudices and they started to ostracise him. Gale became isolated on the academy's campus and his knack for the Weave pissed off other students and even professors more than once.

His only friends were Tara and the Weave. He didn't really see Mystra and Elminster as his friends, but rather as his teachers. And he wasn't sure what Monty was to him. Gale liked him a lot, but he didn't know what the tiefling thought of him and in a way, that scared him. They had stopped being intimate since Mystra had taken Gale as her lover, and Gale wasn't sure what that meant for their friendship. All he knew was that it was complicated now – and he hated the thought that he'd hurt Monty with his actions. But the tiefling never said anything, always smiled at him, and was as kind as ever.

Gale wanted to be liked desperately, he tried so hard to please others, but people still walked away from him. Sometimes, Gale felt cursed.

Gale began to earn money with the help of his magic. He helped out with wrecked ships in the harbour, magically secured the merchants’ carriages against theft, and offered his services for minor evils as well.

When Morena asked about his work, he explained: "I don't heal, I don't steal your customers. "

"Waterdeep’s big enough for both of us," his mother laughed. "Even if you'd heal people, there’d still be enough work for me. – Maybe, you should specialise in healing. There's plenty of work, and you could make a difference in the world. "

Gale shook his head.

"I'm not cut out for healing. "

Morena raised her brows, but said nothing. She was aware of how stubborn her son could be. After all, that's what he got from her.

After four years of hard work, Gale had enough savings to buy a tower house for himself and Tara, right at the harbour, overlooking the sea. He secretly revelled in the thought that he shared this similarity with the grand wizard Elminster now. He felt like he was one step closer to his goal of becoming the greatest wizard Faerûn had ever known.

Over time, it became easier to be alone. Gale spent his evenings in front of the fireplace with a good glass of wine and a reading or his notebook. Tara would lie next to him and accept cuddles. She especially liked it when he ventured into poetry and wrote about the beauty of nature.

Gale went on daily strolls through the bustling streets of Waterdeep with Tara riding his shoulders. Sometimes, just for shits and giggles, he polymorphed into different people, elves, tieflings, gnomes, dwarves, whatever took his fancy that day.

The first time, he'd turned himself into a woman and twirled around his own axis to proudly present himself to Tara, she'd purred: "Oh, dear, you look like a younger version of you mother."

Blushing, Gale brushed back his wavy hair that fell down to his slim waist.

"You think so?" he asked, insecurely. His voice was a warm contralto, just like Morena's.

"Oh, yes. You're rather beautiful as a woman," the tressym nodded. "And so are you as a man. And now, scratch my chin with those deftly fingers of yours, Miss Dekarios."

Gale burst into an uncontrollable giggle fit and complied to his friend's wish.

Nobody recognised him on the streets and a poor fisherman fell down the stairs because he got so distracted by Gale's appearance.

Mystra had become his teacher, muse, and lover. Gale wanted to prove to her that he was worthy of her love and approval. He was able to manipulate magic like a skilled virtuoso plays music, and sometimes, he feared this was the only reason why Mystra kept him around. Gale begged her to give him access to higher, forbidden, levels of magic to prove his capability, but she repeatedly refused and got angry at him.

"I've shared more secrets with you than any other being before. There's no need for you to know more."

"Why not?" Gale asked, upset. "Don't I, your prodigy and Chosen, deserve the privilege to know everything? How should I become the greatest wizard Faerûn has ever known if you deny me to reach my full potential?"

Mystra looked at him, stone-faced.

"Are you questioning my decisions?"

"Well... yes."

"You're getting too recalcitrantly, Gale of Waterdeep," the Goddess of Magic replied. "Think about your actions and don't ever challenge my deeds again!"

And with that Mystra snapped her fingers and banned Gale from the Outer Planes.

He was furious and heartbroken. He didn't understand why Mystra withheld knowledge from him. Wasn't he her Chosen? Didn't she deem him worthy?

Gale decided to prove himself to Mystra, thus, he started looking for other ways to show the extent of his powers and devotion to her.

That's where the 'tome of gateways' came into play.

According to his extensive research, the ancient book contained a portion of the Astral Plane, called the 'Netherese Weave', a scrap of forbidden magic of ancient Netheril. In old texts, it was described as "a fragment of primal Weave locked out of time". Gale wanted to reunite Mystra with her missing piece of magic from which she'd been separated. This way, he'd surely win back her favour. His plan seemed fool-proof – or so he thought.

Tara was the only one privy to his plan and she wasn't amused at all.

"This seems much too dangerous," she tried to tell him. "Primal magic's not to be trifled with, Mr. Dekarios. Don't bite off more than you can chew."

"You worry too much, Tara. I can handle it, I'm Mystra's Chosen after all."

The tressym gave him a disapproving look.

"Sometimes forewarned is forearmed. What would your mother say if she knew?"

"For that very reason, she doesn't know," Gale replied. "After all, she can't stand my muse anyway. And as soon as I get the book to Mystra, I'm going to tell mom. She'll be proud of me."

"Your muse is quite demanding, you know?" sighed Tara.

"Oh, come on. She only wants what's best for me. "

"If you say so, Gale."

Finding the tome wasn't easy. It was well-hidden between time and space, but Gale was able to obtain it. It took all his powers and knowledge to open a portal between the Astral Planes. The reached location lay in ruins, crumbling stones and withered trees everywhere, and Gale shuddered as he felt the corrupt magic reach out for him. The wizard ignored his fight and flight instinct in favour of finding the tome. It was perched on a stone pedestal, humming with dark energy. With shaking hands, Gale took it and forced his way into the Outer Planes where Mystra resided.

"What are you doing here?" the goddess demanded to know. "I locked you out. You disobeyed my order."

"Forgive me, Mystra," Gale spoke quickly, "but I retrieved the 'tome of gateways' for you. The fragment of primal Weave of the Netheril that was out of your reach. For you, my Goddess, my love. To prove myself worthy to you."

"You fool!" boomed the addressed. "I showed you the secrets between the veil: gossamer veils, delicate veils, different Astral Planes, even the Outer Planes, but you're curiosity's still not sated! And now, you brought that twisted, tainted filth into my realm? How dare you!"

"But you're the Goddess of Magic! You're powerful enough to absorb this corrupted piece of Weave, no doubt!"

As Gale shouted at her, the tome in his hands started to tremble. Suddenly, the locks snapped open, revealing a black, whirling mass of magic chaos inside, instead of pages.

"You're a fool, Gale of Waterdeep and you're no longer my Chosen!"

"What? No!" Gale cried out in utter terror. "Mystra, please!"

The book in his hands exploded, blinding him. The wizard screamed as a massive source of energy clawed its way into his chest, almost as if it wanted to dig itself into his soul. The corrupted piece of Weave tried to become a part of his very being, ever-hungry, and latched onto his powers like a leech. Gale screamed for his Goddess as the black mass of pure, untamed chaos tried to rip him apart and consume him. But Mystra didn't listen to his pleas.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fanfic #gale #gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #morena dekarios #tara #tara the tressym #mystra #elminster #elminster aumar

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