#I wouldn’t be able to write a coherent fic for this show | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lokischocolatefountain · 1 year ago

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1. For Old Time’s Sake || Red Tape, Red Line

Series Masterlist

Fandom: Narcos

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: G (check ratings for each chapter)

Word count: 3.4k words

Summary: Javier runs into an old friend in DC.

A/N: Javier for Day 3! Thanks for the love for the last two fics. Here’s more and here’s my favorite- Javi. I do have a series of him in my Married!Javi fics. Buuuut, it doesn’t follow a chronological order. Unlike that, I’m trying to have a coherent storyline here. Writing a linear story happens to be my downfall so I’m gonna wait and see how this pans out. Hope you like the first instalment of this story!

Wallet, keys, ID, gun, badge.

He froze with his hand on the hotel side table holding only a generic lamp after he’d taken his possessions- wallet, keys, ID. There was no gun to slip into the back of his pants and no badge to strap on to his belt. After eight years of the routine, he’d grown used to the metal digging into his lower back, used to the danger it possessed and the illusion of safety it gave him.

When he’d woken up that night from an imagined bullet to his chest, he reached for it on the same table, his heart seizing up when he found it empty. The quiet streets of DC and the streetlights pouring in through the window helped ground him, told him where he was. He’d taken to repeating the mantra that had been helping him come to after his nightmares. You’re home. It’s over. You’re home. It’s over.

As he slipped into his suit jacket, he wondered if the mantra was even true anymore. When he told himself that it was over and he was home, did he mean the states? Because DC wasn’t home. But was the US home anymore? Laredo? Bogotá? Shit, if it wasn’t the first three, it definitely wasn’t that last one.

He bent down and pulled his suitcase out from under the bed, hand slipping inside to retrieve the red pack of Marlboros he stored inside. Everything was perfectly packed- shirts and pants ironed perfectly, socks rolled up and underwear folded neatly. With everything else in chaos in his life, this bit of orderliness brought him comfort. He once took some pride in how well he could pack his life up within minutes. Not since that hijo de puta rubbed in his face that despite his shit lifestyle, he had a wife and children to go home to. A family man, he’d called himself.

While he couldn’t even look his dad in the eye or bring himself to visit mom’s grave, men like Berna took themselves home to wives and children every night. It must need some level of delusion to be able to do so.

It wasn’t over. Nothing was over. He’d been fired- well, he resigned. Columbia was supposed to be behind him, but there was still work to be done, paperwork to write up, politicians to schmooze. As the day passed, he was passed around from desk to desk, bureaucrat to bureaucrat, all praising him or letting him know just how hard he’d made their lives. State, Defense, DOJ, CIA, the fucking White House— Javi of the past with the hot blood, wide eyes and the need to prove himself would be ecstatic to know where he’d land up in the future. He wouldn’t be too pleased with the journey, though.

He’d won.

At least that was what the ambassador had said. But it didn’t feel like it. While he’d grown up and let the cynicism of life get to him, there was still that younger Javi taking up too much space in his head, telling him that he had failed in what he’d set off to do and sold his soul in the process. That the last eight years had all been for naught. I went after Medellin and Cali and all I have to show for it is the fucking nightmares. Now that would make for a wonderful print on a t-shirt.

“Good afternoon, how may I help?”

“I have an appointment with The Assistant to the Chief of Staff. I’m Javier Peña,” he said, sliding his ID across the rich mahogany desk to the woman. She took his ID, checked her computer, his face, the ID, repeated the process and then slid the ID back to him.

“Mr. Peña, Mr. Reed is in another meeting right now, but he’ll be happy to see you once it’s over. I can direct you to our waiting room.”

Great.

He smiled, nodded and followed the woman through the state department his eyes roving over the workers as he wondered how many of them had to stay late nights to fuck up the progress he and his fellow agents made on the field. How many of them typed up letters from the Secretary of State with directives to back the fuck off right when he was about to nab a valuable target. How many of them were assigned to Colombia, how many to other countries where they played around in their own interests.

He’d always held these people with contempt and not much had changed. They got to sit in their cushy office with the nicest computers and air conditioning while he and his colleagues chased goons in the streets of a foreign country. These couch potatoes who wrote condemnations and pulled visas and told them how to do their fucking job as though they knew what it was like to have a kid threatening to kill you with a hand that was too small to be wrapped around a gun if you didn’t drop your own.

Did any of these people think about men like him? Think about what it was like when you lost yet another partner and had to live with the image of him bleeding out on the road as you woke up from yet another nightmare with yet another realization of what you should’ve done to save his life in that moment.

They did not, he decided when the clock ticked and ticked but there was no word for him. The receptionist came by once or twice to apologize on her boss’s behalf and offer him coffee. Coffee to add to his sleep deprivation? No thank you.

He politely declined both times, willing himself to not take his anger out on the poor woman. She was just doing her job.

When the clock hit six, he got off his chair and stepped out of the waiting room. He’d known frustration. More often than not, he was left clutching his head in one hand and a glass of whiskey in the other as his lungs burned from the cigarette between his lips as another step in his mission failed spectacularly. He knew frustration, but nothing like this brand of idle frustration where you had nothing to do but sit on an uncomfortable chair in the office of some prick who got paid more money a year than he would make in his entire life for doing fucking nothing.

So much for being a hero.

“Javier?”

He stopped outside the elevator door, turning around to see the face that called out his name.

Goddamn.

Her name slipped out through his lips, his tongue rolling around with as much practiced ease as it had done all those years ago. She looked exactly the same, yet completely different. Slightly taller as she walked up to him with the same smile, lips painted a deep red. Her hair was down instead of up in a bun. Her eyes gleamed with the same light he’d found in them over a decade ago. Although there was a new addition— crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. She’d exchanged the more practical field uniform for a nice blouse and skirt. A matching jacket hung off her arm and her hand was wrapped around the handles of a handbag.

“What are you doing here?” They asked at the same time. They exchanged smiles and he followed as she lead him into the elevator.

“I was supposed to meet someone. A Mr. Reed.”

“Ah. He wasn’t here for most of the day. Some fire to put out.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Did they have you waiting the whole day?” She asked, removing the lanyard with her ID. She hissed when it caught in her hair and he stepped in, untangling the thing from her hair and taking it off for her. He took the card between her fingers and read her name out loud.

“Policy Analyst. Damn, Glasses,” he trailed, using her nickname from their time in Quantico. “You really did get yourself the nerdiest job. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

He handed her ID back to her and she shoved it into her bag, smiling at her nickname rather than shoving him like she used to. Or threatening to tell on him to their training officer. “Alright, Pissy Pants Peña. You got me.”

He let out a laugh at her rebuttal. The name surprised him just as it had the first time she used it against him in a moment of weakness even though she’d claimed that nicknames were “so unprofessional and rude. I will not call my fellow trainees rude names just to look cool around other trainees.” The first time was when he’d aggravated her more than usual and she spat out the name he’d earned when he had so much to drink that he pissed his pants.

“Are you free to grab a drink? It’ll be nice to catch up,” he asked, hopeful that a drink with an old friend would make his terrible day a little less terrible.

“As long as you don’t piss your pants,” she joked, lips curving up in an easy smile before she gave him a clear yes.

She took him to a nearby bar, a favorite of the State Department staff, she said. Many recognized her there, including the bartender who asked her if she’d like her usual.

“You don’t do tequila shots anymore, I’m guessing.”

“Ah, no,” he chuckled, thinking back to his training days when they went out and got drunk on the rare days off from their intensive routine. “These days, I—”

“Whiskey?”

“Yeah. How did you guess?”

“You look like a whiskey man. I can just picture you sitting in a dark corner of a bar, all alone and serious, avoiding paperwork or thinking about how to bend the rules.”

“Oh? That so?”

“Mhmm,” she said, sipping on her glass of red wine. She was always a wine drinker. A wine snob, one might say. She did that little swirl that wine drinkers did, took a whiff of the drink and then a small sip.

“Is that part of your job as policy analyst? Analyzing lonely men in bars and guessing what’s in their heads…”

“No, but I’ve had to creep on lonely men drinking their whiskeys in my last job.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“CIA Operative.”

He raised an eyebrow at that. She didn’t seem the CIA type. But then again, it could be his generally positive regard for her and negative regard for the CIA that made it hard for him to imagine her being part of those bastards.

“And you left because?”

“I found out that I had to do things I didn’t want to do in order to survive in the CIA. Didn’t have the stomach for it. I thought that if I just followed all the rules and did my job, I could succeed, but…” she sighed before taking a sip of her drink. “I learned that doing the right thing and doing my job contradicted each other a bit too much.”

Under the dim light that hung above her head, she didn’t look as naïve as she used to. Following every little rule will get you nowhere, Glasses. He’d made fun of her for it several times, told her she didn’t know what the real world was like, that she was in for a big shock. Little did he know that he would be in for just as much shock if not more. While she was intent on doing everything by the book, she at least knew that certain things could never change. Her ambitions weren’t too big. While he and their other classmates talked big about changing the fucking world, she said she just wanted to do her part, just help things along. She saw the nuts and bolts of the machine, know how the gears turned and pointed to every mechanism that would stop him from realizing his lofty dream of “winning the war on drugs, baby!”

“There is no war. It’s just money and politics and even more money. And a fuckload of racism.”

Javi of the past chided her for her cynicism, but if she told him that now, he would buy her a drink.

“Oh and there was the time I got shot, so I can’t really be on the field anymore. My insides are too messed up,” she said, moving the fabric of her shirt aside to reveal a healed bullet wound peeking out from under her bra strap. “Guadalajara. And this is just one of seven. The guy was a terrible shot, though. And my surgeon was fucking amazing, so I live to tell the tale.”

“A lot has happened, huh?” He remarked, considering her wound carefully as he wondered where the other six bullets had hit her body. The knowledge that she’d look completely different underneath her clothes compared to what he remembered covering in kisses infuriated him. He needed to relearn the body he should’ve taken more time to learn. To strip the proper clothing off her and acquaint himself with what was new and reacquaint himself with the familiar. Would he even remember what was new? Was the one time enough for him to register her in his mind?

“Hmm yeah. A lot. Like your work with the cartels. You and your guys always found a way to get on our nerves in State.”

“Oh?” He feigned innocence. “I didn’t know I was pissing you off, Glasses. I’m sorry.”

“Aww, he’s sorry. Don’t even try me, Peña. It was almost like you and what’s the other guy’s name…? Murphy? Like you two were fucking shit up just to get on my nerves. And then Duffy and Lopez. Duffy always pissed me off, but then he and Lopez had to go have their faces plastered on the papers. I thought it was just some other Javier Peña but then that happened and I was sure it was you.”

“I didn’t ask Duffy and Lopez to do that, I swear. They did that all on their own.”

“Really? I knew you and Duffy were close back in the day. And it looked like something you would do, breaking the rules like that.”

“Now give me some credit, hermosa. Maybe I’ve learned to follow the rules a little in the past few years.”

“As one of the people who had to put out the fires you started, I’ll have to disagree respectfully.”

“I’m surprised I have your respect now. I didn’t have a modicum of that back then.”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad. I had some respect for you.”

“That so?”

“Yeah. You always…you wanted to do the right thing. We have differences of opinion on what the right thing was, but you always wanted to choose the option that would do the most good. I always admired that.”

“I’m not that person anymore.” He was the man who lied to his agents that the Ambassador did not prioritize the safety of their Cali insider. He was the man who got into bed with Los Pepes and did it again to rescue Christina Jurado. Whatever good she’d seen in him fizzled away the moment things got hard for him. He wondered how she would’ve done it. Had he been the type to follow rules like her, would he have kept his soul intact?

“I’m not surprised. I’m not the same person either. No glasses for one,” she joked, getting a light chuckle out of him. Her light demeanor dulled just a little and he could see through her eyes some kind of darkness that wasn’t there before.

“Things are rarely as we expect when we’re at the heart of the problem. Making the right choice is more…complex because— we have to choose between option that will all hurt people terribly in one way or the other.”

He nodded and took a sip of his drink, his mind reeling with all the times he needed to make decisions like that. They tended to be a lot more complex that he imagined when he was young and idealistic.

“Job like that, if it doesn’t change you, are you even human?”

“Right,” he said, not fully agreeing with the sentiment. The standards were completely different for the two of them. Sure, she would’ve faced those choices in the CIA. But she left. Long ago, he assumed, from her senior position at the State Department.

Whatever she had to do as CIA operative, it made her leave. Unlike him, she had the moral clarity to do it as early as she did. She looked more at ease now.

Maybe it was the fact that she had a cushy office job now, but the perpetual tension in her shoulders was missing. He’d prefer her version of change to his. Perhaps he should take up an office job, be relaxed, sit back at a desk and attend meetings about when to have meetings. His body sure couldn’t handle the field anymore. His knees and ankles still felt his jump from a balcony when he chased Jurado in Curaçao.

As much as he liked condemning himself to hell for his sins, as much as he liked withering away in shame when people heaped him with praises, it felt good to be on the receiving end of her empathy. The job did change everyone. If Glasses, the goody two shoes, stickler for the rules, ultimate teacher’s pet could understand that… Maybe he should too. If the field had changed someone like her, of course it changed him.

“So, umm… it’s getting late,” she said, looking up from her watch. “I have a rule about not having more than two drinks and,” she held up her second glass, half a sip of red wine resting in the bottom. “I had an early day today and will have an earlier day tomorrow. I got a meeting.”

Shoulders slumped, he nodded at her slowly. He didn’t want her to leave, didn’t want to lose the piece of a much calmer past. “It was great seeing you again, Glasses.”

“Likewise, Triple P.”

He tilted his head to one side, smiling at the new nickname. “Pissy Pants Peña is quite the mouthful, so… And it would be weird if my bosses heard it. We aren’t in our early twenties anymore and stupid shit like this could ruin a career.”

“Well, I no longer have a career to be ruined, so… But thanks anyway,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

“Nah ah ah,” she said in a sing-song voice, reaching into her bag. “You’re in my city, I’m not letting you pay. It’s bad manners.”

“Is it now?” he said, sliding a wad of cash across the bar to the bartender. “Is that one of your rules?”

“It is. You’re a guest in D.C. and it’s poor hospitality to not buy you a drink,” she said before turning to the bartender. “Josh, don’t take his money,” she said, handing the man some dollar bills from her purse. Josh ignored Javier’s money and took hers instead, alluding to whatever loyalty he had for her. She did say that the place was a State Department favorite. It made sense that she was on a first name basis with the guy.

He thumbed his mustache, the bristles scratching his finger gently. “What if I have a rule about that? That it’s poor manners to make a beautiful woman pay for her drinks and mine…”

“Then I’d expect you to say thank you for aiding you in your rule-breaking. I know how you love to do that.”

He grinned and licked his lips slowly, taking her in as she walked ahead of him. She never wore clothes like that before, pencil skirts that hugged her ass and high heeled shoes that made her hips sway in the most mesmerizing rhythm. As though feeling his stare, she turned around suddenly, making his head whip up so fast he could’ve broken his neck. Or it was just his old age.

“So, umm…Lunch sometime? We could continue this conversation,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Or not!” She added quickly. Painted fingernails scratched at each other, chipping away at the already lightly chipped red paint. “I know you’re really busy.”

“Never too busy for you, Glasses. Drinks again tomorrow night?”

“Yup. I’ll see you here at 6:30? If my schedule doesn’t change too much, that is.”

“6:30 is good.”

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artbyblastweave · 2 years ago

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opinion on scion, poor little meow meow

Three thoughts about Scion. More to follow.

I think that Scion is underexplored as a character in the fandom because it’s very easy to fall into to the same trap that the characters did in Canon. His status as a cipher, idiot-god, and engineered anglerfish lure all serve to elide the fact that he is, in fact, Actually A Character Who Inhabits The World. Cauldron thinks they’re they’re in a Jean Jacket sorta situation, but they aren’t! He’s agentic, he has emotions, he’s got a sense of self. He’s metaphorically literate. He hears Kevin Norton talking about religion and he’s able to draw coherent connections to his own sense of identity. Stuff is capable of catching his interest; he didn’t have to answer that reporter’s question. He’s not solely a humanoid time bomb, floating around mindlessly dispensing good deeds until the big finish; he is mostly that, in practice, but there’s other stories to be told with this guy!

On that note, something I’ve thought for a long time is that his relationship with Kevin Norton- and he does have one- is weirdly underexplored in the fandom given the canon particulars. Kevin is gay, and Scion is using him as a replacement goldfish for his dead wife, and both of them meet while they’re spiraling in the aftermath of their previous relationships ending. Kevin shows up, tries to fill the void for a while, but then stops making himself available to provide further guidance. I’m describing a dynamic that should have hundreds of pages of shipfic on AO3, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone consider the prospect seriously. I think I’ve seen one fic, ever, in which something Kevin says to Scion that prompts Scions emotional growth in a novel direction. That’s a whole genre of AU fic right there! Completely untapped!

Scion is very important, to the overall deconstructive project of Worm. There’s a whole post to be written (not right now, but eventually) about the sheer number of ways in which Scion is riffing on Superman’s mythos and publication history, and I think he does so in genuinely novel ways. Doing a comprehensive examination of the superhero genre was always going to require some integration of the archetype, or it wouldn’t be comprehensive. But beyond that project, he is such a good final boss for the narrative of Worm specifically. In a book about a young woman struggling against broken systems run by traumatized people carrying big sticks, he’s the worst possible system, the biggest possible stick, doing what he does because he’s traumatized at a cosmic level. I see people complain about Scion and his role in the endgame, and I’ve counter-kvetched about that line of thought before; escalation is only bad if you aren’t writing a story about escalation. But Worm scales up! It rhymes at every level! It’s so cool!

#worm #parahumans #wildbow #scion #worm spoilers #thoughts #meta #ask game #my new years resolution was to clean out the drafts #worm thoughts #worm web serial

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malicedragoness · 8 months ago

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"Us Against The World"

The long awaited bj one shot that I've been working on and off since October.

This became more than intended and I absolutely love how it turned out. There's plot, their relationship dynamic, and of course some smut. What originally started out as a 1700 word skeleton turned into a 2600 word fic that I'm extremely proud of! I haven't written anything this long in awhile. It feels good to know I can still accomplish something like this.

And expect more Havik and Cori content! I love these two and will continue to write for them. Let me know if you have questions about them.

Thank you to the lovely @brittlecakes92 for beta reading and listening to me complain about my writing. And for smacking me around when I needed it!

#84 ‘Make-Up’ on my lover100 prompt table

Word count: 2,650

MK story tag list: @bihanspookies

Warnings: N/S/F/W, oral sex (male receiving), body horror at the end (It's Havik. But its not the naughty thing you're thinking!)

-*-*-*-*-

“Let me take care of you.” Cori reached up to touch his face.

“No!” Havik flinched away from her gentle touch, backing up against a tree. “Don’t touch me. Don’t touch my face.”

The last thing he wants is for his little thief to be repulsed by his burnt flesh. He wouldn’t be able to handle seeing the disgust on her face. Not from her. Anyone but his Life’s Blood.

His heart jumped in his throat when soft, delicate hands forced him to look at her. Havik tried to back away, but she held him close, placing her forehead against his. He forgot how insistent and stubborn she could be.

“This face will always be dear to me.” She murmured, her thumbs caressing his cheekbones. “It doesn’t matter what you look like. If this is what makes you happy, then don’t change it. But please,” her voice held a hint of desperation, begging him to understand, “don’t pull away from me.”

Havik let out a shaky breath. A lump had formed in his throat as warmth spread throughout his chest.

How could she still say these things? After everything he’s done. The people he’s killed. The asshole sorcerers he willingly helped to build literal machines to steal souls. Amongst all the other questionable shit he did for months to help Quan Chi.

Why did she come back to him? Why didn’t she stay away when he forced her to leave?

“You shouldn’t want me, Cori. You deserve someone better.” His massive hands tangled in her inky black locks, holding her to him, breathing in her scent through his mangled nose.

She deserves so much more than what he can give her. A better man that can give her anything she asks for.

And yet, his blood boiled at the mere thought of another man touching her.

“But I can’t let you go.” Despite his burning hatred of wanting to confine this tempting creature to him, he didn’t have the willpower to see her walk away. “Not again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Cori whispered, nudging her nose against his exposed cartilage. Half lidded eyes never leaving his. “Let me take your mind off of everything. Let me show you how much I need you.”

Her warm tongue peeked out to trace a line against his lower teeth, asking for entrance. Tentatively, Havik’s tongue met hers, allowing her to pull him into the warm cavern of her mouth, and gave him a gentle suck. He closed his eyes and let out a low, gravely sigh. She tasted so sweet.

Their tongues swirled together in a slow sensual dance, savoring the way the other tasted. One of his hands pulled her in by her waist, pressing her soft curves against his scarred chest. While his other hand gripped her hair to tilt her head back, giving him more room to press his teeth against her lips and explore her sweet mouth, drinking in her sighs.

Everything about her was intoxicating. The way she kissed him always took his breath away. Even with his past partners, they never elicited such feelings. The world drowns out around them into muffled noise. The only coherent sound is the beating of his heart, and the beautiful sighs he consumes from her.

Fuck, he missed her. He missed every inch of her. He won’t make that same mistake again.

Havik broke the kiss to capture her plump bottom lip between his teeth, nibbling the soft, pliant flesh. One massive hand greedily roamed her body, as if making up for the time they’ve lost, feeling every familiar dip and curve.

Cori let out a surprised gasp when Havik bit down on her lip. A dark growl escaped his throat at the taste of copper that stained his tongue. He lapped it up with renewed fervor, mentally cursing himself for the pathetic moans he let out.

The taste of her blood was like a drug! Stirring his cock to life and pressing it against her stomach.

Why did she have to be so irresistible?

Havik released her swollen lip, when Cori pushed him against the tree, letting out a sharp exhale of breath. The air around them charged with electricity and the heat of their rising desire.

“I said,” Cori started, an edge to her words, hand holding him by the neck and his clothed cock. “I’ll make you feel good.”

Havik gave a dark chuckle, his jaw clicking together, when he caught that devious spark in her eyes that he adored. Oh, his sweet little thief.

The dark haired beauty trailed open mouth kisses from his jaw to his ear, sucking the lobe into her mouth. His hips twitched unbidden at all the lovely sensations she’s causing. Wet kisses travel down his neck, pausing every now and then to nip his scarred flesh.

“Harder.” Havik demanded in a gruff voice. He hates how he sounds. So pathetic and needy. Only his goddess of chaos could do that to him. Make him feel so wanted. So alive.

A delicate hand fisted into his dark locks and forcibly pulled his head to the side. A shiver ran down his spine as Cori sank her teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Havik gritted his teeth and let out a guttural growl. The pain sent a jolt of pleasure to his stiffening cock.

“Is that what you want?” She grunted through her teeth. Those lovely lips sucking a bruise into his flesh. Her hands yanking on his hair and rubbing his cock, stoking the fire that’s settling deep in his pelvis.

“Yes!” Havik whimpered as she pulled back and left another delicious bite in his neck. She gave him another and another, until she left him covered in purple bruises and a sheen of saliva.

She pulled back to admire her handiwork that he wouldn’t dream of healing from his body. The pain she inflicts on him would be displayed proudly and unabashedly.

Her lips trailed kisses down his massive chest, leaving behind a trail of heat in its wake, and continuing her sweet onslaught to his nipples. Sucking one of his dusky peaks into her mouth while she pinched and rubbed the other. Havik’s hands tangled in her raven hair, letting out gruff sighs.

Being completely lost in the pleasurable sensations, Havik didn’t feel her make quick work of his belt, until his leather faulds and purple cloth slumped to the floor. The discarded weight made him feel lighter and more vulnerable. He chuckled.

The hands of a thief.

Her kisses continued down his toned abdomen and through his pubic hair, leaving feather light caresses over his toned body. Once on her knees, she pulled his pants down far enough for his thick cock to spring out, the cool night air making him involuntarily twitch.

His cock was thick enough to where her fingertips couldn’t touch when she encircled him at the base. Darker than the rest of his skin with a big bulbous tip. Three veins run along the sides, blood continuously pulsing through them, giving it an angry appearance. And heavy balls hanging below, filled with a vicious need for her.

To others, he is a monster with an ugly cock. But to the beautiful creature in front of him, he’s perfect.

Cori gently glided her fingers down his shaft with a feather light touch, sending a shiver down his spine. A deep groan formed in his chest when her hand grasped him more firmly at the base of his shaft and stroked him to his weeping tip. The fire that gathered in his loins slowly built up with each stroke of his cock.

“Oh, I’ve missed doing this.” Cori purred. The thief glanced up at him through her lashes and smirked, as he watched her in anticipation. Smooth, velvety tongue licked him from base to tip at an agonizingly slow pace. Laving her tongue over his smooth hardness to cover every inch of him in her saliva.

“So beautiful.” Havik hunched over her short form, casting a menacing shadow. His large calloused hands framed her face, pushing her hair out of the way.

Mischievous green eyes held his gaze as her tongue darted out, teasing his slit with kitten licks and tasting the milky precum. Before enveloping him in her hot mouth, giving him a hard suck.

Deep, gravely groans escaped his throat. He could never contain his noises, less so now that his lips and cheeks were gone. There wasn’t any point in holding back now. That sinfully sweet mouth felt so good!

The wet, velvety walls of her cheeks hollowed around his throbbing cock, slowly taking him in inch by inch, getting further each time. His thick girth stretched the corners of her mouth. Her hand moved with her mouth, covering the delicious inches she couldn’t fit, and her free hand massaging his heavy sack.

“I just want to fuck a hole through your throat.” Havik growled. The heat building up in his loins got tighter with each bob of her head. His hands gripped her hair tighter, rubbing the silky locks between his fingers.

How did he get so lucky to have a woman so devoted, so loving, as her?

Everyone always saw the scary hulking figure littered with scars. Someone unworthy of all the beautiful, free things life has to offer.

Only she saw the real him. The only one who even tried to look passed his scars.

Cori released his hardened length with a wet pop, and licked a stripe down the underside to his sack.

“Ah, fuck!” Havik tilted his head back. One of his balls was engulfed into her warm mouth, her tongue curling around it as far as it could, sucking greedily.

The throaty moans she let out vibrated against his sensitive skin. She alternated between each of his balls. Taking her time sucking and licking, until saliva drenched both his sack and her face.

Fuck, she’s going to be the death of him. Havik couldn’t help the strained sighs escaping his throat. The sloppy mess she’s making of his cock is getting him harder. Needier.

Then he felt her hand lift his sack and her tongue traveled southwards. Havik let out a surprised groan and jumped when he felt her tongue tickle his puckered hole. He wrenched her back by the hair to find a coy smirk beaming at him. If he didn’t stop her, he was going to blow his load like a prepubescent boy!

Havik peered at her with glazed over eyes, adoration mixed with pleasure, and saliva dripping from his open maw.

“Open your mouth.”

Cori stuck out her tongue to catch a drip of his spit.

A shudder ran down his spine. Why does she have to be so damn tempting?

With a breathy growl, he plunged his cock into her greedy mouth, making her sputter at the sudden fullness.

“You feel so fucking good.” His thrusts were rough and deep. Each one hitting the back of her throat, eliciting a gag.

Soft hands, that are used to cracking open safes and the walls around his dead heart, desperately held onto his hips.

“Just wanna pump you full of my cum ‘til you drown in it.” His throat hoarse from the ragged growls leaving his destroyed maw. He never means the vulgar things he says during their stolen moments of intimacy. But fuck, he needed to get it out!

The air was filled with ragged breaths and gagging noises as Havik thrust down her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she tried to keep up with his brutal demand for release.

“Why do you make me want you? Why can’t I live without you?” He snarled between heavy pants. The ball of heat was getting tighter in his pelvis, and he knew it was only a matter of time before he would release.

He can’t peel his eyes away from her face. That gorgeous face he got used to seeing when he woke up and went to sleep. Watching every emotion cross her face. The adoring smiles she sent his way. The cocky smirks when she rushed head first into a heist. The angered sneers when someone pisses her off. Even the way she cries was a sight to behold.

His heart clenched.

“I need you.” He moaned pathetically.

Half lidded green eyes chanced a look at him with something akin to adoration and need. One of her skillful hands massaged his balls, while she swallowed around his tip.

That was all it took for the damn to break. Havik’s body shuddered, a primal growl erupting from deep in his chest. His balls clenched tightly as he released rope after rope of white cum down her throat, Cori sputtered and gagged, trying to drink in every drop she could. Every nerve ending in his body came alive and tingled with a pleasurable electricity as he rode out his release.

He collapsed against the tree, panting heavily from the euphoric exertion, his now soft cock slipping from her mouth. His body felt boneless from the blessed ecstasy she brought him as his knees buckled under him and slid down the rough bark.

Havik felt his heart slamming in his ribcage as his body slowly worked on coming down its intense high, his breaths coming out hot and heavy. After a few moments, he cracked open his eyes to see himself face to face with his sensual little thief.

Her inky black hair was a disheveled mess. Eyelashes clumped together from the tears that ran down her face and stained her cheeks. Some of his seed managed to drip down her chin, mixing in with her saliva as she wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“Beautiful.” Havik breathed out. She was an absolute mess. But he loved it.

Cori let out a chuckle and gave him a captivating smile. “I’m sure I look like a disaster.”

He reached up and jabbed his hands into his chest, blood splattering over his arms and abdomen. The sickening noise of muscle being ripped apart and bones crunching together, as he pried open his ribcage to reveal his beating heart.

The raven haired beauty watched him, entranced by the beating muscle. The steady thump, thump, thump of his heart was the only noise that could be heard in the silent night air. Slowly, she moved closer, almost as if being drawn in by the rhythmic sound.

“Touch it.” Havik murmurs, barely above a whisper.

In the time that he’s known her, he’s never seen her hands waver. Always so confident and cock sure under pressure, her hands completely steady when she picks locks and disarms traps.

And yet, as she raised a tentative hand towards his open chest, he watched it tremble uncontrollably. Havik reaches over, his hand dwarfing her own, and guides it towards his heart. It beats faster when she gingerly brushes against it, thrumming with excitement.

“You see what you do to me?” Havik moans as Cori gently touches it again, not removing her hand this time. The look of pure affection and tenderness in her gaze made his breath hitch in his throat. “Do you see how much I need you? No one else has made me feel these..things. These..emotions.”

Loving green eyes turned to him, his heart thumping wildly in her hand.

“Cori.” He whispered, voice full of longing. “Life’s Blood.”

“Havik.” Tears beaded her eyes. She leaned her forehead against his, still holding his heart.

“I know you can’t forgive me for what I’ve done. But I can’t…I can’t let you go. Not again.” Why is he crying?

Her hand gently caresses his mangled cheekbone, forcing him to look in her eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m with you, through all of this.” She reassured him. “It’s us against the world, baby.”

“Us against the world.”

#mk character x oc #OC: Cori Graye #Cori Graye #Cori Graye X Havik #lover100 prompts #n/s/f/w #n/s/f/t #mk havik x oc #havik x oc #ship: life’s blood

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queenofthursday6599-blog · 2 years ago

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You know, someday someone will write a Bioshock story that has these guys in it:

Because the idea of survivor camps hidden away in different parts of Rapture, is just too logical not to show up in a fanfic somewhere.

There has to be at least a small subset of people in Rapture who never got into splicing. It can’t literally just be Sinclair, Grace, Sophia Lamb, Tenenbaum, and Stanly who never touched the stuff and lived to 1968.

Like the couple that tried to escape in that crashed bathysphere that we find early on into Bioshock 2. They don’t sound like splicers, they sound completely coherent (something splicers don’t tend to sound).

I just love the survivor idea so much. That and how there would have been be a pneumo trading system with them. Which I think could have replaced the vending machine system, at least in some parts of Rapture.

Such as Dionysus Park, where it’s been flooded since before the war. So all of the vending machines (or at least their content) should have logically been ruined.

Different traders would focus on different things, as you can tell the picture above is of the ammo trader’s inventory.

It’s just that when I really got into looking up removed content from the games this is one of the things I was sad never made it into the final game. So I’ve always wanted to see someone write a fic exploring the idea.

So I’ve got fic idea below, involving Eleanor’s childhood friend Amir being a survivor if you want to read any of it:

Personally I’ve always wanted to see a fic with Eleanor’s childhood friend Amir turning out to be a survivor. Just because Eleanor deserves nice things, and should be able to escape Rapture with her childhood friend on a stolen submarine like she’d wanted too as a child.

Also it’d just be a great reunion anyways, because you know both Eleanor and Amir would think the other is either dead, or spliced to the point it’d be less horrible to think they’re dead.

The survivor camps are supposed to be isolated from the rest of Rapture. No splicers or splicing among the survivors means no reason for little sisters to come around because there would be nothing to gather. The survivors wouldn’t care about Lamb and what she has to say. She’s just another adam obsessed leader of the most recent cult of personality. Just like Atlas, and Fontaine, and Ryan. Everything she says just sounds like weird drug cult nonsense to them.

Amir might not even know Eleanor survived the war at all if he doesn’t know her last name. Because my guess is that the last he heard of her was that she was seen around town as a Little Sister, and then the civil war broke out and she was gone. They were both pretty young kids back then, so Amir could very well not even know or remember Eleanor’s last name was Lamb. [After all, we the audience never learn Amir’s last name from Eleanor. He’s just Amir.] So even if he does hear Sophia’s sermons about the “People’s Daughter” and the random Splicer’s ramblings, and that girl being referred to as Eleanor. The idea that it could be the Eleanor he knew from childhood doesn’t even come to mind.

Eleanor who punched him in the face without an ounce of hesitation the first day they met. Who was sneaking out of her house so frequently her controlling mother installed a security system to keep her inside. Who, when they were kids, once looked him in the eye and asked, completely seriously, if he was a dog eating dog in a human suit. He’s supposed to think that girl is this weird cult’s all forgiving, all knowing, messiah figure?

Eleanor was feral, and Amir knew that. It’s the whole reason they were friends.

So there’s only 4 options in Amir’s mind: A) Eleanor died as a little sister during the New Years Eve Riot, because that’s when she disappeared, and a lot of people died during the riot. B) Eleanor survived the New Years Eve Riot, but later died as a little sister. Death was very common among little sisters, it’s why little girls were worth so much in Rapture. C) Eleanor survived the riot, and was one of the lucky little sisters to get swept up by Jack Ryan and Dr. Tenenbaum and is now living a normal life on the surface, with Rapture being just a distant memory. [God does Amir hope this is what happened.] Or lastly D) Eleanor survived as a little sister all the way through to being turned into a big sister. And she’s now one of those shrieking, murderous giants running around Rapture. [The option Amir dreads the most.]

Eleanor on the other hand definitely hasn’t heard hide nor hair of Amir since she got swept up in the Gatherer program. Sophia didn’t want Eleanor to have friends anyways, and Eleanor was actively breaking out of the house in order to go see Amir and the rest of her friends.

So when Sophia found Eleanor again she 100% kept her under lock and key, and certainly wouldn’t have told Eleanor anything about her old friends. Friendship meant a more significant emotional attachment. Friendship meant favoritism among the masses. A flaw in the utopian mindset that Sophia was obsessed with molding her child to have.

So Eleanor assumes that Amir was killed as a child during the civil war, or that he’s possibly a splicer, but she finds the second idea highly unlikely. The idea that Amir could have survived as a non-splicer survivor doesn’t really cross her mind, as the non-splicer survivors rarely cross her mind.

Eleanor is in a prison and can only see and hear into the world beyond where the little sisters are. The non-splicer survivor camps had long since blocked up the little sister vents that lead to their camps. Due to the fact that a big daddy would never be too far behind one. Along with the possibility of a splicer following the adam rich smell of a little sister into their camp area.

Most non-splicer survivors who are scavengers (who are the ones how leave their camp/safe area to find supplies) tend to be older than Eleanor (and Amir). After all, parents who managed to keep their kids alive, sure as hell wouldn’t be trying to send them off into the dangerous splicer ridden battle field that is the city beyond their safe area.

So even when she gains the eyes and ears of the little sisters, Eleanor doesn’t ever see proof of Amir still being alive. Or even being a still living splicer from the memories of dead splicers.

#bioshock 2 #bioshock 2 survivor concept #bioshock fic idea

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theggning · 4 years ago

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I Hate the Alternate Ending of Blind Betrayal, and Here's Why!

DISCLAIMER THE FIRST: Massive spoilers for Fallout 4 abound. This post discusses Blind Betrayal, a quest with suicide as a heavy theme. Content warning applies.

DISCLAIMER THE SECOND: This post discusses cut OFFICIAL content from Fallout 4 that has since been repurposed into multiple mods. I am not criticizing any modders or their implementations of this content. Mods are fun and people can enjoy whatever the hell kind of game experience they want with whatever mods they want.

I am ONLY interested in discussing the original cut content as Bethesda had written it, and how it would have impacted the story and lore of Fallout 4.

So, yeah, it seems there was originally going to be another way to conclude Blind Betrayal (BB).

As described in this Kotaku article (citing this post by Tumblr user tentacle-explosion,) there are unused audio files of Danse’s dialogue that show an alternate ending to his pivotal quest. These lines are the only evidence we have of this ending (suggesting that it was cut fairly early on, as no other actors/characters seem to have recorded for it.)

From what we can tell, in this alternate ending of BB, Danse comes up with a possible way out of the sticky situation re: his identity as a synth. According to the Brotherhood Litany, he is able to challenge Maxson’s authority as Elder via combat. If you agree to this idea, you go with Danse to challenge Maxson. The Paladin and the Elder duel one another, Danse wins, and Maxson dies. Then Danse names the Sole Survivor the new Elder-- or with a hard charisma check, you’re able to convince Danse to take the job himself. It is unknown how the main plot would have progressed beyond this point, as there is no other evidence of what being (or influencing) the Elder would have been like or what choices it would have given you.

There is understandable disappointment in learning that this ending was cut. Choices in games are great, and it could have been fun to have multiple different options for how to resolve the quest. In many gaming circles, people complain that this theoretical ending is superior to the one we got and shouldn’t have been axed. The Kotaku article calls it a “way better” ending, and you’ll see many players lamenting that it wasn’t implemented, saying Bethesda was bad at writing for cutting it, etc.

So why did Bethesda get rid of the Elder ending of BB?

In December 2020, after the Fallout 4 Cast Reunion, Danse’s voice actor Peter Jessop answered questions in a private signing session on his Instagram. Peter Jessop is an extremely kind and gracious man, an avid gamer, and a huge fan of Fallout. During the stream, he reflected on the alternate ending and remembered recording the lines, but stated the content was ultimately cut because Bethesda decided it was lore-breaking.

Peter Jessop is right. Bethesda was right. The Elder ending of BB is a bunch of dumb nonsense. It sucks, I hate it, and I’m glad they got rid of it. And now I’m going to tell you why!

SIDENOTE: King Shit of Fuck Mountain

There is no wrong way to play a single-player video game. If you are having fun, then you are accomplishing the task for which the game was made. Good for you! Play it on easy. Play it on hard. Mod it. Speedrun it. Make up an intricate roleplaying scenario. Perform “challenge” runs. Kill everybody you see. Ignore the story and run around collecting wheels of cheese. Games are meant to be fun and there is nothing wrong with enjoying a game however you damn well please. This is especially true for RPGs like Fallout, which are designed with player freedom in mind.

There is an RPG playstyle I like to call King Shit of Fuck Mountain: a naked power fantasy in which your protagonist is the most powerful person ever, even beyond normal RPG plot significance. Through brute strength, incredible charisma, or having completed tons of quests for world-breaking artifacts and weapons, your character wields godlike influence, able to control people, factions, and the fabric of the world itself. A game enables KSoFM gameplay when it allows the player limitless freedom to gain as much power as they like with zero consequences to plot or storytelling.

A great example of this is the Dragonborn in The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim. If the player chooses to pursue every questline in the game, one single person can become Harbinger of the Companions, Archmage of the College of Winterhold, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, Nightingale and Guildmaster of the Thieves’ Guild, hero of the Imperial/Stormcloak army, the chosen one of like, 11 different Daedric princes, a bard, a Blade, and otherwise just, absurdly goddamn powerful in completely unrealistic ways. And that’s not counting DLCs. A fully-kitted-out Dragonborn is King Shit of Fuck Mountain.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with playing KSoFM if you like to. But I’m not a big fan of this style, personally. Sure, my first Skyrim character became KSoFM while I was figuring out the game, but after my first playthrough I preferred my characters become coherent figures in the story of the world. I pick one or two character traits and things that my Dragonborn is good at, focus on them, and make them part of some overall story. My honorable Imperial paladin werewolf is in the Companions, and hunts vampires on principle. My Argonian sneaky archer is a gleeful thief, but would never jive with the College or the Dark Brotherhood. I like creating protagonists who fit into these settings immersively. I don’t care about power fantasies or being in charge. I don’t WANT my character to be all-powerful, because that ruins my immersion and my little story.

Additionally, in a plot-driven story-focused game like Fallout, KSoFM tears the narrative apart. Skyrim is fairly light on story, so the Dragonborn can be the leader of the Companions and the Dark Brotherhood and whatever other factions without any of them noticing or caring. But FO4’s themes, faction drama, and the main thrust of the plot don’t work at all if the Sole Survivor is able to become too powerful or too influential. The Sole Survivor cannot become the leader of every faction, solve every problem, or eliminate every inconvenient bend of the conflict because it makes the lore of the entire setting implode. Thus, the game forces you to choose between factions. You cannot be with the Minutemen and the Nuka-World Raiders. You cannot be with the Railroad and the Institute. And you cannot become Elder of the Brotherhood of Steel.

So if you’re the kind of person who loves playing KSoFM, if you like plots that your character can “solve” with relative ease, or if you just think it would be super cool for your Sole to become Elder regardless of surrounding storytelling, then you might think the Elder ending sounds super cool. You are absolutely allowed to disagree with me here. Install all the mods and write all the fic and have all the headcanons you like. I respect that. There is no wrong way to enjoy a single-player video game. Have fun!

But if you’re a big nitpicky pedantic lore nerd like me, a fan of cohesive storytelling, or if you just want to hear how the Elder ending of BB absolutely fucking ruins Maxson, Danse, the Brotherhood of Steel, and the entire plot of FO4 from a narrative perspective, read on!

1. The Synth Thing

The Elder ending requires the stupid plot contrivance of the BoS forgetting about Danse’s synthhood.

One of the biggest problems with the BoS as an institution is their strict and dogmatic beliefs, which include a widespread dislike of non-human species. Perhaps more than any other non-humans, the BoS hates synths. Synths are, in their eyes, machines given free will, a violation of the sanctity of human life and the ultimate example of technology run amok. To them, synths are not sympathetic, they are not slaves, and they are not victims of circumstance. They are weapons that left unchecked will destroy all of humanity for a second time. Synths are anathema to everything the BoS stands for, and finding out that one of their most beloved and trusted Paladins is one is an earth-shattering blow to their integrity and sense of security.

It is completely absurd that the BoS would allow a synth within their ranks, particularly as they are waging war against the Institute, who created synths in the first place. It is even MORE absurd that they’d allow one to influence their Elder, or even worse, to become Elder. It completely undermines their mission in the Commonwealth, and the core tenets of their extremely rigid beliefs. No matter the Elder, no matter the Litany or obscure BoS law, no matter how valuable the Sole Survivor is as a soldier or how much influence they wield. Danse is a synth. He’s the enemy. He is physically the embodiment of everything they hate.

Not only wouldn’t they trust a synth in general, but the BoS specifically believes that Danse is an infiltrator for the Institute. Even Danse believes that he is a danger, that the Institute may be able to take control of him and use him as a weapon. Sure, we know none of this is actually true, or possible, but the BoS don’t know that. And given how quick they are to order Danse dead without even the possibility of surrender, I don’t think there’s any charisma in the world that’s going to convince them otherwise.

According to Peter Jessop, this, ultimately, is the reason why the Elder ending was cut. He talks about it around the 11:30 timestamp in his Instagram stream, linked above:

“We recorded an ending where you keep Danse alive and you take over the Brotherhood. But there was a question of content… there’s no way the Brotherhood, once they knew he was a synth, would let him be even the right hand of the person in charge.”

Bethesda correctly recognized the incredible narrative contrivance for the BoS to shrug off the reason they’re trying to execute Danse in the first place. Whatever other beefs I have with this ending conceptually, they all come in second to just what a big dumb leap it is to get beyond this first and most important problem.

2. The Complete Death of Conflict

The Elder ending of BB destroys the conflict of the quest, and potentially the conflict of the entire game.

Greed is a poison. There is no such thing as a perfect ideal or a perfect organization. Power corrupts. Humanity has the choice to build back better. War never changes. The Fallout games are full of themes, depicted by the characters and quests and factions we play out.

Blind Betrayal is rightfully praised as one of the most powerful quests in FO4. Not only is it well-acted, but it puts the player in a very difficult position. The BoS has given you clout and glory and free power armor and lots of firepower, but now you see the price: unquestioning obedience. You are ordered to execute your friend and mentor Danse for the mere fact he is a synth. Are you going to follow that unjust order? Are you willing to give up your principles on command? Or is this where you can no longer stay quiet and stay in line?

To be honest, I’ve always thought the fact you can talk Maxson out of killing Danse but still remain with the BoS in good standing was a cop-out. BB goes 90% of the way to forcing you to choose between a companion and a faction, and then chickens out at the last second to let you have both, if your charisma is high enough.

(I believe this has the fingerprints of Skyrim’s development on it-- Bethesda’s writers got nervous about doing another Paarthurnax choice involving the fan favorite Brotherhood of Steel. That’s right. Danse is the Paarthurnax of Fallout. Frankly, I understand why they chose not to go there, but damn, wouldn’t it have been wild? You want to run with the BoS? Then kill your friend and feel the burn. THIS is what it means to follow orders without question.

As for me, I’d pick Danse every time and sleep soundly without the company of shitty bootlicking dieselpunk LARPers- but I digress.)

Anyway, you know what would have REALLY been a copout? If the game asked you to make a difficult thematic storyline choice, and you solved the problem by just not choosing at all.

You are supposed to feel uncomfortable when Maxson orders you to kill Danse, because the game is telling a story about how it is maybe a bad thing to thoughtlessly follow orders without question. It is asking you to think about what the BoS is, what they are doing, and how they are going to run things, if you choose to let them “win” the Commonwealth. It is pointing out that there is no room for gray in the BoS’ black and white. That a good, loyal man may die because of the way he was made, through no action of his own. That soon, you’ll be killing other people on command. The Railroad. Fleeing Institute synths and scientists. Others, down the line. It all depends on who’s giving the orders. Are you going to follow those orders?

Eesh, that sounds thought-provoking and unpleasant and difficult! Let’s just skip it by killing Maxson and making ourselves the boss. Now we get to tell everybody else what to do!

It’s unknown what powers the Elder ending would have granted the player, or how it would have interacted with the other factions. There is speculation that you’d have been able to ease back on the BoS’ dogmatism, or change some of the later events of the game. For instance, perhaps you could talk the BoS down from attacking the Railroad, sparing popular characters like Glory and Deacon who must die in the normal BoS storyline. Perhaps you could have made the BoS a kinder, gentler faction and directed them to run the way you want them to.

If this was indeed the case, then the Elder ending would not only suck the gravitas out of BB, but torpedo the entire main plot.

If you can get rid of any and all downsides to siding with the BoS, why in the hell would players side with anybody else? With the player given total power, the BoS becomes a perfect faction with no drawbacks, no weaknesses, no tough decisions to be made. Screw slumming it with the Railroad or the Minutemen, let’s take over the BoS. Free power armor and a giant robot! Forget the whole intolerance thing, I hereby proclaim the BoS No Longer Problematic! Now to force all the factions to get along, completely removing all conflict and nuance from the plot!

That’s some real anticlimactic “tell Legate Lanius to go home and then he does it” bullshit right there. King Shit of Fuck Mountain!

Look, it might be nice if there was a perfect path like that to take through the game. It would be cool if our characters could be that powerful and the game was that tailored to our individual choices. On the other hand, “I change all the factions to suit my exact liking” might be a fun idea for a fanfic, but it’s an incredibly boring plot for a video game. “I get to make everything in the world exactly how I want it” is Minecraft, not a story-driven RPG with a complex and intricate plot.

It would be great if complex conflicts could really be solved that easily and effortlessly, but hey, you know what? War never changes.

3. The Assassination of Arthur Maxson (Literal)

Arthur Maxson’s death is too significant and fundamentally disastrous for the Elder ending to make any sense at all.

Hero, villain, leader, monster, tortured soul, brutal dictator, immature twerp, bearded sex hunk. However you personally interpret Arthur Maxson, there is no denying that he is a venerated, popular, beloved figure in the BoS. He is the blood heir of the organization’s founder, a powerful warrior, a brilliant tactician, and a charismatic negotiator. He is responsible for reuniting the East Coast BoS with the Outcasts, leading the new, stronger BoS with a sense of shared purpose. There is a damn good reason his name is Arthur and he named his ship The Prydwen, echoes of King Arthur and the legends of his glorious kingdom of Camelot. Arthur Maxson is so beloved that many view him as a demigod, a messiah sent to lead the BoS into a mighty and prosperous future.

So I’m sure nobody’s going to be upset when some wasteland jackass recruited a month ago stumbles in with a synth, kills him, and takes over his job. Right?

It doesn’t matter that it’s “honorable.” It doesn’t matter that it’s done “by the book” via obscure BoS rules. There is no codex or litany or rule so binding that it’s going to overcome the cult of personality around Maxson. There is no way that the BoS is going to accept the death of Arthur Maxson, a man whose reverence borders on worship, especially not when he is immediately replaced by a wastelander, or a synth.

The death of Arthur Maxson removes the unifying glue that’s been holding the BoS together since mending the rift with the Outcasts. Maxson’s death eliminates the one person that both sides of that conflict agreed could steer the organization in the right direction. Some level heads may try to keep the focus on the mission and the Brotherhood tenets, but Maxson loyalists will never forgive the new Elder for his death, and that amount of passionate righteous anger will not be quelled by appeals to the rules. The new Elder’s war on the Institute is basically over before it begins, when the forces splinter and start infighting over the change in leadership.

And this is if the new Elder lives long enough to actually give any orders. I give them around 24 hours after the duel before some angry Maxson loyalist “accidentally” pulls the trigger and “tragically” empties a clip into their back.

24 seconds, if it’s Elder Danse, the dirty synth abomination.

4. The Assassination of Arthur Maxson (Figurative)

The Elder ending of BB falsely pretends that Arthur Maxson is the biggest and only problem with the BoS.

In the Elder ending, as written, the conflict of BB is considered completely and totally solved by the death of Arthur Maxson. The core problem, that Danse is a synth and considered an enemy by the BoS, has not gone away. But by getting rid of Maxson, this apparently no longer matters. Nobody else is going to take offense to Danse’s nature or protest his presence. Nobody else is going to attack him or try to follow through with Maxson’s prior orders. Nope, that meanybutt guy who gave the order is gone, and everybody else is going to welcome Danse back into the fold like nothing ever happened.

I touched on this a little bit on an ask about Maxson a few weeks back, but a lot of people seem to believe that the FO4 Brotherhood of Steel is the way they are purely because of him. That he is the one making them treat non-humans as second class citizens at best, and enemies to be slaughtered at worst. That it’s his fault the BoS is so vehemently against synths and the Institute. That he is the one influencing their imperialistic tendencies, and treating the Commonwealth like territory to be conquered and people to be ruled over by their betters.

He’s not. That’s the Brotherhood of Steel, guys.

The charitable, altruistic, virtuous BoS that many of us met for the first time in FO3 were outliers. Lyons’ group was literally disowned by the rest of the faction because their kindness to wastelanders had gone so far astray from the “core” tenets. The BoS as a whole has always been exclusive, isolated, and seen themselves as “superior” to the average wastelander. They have long disliked or outright hated non-humans (and even Lyons’ BoS in FO3 use ghouls, feral or not, for “target practice” if they get too close!) The rigid dogmatism of the BoS is not something that Arthur Maxson started, but has always been part of their fabric.

Now, it’s true that Maxson is absolutely going hard on the BoS tenets, and extremely dedicated to upholding them. His BoS are the way they are and act the way they act because he believes that this is the way it should be. Is it possible that a different leader may be a little more flexible? Absolutely. Could a skilled Elder eventually show them the benefits of a softer approach and a more generous worldview? Totally. Is getting rid of Maxson and replacing him going to make that happen overnight, or going to make the rest of the BoS who supported him shrug and follow suit?

Nope.

Blaming Arthur Maxson for everything unsavory about the Brotherhood is unfair to him and also foolishly ignoring the deep, massive problems that are far older than he is-- problems that plenty of its members wholeheartedly believe are not problems at all. Getting rid of Maxson does not make the BoS kinder or gentler. Even pretending Maxson isn’t as personally beloved as he is, any new Elder who steps in and starts trying to fundamentally alter the way the BoS operates and what they believe in is going to face some major, immediate pushback.

Like, a full clip of bullets in the back type of pushback.

In the face if it’s Elder Danse, the godless freak of nature.

5. The Un-Redemption of Paladin Danse

Last, and my personal least favorite!

At first glance, Paladin Danse is a steely jackboot, a die-hard Brotherhood loyalist who fully and firmly believes in their cause. Many immediately dismiss him as a humorless brute, or completely ignore him because they think that’s all there is. But if you spend any time with Danse at all, you’ll notice a sort of weariness in him. He is tired, overworked, and his years of service are starting to weigh on him. He has watched friends, comrades, and mentors die in horrible and gruesome ways, and he suffers from PTSD. Though he has always been told that his own sacrifices, the sacrifices of his brothers and sisters have been” worth it,” he’s starting to question if that’s true.

After telling of the incident where he personally executed his best friend Cutler, who’d been turned into a super mutant, the Sole Survivor is able to console him:

Player Default: You did the right thing. Danse: {Somber} It's what I was taught. I don't know if it was right.

This line is an excellent summary of Danse’s entire character arc. He learns to question whether to believe what the Brotherhood has taught him, or to believe in himself. His gut feelings. His sense of justice and his own ideas of what’s right and wrong.

(In the interest of not turning this into an essay about Danse’s character, I won’t even get into how this also applies to his beliefs about his worth as a person. But keep in mind, that dimension is there, Danse just covers it up by making everything about the Brotherhood.)

During Blind Betrayal, after getting the orders to execute him and hearing Haylen’s plea for mercy, we may expect Danse to be ready to fight back or flee. But when you confront him in the bunker at Listening Post Bravo, he’s compliant and suicidal. Danse is so deeply poisoned by the BoS’ rhetoric that his own feelings or will to live don’t factor into the conversation. He demands that you follow your orders and execute him, because he believes, as the BoS does, that all synths are dangerous and must be destroyed.

Danse: {Stern} Synths can't be trusted. Machines were never meant to make their own decisions, they need to be controlled. Technology that's run amok is what brought the entire world to its knees and humanity to the brink of extinction.

{Confident} I need to be the example, not the exception.

Through various dialogue options, if your charisma is high enough, you are able to talk Danse off the ledge. He is able to consider, at least, that the BoS’ merciless judgment of him is wrong and that what he was taught isn’t right. He is a thinking, feeling, self-aware synth, and that makes him as much a person as any human. Danse is no danger to humanity-- and maybe, most synths aren’t either.

Danse is an example, not an exception.

Later on, if you manage to get him out of BB alive, Danse shows further acceptance of his nature. His approvals about synths begin to soften slightly (or many of them do, at least… it’s not perfect.) He is still struggling with his identity and reconciling it with his former hatred, but his dialogue suggests that he’s on the road to being more open-minded and understanding. Along with this, Danse learns that he has value as a person beyond the Brotherhood. He no longer needs to define himself with BoS beliefs or judge himself by how useful he is to them. He learns that he is worth caring about, worth being friends with or being loved because of who he is-- not what he is, in any regard.

[SIDENOTE: Many players, myself included, are frustrated that Danse’s arc leaves off sort of midstream there. Due to the open-ended nature of the game, we don’t get a real conclusion to his arc-- even though much of his idle dialogue doesn’t change and he still espouses pro-BoS sentiments ( an unfortunate by-product of writing for a video game) there is every indication that he’s started down the right path, but understandably has a ways to go.

Also, Peter Jessop agrees with us.]

Meanwhile, in the Elder ending, Danse doesn’t get a redemption. His entire character arc, actually, hits the skids and does a total 180.

He never leaves the BoS. So scratch the need for Danse to ever think about himself as separate from them. He never needs to question what they’ve taught him or whether they’re right or wrong. He never needs to find any worth in himself beyond his use to the BoS. Why would he? He might be the Elder. The BoS is all he needs to care about anymore. The BoS is all he ever needs to be, ever again.

And I think, most horrifying of all, this Danse never needs to change his mind about synths. On the contrary, one of the surviving dialogue files includes Danse’s speech to reassure the rest of the BoS of his stance:

Danse: I want to make one thing clear to everyone. This body might be synth, but my heart and mind belong to the Brotherhood. The Institute is still a tremendous threat to the Commonwealth. They possess technologies that need to be confiscated or destroyed. And even if that means I have to pull the trigger on my own kind, I’m willing to make that sacrifice.

Elder ending Danse doesn’t grow more understanding on the nature of synths. He doesn’t accept that synths are people, or anything more than technology run amok. He won’t even accept that for himself. Elder Maxson wasn’t wrong about synths-- they’re the enemy and they need to be destroyed.

But, see, he was wrong about Danse. It’s okay for Danse to exist in spite of his nature. It’s okay for him to never fully accept his own personhood, and to outright deny it to his kind. Because his body is a machine, but he’s different from the rest because his heart and mind belong to the Brotherhood.

He’s the exception, not the example.

CONCLUSION:

The Elder ending of Blind Betrayal is dumb, contrived, stakeless, character-derailing powergaming crap at its finest and I’ll happily dance on its grave.

People give Bethesda a lot a shit for their writing-- whether it be stuff they left out, stuff they left in, or stuff that they never, ever could have made work due to the limitations of writing for a video game. Plenty of it is well-deserved, or at least worth a discussion. But from the minute I found out about its existence, I have always wanted to extend a congratulations to Bethesda for cutting the alternate Elder ending of Blind Betrayal. It was a good choice. A very good choice to cut a very dumb plot that would have fundamentally altered the story they were telling, and characters that I’ve grown to love. I think the writers deserve some credit and a hearty handshake for the wisdom of this decision.

Now as for why Nick Valentine isn’t romanceable--

#fallout 4 #fallout meta #paladin danse #arthur maxson #blind betrayal #this one was a long time coming #any thematic resemblance to any fics of mine is a coincidence #the blind betrayal manifesto #king shit of fuck mountain #the initial intrigue of the idea wears off if you think about it more than not at all

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etherealeeknow · 4 years ago

Text

vocal lesson

• rated m for mature, slight angst

• pairing: vocal coach!seungmin x fem!reader

• wc: 2.3k (confession: writing long fics isn’t my forte)

• tw: underlying toxic relationship, masturbation (m), grinding, groping, unprotected vaginal sex, explicit language, creampie- i think that’s all, please do tell me if you find more c:

• note: i have a love hate relationship with this fic. i have a few goals i’d like to achieve from this fic and whether or not i’ll succeed is based on your feedbacks 🥺 so please don’t hesitate to drop them! also, enjoy!

• tag list: @es-kay-zee @formidxble @bobateastay @vogueinnie @sailorhyunjinz // leave a comment, dm, or an ask to be tagged! thank you ♡

—

seungmin despises the way his heart dropped when he sees your name flashing on his phone screen instead of you flashing upon his eyes. by this time, he’s fully aware that a chatty girl like you isn’t the type to text. in fact, you only do it on one occasion, which is when you’d like to cancel the class. just like what he has expected, the text says you won’t be able to make it that day and that you’re sorry; but he knows you’re not sorry. he knows you’re doing this on purpose—to torture him—and it’s working perfectly.

honestly, the suffocating pain in his chest isn’t because he has been losing sleep, tossing and turning in his king size bed for hours over the thought of you being all dolled up in the baby blue dress he has gifted you; neither is it because he missed his favorite orchestra playback this morning just so he could find the most perfect white shirt out of his collection of other white shirts just so he can appear pleasant for you, but because you’ve been cancelling the lesson for three times in a row. if your mother ever finds out about this, she would definitely fire him. to prevent that from happening, seungmin has been silencing your maids with credits, but he knows too well they’d soon go for more if you keep this up.

fiddling with the handkerchief that you had purposely left for him a few weeks back, seungmin gloomily shoves it into his pocket before dragging himself to the grand piano to warm his throat up. the first few notes started off slow and stable according to the piano keys, but with constant fear running on his mind, his fingers slipped and pressed the wrong one. the awry sound makes him cringe and shuts his eyes in annoyance. he hates it, mistakes, he hates it to the fullest, yet he has managed to keep up with it all this time just because he adores you more than anything, even when your cracked voice sometimes haunts him at night. see, seungmin’s giving his all to you,

but why are you doing this to me? where are you? i miss you.

“heh, pathetic,” he mutters to himself as he slowly lies down onto the piano bench, facing the chandelier which lights would usually illuminate you when sitting on the same bench while waiting for him to get to the music room, running your delicate fingers along the black and white wood. your side profile’s exactly like a goddess—breathtaking.

sighing over the imagery of you, he begins unbuckling his belt; eyes closing momentarily when he slips a hand into his unbuttoned pants and starts palming his clothed member. three weeks. it’s been three weeks since he last got off, since he last felt your touch, and he’s been trying his best to hold back because he believes you’ll eventually come around. he believes you won’t leave him just like that, yet you aren’t here again today, and he’s dying to release his pent-out frustration.

a heavy sigh escapes his lips when he takes out his dick, the tip leaking from precum and it makes him let out another sigh when he begins pumping it; another one follows, then another one, and it carries on as seungmin’s hand goes faster by each second. even in the peak of his pleasure, all he can think of is you. oh, how heavenly it would’ve been to have both your soft hand and pretty lips around him instead. his free hand is quick to slip into his pocket, snatching your handkerchief. despite only briefly smothering himself with it, your lingering scent alone is enough to make his head spin. with the sateen now wrapping around his throbbing cock, it feels as if you’re there, skin to skin with him.

“fuck!” he hisses, but eyes widening right away over his own volume as he quickly raises his head to check on the slightly opened door.

he’s so close and pausing in the middle just to lock the damned door would ruin everything. should he just bet on his luck today? it’s not like any of his well trained maids would rudely barge into his music room, right? but who knows?

screw it.

his back automatically arches when he feels the increasing tension in his pelvis, and it pushes him to fasten his hand move—pumping his dick rapidly to release. with eyes rolling to the back of his head, seungmin begins chanting your name desperately and that’s your last straw. the moment seungmin ejaculates is the moment you slam the door open and run towards him. the poor guy who’s barely riding out his high jumps on the bench as he sits up.

“y/n—”

“shut up,” you cut him off and crash both of your lips and body together, causing him to fall back down onto the bench, and creating a somewhat deafening screech on the floor, but it’s nothing compared to his loud moan in between the kiss.

the feeling of you straddling his lap instantly makes him hard again; the feeling of his warm hands running wild all over you and the stickiness on your inner thigh coming from your ruined handkerchief has you wetting your already damped panties—the effect of rubbing yourself when peeping on his little show. as the kiss deepens, so does your hunger for each other. of course, there’s no way you’ve gotten over what he did, and he’s surely still upset for being ghosted too, but for now, lust is winning. one squeeze on your thigh is all it needs for you to throw your baby blue dress across the room.

“you’re always so hot when you do that,” says the now naked seungmin who gets back onto the same position, looking at you with his half lidded eyes as his arms stretch out to fondle your breasts, his favorite part.

“the only time you’d compliment me is when we have sex,” you scoff before going back down on him, slowly yet easily pushing his cock inside of you, and both of you grunt in unison.

“y/n, ah— shit! i told you it’s because i know you can do better.”

snorting, you call him a liar before grinding mindlessly, movement starting off slow just like how your breathy moans starting off low. as much as seungmin enjoys being taken care of, patience doesn’t exist in his dictionary today. his hands leave your chest for your hips, guiding you to slip in and out of him at a faster pace. but that’s still not enough—he needs more. in a blink of an eye, you go from being on top of him to under him. seungmin bangs you down loudly on the grand piano, your buttcheeks and hands hitting the keys and filling the entire room with jumbled notes while you yourself are filled by him to the fullest, right at your g-spot.

“seung— fuck!”

“louder,” he commands while thrusting into you, hips moving in a rhythm, and strong hands bringing your legs up to rest on his shoulders before holding onto your ass, supporting you from slipping down—multitasking is indeed his second best talent besides singing.

“what’s the p— point?” you breathe out, trying your best to sound coherent while maintaining eye contact, “so you’ll compliment karina instead again? pat her on the head and caress her cheek again?”

“you know i only did that to motivate you.”

“bullshit.”

if seungmin has to name anything you can do best, it’ll definitely be your ability to drive him crazy—disobeying him. again, he believes he has been going all in, keeping up with your lack of talent and bullshit for the past half a year; the way you’d fight, then fuck him, and fight again only to fuck him again, and the cycle continues. whenever he tries to talk things out, be it about your vocal lesson or your tangled relationship, you wouldn’t give a damn. today, that has to change.

“and i’m the one to blame? karina always listens to me,” he replies, slowing his thrust as he can feel your walls clenching around him even more and more.

“faste—“

“i said louder, y/n. tear your mouth wide open,” he grunts, thrusting into you so strongly that you jump and land back on the piano, creating such messy harmonies.

“seungmin, faster!” you yelp, voice raspy yet a little louder this time with your hands finding their way on his shoulders, and it makes him sneer as he leans in to kiss you, biting your lower lip before he lets go, and stop dead on track.

“hoarse voice, dry lips. don’t i always tell you to stay hydrated?”

you find it unfair. seungmin’s energy doesn’t make sense. the fact that he still has the power to put up with fucking while carrying you even after his solo session is unfair. and the way he has the audacity to give you a vocal lesson in the middle of everything, then stopping just because you aren’t complying is way too cruel, but perhaps, this is what you deserve.

“i’ll never cancel our lessons again. i’ll— i’m sorry. i will really listen to you,” you beg desperately, almost sobbing as you grind on him, refusing to let the tingling sensation on your core die down.

seungmin shakes his head. he knows you too well. normally, seeing you surrender like this softens him and makes him think that perhaps, he’s being way too demanding, or maybe, he should be even more understanding.

“that’s not what i asked for, love.” is what he says before resuming, putting all the remaining pressure he has left to snap his dick deeper into you.

that’s when his name falls out of your lips ever so gracefully, followed by endless ah’s, jaw hanging open. this is the loudest and clearest you’ve ever been—no holding back, no hitching breaths, no cracking—pure perfection.

seungmin doesn’t even need to ask for more because you’re already repeating it on your own.

“fuck yes. just like that. such a good girl,” he grunts right beside your ear, picking up his pace.

it only takes a few moments till you feel the familiar knot in your abdomen coming back along with him twitching inside of you, and this time, you make sure to hold onto him so tight, afraid he’d pull the same stunt again.

“shit— please let me cum. please cum with me, come inside me, please, please, please,” you blabber, voice turns husky once more, but seungmin couldn’t care less, there’s always another chance for another vocal lesson. right now, all he wants is to,

“cum.”

the two of you reach together. name chanting, legs shaking, fingers digging, and body fluids mixing into each other—drenching not only your lower bodies, but also the extravagant bösendorfer piano seungmin shipped all the way from austria. but that’s another thing to worry about. right now, he can barely keep his eyes open while you can barely feel your stiff spread legs across his shoulders. once he’s made sure you’re over your high, seungmin gently pulls out and lets you down. he sits himself first on the bench before pulling you by the waist to seat you on his lap, and the two of you let silence take over for a little while.

“i know you’ve been bribing my maids,” you start off, “they have a big pay, but it’s impossible for their designer bags to double up in just a week, you know,” you continue while pushing his damp hair aside, revealing the remaining half of his sweaty forehead.

“they were gonna snitch on you to your mom,” he replies, pausing in the middle to mirror your action, pushing strands of hair to the back of your ear before averting his gaze back on your eyes.

even with your smudged eye makeup and cracked lipstick, you’re still as shining, dilating his pupil.

“and?”

“and she’s gonna fire me.”

“isn’t that what i should worry about? you’re a world winning award soprano. there are hundreds of talented people waiting in line to be your students. money isn’t the problem. plus, i know you hate my voice. i also never listen to you, never call you sir, and am ninety nine percent horny throughout our lessons. in short, i’m a bratty and disrespectful pain in the ass.”

your punchline makes him snort and he can’t help but to pull you into a hug, closing the already small space in between so he can indulge in your body heat and feel your chest beating calmly alongside his.

but what happened to changing things? don’t you wanna be in charge? you can’t just let her have everything she wants.

despite hearing the faint voices in his head, mocking him for having the weakest heart for you, seungmin doesn’t care. for all he knows, he was a train wreck earlier this day; he surely didn’t expect he would go from reminiscing the memory of you under the chandelier to it actually coming true.

“this is real, you’re here.”

“it is. i am.”

“and you’re gonna—“ pausing, he breaks the hug to cup your cheeks, “you have to stay.”

“what for? for you? for the vocal lessons? for… what?” you question, unconsciously tilting your head as you place a hand over his, slightly squeezing it, hoping he wouldn’t let go.

silence.

“i might be a bitch, but i’m not dumb. it isn’t about money and it isn’t about sex either. so what is it, seungmin?” you ask, eyes searching for an answer before adding, “i bring no good to you.”

you’re right. his best friends have said the same thing. they can’t seem to wrap their heads around how a collected person like him can break so easily over a random, spoiled, daddy’s little princess. it doesn’t make sense, he knows—i know. he’s been trying to figure it out, only to meet the same dead end.

“i’m a mistake.”

yes—yes you are, and seungmin hates it, mistakes, he hates it to the fullest, yet he has managed to keep up with it all this time just because,

“you’re the only mistake in my life that i can take, y/n.”

—

gen’s masterlist

#gen writes #seungmin #stray kids #skz #seungmin smut #stray kids smut #seungmin angst #stray kids angst #stray kids fics #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #stray kids hard hours #stray kids hard thoughts #stray kids blurbs #stray kids drabbles #stray kids masterlist

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aramblingjay · 3 years ago

Text

Through fresh eyes — Part I

Alternatively titled: How Gary goes from looking at Jamie like he wants to kill him to looking at Jamie like arguing football with him is the highlight of his week (and the greatest honor of his life)

Aka: I somehow started writing a from-the-beginning indifferent-coworkers-to-best-friends carraville origin story fic? Still not entirely sure how that happened, but here’s part 1

He’s a student of the game, Gary, someone says to him, and it rubs him the wrong way right from the start.

Much like the term club legend, student of the game is banded about far too often these days, brought out for every half-decent footballer who can articulate the difference between a back three and a back four with any level of coherency. He’s been able to hold back, so far, from picking fights with people who claim punditry is easy—everything is easy when you’re doing it from your own couch in beach shorts and an undershirt, after all, the same way everyone can bend it like Beckham when playing footie with their mates in the back garden. But if there’s anything his disastrous first MNF should prove, it’s that punditry is far harder than it might seem.

Armed with that experience, he’s prepared to dislike Carragher from the moment he arrives at Sky. Just because he’s given one or two decent post-match interviews and been shouting a back line into organization for the better part of a decade doesn’t mean he’s going to be any good, never mind the student of the game nonsense being thrown around.

Entirely separately, Gary just doesn’t like him. He’s the biggest Scouser in the whole of the country, probably, and seems to love hearing himself talk nearly as much as he seems to love Liverpool.

(Gary can think of more charitable reasons why Carragher shouted even more during matches than Sir Alex did afterward, but that’s entirely beside the point)

The point is it’s a match made in hell. But he refused to be the guy who wouldn’t let go of grudges from his playing days, or the guy who couldn’t play nicely with others, so he didn’t stop this in its tracks way back when such a thing was still entirely in his control.

Well. He’s paying the price for that now, he thinks grimly, as he catches a first glimpse of Carragher across the lobby, looking every bit as punchable as he did on the pitch. Time to face the music.

The introductions happen in the MNF studio, surrounded by the glow of screens that Gary knows like the back of his own hand, as imposing a theater as any in the West End. Carragher is clearly a little out-of-his-depth but pleasant enough, you alrights and how are wes as he makes his way around the room, everything turned sharp and throaty in that broad Scouse accent. They’re surrounded mostly by well-dressed Londoners who socialize for a living, and Gary is willing to admit he’s strangely pleased there’s finally someone who seems to fit here even less than he does.

Eventually, Carragher makes his way over to the main MNF table. Gary’s standing behind it where his chair would normally be, and it occurs to him that this table will probably be gone before their first show in a few weeks, replaced for a larger one than can accommodate three chairs. He’s always maintained that this show should continue to evolve and improve, but suddenly the thought of all the changes that are bound to happen makes his stomach flip uneasily.

They’ve met before, obviously, though under wildly different circumstances. So when Carragher reaches out an arm to shake his hand, all proper and business-like, Gary’s head spins a little with how jarring the contrast is. But his mum raised him with better manners than that, so he grasps the proffered arm and manages to find his best meet-the-media smile.

“Welcome aboard,” he says, trying to make it sound as genuine as he can. If they are going to be working together for at least the foreseeable few weeks (the producers want this to happen, sure, but they’ll pull the plug on it and cut their losses before September is through if Carragher flops horrendously), it’s better to start off on the right foot.

“Looking forward to it,” Carragher replies with a half-smile, and so it begins.

The first meeting is—

It’s good.

Having a solid pre-show Monday morning meeting is as critical to success as the actual hours live on air, it’s one of the very first things Gary learned. He doesn’t tell Carragher anything beforehand though, wants to see what he’s made of and how he operates (and maybe wants to let him flounder, just a bit, the way Gary floundered at first). The old dressing room initiation habits haven’t quite left him in the years since.

Carragher is there even earlier than him, sitting at the table and thumbing through a notepad with a look of deep concentration on his face, and that’s instantly a positive. He hates when people are late, hates when people don’t take the job seriously. Gary thinks back on the stories he’s heard of the kind of dressing room Carragher and Gerrard ran at Liverpool, and decides that tardiness and laziness are probably not going to be an issue here.

Only after he’s entered the room, taken a seat across the table, and pulled out his own set of notes, does Carragher look up. “Thoughts on the weekend?” he asks, skipping any sort of greeting.

Meeting hasn’t started yet, mate, is on the tip of Gary’s tongue. Ed isn’t here yet, likes to stroll through the door just as the clock strikes the hour, and neither are any of the various producers, directors, and stattos who normally pitch in with their input too. But he takes in the casual look on Carragher’s face, the way his eyes are clear of any sort of guile, and thinks maybe this is his idea of a good morning, how’s it going then?

Gary glances down at his meticulous notes from all the weekend’s games, the teams, the scores, the timestamps of all the clips he wants the team to pull, and then very deliberately pushes the notepad to one side. “Think United will win the League this year, playing like they did on Saturday,” he offers, the statement as inflammatory as he can make it, leaning back in his chair with a little smirk.

Carragher has the audacity to grin, full on grin, like he was hoping for nothing less. “The first season after Fergie? Not a fucking chance.”

A very large part of Gary winces to hear Sir Alex referred to like that, but he lets it slide because he knows that’s its own sort of deliberate provocation. “What, you think Suarez being forced to stay for another year will be enough for Liverpool to nick it?”

They’re still arguing thirty-six minutes later, when Ed strolls in to a room full of people watching them go at it like it’s a prime-time boxing match. Gary’s distantly aware of Ed’s presence, the same way he’s been distantly aware they haven’t been alone for over fifteen minutes ever since Scott walked in the room—but even the usual gravitas he carries with him as the show’s producer isn’t enough to stop their discussion in its tracks.

And it is a discussion, more than anything else, even though Gary’s blood is singing like he’s on the pitch having it out with a player who’s left one on him a few too many times. It’s push and pull, no-nonsense and no-holds-barred—Gary slates Liverpool’s defense (refusing to acknowledge how that’s implicitly giving some sort of credit to Carragher for helping carry it the previous year), Carragher slates just about everything under the sun about United—and yet, beneath it all, there’s always a thread of truth, of real and genuine football talk.

It’s the absolute fucking highlight of Gary’s month so far, and he’s not entirely sure what to do with that knowledge.

No, the first meeting isn’t just good—it’s great, it’s glorious, it scratches an itch under his skin he didn’t even know he had, food for his brain and his competitive, contrarian soul; and for the first time, Gary lets himself wonder if maybe this might work after all.

Showtime.

They’ve rehearsed various different bits and one-liners to pull out at different times—the spark is there, and it’s a little bit too sharp to be called banter just yet (they’re not mates, not even close, and the barbs thrown in each direction are still meant to wound more than amuse), but whatever it is, Scott and Duncan love it.

All the producers look gleeful, actually, as the music starts. They probably know that if a fight does break out, the ratings will be through the roof.

Most of those rehearsed insults don’t get used. They don’t even need them, really, not when little things like centre-back movement and zonal marking are usually enough to start several minutes of spirited bickering. That’s how the burglar thing ends up happening.

They don’t plan it at all. Carragher gets up out of his seat to demonstrate something about defending—he looks awkward, suit a little too big, hair not quite styled right for TV, a little jerky as he moves with his words—and Gary swears he can almost hear the frustrated groan of a producer somewhere lamenting how Carragher can’t sit still in his bloody seat.

He half-interrupts just as Carragher is winding down on his point, can again almost hear the sigh of relief from the same producer when Carragher takes his seat again. The analogy comes to him, and he doesn’t hesitate (hasn’t since that first season, when he realized it was better to say things in his own natural words, off-color or not). “He’s a bit like a burglar in your house, and you don’t know which room he’s in. He really is, honestly—”

It takes the space of a blink to realize Carragher has interrupted right back. “You’d be under the bed,” he chuckles, shifting again in his seat.

Gary can’t help but laugh, and a large part of him is impressed—he couldn’t have made an off-the-cuff joke like that his first show, could barely get his practiced and perfected words out without stumbling. But this is not his first rodeo anymore, which means the retort is right there, tantalizing. Usually, he has enough maturity (and filter) to ignore it, but he’s missed this, sparring with someone who won’t back down from a disagreement, and it’s the least he can do after the implication that Mancunians (or at least him, in particular) are cowards.

He sees Carragher reach for his water, and just goes for it. “Bet you’d probably be the burglar.”

There isn’t a even a pause before Carragher laughs right back, louder than the rest of the studio—even Ed, whose chuckle is tentative, mirrors the slight unease of the rest of the room. But Carragher takes it in stride, looks delighted, even, meeting his eyes square on with a smile stretched right across his face.

And something settles over Gary’s shoulders, a kind of calm, steadying weight, like a loose brick sliding into place. Carragher doesn’t fit yet, with his big suit and his fidgeting and his ill-timed reach for the water (wait for the advert break, that’s what Gary’s always been told), but he’s witty, willing to dish it out and take it back in equal measure, and he’s sharp, says things that don’t leave Gary feeling like he wants to pull all his hair out and bury himself in a sand pit where no one’s ever heard of football before.

Fuck it all, he’s sharp.

Gary’s always liked the smart ones. It’s what stops him from screwing Carragher over by leaving his stylus on the screen, or interrupting him when he goes on a little too long in his answers, or any of a hundred other things he could do to stitch him up. Carragher doesn’t know TV yet (because who does, really, before you’re sat in front of the cameras as a captive audience of millions waits to pick apart your every mistake?), but he clearly knows football, and that’s enough for the moment.

At the end of the evening, the show is a solid 7/10. It could’ve gone better, as always, but it also could’ve gone a lot worse (Gary would rate his own debut a paltry 2/10, the two points coming entirely from Ed’s calming, professional presence), and he adds Carragher to the MNF WhatsApp group before the night is over. There’s the beginnings of something here, it crackles in the air even after Ed delivers the outro and all the cameras switch off.

Welcome aboard indeed.

#carraville #gary neville #jamie carragher #*fic #*writing

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nanagoswife · 4 years ago

Text

I Failed Everyone. I Failed You.

(^^these are related to the fic^^)

HAPPY MAY 4TH EVERYONE

In celebration, I decided to write this random idea I had literally just last night (right before I wrote it. I wasn't even planning to write last night 😅) Anyways, I thought we could use some Obi, even if he isn't going through entirely good times. With me, I had to end it on a lighter note so sad Obi doesn't necessarily last the whole time.

Pushing this aside, happy May 4th everyone.

May the force be with you, always.

- - -

Summary: After Order 66, Obi-Wan has to go and deal with Anakin. Taking place after the duel, he comes to you for support but, as the next hours go on, you're the one needing comfort.

W/C: 2.2k

Warnings: Mention of flame boy, mention of mass death, character death, angst, Obi being a sad boy

The threatening shades of red and orange accented by the black, soot covered ground would’ve frightened him in any other situation. Even the locals had an unwelcoming presence as they floated over the molten lava, gathering Maker knows what.

Now, though, he was more focused on a different fear that had come true. The order was destroyed, his friends turned on him, he failed Anakin. Obi-Wan Kenobi had failed one of the people he strove to do only good for.

Instead of his true duty, he had just battled his closest friend. His brother. His son. The one other he cared and watched over not because his master had told him so, but because he felt inclined to. There had been something in Anakin that peaked something inside of him that drew him to Anakin.

What good was he if he failed everyone he ever loved? First, Qui-Gon, then so many others. Even people who had just been there that fought by his side or died to save him. Then there was this current moment. He had failed to see how the war was a fool’s game. The person leading it was really on the enemy side and let his true colours show in a drastic change.

Obi-Wan had failed. He had even failed you. Compared to you, Obi-wan knew so much more about what was truly going on. Had he seen how overly fond the Chancellor was for Anakin, even you were suspicious. Yet, he didn’t act on it soon enough.

Due to this, you were caught up in Anakin’s tirade before it turned into the battle he had endured. You had come with Obi-Wan hoping that you could talk him back. Anakin always did have a strong connection with you. He had told Obi-Wan at a point that he looked to you as a mother figure, a role model.

It almost worked, too. It was almost as if something snapped in Anakin as you tried to step closer. All you wanted to do was embrace him and tell him how it would all be okay even after what happened with Padmé moments before. That’s not how he saw it. So, he had used the force and threw you against the ship, rendering you unconscious.

Being protective of both you and Padmé, Obi-Wan tried a last ditch effort to try and talk Anakin down. Despite being known as the ‘Negotiator’, his negotiating skills greatly lacked compared to yours. He had failed your mission to bring him back to the light.

With everything, it led to him watching as he was burned alive, almost pleading for help. Instead of listening, he turned away, unable to watch.

The image was sure to haunt the rest of his days as he walked back to the platform with Anakin’s lightsaber. Before this had all happened, he was able to check to make sure both you and Padmé were still alive. Thank the stars that you both were. He could only hope the baby was alright.

When it came to you, he was relieved to know that the one person he loved most dearly was alright, considering. You would’ve been the last straw had Anakin killed you.

Even in this time of pain and grief, he couldn’t help but be amused at the thought of how, not only did Anakin see both you and him as parental figures, but the two of you had really been together the whole time. Whether Anakin knew or not, the two of you raised him like your own because both of you knew that you couldn’t actually have a child of your own. So, Anakin played that role.

That was why you were so adamant on trying to talk him out of it. Unlike Obi-Wan, you refused to raise a hand to Anakin. Obi-Wan wouldn’t have either, had he not almost killed you and his own wife who carried his child. It repulsed him.

As he neared the platform, fear filled him at thinking something may have happened while he was gone. Did clone troopers arrive and find you here? He didn’t want to think about it, partially because, at this point, he would just give himself up to it.

Stepping up the platform, intense relief overtook him when he saw you with your back turned to him. You only turned when both R2-D2 and C-3PO had greeted him.

He didn’t need to say a word for you to know what happened. Why else would he be carrying the lightsaber? Although you hated that it happened, you couldn’t blame Obi-Wan at all. His pained expression showed how heavily it weighed on him.

Obi-Wan didn’t stop when the droids met him. Instead, he kept his path to you until he was in your arms. The tears that he had just wiped away now mixed with the ash on his face once again as he buried himself into your neck. One of your hands easily held the back of his head while the other gently rubbed his back.

As you held him, your own tears filled your eyes. You were unable to bring Anakin back. You had lost the closest thing you had to a son to the dark.

“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan said, barely coherent through his cries. “I-I failed him. I failed you.” Just his voice wrenched your heart as his pain was so prominent.

His words pained you in a way that they never have before. In your mind, he didn’t fail you or Anakin. You were just as much to blame. As was everything else in and around your lives. That wasn’t what he needed to hear, though.

“Shh, it’s alright,” you said quietly into his ear. To further comfort him, you traced delicate circles in his hair. “You didn’t fail me and you definitely didn’t fail Anakin. There’s no way we could’ve known that this is what was going to happen.”

“But-”

You cut him off, “No,” you said firmly but stayed soft so you could comfort him further. “You taught him well. The rest were his decisions. We couldn’t force his path, Obi.”

Carefully, you moved his head so that you could look him in the eyes, cupping his cheeks with your hands. The usual soft, caring blue was now dimmed with pain and grief. Although that’s how you felt, you tried to remain strong on the outside. He didn’t need how you felt added to his own emotions.

“Come on,” you said gently, “Padmé is inside. We need to get her into medical care.”

Slowly, Obi-Wan nodded and you led him inside by the hand that didn’t carry the lightsaber. When you walked in, you left Obi-Wan by Padmé’s side as you went to pilot the ship off this dreary planet.

“Twins?” you exclaimed when you heard the news. You, Yoda, and Obi-Wan all glanced at the other when the medical droid told you this.

“Go. By Senator Amidala’s side, you should be,” Yoda told you when you had looked worriedly at your friend. The fact that she was dying hadn’t quite settled in just yet. Instead of voicing this, you nodded to Master Yoda and quickly made your way to Padmé’s side.

Out of pure instinct, you grabbed her hand.

“Y/N,” she said weakly.

“Shh, save your strength. You’re about to have a couple little ones making themselves known,” you said with a slight chuckle, hoping to lighten the mood. To your relief, she let out her own laugh.

The rest of it was all a blur. Padmé’s tight grip on your hand was merely a reminder that you were still here. It was a reminder that these may be the last few moments you get to spend with her.

At a point, you had looked up to where Obi-Wan was watching from the other side of the glass. Trying to be brave, he offered a small smile in comfort. It did help a bit before your attention was drug back to the situation as the grip on your hand was tightened.

Once both Luke and Leia were born, Obi-Wan joined the room and held Luke as you held Leia.

When you looked down, Padmé was smiling at the two babies that the two of you held. Then it fell. “There’s good in him,” she whispered, breathing deeply. “I know… I know there’s… still…” and she faded.

Obi-Wan looked as desolate as you felt. Other than the two of you, there was no one else. Sure, there was Yoda, but relationships with him weren’t as deep as with everyone you’ve lost today. Now, you and Obi-Wan were left with the children of your closest friends.

Later, after your discussion with Yoda and Bail Organa about what would happen with the children, you were watching the twins in the nursery through the glass wall. So many thoughts were running through your mind, the most prominent being what would happen with you and Obi-Wan.

During the meeting, the relationship you had with Obi-Wan no longer needed to be hidden. Even though Yoda already had known for years, he was open to what the two of you had to say. This was all to lead up to the point that the two of you would take Luke to his family on Tatooine and, together, you would watch from a distance.

Your thoughts now were about how the two of you would stay hidden with this duty. You thought about how this all would affect the next days, months, stars, maybe years. Would this plague both of you for the rest of your days? Would this draw you apart? Would it bring the two of you closer? Would you finally start the family the two of you wanted?

“Darling?” Your racing mind was interrupted as you heard the familiar voice. Turning to it, you saw Obi-Wan’s worried gaze. This time, it wasn’t because of everything else that had happened. It was a worry for you. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, quite…” you trailed off as you looked back to the two newborns.

Seeing your gaze, he immediately knew what you were probably thinking. He stepped up to you and pulled you into his embrace as he placed a kiss to the top of your head. What you needed was comfort, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.

“Don’t worry, Darling. This won’t pull us apart, I promise,” he said reassuringly.

As he held you, an idea popped up in his head. It was something he continually thought about, but never was able to do. There was so much that he could finally act on that was once held back due to the code. Now, he could tell you and ask you everything he wanted to for so many years. Especially with this idea now.

“Y/N, darling?” He moved slightly back so that he could look into your eyes. The troubled look that he saw in your eyes earlier was now dimmed down and was replaced with the usual fondness he loved to see. “To prove this, I want to ask you something.”

Confusion suddenly took you over. What could he ask that would prove to you that nothing would happen? That is until he started to sink downwards. He kept going until he was kneeling, looking up at you and held one of your hands in his. The whole time, he didn’t remove his eyes from yours.

“This has been something that I’ve wanted to ask for so long. I haven’t been able to before, but now I can. Y/N, will you marry me?”

Overwhelming happiness threw every thought from everything from the last twenty-four standard hours. It was the first time you truly smiled for days, maybe even weeks. It rendered you speechless as this was a day you thought you’d never get. Eagerly, you nodded your head before pulling him up to kiss him. The first time you would share a kiss without the fear of others catching you.

“I love you, Obi. So much,” you said, resting your forehead against his.

“I love you too.” Obi-Wan lifted a hand to your cheek and traced small circles with his thumb. Although the reasons that made this moment possible were horrible, he basked in this small thing that helped both of you forget. This was well needed for now. “Maybe we could finally start the family we’ve always fantasized about,” he said while bringing his lips to your forehead.

You pulled your head away, but didn’t move away from his hold. “Really?”

“Really. Those dreams can finally be a reality.”

Without any more hesitation, you kissed him once again. There will be much to overcome, but you’ll have each other to work through it. You’ll have the other to comfort the other. Eventually, you’ll have another that will make you want to be better.

Then, you knew that Obi-Wan hadn’t failed you and you hadn’t failed Obi-Wan. Even though you both lost your closest friends, and you may have failed so many, you hadn’t failed each other. And in this blissful moment, that’s all that matters.

@stardancerluv @where-fantasy-meets-reality @jaydenwoo @madmax2003 @hopeladybug

If you want to join a taglist, message me or send in an ask. I'll eventually get something set up, but this is the only couple ways for now 😅

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lifeofkaze · 4 years ago

Note

Hi love!

Sorry for bothering you, but could you do something like really cute and fluffy between Charlie Weasley and reader where he's all shy and delicate maybe teaching her about dragons and their characteristics pls? Like, something that feels really intimate, you know?

I absolutely love your writing and I believe that you could make justice to the character.

Take care darling,

-A

Thank you for the request, loveliest anon! This is actually the first fic request I’ve ever gotten and I’m so happy you like my stuff so much, this makes me very very soft.

This fluff piece was just what I needed to get my mojo back hopefully. Please let me know if this is like what you had in mind - I for one had a lot of fun with it! <3

***

Favourites

Charlie Weasley x Reader

Word Count: ~ 2.800

As a Care of Magical Creatures test covering dragons of all things is imminent and you were too distracted in class to pay proper attention, you know just who to turn to for help.

“You want me to do what?”

Charlie Weasley blinked at you in confusion. He could feel his blood rushing in his ears as he looked at you standing in front of him, clutching you Care for Magical Creatures book to your chest as you raised your eyebrows at him.

“I asked if you could help me studying for the test next week?” you repeated your question, brow slightly furrowed. “I can’t keep track of all these dragon traits and who would know them better than you?”

Charlie felt the heat creeping up on his face. Of course, the test. It was all he had been able to think about ever since Professor Kettleburn had announced the topic; all except you of course.

He tried to formulate a coherent answer that wouldn’t make him look like a blabbering fool in front of you, but the way the dappled sunlight that broke through the trees reflected in your hair distracted him more than he cared to admit.

So he resorted to a weak nod. “Uhm, sure, I’d love to. See you at six in the library?” he managed to stammer out eventually.

A beautiful smile formed on your face as you nodded in enthusiasm. “Sounds great, see you there!”

Charlie watched as you swished around and walked back to your friends, who greeted you with giggles and whispers as they glanced in his direction. You gave one of them a playful swat on the arm, before your clear laugh carried over to him onto the warm summer air and made his heart clench.

He knew all of his dragons by heart, of course he did; this test was the first he hadn’t bothered studying for at all. But now, he suddenly felt the overwhelming urge to prepare himself.

The light of the sun had already started to turn into the beautiful golden shade that heralded the end of a warm autumn day as you skittered into the library. You were a little bit late for your study session with Charlie, and the exertion from running all the way from your Common Room flushed your cheeks slightly red. Your friends just hadn’t let you go, all of them just as excited for what they called ‘your dragon date’ as you were. Not that you’d ever tell them that.

You found Charlie sitting at a table near the windows and your breath caught for a moment as you took in the warm light that washed around his frame; it was making his ginger hair glow like fire, the only vibrant speck of colour in this dusty old room full of books.

He had his nose buried in a big, leather-bound tome, his eyes darting over the pages frantically; you noticed how the tip of his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration. He was so immersed in his reading, that he only noticed you approaching as you sat down next to him. Jumping in shock at your sudden appearance, he almost knocked over his ink bottle, only catching it at the last second before its dark, inky content could wash over the thin pages of his book.

“Oh, you’re here already, I didn’t even notice you until now.” His freckled face had flushed a shade darker than usual as he put his ink bottle back into its position and made room for you on the table.

“I’d rather say I’m here finally,” you responded, feeling a little bit guilty at making Charlie wait. “But I see that you started without me.”

He hurriedly closed the book. “No, I was just reading up on some facts about Welsh Greens so I have them sharp in my mind,” he explained, “in case you have questions, you know?”

It was only now that your eyes took in the numerous heaps of books piled up on your table. “First question,” you said as you ran your fingers over the backs of the tomes stacked on top of each other. “I thought the test was about dragons native to Europe and not every single one in existence,” you pulled out a particularly old looking book containing myths and fables, “and beyond.”

You silently counted the numbers of books Charlie had amassed and your eyes went wide. “Charlie, these must be all the books about dragons in the whole library,” you laughed, giggling at the flustered expression of the boy beside you.

“Well, not all the books,” he clarified sheepishly. “There are quite a few in the Restricted Section and then there’s the two I have up in my dorm but forgot to bring and- “

You cut off his rambling by gently touching his arm; he shut up almost instantly, glancing nervously down to where your hand was lying. “It’s alright, it was just a joke.”

“Of course,” Charlie muttered slightly embarrassed. What was wrong with him?

He watched as you pulled your notes from your bag; they were rather sparse compared to the almost three scrolls of parchment he had scribbled down himself.

“Where do you want to start?”

You hummed to yourself as you considered your choices. A warm, fuzzy feeling spread inside Charlie’s chest as you drew your lips into a pensive pout and tapped your index finger against it.

Finally, a neat stack of white flashcards, that lay hidden behind a book on Sea Serpents, caught your attention. You reached over Charlie and pulled them towards you.

Your mouth dropped open as you flicked through them; on every one of the laminated cards was an extensive profile of every kind of dragon imaginable. The descriptions were written out in a neat, accurate hand that looked nothing like the careless scrawl you’d seen on Charlie’s class notes.

But what took your breath away were the detailed drawings below the text. They were done by pencil and although they didn’t move like magical pictures often did, they were so lively as if they only waited to pounce off the paper and take into the air.

Charlie watched you apprehensively as your fingers traced the outline of what appeared to be a Swedish Short-snout. He felt his heart beat faster at the soft, admiring look in your eyes as you turned towards him.

“Did you do these yourself?”

He nodded in response. “It’s hard to find decent descriptions all in one place,” he explained quietly. “I don’t know how accurate the sketches are though; I’ve never seen a dragon in real life.”

You flashed him a radiant smile that had his heart rate pick up considerably. “I don’t care if they’re realistic; they’re brilliant!”

Encouraged by your excitement, he took the flashcards out of your hands and fanned them out, their blank backs facing you. “Then I’d suggest we start with them; pick one!”

Running the fingers along the cards twice, you finally settled on one and drew it out of his grasp. Charlie’s freckled face lit up as he saw which one you had chosen.

“The Ukrainian Ironbelly,” he exclaimed, “my favourite!”

All of his former shyness was suddenly forgotten; this was his prime discipline.

“The Ironbelly is native to the Ukraine, as its name suggests, obviously. It’s considered the largest dragon species in existence with an immense wingspan, long talons and scales that are said to be harder to pierce than steel. It’s name stems from the metallic grey colour of his underside and ever since one particular large specimen carried off a whole sailing ship in the late 18th century, they are under strict observation by wizarding authorities.”

You did your best to jot down the information Charlie dumped on you with impressive speed but there was no way you could keep up with his excited ramblings. So you resorted to listening to him as he lectured you about feeding habits, hunting methods and the average temperature of the flames an Ironbelly could produce.

He sighed wistfully as he paused for breath. “They’re amazing.”

You couldn’t hide your smile at his dreamy expression as you picked out your next card from the stack. “Okay, how about this one?”

The dragon it showed had ridges running along its back, ending in a nasty, arrow-shaped spike at the tip of its tail. It barred its teeth at you in a vicious snarl.

“That’s my favourite, the Hebridean Black,” he repeated his words from before, positively bouncing with energy this time around.

You glanced at the card you two had just worked your way through. “I thought the Ukrainian Ironbelly was your favourite?” you teased him.

Charlie’s bouncing stopped instantly as he blushed bright red; you hadn’t meant to bring him down and felt sorry all of a sudden. So you propped the card against one of the book piles and turned to him.

“So, tell me more about it.”

Relieved to be able to tread on secure ground again, Charlie immediately recounted all the facts about one of the two dragon breeds native to the British Isles to you.

You continued in this fashion; your pulled a random card from the stash and Charlie would tell you everything he knew about it. He grew more animated with every new flashcard; as it turned out, every dragon you talked about was his favourite.

Seeing him so caught up in his favourite subject had a warmth spread in your chest and the smile on your lips never vanished even once. You had given up on writing Charlie’s words down about four cards ago and were merely staring at him explaining to you everything about these fantastic beasts that made up all of his dreams and musings.

His excitement quickly spread to you and you found yourself hanging onto his every word. But the more you were listening to him, the more you found your concentration shift from the dragons you were discussing to the boy beside you.

Your head propped on your hand, you admired how recounting scale colours and preferred environments of Romanian Longhorns brought a twinkle to his blue eyes and how his contagious laugh had you chuckle at the idea that people would confuse a Hungarian Horntail with a Norwegian Ridgeback.

The dimples forming in his freckled cheeks as he smiled at you were the exact reason why you had needed help with studying for this test in the first place. When you had talked about dragons in class, the eager smile and the slight scrunch of his nose as he scribbled down every single word Professor Kettleburn had to spare had left you breathless and unable to concentrate on anything but the butterflies dancing in your stomach.

The pile of flash cards had dwindled down until only a few more were left. Your breath caught in your throat as you turned around your next pick; the pictured showed a slender dragon directly from the front. It’s wings were outstretched and it seemed to be staring directly at you out of wide, pupil-less eyes. It was the only drawing so far that was coloured.

Your finger traced the subtle colour gradient rippling over its pearly scales as Charlie looked over to see which one was next.

“The Antipodean Opaleye,” he murmured, taking in your fascinated expression, “it’s singularly coloured scales and eyes are the stuff of legends.”

“It’s beautiful,” you whispered, trying to imagine how the scales of a real life Opaleye might shimmer in the sunlight.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Charlie suddenly blurted out. The words had fallen from his lips before he’d even had a chance to stop them.

Both of you froze as what he had said sank into your consciousness. You couldn’t believe your ears and were half sure that your mind must have played a trick on you.

You carefully glanced over to Charlie out of the side of your eyes; he looked incredulous and you could watch the colour of his face turning from ghostly white to a deep, vivid scarlet that clashed with his ginger hair in a matter of seconds.

Feeling your own cheeks starting to blush at the unexpected compliment, you desperately were looking for something to say to take the shock out of his widened eyes. But your mind wasn’t working properly anymore, so all you managed was a meek “Wow, uhm, thank you Charlie, that’s really sweet.”

It was apparent your words didn’t help his flustered situation as he covered his face with his hands and groaned “I can’t believe I said that out loud; I’m such an idiot.”

You didn’t know what to do to help him; you felt utterly flattered and confused at the same time. You thought about putting your hand on his arm to reassure him what he had said actually made you happy, but paused halfway, not quite daring to touch him again.

Still unsure of what to do, you got up and picked up one of the books he had used to illustrate the facts on his flashcards.

“I’d better get going, I guess,” you stammered without looking at the wretched boy sitting at the table next to you, “thank you so much for helping me, I think I’ll manage the rest on my own. Can I borrow that book though?”

He didn’t raise his face from his hands, but nodded anyways. You felt bad for leaving him like that, but your head was spinning and you desperately needed to sort out your thoughts.

But seeing Charlie’s slumped frame sitting at the table, all the bubbly excitement from before completely drained from him, tugged at your heartstrings so hard it almost hurt. So instead of turning around and leaving, you drew a deep breath, gathered your courage and stepped behind him, placing a light kiss on his cheek.

You could feel his shoulders tense and his breath hitch as your hair tickled his jaw and were glad he couldn’t see the deep blush on your cheeks as you straightened up, picked up your bag and his book and hurried out of the library with a racing heart, too afraid to turn around once more.

Charlie and you hadn’t spoken again after what had happened in the library. It had taken him quite some time to be able to think properly again after you had left; he had just sat at his table, hand on his cheek where you had kissed him, staring into nothingness, the peachy smell of your hair still hanging in the air.

Even though the thought of how soft your lips had felt on your cheek had been the most prominent thing in his mind, he had passed his test with flying colours; some things just couldn’t be erased from his mind, no matter what was happening around him.

He had just returned to his dorm after a particularly tiring Quidditch practise when he saw it lying on his bed, propped up against his head bord; the book you had borrowed from him to finish studying on your own.

For a brief moment, he wondered how you had managed to get it up here, when he noticed something white sticking out of the pages. Curious, he picked up the book and flicked it open.

Even without looking, he knew what chapter it was you had marked with whatever you had put in there; he had read this book more times than he could remember. It was the chapter on the Antipodean Opaleye; he grimaced at the memory of when he had last thought about this particular dragon.

A white flashcard was stuck between the pages, its laminated surface flashing as Charlie turned it around to read it.

A big smile stole onto his face as he saw the photograph of you laughing and waving at him that you had stuck on the front side. His eyes swept over the lines written in your feminine hand and his smile grew even wider as he read the ‘special characteristics’ section:

It has to be remarked, that this particular specimen was able to pass her test with full marks.

He was glad to hear his blurted out compliment hadn’t affected your marks in the end. He sighed wistfully, when he noticed the very small, scribbled note at the very end of the card; it wasn’t as neatly written as the rest, almost as if your hands had shaken while writing it down.

Greatest weakness: While not many weaknesses are recorded of this specimen, it is said that it can be easily tamed by ginger-haired dragon trainers in the making. Whether these rumours are true, remains to be determined.

Charlie’s mouth dropped open as he read the last section over and over again, not daring to believe what he thought they said. But after the tenth time, he finally allowed the butterflies that had been fluttering in his stomach to spread into the rest of his body, his smile growing into the widest grin as he tucked the flashcard carefully into the book again.

This time, he was sure; this one was his favourite.

Tagging: @weasleysandwheezes

#harry potter #hphm #hogwarts mystery #charlie weasley #charlie weasley x reader #L writes #by request

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raksh-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Sit back (and watch you unfold)

Fandom: Teen Wolf

Pairing: Nogitsune/Stiles Stilinski (Voiles/Stigitsune)

Words: ~2,7k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Smut! Very explicit, and very kinky! Check the work on AO3 for more information and tags! And, again, it starts right up, be warned ;p

A/N: Oh my, ‘tis the kinkiest thing I have ever written? Yes, very much so!

I should be focusing on my thesis and all other uni-related things, yet instead - here I am!But I haven't touched my fics in a long time and I miss Voiles and writing them and ughhh, it's killing me ;_; So, yeah, I decided I can treat myself and post this, since it was sitting in my doc almost-post-ready for a while and waiting for its turn ;p Let's hope the good-fic-feels will propel me in progressing on my thesis the rest of the month, lmao.

And, of course, I hope it'll be an enjoyable read to y'all ❤ I definitely had a lot of fun with it! ^^

✦✧✦✧

“I must say, Stiles, you do make such a pretty picture right now,” the demon muses, claws trailing feather-light over Stiles’ stomach, “tied up with my hand around your throat.”

His smirk curves up, sharp and mean, as Stiles swallows thickly against those long fingers. They tighten, just a little — just enough to make it that much harder to breathe.

“I bet you’ll look even better with all these bruises it's going to leave, hm?”

Stiles shudders, uselessly wringing his hands where they’re held together by the wrists and secured to the headboard. It doesn’t do anything beyond amusing Void further, eyes hungrily taking in Stiles’ naked body draped all over the bed and his lap.

The wait's already killing Stiles and he can’t even do much more than curve up into Void’s touch; try to wiggle his hips as the fingers dig into the meat of his thigh. Every little move makes his muscles tense up around the plug nestled deep inside, keeping him nice and ready for taking, the smallest shift sending hot little thrills all over his body. Stiles couldn’t possibly feel any more helpless and on display than he is now — back arched into a perfect bow, ass resting in Void’s leather-clad lap and legs bent around the demon as he trembles, his aching erection dribbling precome all over his abs.

Wrapping his hands around the length of rope tied to the headboard, Stiles pushes against the demon — both the grip at his throat and the thighs Stiles is resting on — and bites back the mewl that rises in his throat. But those little, delighted sparks in Void's eyes are more than worth enduring the delirious torture Stiles is sure to get.

“Please—”

How fitting, that his voice is so hoarse and thin it's barely coherent.

“Please what?” The demon purrs, all delighted and mean in the curve of his smirk.

“Touch me?” Stiles' tone wavers, ever so slightly, but it's enough to inch his ultimate goal closer to reality — there's something about Stiles' begging and whimpering that gets to Void, delights the demon in ways only visible in moments like this one. And maybe that's because only in those moments Stiles lets himself enjoy it, show the side that he'd never otherwise, trusting Void with his submission — and maybe it's also because Void knows Stiles like no other. Sees through him so intimately and wholly; Stiles' every need and desire like an open book. And the demon relishes in everything he can take from Stiles, always.

Void doesn't answer, but his hand moves, just slightly, from Stiles' throat — thumb pressing over his lower lip.

“Maybe I should've gagged you too,” he muses, a spark in dark eyes even when his voice doesn't carry any significant weight, thumb dipping into Stiles' mouth. “I wonder how much more desperate that would make you. Not being able to beg so sweetly.”

Stiles trembles, heat spreading all over his exposed skin and some new tightness wound around his lungs. It's hard to tell, in the moment, if the idea is more thrilling or scary, but Stiles discards it for now, because—

“You wouldn't like the aftertaste,” he says, throwing it out on a chance and licking his lips over. As much as the demon doesn't mind, or even enjoys, the messiness that comes with sex — be it cum or sweat — he despises the artificial. It’s a good thing then, that Stiles found he actually prefers more natural lubricants — or lack thereof, on occasion. Then there's the fact that— “And you enjoy hearing me.”

Void's lips twitch in one corner, a small, amused breath escaping on an almost chuckle.

“Hard to deny that, but—” His smirk curves into an even meaner, mischievous one as he presses his thumb deeper into Stiles' mouth, right behind his teeth. “—who said we'd be buying a plastic one? Or getting any, really? We could… get creative, couldn’t we?”

And Stiles' whole body breaks out in little thrills when his mind finally catches on what exactly he means.

Void's only reaction is an even more delighted, half-lidded look.

“Like that, didn't you?” He chuckles, claws dragging against Stiles' thigh, digging into the fleshy inside before he brings his hand all the way down and takes a hold on the butt of the plug. “Those ties laying around in your closet, the underwear I just pulled off of you. Sooo many possibilities, so many ways to make use of them, hm?”

Stiles almost chokes on his own spit when Void pulls at the plug — slowly, so very slowly withdrawing the toy until only the tip is hooked against his rim — then pushes it back in at the exact right angle to make stars burst behind his eyelids. The spark of pleasure that shoots up Stiles' spine feels possibly electric and the way Void's fingers tighten around his throat makes it burn just that much hotter, just on the edge of too much.

“Imagine, kitten, all prepped and ready for me, with this silly thing up your ass—” Void grinds the base of his palm against the plug, the simplest shift of it against Stiles' flesh a hot coal of pure sensation, “—going about your day, wondering when or where I'll snatch you up, press you against some door with a nice little gag of your own underwear as I fuck into you. With all those people on the other side.” Void's grip goes harsher on Stiles' throat, pressing just right to cut his breath as the demon plays with the toy, thrusting it out and back in again at a torturously slow pace. “But you'd still have to be quiet, darling, with all those pretty noises you make. Unless— unless you'd like them to hear you, to come look for what all those moans are about. Maybe you'd like that, huh?” His smirk curves sharper, meaner, just as his fingers and the pace he sets. Stiles is all but grinding back against Void now, desperate to finally tumble off that edge he’s kept on. “For others to see how much of a mess I can make you. How desperate you are to come on my cock, to be fucked so raw you can barely stand later. Just look at you, rutting on me already.”

And Stiles is, desperately, because he's right there, tethering on the edge of his orgasm, and he's so close, so close— There's barely enough breath in his lungs for the pitiful mewl that spills from his lips; moving against Void's grip the only thing Stiles can do.

And the demon's gaze on him is possibly ravenous, lips parted and corners curved up.

“What an absolute delight you are, kitten,” he purrs, pushing at the plug until Stiles writhes, all but begging wordlessly, for more or for mercy, before he loosens the grip on Stiles' throat just enough to give him some air. “Do you want to come, darling? Do you want it now?”

It's as much of a test as it's an offering and Stiles wants — but it's not the only thing he wants. And just as well as Void knows his every desire and every crevice of his body, Stiles is also pretty familiar with what exactly the demon enjoys.

So he licks his lips and whimpers helplessly before the words escape on a bated breath.

“I want to— I want to come on your cock, please…”

And that moment, the little split-second when Void's eyes almost flash silver and vulpine-slitted, is exactly what Stiles has been hoping, yearning for — that dark, dark look promising to devour him whole. Because the demon is as possessive as it gets — and Stiles isn't much better.

“Such a good boy— such a perfect little thing, aren't you, kitten...” Void's voice drops so low it's almost more felt than heard, a smooth rumble that spreads heat all over Stiles, the words so simple and yet warming him up from inside-out.

He bites over his lower lip, anticipation already sizzling along his nerves when Void's grip around his throat tightens again, hard enough to make Stiles' pulse race under Void's cool fingers. But just as the sharp claws prick his skin, sending a hot shiver down his spine, Void withdraws from the plug. Stiles whines in protest, grinding his ass against the demon's lap, the feel of leather on his bare skin all sin and friction, but the sure hold around his throat prevents him from checking why— just why Void would stop now.

It becomes embarrassingly obvious when the demon chuckles and Stiles' brain finally checks back in enough to register the sound of a zipper being pulled down. And it might've as well been the flaming point to Stiles' helpless pleas, wordless but just as obvious, all weak whimpers and trembling.

“I do love how absolutely desperate you are for me,” the demon muses, bringing his hand back to Stiles' thigh and dragging claws over sensitive skin. “So, soo eager to get fucked. You want my cock so much, don't you?” He gets a hold of the plug again, teasing it slowly, so very slowly out. “Are you ready for me, Stiles? Do you want it?”

Void's hold loosens only to give Stiles some breath and a chance to nod.

“Words, kitten.”

“Yes! Yes, please, I want it, I want you—”

Fingers press against his jugular and Stiles shudders, blinking away the tears already gathering at the corners of his eyes. Void's curled lips and glimmering dark gaze are as promising as they're threatening — and Stiles all but squirms in anticipation.

“Well, if you ask so sweetly,” the demon purrs, deceptively smooth and sweet, right before his grip cuts through Stiles' whimpers, trapping the last breath in his lungs.

Stiles can't even whine his protest when Void removes the plug, leaving him empty and gaping — on occasion, the demon will keep him there, make Stiles wait for it torturously long, but this is not one of those days. The moment Void gets rid of the toy, his hand lands on Stiles' hip in a bruising hold and pulls him up on his lap, Stiles' butt sliding against the warmed-up leather. Then he starts pushing into Stiles and that maddeningly slow, almost-too-much sensation of being stretched and spread open fires sparks all over Stiles' nerves, always the same feeling of novelty that edges on oversensitivity and almost-pain that scrambles his brain no matter the amount of prep. When Void puts on the final touch, the pressure of his grip on Stiles' throat cutting any and all breath from his lungs, Stiles might've as well been a bowstring pulled tight and ready to snap.

It couldn't last long, maybe few seconds at most, but in that exact moment, all his senses in an overdrive and spots dancing in his blurred-out vision, it feels like a small forever. And in that small stretch of eternity the only things Stiles is aware of is how quickly he's getting lightheaded, high on the lack of air, the absolutely maddening stretch-burn of Void pushing into him and those sharp claws digging into his skin — when they finally break through and the pain shoots hotly down his body, Stiles very nearly comes right there and then. But Void's barely halfway in and won't allow it, a cutting tsk sounding in the air before his other hand curls around Stiles' weeping cock in a vice-like grip that stops his orgasm before it can take over. There are probably tears already running down Stiles' face but he can barely comprehend it.

Only a little longer, he has to hold off only a little, a little—

That's when Void huffs out a small laugh, an amused almost-chuckle that's more of a half strained breath.

“Good boy,” he praises — and releases his grip, on Stiles' throbbing dick and abused throat both.

Air rushes back into Stiles' lungs, cutting down his throat like flames, and Void snaps his hips — thrusts into Stiles, harsh and rough and all the way in as the obscene sound of their joining bounces off the walls — Stiles chokes, bows off the bed, and finally, finally tumbles off the edge into the burning, throbbing waves of pleasure that steal over all his senses. Gasping and moaning and writhing in his bonds, Stiles grinds back against Void as the demon fucks him through that almost torturous ecstasy with short, harsh, deep thrusts that only make the shivery-hot sensation burn that much brighter. It seems to stretch, and stretch, and stretch impossibly long until Stiles is left violently trembling and sobbing under his panting breath as he slowly comes down from his high, mewling at the feel of Void's cock still dragging against his now too oversensitive flesh. But the second his orgasm ebbs away, the demon stops moving, nestled deep inside with their hips pressed flush together.

“Hush, sweetheart, hush, it's alright, you did so well,” he praises, low and rumbling in that warm purr of his as he shifts the hand from around Stiles' throat up to his face, brushing away tears in a show of tenderness and care that still seems as shocking as ever. “Breathe for me, Stiles, just breathe, I'm here…”

Stiles turns into Void's caress on pure instinct, nuzzling into the demon's hand as his breath calms down, all the tension slowly seeping out at the continuous petting all over his quivering thighs and bruised hips. It always takes a few minutes before Stiles comes back to his senses, usually still shuddering and whimpering a bit, but his mind almost more clear than normal; quiet as it rarely is. And Void hasn't moved an inch since Stiles' orgasm tore through him, hot and heavy and very much as hard as before where Stiles is stuffed full of his cock.

“Back with me, little fox?”

Void's tone stays low and warm, his eyes just as scorching and ravenous, but there's a steel underneath it that both makes heat start anew in Stiles' gut and winds a tight grip of different emotion around his lungs.

Swallowing through his raw throat, Stiles nods and tugs at his wrists. It won't do anything besides giving Void an idea of what he needs now, but Void, of course, gets it right away.

Small smile curving the corners of his lips, the demon slowly shifts against Stiles, the move waking a small whine in Stiles' lungs, before Void braces a hand on the bed and leans down to catch Stiles' lips in a deep, slow kiss. Fingers still cupping his jaw and claws grazing his throat, Void directs Stiles whichever way he pleases, licking into his mouth and gnawing at his lips until they're raw and aching, a hot spark of lust burning anew under Stiles' navel. And when Void grinds his hips against Stiles' ass, the sparking pleasure burns just on the edge of being painful — and just as perfect.

Stiles tugs at his restraints once more, silently begging Void's permission as he nudges their noses together — he doesn't dare to do much more, but it's also not like he minds either way. Sometimes Void leaves him restrained until the very end, sometimes he decides to give in to Stiles' request — this time, as the demon's dark gaze melts the tiniest bit, it seems to be the latter. When all the knots fall undone, Stiles latches onto Void, onto his waist and shoulders, brushing through the mess of black hair; thrilled when he catches a glimpse of the markings on his wrists.

Void chuckles, a little breathy and hoarse, before he reaches down to take a hold of Stiles' thigh, fingers digging in with bruising strength. He hikes Stiles' leg higher just as he leans down to give him another kiss, a far filthier and more aggressive one, biting and lapping up Stiles' little mewls as he ruts, roughly, into Stiles' pliant body. The hot spark of pleasure travels shivery-sweet over Stiles’ spine, stirring his dick back to attention against his belly and all his senses flaring at the drag of skin and leather against his ass.

“Ready for more, kitten?”

Void purrs the question into Stiles' parted, raw-red lips and he shudders in response, clutching at Void's shoulders.

“Please,” is the only thing he manages to breathe out.

When Void smirks, dark gaze heavy with cruel delight, Stiles can only brace himself against what's coming. And he takes it all, gladly.

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synmorite · 3 years ago

Text

Good Girl, Bad Boy

Characters: F!Reader, Jared, Jensen

Pairing: J2 x F!Reader

Summary: Jared can't follow Jensen's rules, so Jensen uses Y/N to punish him.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Warnings: polyamory, orgasm denial, cock cages, dom/sub relationships, daddy!kink, dom!jensen, switch!reader, switch!jared, M/M sex, anal play, anal sex, oral (m/f receiving), a miniscule dash of fluff. Y'all this smut from the onset!

A/N: So @hoboal87 and I absolutely LOVE to discuss and theorize fics on Bee's Discord server. We work so well together that @writethelifeyouwant challenged us to collaborate on a fic. @negans-lucille-tblr provided the prompt, "Jensen needs to punish Jared, and he's using Y/N to do it." This was written through a series of reblogs, with Alex and I only writing one part at a time with no discussions about what the other was going to do. The original post is here.

Special thanks to @hoboal87 for putting all of the reblogs together, creating such an awesome graphic, and for finishing the fic when I had to tap out to go to sleep. 😂 This was so fun and I'm excited for the next time we do it. (I also highly recommend checking out Alex's masterlist. She has got some amazing fics on there.🥰)

My Masterlist

Alex's Masterlist

“Since you can’t do as you’re told, we’ll have to use this instead,” Jensen grunts as he fastens the cage around Jared’s now softening cock.

Y/N leaned forward and pulled Jared’s wrists up to hook them into the handcuffs attached to the headboard. Jared whined as Jensen grinned and said, “No touching now, baby boy.”

Y/N moves onto Jared thigh, positioning her bare pussy on top of him as Jensen ties Jared's ankles, keeping him spread eagle. Slowly, Y/N starts to rock forward on Jared’s thigh, spreading her slick along his skin. Jared’s gaze zeroed in on his shiny flesh as he let out a low moan at the sight.

"Nuh-uh, babygirl," Jensen scolds you, letting his voice drop. You were already tense from a day full of teasing and you both know its not going to take much for the coil to snap. "If you're gonna get off, you'd better have my cock in you."

Y/N stopped moving immediately with a small whimper.

“Remember that we’re punishing Jared for coming without permission. You don’t want to be punished too, do you? Now you know what to do next.” Y/N nodded as she ran her hand down Jared’s caged cock, to his balls, to his still gaping hole.

Slowly, Y/N started to tease Jared hole. Jensen had instructed him to keep a plug in him while he was in quarantine, edge himself over and over again, but no cumming. Jared, the brat, of course couldn't help himself, sending you a video of him jerking off, spilling himself onto his tan and taut stomach. He'd begged you not to show Jensen, but you knew better than to hide this from him, lest you get your own punishment.

Part of you just wanted to help Jensen punish Jared though. It was one of the few times that Jensen gave you some control. You still had the rules to follow, of course, but it meant that you could play with Jared and watch him become desperate underneath your hands, your fingers. You smiled as you teased a finger into Jared’s hole to press against his prostate as he jerked beneath you. Jensen laughed, “Better hold on tight if you’re gonna play that game Y/N.”

Your mouth waters as you watch Jared's cock twitch in its cage, and he lets out another whimper as you hit his prostate again. Jensen moves behind you, his hand connecting with the bare flesh of your ass. It's not enough to leave a mark, only to remind you that you might be currently domming Jared, but Jensen was the alpha in the room. You let out a low moan when Jensen's fingers run through your slick, and you can practically see the smirk on his face.

"My two perfect little cock-sluts," Jensen works his thumb over your tightest hole. "Whaddya think I'll be the best way to show Jare that he should always follow Daddy's orders?"

You shivered as you pressed back against Jensen’s finger. You worked another finger into Jared and pressed against his prostate again without letting up. Jared’s back arch and he let out such a delicious whine that had goosebumps rising all over your bare skin. Jensen slowly pushed his own thumb through the tight ring of muscles at your hole and you let out your own gasp. You worked yourself back and forth on his thumb before turning your head and asking Jensen, “Can I pick something from the toy box to use on him, Daddy?”

"I dunno, babygirl," Jensen tsks, slipping two fingers into your dripping pussy, causing you to gasp out. You'd been under the same orders as Jared; two weeks without cumming, and the feel of his thick digits inside of you almost sends you over the edge. "Our baby boy wants to be fucked, and I don't think it'll be much of a punishment" -- Jensen slides a third finger into you -- "if we give 'im what he wants."

Jensen twists and pumps his fingers inside you, searching until he finds that spot inside you. You pull your fingers from Jared’s hole unable to continue playing with him as you moan out. You lean forward draping yourself over Jared’s sweat slick skin as Jensen thrusts his fingers in and out, faster and faster. “No coming yet, baby girl. ‘Member what I said? Can’t come till it’s my cock in you.” You whined and nodded before pressing your mouth against Jared’s chest. After Jensen hit that spot again, you bit down into Jared’s chest leaving teeth marks as Jared gasped out and his cock twitched in its cage.

Jared tugs against his restraints, "please, Jen," he begs, "lemme touch." You love seeing Jared like this, desperate and needy, giving all control up to you and Jensen. You want to have his hands on you as well, but you'll have to wait until Jensen's done doling out Jared's punishment. The most you can settle for at the moment, is a rough and sloppy kiss from Jared. You run your hands into his hair, giving it a tug as your tongue licks into his mouth.

“No, no baby boy. Y/N was a good girl, she waited like she was supposed to. You were bad. You don’t get to touch. You don’t get to decide.” Jensen taunted. He came around the side of the bed closest to Jared. Jared looked up at him as you ran your fingertips down his chest, sucking dark marks into the tan skin as you went. Jared whined at Jensen again. “Please Daddy? I can be good!” Jared pulled involuntarily at the restraints again as you tugged a nipple between your teeth. Jensen smirked down at you both before leaning down taking Jared’s mouth hungrily with his own. You watched the kiss, feeling the wetness pooling even more between your thighs. Jensen pulled away and Jared chased his lips, but Jensen stayed just out of reach. “Why don’t you prove it, baby boy?” Jensen said with another smirk.

Jared nodded eagerly, and Jensen let out a barely audible good boy. Jensen brought his lips to yours and smacked your ass again with a command of ‘up.’ You lift your ass into the air, straddling your body over Jared’s, letting your breasts just barely touch his chest. The sound of Jensen removing his belt is like music to your ears, and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second. Jensen wastes no time, swiftly entering you and burying himself to the root. You’re glad he started to open you up with his fingers, otherwise you wouldn’t be able to enjoy this nearly as much. He holds himself there for a moment, before grabbing you by the nape of your neck, bringing your back flush to his chest. “Bet it won’ take ya long to cum, will it, slut?” he grunts as he starts thrusting into you.

You reach your hands down and grip onto Jared’s hips to hold on as Jensen thrusts grow harder and deeper. You can feel the coil tightening and tightening in your belly as Jensen’s hand slides around the front of your throat gripping just tight enough. His other hand slides down over your breasts and belly to start circling your clit harshly. You close your eyes and lean your head back on Jensen’s shoulder, panting. You feel Jensen bite at your neck before whispering into your ear, “Open your eyes baby girl. Look at what we’re doing to our boy.” You open your eyes and look down at Jared. His knuckles are white as his large hands are wrapped around the chain of the handcuffs and his hips are jerking up softly as his cock leaks precum onto his beautiful stomach. He’s making soft whines and whimpers that immediately make you remember the video he sent to you. The one that got him in trouble. Your gaze moves up from his cock and belly over all the little marks you left on his chest, and over his throat that is tensed as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with each deep swallow. Finally, your hungry gaze meets his and you cum with a scream as you meet his lust black eyes.

“See?” Jensen grunts, moving one of his hands down your belly and over your clit. He starts rubbing you, working you through your orgasm and straight into another. You’ve barely come down before the coil snaps again and you sag against Jensen’s body.

“Those who follow the rules get rewarded.” If you weren’t on cloud nine, you’d feel bad for Jared, his cock straining against the cage. “Whaddya want now, babygirl?” Jensen groans as he slows his hips. You’re too orgasm drunk to form any coherent thoughts, all you want now is Jared’s mouth, and Jensen seems to notice when your eyes fall on them and you lick your lips. “You wan’ Jared to eat my cum out of you?” Jensen taunts, and you nod your head.

“Okay, baby, because you’ve been such a good girl, we’ll let Jared use his perfect mouth.” Jared hums in approval, and Jensen speeds up his thrusts, and after a few moments, he’s cumming hot and sticky inside you. He pulls out quickly, and you can feel him dripping down your thighs as you crawl back over Jared, placing your pussy above his mouth.

You grip the headboard next to the handcuffs and lower yourself down. Jared leans forward and licks up your inner thighs collecting the cum that escaped your pussy. He hums happily at the taste as he makes his way to your still dripping hole. The chain rattled as Jared pulled against them again. His long tongue dipped into your hole as you pushed down onto him more.

“Would you like me to remove the handcuffs?” Jensen asked from behind you. Jared pulled back a little as you moved your hips to follow his mouth and said “Yes, Daddy.” Jensen chuckled.

“Oh, baby boy, I wasn’t asking you. I was asking Y/N. Do you want Jared to be able to hold you still? While he eats every last drop of my cum?”

“Yes, please daddy. Please let him touch me.” You whined out.

“Ok, baby girl. For you.” Jensen reached forward and opened the cuffs, releasing Jared’s wrists. His hands immediately flew to your hips and yanked you further down onto his mouth. You let out a gasp as Jensen warned, “That’s the only place you can touch for now, baby boy. No where else.”

Jared agrees happily against your pussy, humming as his tongue moves frantically through your folds. His grip on your thighs tighten, and you’re sure that there will be imprints of his hands bruised on you tomorrow, not that you mind. You grind your pussy against his face harder, chasing one final orgasm, but you wanted to be able to see Jensen when you came-- another punishment for Jared. His name, not Jared’s, is the one you’re going to scream out. As you feel your third orgasm start to crest, you stop, and reach behind you for Jensen, you don’t feel him there, and you let out a needy whine. You turn your head and see Jensen on his belly, tonguing Jared’s hole, and slowly stroking his now-released cock. You reach out and tug on his short strands, not enough to elicit a punishment, but just to get his attention.

“What’s a-matter, baby?” Jensen pulls up, and Jared groans at the loss of Jensen.

“Need you, Daddy,” you moan. “Wanna see you when I cum.”

You turn yourself around so that you’re now facing Jensen, who starts working his cock into Jared. You lean forward, so that Jared’s cock is right under you, you look up at Jensen with wide eyes, asking silent permission to take his cock in your mouth.

“You don’t cum until I say so,” Jensen places his hand on Jared’s thigh, and you know he’s talking to both of you. “If you do, I’ll only be using those slutty mouths of yours for the next two weeks, and you won’t be able to cum that whole time, is that understood?”

You lift off of Jared slightly so that Jensen can hear a “Yes, Daddy,” from each of you.

You work Jared into your mouth, swirling your tongue around him, hollowing your cheeks and taking him as deep as you can. One of Jared’s hands disappears from your thigh as starts teasing your hole, working you into a frenzy. Jensen either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, but you’re sure that he’ll make Jared pay for his disobedience later. When Jensen gives him permission, Jared cums with a groan, hot and salty down your throat, and you greedily swallow every drop.

Jensen then pulls out of Jared, stroking himself as his spills over Jared’s stomach. “If you’re good, next time I’ll cum in this tight little ass of yours,” he scolds. “Now, since Y/N is the only one who can be a good girl, you’ve got 30 seconds to make her cum, or you’ll be wearing that cock cage for another week.”

Jensen scoops up his cum with his fingers, and brings them to your mouth, where you eagerly suck them dry. It only takes another moment before you cum a final time on Jared’s face. You take a moment to catch your breath before crawling off of Jared, and lay down next to him, Jensen appearing at your other side, sandwiching you between the boys.

“Y’all miss me?” Jensen breaks the silence.

“You know it’s not the same when you’re not here,” Jared speaks over you. “Now that The Boys is done, you can have a role on Walker. Come home to us every night.”

#j2 x reader #j2 x reader smut #jensen x reader x jared #poly relationship #smut #jared x reader x jensen #collab fic #supernatural rpf

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americxn · 3 years ago

Note

hi i absolutely LOVE everything you write and was wondering if you’d be open to doing a tate fic in which the reader is really struggling and he basically helps to pull them out of a hard time ?💟 also maybe some comfort cuddles w him as the little spoon <3__<3 totally understand if ur swamped it’s just a little req idea i had

Out of Darkness, Into Light

wordcount: 995 (sorry this is kinda short, I wasn’t too sure how far to go into it) warnings: inclusion of the subject of mental health

“Y/n?” You looked up with a hum as Tate softly spoke your name from the doorway of your room. “Can I come in?” “Of course.” You responded, patting the spot on your bed next to you. Drawing your legs up to your chest, you rested your cheek on one knee, watching as Tate approached and fell down onto the bed beside you. “I haven’t seen you much today.” You mumbled, your cheek smooshed against your knee as you watched Tate flop down onto his back. He reached out a hand, wrapping his long fingers around your ankle in a soft hold. “I know, sorry; thought it was best to give you some space.” You merely nodded at his hushed explanation, your eyes heavy as you blinked slowly at him. “Was I right? Do you want me to go away for a while?” You shook your head at him, trailing one of your hands down your calf to his hand wrapped loosely around your ankle. You began to draw thoughtless swirling patterns on the back of his hand, the room falling into amiable silence as Tate surveyed you, concern evident in the crease of his brow.

“I don’t want you to go away, Tate. I need you here. With me.” You admitted softly, looking down at him. He smiled tentatively at this, his thumb beginning to make loving strokes on the inside of your ankle. The room fell silent again, your eyes closing as you bathed in Tate’s silent presence, his hold on your ankle a reminder that he was truly here with you, that he wouldn’t leave unless you wished it. You would never admit it to him, but the fact that he was dead brought unending comfort to you; he couldn’t leave you as he had already left: he existed only for you. You exhaled through your nose, unfolding your legs from your chest and lowering yourself down beside Tate’s sprawled out body. He welcomed you, taking your hand in his and pulling you into his chest, his free hand rising to cup the back of your neck. You breathed in the clean, familiar scent of him, ashamed of the tears that pricked at your eyes at the embrace of comfort. “I can tell, you know?” He mumbled into the silence of the room, his words rumbling through his chest and into your cheek. “I know.” You responded, your eyes opening and training on the oak dresser across the room in a blank stare, its contents spilling out over the drawers. You allowed your eyes to close again. “And I also know that you don’t want to talk to me about it. But please, y/n. Let me in. Let me help you.” His offer was so tempting, your heart straining to meet his, only to be shoved cruelly back into the confines of your chest, your mind clamping down on your urge to open up to him. “Why do you say that if you already know the answer?” You responded, the coldly spoken words drew guilt alongside of them, Tate’s hold on you unfaltering and yet you could tell that your rejection hurt him almost as much as it hurt you.

It took a lot of effort on Tate’s part, and a lot of frustrated hesitation on yours, but you were finally able to open up to Tate, explaining to him your jumble of toxic thoughts and numbed emotions until the two of you were able to piece together some sense of coherence of it all. He didn’t push you, letting you provide him with snippets of your mental state as they came to you or as you felt ready to share them with him. He didn’t balk away from your confessions and explanations, forbidding even an ounce of pain to show in his gaze as he listened to you vent, watched you cry, took you in his arms and tried to provide you with words of comfort. Neither of you were sure how to help you, not when you began to spiral, the confessions of how you were truly feeling seeming to bring it all to life, dragging you down and down until it was just you, smothered by the darkness, a thin shaft of light surrounding the hand that Tate shoved through the mental barriers, reaching for you. His hand got closer and closer to you, light flooding into the darkness as he strained to reach you, pulling you out of that dark place over the span of several weeks, tugging you out entirely and filling that void with his own bleak thoughts, patching up the gaping chasm, all the while ensuring that you stood behind him, his body and mind a physical barrier between you and regressing back to that place. It was only when, on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, Tate’s body warm against yours, did you realise just how far he had pulled you back into the light, noticed the considerable weightlessness of that once heavy space in your chest. Your grip around his waist tightened, Tate sighing contentedly as he leaned further back into your chest, your chin coming to rest on his shoulder. You gazed down at him, his face softened in light sleep, his lips parted ever so slightly and his blond curls scattered across his smooth forehead. Leaning over his shoulder, you pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, smiling softly as you pulled away to nestle your face into the crook of his neck. “What was that for?” He mumbled sleepily, one of his eyes cracking open slightly. “I don’t know.” You responded, your small smile growing as he took your hands in his and brought them to his chest in a knot. “I’m just grateful, that’s all.” Tate’s own lips curved softly upwards at your hushed words, his hands squeezing yours. “I love you.” He breathed in response, the warmth of your body pressed against his already lulling him back to sleep.

taglist: @kitwalker02 @three-eyed-snail @forevercountess @kitwalkerangel @milly-louise @thecountessesglove @undeadcortez @kitwalker64 @samsassinparvismagna @xmaximoffic @divineruler @liandav @tatesweaterweather @evanmybeloved (if you want to be added or removed just let me know <3)

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lupismaris · 3 years ago

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Summertime, And The Livin’s Easy- a black sails fic prompt fill

this became incredibly long so instead of just posting it with the ask i’ve made it’s own post

@themelonface asks- For the fic prompts (if you're still taking them), silverflint talking about children. Can be AU, can be set during or after canon. I just have a feeling Miranda never wanted any, Thomas was too wrapped up in the fight for equality to need anything more than cats, but maybe James would have wanted kids in another life.

HERE MY DARLING HAVE THE FIRST OF hopefully TWO PROMPT FILLS because i want to write a post canon ficlet for this ask as well.

but for now have modern au silverflint (and hamilton at the end) and the discussion of children 💕

cw for mentions of child abuse and shitastic fathers!!! but theres nothing graphic mentioned or shown.

***

It was the hazy space between what would have been brunch on a weekend and the corporate lunch time rush and the start of cocktail hour on every other day when half the bars in Brooklyn Heights hadn’t actually opened their doors yet and those that had were serving sandwiches and day drinking friendly cocktails.

The Walrus was one of the latter.

Silver slid off his bar stool as the last member of the aforementioned lunch rush stepped out the door and leaned against the polished bar top with a bright grin. “How you holding up, honey?” Muldoon rolled his eyes. “Please, a corpse could make an aperol spritz.” “I doubt a corpse could make that many of them that quickly.” “Flattery might work on other men,” Muldoon said, as he always did, with a wag of his tattooed finger and a smile fighting to show on his face. “But it will not work on me.” “Are you sure? Cause you were pretty sexy with those martinis. Remind me why its always vodka?” “Your boyfriend has told you that a dozen times already, I know it for a fact, you shit.” “Okay but maybe I wanna hear you explain it. Again,” Silver said, propping his chin on his hands and putting on his best Cheshire smile, throwing in a slight batting of the lashes just for Muldoon’s sake. They played this game every time Silver wasted away a few hours at the bar, which he was starting to do more and more often. He’d joke with Flint that it was only out of boredom, but in truth, he felt safe there, nestled in the corner with his laptop or acting as an honorary member of the staff when they needed some help. He didn’t want to dwell too much on it, on why he felt so safe there or why after so many years he was once again feeling so painfully devoted to the same group of men who’d despite everything, seen him through hell. Muldoon sighed, his hands making quick work of filling the high powered steam dishwasher under the counter. He pushed it closed with his hip and looked up at Silver, finally cracking a smile. “Do you want to help me run bar for a bit, love? While it’s quiet?”

Silver was behind the bar before Muldoon could even consider changing his mind. He did pause to duck into the kitchen quickly, where the two line cooks- Randal and Dooley- were working on their mise en place and Vane was wedged into the alley doorway with a cigarette in his mouth, recovering from the lunch rush. His long hair was carefully tied up in a braided bun and covered in a bandanna, ears lined as always with half a dozen hoops a piece. “Why do you look like you just ate a canary?” Vane asked around his smoke. “No reason. Where’s the Captain?” Vane nodded to the walk in pantry where Flint was likely checking stock counts, “he’s in a mood again.” “When isn’t he? When he’s done tell him to come up to the bar I’ve got a surprise,” Silver said, still wearing that grin, and Vane laughed with a nod, going back to watching the alley behind the bar. “Alright come on you flirt-” Muldoon called, and Silver quickly washed his hands and snagged one of the spare aprons Hal kept behind the bar. It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to make a cocktail, he played bartender for house parties all the time. But there was something different about learning to do it properly, from Muldoon who clearly took great pride in it, and in a place that was quickly becoming a second home to him. An hour in, and several successful cocktails later, Muldoon allowed Silver to help him actually fill orders for the few customers they got, though it wasn’t many. Flint still had not resurfaced from the kitchen, and so Silver kept his focus on the recipes Muldoon had him run through- proper martinis and Manhattans, Mojitos and mules, mezcal margs and all the things you could do with the collection of Amaros and aperitifs behind the bar. The customers were students on their way home from morning classes, morning shifters heading home or stopping for some food before the evening shift at their second job started, regulars who stopped in for lunch because no one made a cuban quite as well as their kitchen did. And then the door chimed and Silver looked up with his customary smile and greeting ready, waiting to see where the guests might seat themselves- the host wouldn’t be in till four when the official dinner service started- and found himself staring at, well, children. Six of them, all too young to be in a bar unsupervised even before happy hour but probably even too young to be wandering around Brooklyn by themselves as it was. The older two definitely had the hardened older sibling with “semi absent if not entirely absent parents” look around them, Silver knew that look far too well, though whether the four younger kids were siblings or just under their care he couldn’t be sure. All of them were wearing some variation of public school uniform which Silver recognized from the public school a few blocks away. “Hey Nicki,” Muldoon said with a wave, and one of the older kids with short messy dark hair and equally dark eyes waved back. Silver looked at Muldoon quickly with raised brows. “Do me a favor go find Flint, okay? Tell him the kids are up front.” Silver just nodded, watching as Nicki and the other older kid shepherded the younger kids into the big corner booth closest to the bar without being told to, and slipped into the kitchen. Vane was at the prep table, knife in hand and making quick work of a cut of meat. He didn’t look up when he heard the door swing open but tilted his head expectantly. “Flint?” Sliver asked. “Smoke break, should be about done. Said he was coming up to see you in a minute.” Silver threw open the back alley door and there was Flint, propped up against the wall with a beaten up paperback on his knee and a forgotten cigarette in his hand. He looked up at him with a frown. “Hey whats wrong? You set the bar on fire with a flaming mojito or something?” he said, wearing a rare teasing smile. “Not yet but theres like, half a kindergarten class upfront.” Flint blinked, looked at his watch, and swore, “shit they must’ve let out early cause of the heat.” “Darling, what in the hell are you talking about.” Flint stubbed out the cigarette and tossed it in the ashtray by the door, kissing the top of Silver’s head as he passed. “I’ll explain in a minute- Vane! Leave the dinner service I need you on the meal kits with me-” “Already started on them,” Vane said, waving the knife idly as he portioned the meat into rather exact ready to cook portions. Flint nodded and washed his hands. “Dooley wheres those sandwiches I told you to fix-” “Here boss.” “Silver,” Flint loaded up six plates of sandwiches onto two serving trays and passed the lighter of the two to Silver. “Take one of these out with me ‘kay?” Silver nodded and balanced the tray on his shoulder, following Flint out of the kitchen. The bar was still mostly empty, Muldoon hanging out at the corner of the bar closest to the kids, making them each a Shirley Temple and passing Nicki a pitcher of water for them to share. Normally, Silver would’ve made some smart ass remark about how apparently it was normally for a bunch of kids to just turn up at the bar for lunch but something about this felt different and something in the set of Flint’s shoulders told him to stay quiet. “Let me guess the AirCon crap out again?” Flint asked upon reaching the table. “Or did one of you sabotage it to get out early?” The younger kids all started talking at once, bursts of loud excitement at seeing Flint, and the food, all wanting to explain why they had been let out of school a little bit early that day. Nicki and the other older kid, Sola, helped distribute the plates of food with smiles and nods of thanks while Flint listened intently to the kids’ rambling and incoherent explanations. Once the young-ins were distracted by the sandwiches, Nicki offered a more coherent explanation. “Yeah they said the AC’s gonna be out till tomorrow with the heat, so they’re closing school till Monday,” he said. “Three day weekend I guess, without the extra homework since the teachers didn’t have time to prepare for any.” “Nice. Gonna meet your friends at the bridge park tomorrow? You mentioned wanting to get your kick flips more polished.” Nicki shook his head, looking bitter about it. “Can’t, busted up my front bearings and wheels on a ride home last week, won’t be able to afford to fix it for a bit. S’fine though, got chores to do.” Flint nodded, leaning back against the bar with his arms lazily crossed over his middle. “Do me a solid and bring the board by tomorrow okay? I think one of my guys might have some spare parts they’re not using.” Silver felt something in him break a little at the way the boy’s face lit up at Flint’s words. Or maybe it was at the ease with which Flint handled the kids, the openness he showed them, listening to how their days had gone, if only in brief, listening to their problems, which to them seemed world ending- Sola’s internet was out for the weekend, so she’d be at the library doing homework on Friday and probably most of the weekend when she wasn’t helping at her aunt’s salon, the little ones would all be shuttled to various relatives until Monday until they went back to school and Sola and Nicki, or another of the older kids in their building would take charge of them again. One of the younger kids was staring at Silver, her sandwich half held to her mouth. Just staring, bright brown eyes fixed on him in that quizzical way that children possessed that always made Silver feel transparent. Flint noticed and followed her gaze with an amused grin, waving for Silver to come over to join them instead of hiding behind the bar with Muldoon. Silver looked at him wide eyed for a moment, then at the kids, specifically the little girl who was staring him down like a gunslinger, and then back at Flint, who just reached for him. Damn the bastard, he knew that was all it ever took. Silver came over and let Flint pull him in under his arm, feeling like a bug under the microscope in a science class he never attended but had heard about from other people. “You have pretty hair,” the little girl said. She was missing her two front teeth and Silver wanted to melt. “Thank you. You have big eyes.” “Yeah. They see a lot,” She said nodding solemnly. Silver could feel Flint shifting with the effort it took not to laugh. “They’re a pretty color. They remind me of this stone called tiger’s eye,” Silver continued. He could see Nicki giving Flint a look, though he didn’t know what Flint was doing in response. The little girl tilted her head. “Whats that?” So Silver pulled out his phone and showed her, which lead to a short lesson in gemstones that mostly amounted to excited cries of “oh shiny” and “I’d steal that one” which did Silver’s heart good. “This is Silver, a friend of mine who just moved back to town. He’s helping out round here. So he and I are gonna go fix your take away bags,” Flint said, once the momentary fascination in gemstones had faded and the kids were once again fixed on their plates. “Sola, you and Nicki just let Muldoon know if you guys need anything, or stick your head in the kitchen and yell okay? We’ll hear you. C’mon Silver.” If Silver had hoped for an explanation, he didn’t get one. Once he and Flint crossed the threshold back into the kitchen there was work to be done- Randal and Dooley handled the orders brought to them from the waitstaff while Flint and Vane, with Silver doing whatever Flint told him to, made quick work of assembling meal kit after meal kit from dishes both on and off the bar’s menu. Everything was boxed up and taped shut, paired with pre-typed instructions on how to cook the meals and how many servings each would make, and tucked into sturdy double layered brown bags that would hopefully survive a trip across the neighborhood. As they were finishing twenty minutes later, Hal’s voice could be heard through the window behind the bar, which answered Silver’s most pressing question- did he know that Flint was just running a school cafeteria out of the bar? Apparently yes, and apparently the kids were just as excited, if not more so, to see “Uncle” Hal. Because of course they called him Uncle Hal, why wouldn’t they. God, Silver was going to have to book a fucking dentist appointment for all the tooth rot the sweetness of this was giving him. He helped Flint carry out the bags of food, Vane insisting the kids would be too scared of him while Flint argued that Vane was just scared of the kids, and Silver watched as Hal and Flint got the bags labeled for each child and into a push cart that Sola promised to bring back the next day when she passed on her way to her Aunt’s salon. He then did his very best not to pass away on the spot as each kid, even Nicki and Sola, hugged Hal goodbye. Flint had crouched down to say good by to the little ones, accepting their clumsy hugs, reminding them to be careful walking home, and asking them to recite the bar’s phone number for him just in case (though Silver was sure they probably had cellphones, even if they were elementary schoolers), before he stood and gave Nicki and Sola each a one armed hug and watched them shepherd the group outside again. “Only group today?” Hal asked and Silver thought his voice sounded a bit heavy. “So far. Powers out at their school though, likely a couple others’ll come by later. Want me to call around to the other bars and see if they’ve heard anything?” “Yeah call the food bank and the closest shelter too for me, see if we can’t drop off our end of night supply to them this weekend.” Later, several more hours of food prep and three more groups of wary looking kids who all seemed completely unafraid of Flint and his crew, plus a Thursday night dinner rush, and Silver finally got his explanation. He also thought he should have gotten the nobel prize for being able to keep his mouth shut for as long as he did. “So are we gonna talk about it?” Flint was sitting on the floor in front of him, half asleep already between his thighs, as Silver combed his hair. They had taken home food from the bar and shared a six pack between them on the deck, Thomas held up at a Client dinner where he was no doubt being wined and dined and bored to absolute tears. They had treated themselves then to a hot bath, with the jets, and were now just wasting time with the kind of nonsexual intimacy that Silver had learned he craved with Flint, waiting for Thomas to join them so they could all manage a good nights sleep. “Talk about what?” Flint asked, his voice a heady rumble. “The kids. And why they knew to just wander into a bar on a Thursday,” Silver said, keeping his voice gentle. He coated his hands in more product and worked it into the shaved sides and back of Flint’s head, massaging his scalp as he went. “Why you and Hal and the rest of the crew seemed completely unphased by it.” Flint hummed lowly, nearly a purr as he leaned into Silver’s touch. They’d settled into the bedroom Thomas and Flint shared, like they did most nights since it had the nicest adjoining bathroom and all the obnoxiously nice hair and skin care products. Silver sat in the old plush armchair, bundled up in a robe while Flint, naked and content to air dry, leaned into him, a picture of ginger hair, rich freckles, and well loved tattoos on a soft strong figure. If Silver hadn’t been so distracted by the day, he’d have been more appreciative. “S’not that big a deal. Lots of families round here with young kids, can’t keep an eye on them between working two or three jobs, haven’t got money for babysitters or relatives to watch ‘em, or enough to cover food for the week, especially when the public schools can’t feed em. You start to notice which kids it is, when they pass by, which schools they go to, which blocks.” “In Brooklyn Heights?” “They don’t live in this neighborhood, Silver, you know that, not all of Brooklyn has been gentrified to shit by the developers. Hell walk a few blocks east towards the tech school and you’ll find a lot of them. Or south towards Bayridge. Anyway, the groups you met today are all right from Downtown Brooklyn, they go to school nearby you’ve seen them.” “Yeah I just… I dunno, you see so much of the multi-million dollar condos I guess you forget thats not all theres is.” “Nicki lives with his mom, his dad walked out and she’s working two jobs to keep the one bedroom they share over on Jay street. He’s only thirteen but he tried getting a job with me washing dishes last summer, I turned him down, sent him home with some food for his trouble,” Flint continued. Silver smiled, he could picture the scrappy dark haired boy trying to square up with Flint, trying to convince him he was old enough to legally work. “Let me guess he wasn’t the first.” “Won’t be the last either. If they aren’t working for the family to earn some extra money or to cut back on hiring expenses they’re looking for shifts somewhere to pick up the slack. They’re losing out on being kids all because the rent keeps going up and there ain’t shit else to do about it other than leave. And a lot of them can’t even afford to do that.” There was a familiar grit to Flint’s voice, the old bitter salt that meant someone had touched a nerve. It scared other people, but Silver knew it just meant Flint was, for the moment, being vulnerable with him. “Were you Nicki once? Trying to bully your way into work?” Silver asked softly. He reached for the comb again and sectioned off a part of Flint’s hair to start working with. Flint was quiet a moment. “Yeah. Yeah worked the docks a bit as a boy, most kids did it to earn pocket money or to help out with the bills.” “Which was it for you?” “Granddad only had his pension. And he spent that on booze. So whatever I earned at the docks helping the fishermen, or from pickpocketing, that was what bought food. Kept the lights on, shit like that. I told you once, that I met Henessy that way, picking his pocket.” Silver laughed softly. “I do remember. You technically succeeded, didn’t you?” “Mm, he only caught me cause someone snitched. Broke that fuckers nose real good I’ll tell you.” They were quiet for a moment, Silver combing Flint’s hair with impossible care, working his fingers through any knots he found, before following with product and conditioner, Flint grew heavier and heavier against him, warm and soft and his. “So you and Hal decided to do something, the way you always do?” Silver asked. “Hm? Oh yeah- city isn’t doin’ much, food banks and schools are already over run, and when school holidays hit, they can barely keep up demand for kids who need free meals. So we got a few other bars involved, met with some schools and the food banks and sent out some notices and just- started feeding people. I mean thats why Hal wanted to open the bar you know? You feed people and you give them everything. You feed them and they’ll do the rest. So thats what we did. In a week or two when the schools are out for the summer we’ll have a couple trucks that’ll make deliveries, so the kids don’t have to come to the bar.” Silver hummed and kissed his temple. “You’re sweet.” “Am not.” “You’ll let me help, right? Prep the meals and stuff?” Flint tipped his head back to look up at him. “You want to?” “Yeah. This altruistic thing is new to me, as is the cooking for fun thing but… it matters, to you, any idiot can see that. And I want to be part of it.” Silver smiled and leaned down to kiss him best he could. He could feel Flint smiling into the upside down kiss. “You’re really good with them too, you know, which please don’t take this the wrong way, I did not expect,” he added when he pulled back. “What with the kids?” “Yeah.” “Oh no offense taken I have no idea how it happened. They just aren’t afraid of me for some reason. I fully expected them to be, mind. I used to think I had the kind of face that would make babies and small children cry but apparently they just, I dunno, think I’m alright.” “They trust you, thats a big deal for kids. Especially ones who have clearly been let down by other adults. I mean you also talk to them like they’re just tiny adults which probably helps.” “They’re gonna be adults one day, might as well treat them with dignity well before they realize they should be fighting for it, you know?” Silver smiled softly, “Sometimes I don’t think you realize how magnificent you are, you bastard.” Flint didn’t say anything, just blindly reached for Sliver’s hands so he could pull him closer. So silver set aside the comb and rested his chin on the top of Flint’s head, wrapping his arms around him and holding tight to his weathered, tattooed hands. “You were good with them too, once you stopped being scared of them,” Flint offered. “Kids scare me, I’ve never spent enough time around them to learn how to make them happy. They’re so easy to hurt, so easy to damage. And extremely durable, extremely resilient but… I dunno… Just never trusted myself and never had the opportunity to do more than amuse them for a few minutes at a time before vanishing into thin air like Santa Claus.” “Well, you’ll have plenty of practice at the bar. I still think you were good with them. Little Sylvie likes you at least.” “Not as much as they love you.” Silver thought a moment. “Hey…” “Hm?” “Have… Have you and Thomas ever talked about kids?” It was a heavy question, one that might have been too much too soon and a part of Silver wished he hadn’t asked it. But there had been such a softness in Flint’s face when he’d spoken to the children, a kindness and a focus in his attention that meant he’d put time and effort into his actions, into making sure what he was doing was what the kids needed in that moment. It wasn’t just an adult slumming it with the neighborhood kids cause he had nothing better to do, it was almost, dare Silver think it, Paternal in nature. Paternal and the dread Captain Flint being used in the same sentence had not been something Silver had ever considered as possible, and yet- And yet it was, and it had piqued the old curiosity. Flint was quiet again, though he didn’t pull away or let go of Silvers hands, so Silver trusted that he hadn’t upset him. Silver held him tightly, turning his head to rest his cheek on Flint’s hair and wait patiently for him to speak. “Its complicated, pup.” “You don’t have to tell me. I was just curious. I never thought of you as a dad until today but now I’m… I won’t lie a part of me is still thinking about it.” There was a soft shuddering sound and Silver felt Flint shift in his arms, curling tighter in on himself for a moment before trying to settle again. Silver held tight, pressing his face into his hair. It took another moment or two, and several deep breaths, but Flint eventually spoke. “Thomas and Miranda were expected to have children when they married,” he said lowly, “all wealthy families expect heirs. But Miranda didn’t want to go through pregnancy and Thomas wasn’t sure if he could sire so they found ways of putting it off and focusing on Thomas’ political career. Thomas… he wanted to save the world, I’m sure for a while he thought he couldn’t allow himself thoughts of a future until that was done.” Silver hummed. That did sound like Thomas. Even now, with the chip on his shoulder and the somewhat colder view of the world, he still seemed to think he could save it. Silver wasn’t about to point out that Flint still seemed to think the same way. “And after everything I dunno I guess it just took so much time to remember how to be living, breathing people again, that children were never part of the consideration,” Flint said with a shrug. There was a weight to his voice, an emptiness that had Silver frowning slightly in surprise. “How can you care for a child when you’ve only just come back to life? When you’ve only just found reason to stay alive? It- Any child we brought into our lives would have been at risk, back then for certain, though I’m not sure a child would be better off now and besides with how much we work its not like-” “James,” Silver said softly, lifting his head, “you’re rambling.” Flint went still in his arms, still as if waiting for the lash that he knew would never come, but waited for all the same. The readiness with which Flint expected violence broke something in Silver, just as much as it felt like a mirror, smudged and smoky and cracked with age. “Is this your way of saying you want to be a father, but the thought of it terrifies you?” Silver asked. “The things I’ve done,” Flint said in a rough voice, “The stains my hands have carried- I’d see them every time I held my child. That’s my fear, I think. That I’d see them, and that violence would stain them as well.” He paused. Silver held him, hiding his own face. It was easier, they had learned, to talk about such things like this, with Flint’s back to Silver, their faces just hidden enough to give the illusion of control. How many secrets had they shared like this? Silver was losing count. “I was raised by a drunken old sailor and a bastard of a navy man who brought nothing but ruin- what could I ever give a child, John?” Flint asked, his hands white knuckle tight on Silver’s, his eyes the deep green of the sea, ghostly and far away. “What could I give them but that same ruin?” And what could Silver say in the face of that? So he said nothing, just nodded and kissed Flints throat until the tension in his shoulders softened and Flint settled back against Silver’s body to rest, weary and still haunted, but at least no longer at knife point in his own home. Silver went back to brushing his hair, singing softly to him as he worked, until Thomas came home and they were able to find more pleasant ways to spend their evening than discussing the sins of one’s father. They didn’t talk about the possibility of children again, not for the whole of the summer. They helped the food banks and the neighborhood families as best they could through the summer, made sure whatever kids stopped by the bar or the kitchen door in the alley left with something to eat, on the house. Thomas made sure checks were written to the shelters and the food banks that needed them, that the families that needed childcare could get it free of charge. They got through the summer, and the conversation never arose again. Silver just kept the thought of Flint holding a bright eyed child that sometimes looked like Thomas’ kid, and sometimes looked like his own, locked away safely in his heart and didn’t examine it too closely. Then Idelle had her baby in August. In October they held a two month belated baby shower for her at The Walrus, so the crew could meet little Wesley Ira Featherstone and his father, bless him, could cry with his crew mates about how proud he was while Idelle had her first stiff drink in over a year. Rackham was there, of course, as the boy’s God father (Silver was delighted by the idea because Rackham was absolutely as terrified by the concept as he was as honored) and Wesley took to him as well as any two month old possibly could. But when it came to crying babies, Rackham didn’t know what to do, and Hal the God Father to all and obvious baby whisperer was back in the kitchen unable to assist. And so Thomas and Silver watched as Flint, who seemed to be acting without really thinking about what he was doing (outside of scolding Rackham who was himself on the verge of tears) scooped up the baby and promptly rocked him calm within moments. “How did you-” Rackham stared at him in shock. “If you didn’t fuckin panic all the time then he wouldn’a started crying,” Flint growled at him, which Wesley found hilarious, if the slew of gurgling giggles was anything to go by. Silver watched, feeling his face split into a ridiculous smile, as Flint refused to give the baby back to Rackham until he’d sobered up, and instead let Idelle tie a sling around his chest to tuck Wesley into, so he could still fix drinks and use his hands while keeping the baby safe. “Sure you don’t want me to take him back?” she asked, Max watching with an amused smile. “You’ll have plenty of him soon, I got ‘im. Just give Rackham a 101 on how to actually hold a baby.” Silver leaned into Thomas as they watched Flint from their seats at the bar, humming as Thomas’ arm went around him automatically, pulling him close into his side. He looked up, curious to see what Thomas thought of his husband suddenly so at home with a child. He didn’t know what he had been expecting, but whatever it was, it wasn’t what he saw. Thomas’s face had gone soft, from the crows feet around his eyes to the laughter lines around his mouth, which parted in the gentlest shape of awe Silver might have ever seen on the man, as if he’d realized something he’d never considered before. His shoulders were rounded, leaning forward against the bar, hand fidgeting against the polished bartop as if desperate to reach out for his husband. Silver could feel the arm he hand around his shoulder tensing with the need to act. They watched as Flint moved behind the bar, one hand resting where Wesley’s head was under the sling, rocking him gently as he fetched fresh beers for himself and for Hal. Silver was watching his face, watching the way his lips were moving, as if he were talking to the baby, but he was just too far away to hear what he was saying. “He’s singing,” came Thomas’ voice suddenly, almost lost to the noise of the bar. “What?” “He’s singing,” Thomas said again, nodding to his husband. “Padstow Farewell, he sings it to me sometimes when I have nightmares, I’d know the lyrics on his lips even in the grave.” Silver smiled softly. “He sang it to me when I was recovering from my leg. I didn’t know it could be a lullaby.” “Neither did I but…” “But now-” “Yeah.” Silver reached for Thomas’ other hand and kissed his knuckles, leaning into him further. Thomas held him impossibly tight, resting his cheek on his hair. There’d be more to talk about in the morning, tomorrow, the day after, next week, next month, next year. And there was a dizzying sense of joy in that, the same kind of joy that came from watching Flint carrying the future in his worn and weathered hands.

#my fic #jamie's fic prompt fills #black sails #black sails fic #black sails modern au #silverflinthamilton #silverflint #james flint #john silver #thomas hamilton #@themelonface #muldoon #hal gates #charles vane #i had a lot of feelings writing this one y'all just so many feelings all over the plave holy shit!!!!

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justmypartner · 4 years ago

Text

Make it Work: Chapter 1

Summary: When offered a permanent position with the FBI, Hailey agrees to take it under one condition: Jay comes too. As their personal lives and work lives begin to change, the two partners find it increasingly difficult to navigate their complex relationship and manage their feelings for one another. *Picks up at the 8x03 bar scene.

Writer’s Note: I’m so excited to share my first multi-chapter fic. I really enjoyed Hailey’s FBI episode and how seamlessly she was able to adapt to that world, so I thought it would be fun to explore how Jay might fit into that world and how different the adjustment may be for him. When writing the first chapter I was really inspired by the song (what i wish just one person would say to me) by Lany, because I felt like it fit Jay’s perspective perfectly. As much as our guy loves Hailey, he was always going to put her wishes above his own. That’s what the song is all about, so you can see a few lines inspired by the song sprinkled throughout the chapter (the title is also taken from the song). Please enjoy Chapter 1 of Make it Work!

Read on AO3 or below

“Alright. Let’s do this, rip the bandaid off. What did the FBI offer you?” Jay said straightly, trying to hide the worry that coursed throughout his entire body.

Earlier that day he had discovered the FBI had Hailey on their radar, and he hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. After what went down with his last partner, simply hearing someone say “FBI” left a bad taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t openly admit it, but he was worried about Hailey taking the offer. Ever since she had returned from New York, she had been fairly quiet about how it went. Her feelings seemed indifferent, but part of him had to wonder why she would hide the fact that they were sending her job offers. He hated the idea of being left alone again, but ultimately he just wanted what was best for her, even if that meant moving thousands of miles away.

Jay had been seeing Hailey differently for a while. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when his feelings shifted, but he knew things were different. If anyone asked, she was his partner and his best friend, but he knew deep down that she was more than that. There were even a handful of moments when he almost told her how he felt but Jay, never a man of openly expressing his feelings, failed to get a single word out every time. He had fought those feelings for so long, keeping them hidden deep in the depths of his closed-off heart, but her time away in New York proved this impossible. He had picked her up from the airport when she got back in Chicago, and the second he saw her he couldn’t deny the way she set his heart aflame. So, hearing that the FBI was trying to steal her away permanently was messing with his head. He had sat on his concern all day, but his patience was running thin.

“Mm okay. Joint level task-force, with the HIG, all interrogations, all high-level targets,” she told him, a slight smirk on her face as she awaited his reaction.

“Sure.. Sure, sure, sure, yeah, that sounds awesome,” he said sarcastically as she chuckled. “Is it good pay?” He asked her, a sense of defeat in his voice.

“Great pay. Honestly made me a little embarrassed about what we get paid,” she said with a smile. This was not what he was hoping for, but he pressed forward.

“Well, you’d probably be really good at it,” he responded, feigning support as the words killed him inside. He knew she would be good at it, there was no doubt in his mind. The job sounded perfect for her, but he just hated where it was and what it could mean for them.

“Yeah,” she muttered, pausing briefly and looking out the window as if her next words were lingering somewhere outside and she was trying to find them. “Yeah, I hope so because I told them I would take it,” she finally said, her eyes slowly traveling back to his. The smile on her face was replaced by a look of sincerity. He felt his heart drop into his stomach as he clenched his jaw, trying to conceal the myriad of emotions consuming him.

“Well, I.. I’m happy for you,” he said unconvincingly before bringing his glass back to his mouth, taking a large swig of his drink. He couldn’t look her in the eye because he knew she’d be able to read right through him. So, he focused on the bottom of his glass, fingers fidgeting with the rim waiting for her to say something.

“Yeah, well I should be saying the same to you,” she told him. With this, he raised his eyes back up to meet hers and returned her words with a raised brow, sending a questioning look her way.

“I told them I wasn’t going anywhere without my partner, so they took a look at your file and they were very impressed by your background. They said if you’re good enough for me to bargain with, you must be worth having on their team,” she paused briefly and he watched her swallow hard before her next words. “Jay the offer is extended to the both of us.. that is if it is something you’re interested in,” she said, tilting her head to the side as she tried to read his reaction.

A moment of what felt like his world falling apart was now being strung back together with a sliver of hope for the two of them. Being a fed was never in any of Jay’s plans. In fact, he always found himself carrying an unwarranted detestation for them that made those government positions sound completely unappealing. He never imagined he’d be willing to give up Chicago, let alone his position in Intelligence, especially for a job with the feds, but if it meant being with Hailey he was going to consider it. Romantically or not he knew he needed her in his life and as he told her not too long ago, he would follow her anywhere.

“I- wha- I-“ he stuttered out, not being able to form a coherent word.

“Look, I know it is a lot to ask of you. I know it may not seem fair of me to offer you up like that without asking first, but the way I figured it, we’re good at our jobs and we’re good together. I mean new job, new city, it all sounded so crazy to me at first. I’ve never pictured myself anywhere outside of CPD, but then I took a step back and realized what it could mean big picture. My time in New York, the cases I was working, they showed me just how big and bad this world can be. I mean I was chasing after dudes that make guys like Darius Walker look like frickin saints. The whole time I just kept thinking, I could really see myself doing this every day. I felt fulfilled in a way I hadn’t in years, but every night I’d go home, especially after the bad ones, and I felt like something was missing. Then one night after a really bad one I was sitting in my hotel room, wallowing in the heaviness of that day and my phone rang. It was you calling to check up because you had a bad case too and you needed whatever this thing is between us that always seems to work. That’s when I realized what it was that was missing. It was you,” she shrugged, the corners of her mouth curling up in a shameful smile.

“Hailey..” Jay said as his eyes glossed over with tears. He sat there silently, looking into the endless depth of her eyes and hoping the right words would come to him. His thoughts were jumbled and he was having trouble grounding himself in reality. The whiplash of thinking he was losing the most important person in his life to hearing her tell him her life wasn’t complete without him left him in a state of disorient. He was relieved when she continued on before he had the chance to stumble over words once more.

“Look Jay, I don’t expect you to have an answer now. I just needed to tell you where I’m coming from so you’d have a full perspective to guide your decision. I know leaving Chicago, leaving our family at the 21st wouldn’t be easy, but I feel like this opportunity is something worth pursuing. I also think it’s something that would be made easier if we did it together,” she admitted, finishing her piece.

Her words echoed in his head as he seriously thought through the opportunity. Jay was wired to be a cop, to right wrongs, help victims find justice, and chase the highs of dangerous cases. He found his life’s purpose doing just that, starting in the Rangers and leading to his spot in Intelligence. He appreciated the fulfillment his work in Intelligence brought him, but what if he could do that on a much larger scale - with her by his side no less. All of a sudden he was picturing a life in New York and working at the FBI. He felt like it could make sense and it caught him by surprise, but it seemed clear.

“Do you remember when the unit was under siege and we thought it was the end of Intelligence? We had just gotten back from that major bust and we were talking about what would happen if we got shut down.. where we would go. Do you remember what I said to you?” He asked her, his newfound clarity allowed him to string a coherent thought together. She nodded in response.

“You told me you’re going where I go and that it’s hard to find a good partner,” she said softly, her eyes staying locked with his.

“I meant it then, and I mean it now. I’ve spent my whole life fighting to help people, and I like to think we’ve done some really great things in Intelligence. You were right when you said we’re good together, and if this job means we can make an even bigger difference than the one we do now, I’m all in,” he said, causing a big smile to form across her face.

“Yeah?”

“Hell yeah. I mean I’d like to know more about the position and everything, but if you say it’s worth it, then I trust you.. we’ll make it work. Plus, our thing just isn’t the same over the phone. You’d be lost without me,” he told her with a cheeky smile, eliciting an eye roll from her.

“Yeah, you mean you’d be lost without me,” she responded, standing from her chair to grab her coat. Jay laughed and took the check before rising to put his coat on as well. As they made their way to the door, Jay turned to face Hailey as a concerned look overcame his face.

“Wait- have you planned on how we’re going to tell Voight about this?” He asked. She returned his question with an expression matching his.

“Uh ah, I didn’t get that far. I didn’t think you would actually agree to be honest.”

“Come on, we’ve built a pretty strong partnership here, at least part of you had to think there was a chance I’d say yes,” he told her.

“Yeah, no I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking the fact that it’s a job with the feds and the idea of having to wear a suit everyday would have left no room for consideration,” she said with a chuckle. She pushed her body against the door, grimacing at the sudden sensation of the cold Chicago wind against her face, leaving a suspended Jay stood in the doorway.

“Suit.. everyday.. I-“ he said upon realizing that part of the job he hadn’t considered.

“Woah, woah, woah, you already said yes, no turning back now,” she teased. He groaned and dragged his feet out the door to join her in the cold. They walked shoulder to shoulder down the street in a comfortable silence.

“That doesn’t sound so bad you know,” she said, breaking through the silence as they reached their cars. She turned to face him, her eyes carrying a glimmer he hadn’t noticed before.

“Oh yeah, what’s that?”

“Getting to see you in a suit every day,” she said confidently before realizing the coy nature of the statement and bashfully looking away. Jay could feel the heat rush to his face despite the chilling wind blowing against him. He smiled down at his feet, hoping if she could notice the redness of his cheeks, she accounted it to the cold. There was a long pause before he brought his eyes back up to hers once again.

“See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” she said, placing a hand on his chest lightly before passing him to get into her car.

Jay wasn’t sure where their future was going or what direction it would take them, but he knew as long as she was in his life, he was set. His eyes followed her as she got in her car and started the engine. She gave him a small wave before pulling out into the street. Yet again there he was suppressing his feelings for his partner, but this time it felt worth it. A lot in their lives was about to change, he didn’t need to add the heaviness of his feelings to the mix. He was anxious about what was to come, but he ultimately felt content with his decision.

#upstead #jay x hailey #hailey x jay #jay halstead #hailey upton #chicago pd #upstead fic

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