#easy! patronize the fuck outta them

[birdyverdie]

Just caught one of my mom's party guests yelling at Avalon

I have the patience of a SAINT for not immediately losing it

[honeyshiddendesire]

Pet Name Headcanon List

Smoker x Female Reader - Love

Warnings: Vaginal penetration, praise kink, Strangers meeting in a bar, going back to your place, belly bulge, size kink/difference, mating press, overstimulation, mentions of pussy eating 

*totally got carried away lol but here you go @trxshpandax *

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Smoker watched you on the other side of the bar denying patron after patron that flirted with you and couldn’t help the smirk that started to paint his face. He wondered if you were high maintenance or just super picky, the idea of a challenge that didn’t involve pirates piqued his interest and quickly he found himself smoothly making his way over to you. Sitting beside you calmly without even glancing at you just to see if you’d look first, and being the wise older man he was he was right. Your eyes sneakily taking a peek only to widen as you shyly scanned his physique, face going darker and pupils blowing with obvious desire at the mystery man that sat beside you. 

“Need a drink, love?” Smoker asked, finally turning to look at you with a charming smirk, loving how you couldn’t even form a word and just cutely nodded. Bingo! After a couple drinks you became more open even accidentally spilling how you came to find some fun but no one caught your eye till he came along. It might not be known but Smoker did love pleasing pretty girls like you, so after downing his drink and slamming the glass he leaned toward your ear with a smirk. 

“Tell me love…want to get outta here so I can give you that fun you were looking for.” Smiling all pretty at him he took that as a yes and escorted you out. 

Quickly you made it back to your place and found yourself naked in a second, Smoker, you learned his name was had you taken care of like never before. Pussy slick from round after round of making you cum on his tongue and fingers alone all the while spilling sweet praises to you.

“Dammit love you taste so good, too bad those other guys in the bar couldn’t get their hands on ya.” Smoker grunted as he licked his lips of your essence, your chest rising and falling at a rapid rate as you stared at him with half lidded eyes. Your hands above you from gripping the sheets and he only grinned as he undid the belt of his pants, unzipping them and pulling out his cock that made you gasp. 

He was hung like a fucking horse, thick and veiny, with a length that made your mouth drool but brain panic. He already stretched you with three of his amazingly thick calloused fingers like no one's business but you still wondered if he would even fit. Smoker only worsened your panic as he stroked his cock and laid it on your stomach, the tip barely an inch below your belly button. “Oh don’t you worry love I’ll take it nice and slow for ya.” 

Slowly entering his fat tip causing you to gasp and hiss, nails clawing at his shoulders as he held your legs back and open for him. “Take a breath for me love and just relax. I’ll have you feeling good in no time princess, just you wait.” Smoker’s deep groan made you shiver and unintentionally tighten around him, “Oh fuck love. Careful squeezing me so tight or I won’t take it easy on you.” 

With every slow inch that he pushed inside of you your mind went numb and quickly you found yourself begging for more, “Please! Please Smoker, I can take it!”  Smoker only raised a brow at your begging but he lived to serve, he was a marine after all. So sliding into your cunt with a forceful thrust that knocked the wind out of you he couldn’t help but curse, “Fuck ~ that’s it love. Knew just by looking at you that you could take some dick.” Shaking your head in agreement you only clawed at his broad shoulders more as you felt him deep in your stomach, something no one else has managed to do for you. 

Giving a loud whistle Smoker couldn’t help himself as he placed one of your legs on his shoulder so he could push down on the bulge in your tummy. “Would you look at the love~so far inside ya your stomachs poking out. Damn that’s a good look on you girl.” He couldn’t take waiting after seeing something like that and found his hips moving like they had a mind of their own. Pulling all the way out till your stomach dropped only to slam back in filling you all the way up with a raspy moan leaving him. “Ah fuck love that’s it.” 

“AH! Yesyesyes! Fuck that feels so~ goood~!” Your screams were loud and high pitched making his ego grow by each thrust he gave you.

His cock stretching you so full you found yourself gushing the fastest you ever have, arms falling above your head and he only smirked at the way you gripped the sheets. Each powerful thrust making your tits bounce and he leaned down practically bending you in half so his greedy mouth could lick and swirl around your sensitive nipple. A moan leaves him as he pushes your legs further back to make room for his wide shoulders, mouth never removing from your breast. Licking and sucking marks to remember him bye. 

“O~oh fuck yes! S-Smoker!” You whined as he nipped at your nipple, sucking at your skin till he reached your neck. “What’s up love? You gonna soak my cock again. Such a good pussy taking me all the way. You’re doing so good for me ya know that?” His words made you shiver but a gasp left you as you felt him sneak a hand to your aching clit, whimpers of his name leaving your drool glistened lips. “Go ahead, love I know you want to. Get my cock all nice and wet love so I can keep on fucking you till you pass out.”

[littlemisslol-fic]

Okay anyways varigo makes me fucking deranged and I'm too insane to articulate why properly so here's a long ramble I posted to discord that makes about zero sense unless you're me:

HUGO:

Hugo fucking LOVES that varian is so damn assertive, and unafraid to know/be EXACTLY what varian wants to be. He's so used to wishy washy shit, where EVERYONE has a secret motive and everyones trying to play each other. So to just be allowed to be himself, and to be with varian, is something that's frighteningly new to him and he loves the experience of it. It's having the space in their relationship to work together and build something that neither of them fully know what's going to be the end product, but that's okay, because they'll have built it together.

He loves that varian is SCARY smart, and not really one to hide that fact, but also there's no like... huge ego to it, because that's another thing Hugo's dealt a lot with, is EGO. Like varian will kinda think he's more capable than he is sometimes, but its never out of pure blind egoism, its out of lack of experience. He loves that varian can and WILL stand up for what he thinks is right, that strong moral compass built up from a long time of suffering. It would have been so easy for varian to be bitter, and jaded, but he's not, and Hugo think's its something amazing that varian is willing to help pull hugo of all people, out of the gutter with him. Idk I think hugo's VERY attracted to someone who has a strong sense of self, and an unwillingness to HIDE said self

VARIAN:

Not to be morbid but I think varian kinda... stopped laughing, after the shit with his dad and getting a job and Growing Up (TM) so he still had a few fun times but for the most part no one could really make him like WHOLE SEND laugh his ass of... until Hugo skdfsjkdf like I think that Hugo's sense of dry humor just gets him EVERY TIME and makes him nearly screech with laughter. Even when he's had a rough day, and feels like everything's crumbling, hugo can at least pull a giggle outta him!!!

ALSO I think he likes kinda knowing that under that sassy boy is a soft heart, and knowing that it's something to cherish and take care of is important to varian, like he knows that it's a part of hugo that doesn't get shared often, so to know that he's been trusted with this piece of hugo is something precious to varian.

He likes that hugos willing to let varian fumble, to let him discover how to be in a relationship without judging varian for lack of experience, while also not holding his hand. I think Varian’s used to being kinda talked over/slightllllyyy patronized since all his Corona friends are like a decade older than him. Its not malicious, just the age gap thing showing, but Varian never really gets that from Hugo in terms of their relationship status. Hugo's patient with a lot of things, but never a doormat, and varian appreciates that hugos willing to make it a more even playing field between them.

LONG STORY SHORT:

Varian loves hugo for his patience, and his humor, and his willingness to trust even after all this time.

Hugo loves Varian because Varian is self assured without being egotistical, and because he's genuine in everything he does

I CARE THEM VERY MUCH OKAY BYE

[llycaons]

ep38 (1/3): that which resembles a romance but is in fact a horror short film

lsz is eager to help ofc, but wwx doesn't know who he is yet

wwx asking for jl and the jiang bell matters - his connection to his old home and family. and apparently the jiang bells are powerful? they were more described in the book. I actually forgot they were even in the show since they're barely talked about

THERE SHE IS!!!!!!!! I love a-qing, such a strong personality, her own goals and motivations, curious and intelligent and out for herself and brave. it is shitty to pretend to be disabled, but I'm going to blame the author for that instead of a 16 yr old orphan girl living on the streets. it's not like it doesn't backfire on her anyway

also she's so funny. 'why do men dress nice when they're poor, this is an attack on me specifically'

FIRST MEETING!!! that blindfold is alarming but the blood looks a little pale (fake)

ohh I could swoon. saints and heroes don't really exist in this world, it's too complicated and brutal for them to survive. but xxc was as close as anyone else ever got and I think a-qing knew she'd never meet someone as special as him again

not to say he doesn't have flaws - his naivete is disastrous for all of them and he overlooks her concerns out of a patronizing dismisiveness when he should be respecting her instincts, which helped her survive all her life on the streets. also, it's admirable of him to be nonjudgemental but xy just has odious vibes and it's a tragedy he was so charmed by him that he didn't pick up on that. sort of a xxc jgy situation except xy was fully in love with him or whatever approximates love for him and I still think jgy was mostly using lxc to survive. so another dark foil to wx just as songxiao are a lighter (but still tragic) parallel

anyway he thinks a-qing is funny and is clearly endeared by her, and she clearly likes him a lot despite lying to him. their dynamic has so much chemistry and potential for being great family, it's a shame they're not more popular to write about. this is probably one of the only reasons he's had to smile since he and SL parted ways

smart girl! this guys sounds like bad news, so get outta there

ah! curse the hyperdeveloped senses of a cultivator!

unlike the tragedy of wwx, this could literally have all been avoided if not for a single person - there are many ways to rewrite this and just have them never cross paths. of course, that misses out on the richness of this story and the themes at play, not to mention their significance for the wider narrative, so I don't particularly like yi city fix-its before the fact. but they're definitely easy

christ he's bleeding like craxy. what did they do to him. and why didn't they do it better

of course as soon as he sees xxc he's like FUCK

yeah and if xy lets xxc touch his hand he'll know he's missing his pinky

...not that I like to think about them having a relationship but IF they had sex I wonder how he managed that

god this is so kind 😭 why couldn't it have been wwx that xxc found and they just had a nice little family time (they're cousins or something) for a decade or so before wwx was comfortable enough to leave. MAN

a-qing sleeping in that coffin then hopping out is so cute I love her

it's only been a day and already he looks perfectly groomed clean robes clear skin fully hydrated etc. the man knows how to look good I gotta say

and he starts right off by being a piece of shit to a-qing. I think the siblings dynamic can be really funny but lbr in canon he terrorized her and she hated him for it

I thought this was kind of dumb. like even if she was blind anyone would feel a SWORD. and if he learns she's not really blind, what, xxc is disappointed? I suppose it means he's less careful around her. bc she was able to witness a lot of his crimes bc he wasn't as watchful, assuming she couldn't see (and therefore could never understand what was happening? ableist of him)

a-qing: please don't leave me alone with this scary stranger we picked up by the side of the road, he's really aggressive and he's lying about who he is and I think he's dangerous

xxc: oh you silly girl. he'll be leaving soon *immediately starts flirting with him*

actually xy comes at this with a very specific angle. it's almost like he's emulating wwx - he presents himself as someone hardworking, uncomplaining, and good-hearted despite the hardships he's clearly gone through. of course xxc was taken in

haha no big deal! I'll just casually drop this little fact! it's definitely not something I want you to know about me so you can sympathize with me while admiring how blase I am about it! MAN

on the one hand I can see why xxc is being so open-minded and I appreciate his kindness. on the other hand he IS misled by his own feelings and she is also literally right. she gives him good reasons not to trust him and he's like *pats her on the head* we'll be fine

the head-pats are sweet when coming from adults to their kids (or jyl to wwx) but it just feels patronizing here

literally this is blatant flirting. a-qing off to the side going 😭 he has a crush what I am supposed to do now!!

and THIS??? I was so shocked the first time I saw this I was like THIS is allowed but wwx and lwj can't hug??? huh??? idk the exact specifications of the censorship but in some ways xy/xxc hits you harder with the gay subtext than any other couple including wx which is so wild to me. and also deeply tragic obviously

I think it helps that the writers have a very solid idea of what this relationship is and exactly how each character felt at every moment of it. meanwhile for wx interactions can be very inconsistent and confusing. anyway GET YOUR HANDS OFF HIM YOU FREAK

so yeah overall super eerie and frightening to see xxc fall so readily in love with someone you KNOW is cruel and sadistic and lying to him and deceiving him. like this could have been a cute second-love kind of deal with a new family in a new city. fresh start. but then again, no it couldn't have

[prose-priest-potentate]

In the Interim

Fic on Ao3: Here

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Chapter 8: The Street Fight and the Morning After

After months of long days, Izek is ready for a drink. Sliding into a seat around one of the tables in the tavern isn’t as comfortable as it should be, because he follows Imrath and Wixen to a different table. The new one doesn’t have the scorch marks or claw gouges in it, and doesn’t have the perfect view of both doors. It’s probably for the best that he starts breaking old habits now. He keeps remembering – reminding himself - that this place isn’t good for him. It keeps him off-kilter. He hates it, but it’s something. 

Something quieter than the hate in his chest that bubbles constantly. A different ache. One that can be doused back down, replaced with a simpler, easier irritation when Wixen gets too touchy, or teases him too much. He could kill her, but scrapping with her is more fun. The new something can be coaxed into amusement when Imrath says something ridiculous or puts his foot in his mouth again and goes red all over. He could torment him, and he does, but it’s more fun when Imrath torments back. Izek likes the fight.

Doesn’t do much about the emptiness, of course, but Izek wouldn’t know the difference anyway, so he doesn’t notice it. He just watches his friends run around. Wixen is on all fours, running under tables with Bram and Brom. She’d snuck up and sprinkled some other powder on his spines, but he’d caught her with a clap to the ear before she scurried across the room, chattering and giggling. Imrath originally went to the bar for refills, but has since veered back by, following Danica with a tray of rolls and a quick apology: “Sorry dear, she was swamped.”

Whatever, he’s too damn helpful anyway. S’in his nature. 

The tavern is back to its usual decibel with the Wachter woman gone for good - there’s a new string bean bard plucking on an instrument and winking at the crowd, regardless of who gets slapped by their partner for it. People tell stories and tables erupt in laughter. Hunter’s boast. Some people climb up into their chairs with dramatic declarations that most other patrons smile at. Izek watches as Imrath bows deep and pulls Danica into a quick twirl around the floor to a plucky tune when the bard starts it up.

He is watching them, finishing off the last of Imrath’s drink in recompense for taking so long with refills, when a stranger struts up and leans on the table hard enough to jostle the plates. Izek’s spoon slides off his plate. The empty vat in his chest fills with vitriol like a breaking dam.

“What the fuck do you want?” He snarls. The man is clearly drunk – red in the face with spilled beer on his chest. He looks strong enough for a commoner – must be a farmer or a hunter, but little else. Easy overkill if he hits him as hard as he wants to. 

“I’m just a curioush citizin,” He slurs. Looks back over his shoulder to one of the other tables, but Izek’s laser focused on his face. He turns around slow. So so easy to just be rid of. Like strangling a babe. Izek’s patience thins in the time it takes him to finish his thought. 

“I was just wondering… what the infamous Captain Stazni has been up to. You left,” the man gestures with a tankard that sloshes onto the floor, “outta nowhere. Now you come back and the lizard man’s got you on a leash.” He’s too lost in his giggles, eyes shut, drinking deep after the last dregs of his beer, to hear the scrape of chair legs on the wood floor. 

Izek stands. Looms. Anyone should recognize the bloodlust when they see it, even through drunken fog, but this stranger has had a bit too much liquid courage. He slams his tankard down and keeps talking. “I mean, different strokes, I guesssh-” 

He squawks when Izek jerks him up by his neck, claws dug in. The tavern goes quiet, except for Danica, Imrath, and Wixen, who react with, respectively, a demand to take it outside her bar, concern, and gleeful amusement. The idiot stranger squirms, flails, and aims a punch at Izek’s face. It lands with a smack, gnashes Izek’s teeth further in his jaw, but doesn’t move him. Through the red, he thinks he hears Wixen giggle and Imrath growl. He’s squeezing and dragging the man to the door slowly. Stalking him out into the dark. Towards another excellent spot for a shallow grave that he’s had in mind for a rainy day like this one.

Comments of, “poor guy” “pity” and “Moringlord have mercy” follow them, but Imrath’s voice breaks the tension, ringing like a bell. 

“Oh! Wait for me!” He sounds entirely too cheerful. “I volunteer as referee!” 

What? Izek goes to look over his shoulder, but Imrath is already there with a smile and a firm hand on his wrist. 

“Every duel needs a judge to declare the winner. Don’t worry, I’ve done it before!” Imrath squeezes hard, and Wixen sweeps in with a cackle to pry the man from Izek’s claws – which still drag across his neck and leave deep scratches. Imrath touches his back and pushes, guides, with a smile that doesn’t fool him as they walk outside. 

The three of them head down the stairs, with the man who started it gasping and rasping, wriggling in Wixen’s iron grip – for a woman as small as she is, she’s almost as much of an immovable object as Izek. 

The man coughs and tries to yell, but it’s haggard, “What? You gonna reign in your bitch?!” 

Imrath bristles. The smile he put on for the crowd falls into bared teeth as Wixen laughs too loud in the man’s ear, “You must really have a death wish!” She forces him up to his feet, sneering, “Stupid. We’re here to keep you alive.”

Imrath’s rumbling growl is too low for anyone in the crowd that has followed them out onto the porch to hear, but Izek is staring at him with the same uncanny focus that he’s had the whole time when he leans in close, as he shoves his blindfold up into his feathers, pinning them back. His reptilian eyes are slits against the ambient light, but Izek’s sure he sees them try to dilate when he catches his eye. 

“Please don’t use fire, darling. I wanna watch you beat the shit out of this guy.” 

Izek squints at him for a full second before he smirks. It's cruel and makes Imrath’s heart jump in his chest, so he turns quickly, biting down his own grin, to address everyone. He has to blink and squint against the light from the doorway and windows, but he bears it.

“Alright, alright. Gather ‘round. Place any bets you’d like.” He gestures grandly at Izek. “Izek Stazni, versus… what was your name sir?” 

The man is standing now, hand to his throat, with Wixen stalking around keeping him in place. He doesn’t look interested in the sport of it - a shame. “Raj. Sevolad.” 

“Raj Sevolad.” Imrath’s voice is cordial and charming. “Gentlemen, the rules are as such: no weapons, no magic, including from friends, until after the fight is called. This is a fight to unconsciousness or yield – and I reserve the right to pause the fight to ask for a yield at any point. Ready?” 

Izek nods before he finishes the question, but Imrath is looking at Raj, who is only fueled by stupidity and ego. Imrath raises an eyebrow, waiting while he considers - looks from Izek over to the crowd on the tavern porch, to his friends and neighbors. Perhaps his sense of self-preservation is finally surfacing through the booze. That won’t do.

Imrath maintains his smile. “Yielding before your opponent returns at least one blow would be a great shame, Mr. Sevolad.”

Raj jumps; pride wounded, bluff called. He squares himself and raises his fists. Excellent. 

“Begin.” 

The fight is fair. Imrath makes sure of that, but it isn’t a competition by any means. He stands by the steps beside Wixen with rapt attention as Izek goes painfully easy. Izek, who he’s seen skewer a hag to a stone wall with a good overhand and was halfway to killing Raj in the tavern. Izek, who is a wolf toying with his prey – letting him get close to another hit and just snarling at him. Shoving him by the back of the head toward the ground instead of decking him just to laugh when he spits dirt out of his teeth. Wixen is loving it too, cheering and mocking Raj for his misses. A few other voices join her. A few in support of the idiot shout “close!” and “get him Raj!”

Imrath speaks over them with all the command his ancestors would be proud of, “Gentlemen, do either of you yield?” 

Izek is cocky and rabid. Raj is furious. “No!”

Guards investigate the commotion, and are waved over by several citizens to watch the fight as well. They’re clearly torn, because Izek turning his wrath on anyone usually ends with a corpse, and he’s clearly enjoying this too much – in a way that is familiar to those who used to work under him, but he is, once again, in good with the Baron. Or, his friends are. They’re technically town heroes again. So… do they risk interfering? 

They hesitate, and Imrath makes a big scene of asking for another yield. Both men say no, and the guards gradually shift from hovering to mingling. Good. 

Izek needs this fight, and the villagers need to learn to mind themselves - heroes or not. This is an example - an important precedent.

The fight picks up when Raj hisses out something nasty again and Izek doesn’t dodge. He takes a punch to the gut like it’s nothing and uppercuts him with his left. Raj sputters and scrambles back up onto his feet. Bless him, Izek beats him bloody, but he stays on his feet for another two punches. The last one digs into his diaphragm and he curls up on the ground, gasping for the air he can’t seem to find. Imrath moves quick to put himself in the way, and Wixen reaches to stop Izek’s next coiled punch. The guards pull swords and step forward, but everyone pauses. Half the crowd groans.

Imrath steps in close and pulls Raj back to his feet. He feels the man tense under his claws, but tries to be gentle.

“Careful, Mr. Sevolad. That was a good fight.” He steps back, leaves Raj holding his abdomen and wheezing, to address the crowd. “That was an effort to be proud of, wasn’t it everyone?” 

The crowd responds with murmurs of support and nodding heads. Yeah, they suppose it was. Izek isn’t known for his mercy, after all. Raj doesn’t appreciate the pity, but Wixen is at his side, grinning with a maw of fangs faster than he can protest. To give credit where it’s due, at least the man seems to know when to keep his mouth shut when he’s sober. He stands still, as straight as he can manage with his undoubtedly broken rib.

Imrath doesn’t fight the open fondness on his face when he turns back to Izek with a beaming smile. He takes Izek’s left hand and holds it all the way over his head, presenting him to the crowd on the porch. “Ladies and Gentlemen, your winner!” 

They cheer. It’s a little half hearted from most, but Izek gets a few claps that he is quick to dismiss, and Imrath lets it be. It’s as much of a success as they can expect. Izek thinks, now that he’s exorcized his temper, that it had been a good save.

Izek watches Imrath flash him another smile - looking at him with pride and indulgence like they’ve pulled off some kind of sweets-out-the-jar heist instead of turning a murder into a street fight. Though, perhaps those are similar enough for the dragonborn. Weirdo. 

As the crowd dissipates and patrons return to their tables, guards to their rounds, and nearby window shutters latch back closed, Imrath is checking on his opponent - glowing will brilliant sunlight through the scales of his hands to heal him. He says something that Izek can’t hear, and Wixen snickers. 

Then the guy, Raj, jumps. Imrath stands with no tension in his body, smiling and holding one of Raj’s hands in both of his. His mouth moves, and the man tries to pull away, but Imrath’s hold is a vice, and he is halted. Izek perks up. 

He keeps talking - keeps smiling, and Raj’s face screws up. The poor beast, stuck in a trap, looks around for help and only finds Izek as witness. Everyone else only sees a couple of helpful town heroes having a chat with him. Pity. The pathetic sod jerks back around to stare up at the dragonborn looming over him. Imrath ducks his head, and Izek watches him say something else.

Raj rips himself away. He scrambles back, stumbles and barely catches himself. Wixen laughs out loud when Izek snorts. 

Imrath only stares as Raj finally turns to run home and lick what is left of his wounds. Keeps his reptile’s eyes fixed so that every time Raj turns to check over his shoulder, he hasn’t moved.

Huh… Wonder what he said?

______________________________________________________________

The cheer from the audience is honestly a lot more pathetic than Imrath is used to. Duels back home are a regular occurrence, but always a welcome and raucous spectacle. When a gauntlet is thrown or a fight demanded, word spreads fast through social circles, and you could expect many of your friends and clan members to show up to support you. They would cheer and bellow and stomp their feet, some would even break out into chants and dances to bolster their preferred combatant, and hiss and taunt the opponent, if the duel lasts long enough. Given the high stakes of dishonor on your clan for losing, most dragonborn would rather be dragged away in pieces than to lose.

Imrath had only been part of the crowds - he wasn’t allowed to cause that kind of trouble for his family, but it had never failed to make his blood sing for the show.

This? This was just a scrap, but it was the best that Barovia had offered, and Imrath would never deny a gift like watching Izek fight. He watches the crowds fall silent too quickly and file away. A shame, he thinks. 

Still, he is grinning. He’s soaring with pride when he turns to smile at Izek - his beautiful force of nature, Izek. He could kiss him then and there. Would, in a heartbeat, if he thought for a second that it might be wanted. The easy affection demands it of him. But he is a gentleman, so he only smiles and squeezes Izek’s hand before he has to turn to finish handling Raj.

He doesn’t want to be civil, but he will be. He takes a deep, grounding breath before he makes it over. He needs to school himself - he’s at work. C’mon Im.

“Mr. Sevolad,” Without his blindfold, the disgust is easy to see on the man’s face. He ignores it, “how are you feeling?” 

“Like shit, as you should well know.” Imrath nods, and reaches to take one of Raj’s hands in his. When he does, the man curls his lip. “I ain’t interested in anything you have to say, lizard.” 

Imrath takes his hand anyway. “I’m sure, but nevertheless,” His palms glow as he calls up some magic to ease some of the damage. Raj can stand much better when the sunlight dims. “Forgive me, I really must have a word with you.” 

Raj, who had been distracted by the magic, jerks his head up to look into Imrath’s face. “I said I don’t care what you say.” He tries to pull away, but Imrath curls his fingers. His claws dig in, and Raj pauses when he feels them hook into his skin. “What’re you-” 

“Mr. Sevolad,” Imrath interrupts. The edge of his lips try to curl into a smirk, but he bites it back down. “You and I are going to come to a mutually beneficial agreement.” He waits, lets the words sink in. Wixen’s ears have spun around to listen, and Raj tries to look around, but clearly finds no sympathy. Imrath does not take his eyes off the frightened man. 

When Raj pulls again, Imrath unlatches four claws and uses that hand to pat Raj’s. “You are going to swear not to disrespect my companions again,” Wide, incredulous eyes spin around to face him. He maintains his smile. “and I will swear to you that if you do I will not save you from the fight you went looking for.” 

He leans in, speaks more softly. His next words are almost lost to the giggling of the woman at his elbow. “I will help Izek hide whatever is left of your ashes, and perhaps, if you beg me in your last breaths, I will give you a proper funeral somewhere where no one will find you.”

When Raj moves to wrench himself free, claws be damned, Imrath lets go, and the man stumbles. Wixen laughs loud in his ear, but Imrath is unmoving. Staring. Menacing him on purpose. He needs this man to believe this truth, because Imrath doesn’t want to have to see it through. He really isn’t a vicious man, but this place seems to only speak in fatality, so Imrath will do what he must.

______________________________________________________________

Danica is there blocking the door with her hands on her hips when they try to rejoin the crowd. “Now I know that y’all are town heroes - and I am always grateful for that,” She wags her finger, “but I’ll not have my inn turned into a sparring ring.”

Imrath, ever the mediator, ducks his head like a child that’s been scolded. “Sorry, Miss Danica. It was the best I could do given the circumstances.”

The circumstances, standing on either side of the dragonborn, give each other sidelong glances. Danica spends another second regarding Imrath, just so that the motherly disappointment sinks in. She gives Izek and Wixen both a stern look.

Izek glares at her, “I didn’t start it.” Danica deadpans, and he gestures out into the street, “and I was leaving. I didn’t even get blood on your floor.” 

“Well.” It isn’t lost on her that any other day, Raj would have gone missing and Izek would have come back to the pub to drink himself under the table. Whatever this band of misfits is doing, it tends to work out. With a sigh, she steps aside and ushers them back in. “I suppose you all did well enough, just try to limit the street fights.”

They all nod with varying degrees of sincerity, and Imrath says, “Yes ma’am.” 

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The rest of the evening goes as it should have in the first place. Imrath buys them a bottle of wine and promises not to drink too much of it. Izek enjoys his glass while Imrath scrubs the drying blood off Izek’s knuckles. Wixen chugs her first glass, tells some dramatic story about the Great Forest she grew up in, chugs her second glass, and takes off under the tables to make mischief with the kids again. 

When Urwin scurries by carrying an armful of plates, Imrath can’t seem to help himself, and tries to help out again. Unceremoniously, Izek grabs him by the belt and plants him back in his chair.

“No you don’t.” Imrath spins around, frowning. Before he can prattle out whatever indignation he has, Izek pokes him in the chest with a claw. “I’m tired of you running off. You stay right there, drink your wine, and enjoy this awful music.” 

He watches him think about it; watches his jaw muscles work like he’s picking an argument and his snout curl up. Izek rolls his eyes. He pushes his chair back enough to yank Imrath’s tail around to tuck it under his own thigh - pinning it there.

“What? Izek c’mon-” Imrath tries to pull it back, but Izek puts more of his weight down.

“I’m serious.” He gestures with his glass for Imrath to grab his own. “You already did your good deed for the night, now you just gotta sit here and scare off any other drunk idiots.”

Imrath purses his lips, but does eventually smile and relax. “Alright, alright. You’re in charge.” 

______________________________________________________________

Izek wakes up sweaty.

The radiating heat is the first thing he notices. On the blurry edges of his consciousness, it’s suffocating and he immediately hates it more than he’s ever hated anything in his miserable life.

The next thing he becomes aware of is the sickly sweet smell of booze. Gods be damned, he hasn't woken up hungover in months. He needs a new shirt, and a pitcher of water. Or another tankard. He isn’t sure what kind of day it is yet. That’ll depend on what bullshit he has to deal with at work today…

He tries to lift himself and doesn’t move. His eyes snap open with the spike of fear through his chest - the deep seated nightmare that his arm will be gone again and he’ll be- 

A wall. Red spikes. Okay. He closes his eyes against the morning light and forces himself to take a deep breath. His arm is still there. It’s just all pins and needles. He grits his teeth, mutters a curse, and gets to work rolling the dead limb back up onto the bed. It’s a struggle, because even his human arm seems to be betraying him, but he finally makes it up onto an elbow. 

He groans again, and the bed beside him shifts. 

What the- Oh. Izek blinks again; tries to squeeze the sleep out and focus. 

Imrath’s horns and a few feathers poke out from under the covers. There are at least two limbs wrapped around him.

He’s stricken, rooted in place.

Torn between enjoying a rare quiet morning where they don’t actually have to do anything and getting up to tend to his aching head - and to maybe not be caught all curled up in bed like this. Not that he cares what anyone thinks, but the idea is alien. The closeness is alien. He doesn’t know if he likes it the way he likes the undivided attention.

He’s still deciding if he can let himself have the feeling in his chest about it - warm but not angry. It almost makes him hurt when he realizes that he doesn’t hate it, because the hurt is what he knows best.

It is a ghost of a feeling that other people might call contentment, but Izek doesn’t try too hard to parse it out anymore today. His head fucking hurts. He needs food, and then to curl up somewhere dark where Wixen can’t find him and annoy him yet.

Memories float back in from the night before: the fight, the very nice wine that mixed with all the ale he’d already had. He’d arm wrestled Wixen at some point. Vaguely, he remembers winning. He remembers having to hold the walls to make it back up the stairs to their room, and being determined to take his bath himself, thank you very much. 

He thought he’d gone to his own bed? He’d never drunkenly crawled into someone else’s bed before. Which, even if he had and never remembered it, anyone else would have just cleared out and slept on the floor before they curled up with a monster. Not that he cares either way. He’d prefer sleeping alone - not waking up so damned hot. Imrath’s a furnace. Izek kicks the covers off his leg and props it up on the floor. 

It's grounding, and offers another half baked memory: it's blurry, but he thinks he recalls seeing a fox tail disappear out the window for the roof, and glowing pink eyes blinking at him when he laid down. Had Imrath tucked him in? What the Hell?

He’s trying to think straight between his headache and his stupid numb arm giving out on him and he can’t get up without- Imrath shifts again, nuzzles closer, and Izek can feel his nose horn dig into his side. The tail curls up further on his thigh. 

Izek watches his horns move around and he mumbles something in his dragon language that feels like, “5 more minutes.”

So he snorts and flops back down, dragging some of the cover up off their feet to cover his own eyes.

<<< Previous | >>> Next

Whatever. He can heal me later.

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[breedaboyd]

Cathouse Tragedy ~ Vic Owen

Pairing: Vic Owen ☓ Samuel Adams.

Word Count: 4.1k+

CW: Anal sex, biting, cross-dressing, dom/sub, face-fucking, fisting, oral sex, period-accurate homophobia, period-accurate transphobia, prostitution.

A/N: Title from Voltaire's album, 'Riding a Black Unicorn...'.

The dusty haze hangs low over the town, a fitting backdrop to the weary souls that wander its dirt-ridden streets. The local cathouse, a ramshackle refuge of shadows and whispers, stands as a beacon for those seeking solace in the arms of paid companionship.

Within its dimly-lit confines, the air carries the scent of stale whiskey and sweat, mingling with the soft notes of a mournful piano in the corner. Samuel Adams, garbed in silk and lace, moves with a practiced grace among the patrons. Each step is measured, a dance of survival in a world where debts can cost far more than coin.

John Bishop, a man of cunning eyes and a grip that squeezes hope from the desperate, presides over this domain. Sam owes him a debt, a promise etched in blood, and so he performs this charade night after night.

Sam's gaze follows the entrance of a steady stream of cowboys and drifters, each one a reminder of the compromises made to keep afloat in this unforgiving life. He serves their wants, bearing the weight of their gazes, in this place there's no room for pride.

And then there's Vic Owen. A name that curls Sam's lip in a silent snarl because Vic is the embodiment of everything vile and loathsome. He strides in with an air of entitlement, his spurs jingling a discordant tune against the worn floorboards. His eyes gleam with a predatory hunger and Sam shudders under the weight of that gaze. With that being the case, why is this awful, cruel, disgusting man his favourite customer?

Shame colours his cheeks. Shame and something else he refuses to put a name to because Sam's want for Vic brings chaos and mayhem into his semi-ordered world. His gaze always returns to Vic with every move and gentle smile given. Vic, with his eyes that linger too long on silk and satin. Sam takes a steadying breath, his mind drifting over a myriad of possibilities at every tilt of that predatory grin.

Will Vic seek him out again tonight? God, he hopes so.

The night air is thick with a blend of sweat, whiskey and the distant promise of rain. Inside the cathouse, the atmosphere hums with a strange mix of allure and desperation. Sam — or Sammy to his clientèle — glides from table to table, his practiced smile unassuming and easy on the eyes.

"Evenin', handsome." He purrs, voice dipped in honey, as he leans in to brush a kiss against a grizzled cowboy's cheek. The man grins back, eyes gleaming with a mixture of appreciation and expectation. At another table, a young rancher clinks his glass against Sam's, the sound punctuated by a low chuckle.

Suddenly, the swing of the doors announces the arrival of two newcomers. Their boots echo loudly on the wooden floor. Sam's eyes flicker towards them, his heart sinking as he senses the trouble that they carry in with them.

"We heard they had a tranny slut in this joint." One of them sneers, eyes looking over each of the girls before stopping at Sam. "That must be you, bitch." They swarm him, hands pulling wandering, groping, intruding. The other patrons are quick to turn their gazes back to their drinks, useless bastards. It all happens so quickly.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll teach ya how t'behave like a real lady soon enough." One of them grins. Sam chokes down a scream. Desperately, he squeezes his eyes shut as he's bent over the bar roughly, his nose crushed into the wood. He smells blood and he can already tell his nose is broken. Then, there's a gunshot and Sam squeezes his eyes shut.

"Reckon you gentlemen outta be leavin' 'fore I put the next slug 'tween y'ears." The warning comes with a soft tone, rich with malice. The bruising grip on his shoulders slacken and suddenly Sam's yanked up to his feet by one of the men and, God, Vic's a sight for sore eyes; all dark eyes and sinful, smirking mouth. Sam aches for him. Hates him. But would eagerly present his back for the honour of taking a fuck from him. Just not right now. All he wants to do is leave. Go home and wash off the feeling of unwanted hands on his skin.

"Shouldn't come 'tween a whore an' 'er customers, friend." One of the men says and there's a vicious edge to his words now. Sam notes the tension in Vic's jaw at the use of that word: whore.

"Sure but that there's my whore. An' y'see, I don't much like sharin'. Never learned ta. Now, I suggest you boys take y'leave." He smiles, a wolf baring its teeth. There's the click-click of the hammer pulled back on his Colt. "So get the fuck out." The air pulses with unspoken violence. Sam feels his pulse quicken, like the low hum of a storm heralded by heat. Then, suddenly, the one that grabbed him tosses him away like a ragged toy. Sam hits the ground with a thud.

"C'mon, Joel. Ain't worth it." The other man grabs his companion, dragging him towards the door. Then they leave, cursing their way out.

Vic stands there, watching, until the doors have swung shut before stowing his pistol and turning to Sam. The younger man stares up at him from the floor, hating the heat that coils in his belly at the sight. Slowly, he raises a trembling hand and brushes it against his mangled nose. Hurts something fierce.

He wobbles to his feet as the tempo of the cathouse picks up again, filled with music and cheers. He aches to taste the sweat on Vic's bronzed skin. To bite his chest and taste the tang of his seed on his tongue. Sam's knuckles go white around the shot glass placed before him, mouth dry at the thought. He downs the shot and braces his hands on either side of his nose, clicking it back into place with a pained groan.

"'Thank you, Vic. I'm fine' is what you're s'posed to say, princess. 'I'm forever in y'favour'. Like in the books an' shit, y'know?" His voice curls around Sam like cigar smoke. Yet, all the younger man can do is press a cold rag to his throbbing nose and scowl in Vic's general direction. But he's fine...mostly. Still, the words 'thank you' are lost among thoughts of tangled sheets and half-swallowed moans. Sam hates that look in Vic's eyes, like he knows exactly what the younger man's thinking. Hates that his thoughts always drift back to Vic and his rough, warm hands.

Sam tears himself from the hypnotic draw of that shit-eating grin and fights his way past drunken patrons to his backroom, where he sees his clients. He doesn't think about Vic's strong, sturdy hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. He doesn't think about Vic's burning gaze eating him alive with an intensity that scares him. He doesn't think about laying beneath him, fucked wide open, screaming his name as Vic fills him again and again with his cock. Vic, Vic, Vic.

Instead, he chooses to lose himself in the monotony of undressing, tearing at laces and silk until he's nude. He's not seeing anyone else tonight, damn John Bishop. Sam catches his reflection in the mirror. His face is painted with powder but beneath the paint and the rouge, he can see the ghost of a little boy he once knew, eyes haunted, skin soft. The sight brings bile to his throat. Beneath that is a man, tall and thin and angry at the world. His clothes feel like a prison. There are days where he'd sell his soul for a pair of breeches and a button-down shirt. Anything but satin and lace and cotton.

And then Vic's at his door, just watching him, drinking him in.

"Ain't the striptease half the fun?" He drawls, every bit the predator. Sam watches him in the mirror, eyes wary. Vic ducks inside and shuts the door. It locks with a click. That grin tugs at his lips again as Vic prowls forwards, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of Sam's neck. Then, he's kissing him, hard and demanding, shoving his tongue between the younger man's teeth. He tastes like blood and whiskey and cigars. "Y'smell so good, princess. Like honey an' flowers...an' cock." Vic pants against his lips. Sam opens his mouth for him, giving himself over to the sensation of it all. His mind sings with the glorious brutality of it, every nerve aches, every movement setting him on fire. God, this fucking man. If Sam could be his personal slave, he wouldn't bat an eye. "Such a pretty girl for me, ain'tcha?" Vic grins. Sam chokes out a pitiful whine at Vic's words, hating how easily Vic can coax his heart to pound so hard in his chest.

"'M a man, y'sick fuck." He breathes back, words trembling out between shaky exhales. Every scrap of self-preservation is dunked in a vat of molten want at the smug tilt of Vic's lips.

"Then show me."

And suddenly, Sam's on his knees, staring up at Vic, their gazes never breaking as he languidly pulls out his cock. It's a thick, weighty thing, oozing pre, and Sam's never been much of a swallower but all he wants is to sink his mouth onto it. He parts his lips, letting his mouth drool, letting the saliva build up around his tongue. And Vic thrusts in.

Instinctively, Sam gags on the intrusion, coughing around the base of Vic's cock. Immediately, the older man presses his palm to his temple, groaning at the wet warmth of his mouth. The head brushes the back of his throat. His world constricts into the feeling of his body refusing to give up his control. Breathe, Sammy, breathe. He inhales and Vic uses that brief second to his advantage. With a sharp, brutal thrust, he sheaths himself deep inside the tight heat of Sam's throat. The younger man can't suppress the whine that slips out and Vic echoes it, grinning wide and easy.

"Damn, y'must have been hungry, princess. Lookit that thing disappear." He hisses, tone reverent. The pressure in Sam's throat is making him weak and desperate. "That's it, darlin'. Nice an' easy." Vic groans, his voice drenched in an animal pleasure that sets Sam's own cock alight with need. His makeup's smearing across his face, dripping down his cheeks with tears, but neither of them could care less. If Sam had to hazard a guess, he'd reckon Vic likes it this way, likes seeing him debased and filthy. When Sam lets his eyes shut, drool dribbles down his chin. "That's a good, li'l' slut." Vic sighs, his breath coming harder and harder. "Good girl." When he says it, it's a term of endearment. A reward. Sam wants to sob.

Instead, Sam's tongue moves, slipping along the veiny underside and taking in the masculine salt of sweat and pre and everything that's just Vic. The older man doesn't let him up, not until Sam's so light-headed that the world tilts and shifts beneath him. And even then, Vic keeps him close, lets him breathe in the musk at the base of his cock. "Breathe, boy." He huffs out as Sam pants and gasps against him. If there's one thing he knows about the man, it's that Vic takes what he wants and damn the consequences.

And then, Vic's cumming down his throat, shooting deep into the back of Sam's throat, hunching over, growling as he fucks the younger man's face through it all. "Don't ya waste a single Goddamn drop, y'hear? Wanna see you swallow it all, princess." He snarls. Sam obeys. A thread of spit connects Vic's cockhead to Sam's reddened lips as he pulls out. Sam thinks he can hear Vic's grin, broad and cocky and cruel. "Good girl. Open up, let ol' Vic see what a good job y'did." He cups Sam's face, tracing his thumb along the younger man's swollen lips. Obediently, the younger man opens his mouth and presents his tongue, where the pearlescent strings of cum glisten. He waits for Vic's verdict. "God— Fuck, princess. Fuckin' perfect." Those words, spoken with such careless adoration, do more than any seduction could.

Sam leans forward, wrapping a hand around Vic's wrist, eyes shut, as his lips wrap around the older man's thumb. He's sure he looks quite the sight: face stained with tears and make-up, cock hard and leaking against his thigh, lips forming a seal around the digit. He swallows the load, all while paying his dues and lavishing Vic's thumb with attention. Their eyes gleam with want. "Mmmnn... Bet ya'd take anything I'd give ya, wouldn'tcha, darlin'? Precious, li'l' princess slut." He presses his thumb down against Sam's tongue, purring at the submission before drawing his now wet digit away. Vic sucks the cum-soaked digit into his mouth, tongue running over it with a low moan.

Vic pulls Sam up from the floor, nipping at his throat and marking him. The younger man whines, reaching down to stroke himself when Vic slaps his hand away, gaze firm.

"Did I say y'could do that, sweetheart?" He leers. Sam shakes his head, biting back a whimper. Vic bends him over the bed, planting a firm slap on his ass with a wicked grin. Sam bucks in the air, cock dripping onto the blankets. God, the bastard knows just how to push his buttons. Fingers dig into Sam's hair, tugging him back up so Vic can lean in close. "Get on that bed and spread y'self open. Don't wanna hurt ya when I tear that fine ass'a yours apart." Sam scrambles onto the bed, spreading his legs and reaching for the mineral oil on the nightstand, as Vic wanders to the foot of the bed, slowly stripping off his shirt. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, tugging them lower and lower, until they drop to the ground. Then he pulls up a chair, eager for the show.

Sam slicks up his fingers with the oil and begins to spread his hole open, letting out soft, little gasps as he pushes deeper into himself. Vic's gaze is sharp as a knife, lips curved up and slightly parted in enjoyment. "Tha's it, princess. Lemme see my girl get good an' ready to take my cock." Vic grins and Sam feels himself bloom open, feels the slick clench of his inner walls clenching around his fingers. God, this is good. Good girls obey. He's heard that enough to know it's true. Sam is a good girl... Right?

He pushes his fingers right back in, two then three... Three fingers is still barely touching the sides. He's so loose from all the cocks he's taken, the fingers, fists. He's so loose and hot and slutty. "Mhm, that hits the spot, don't it?" Vic presses his thumb to his cock, stroking himself as he watches with a dark, heavy-lidded gaze. Four fingers now, and Sam moans at the delicious feeling of too much, too little, just fucking enough. He's putting on a show for Vic and his steady, approving gaze. Just for Vic. Nobody else.

And then he finds it, that sweet, little bundle of nerves, catching it with his fingertips and making his body flush with heat. He's in so deep, well over the swell of his knuckles, so he can reach it, pinch it, press it. That lovely, little button that just goes so well with the stretch of his hole, with the heavy throb of his cock, so thick between his legs, begging for release. But he can't, not before the older man fucks him first. He doesn't want the heat of Vic's gaze turned into scorn and he doesn't want to be punished because, if Vic punishes him, it means the sex'll be better but damn it'll be painful.

"'M-M so close, Vic. Can I cum? Please, please can I—" Sam doesn't want to make Vic angry, he wants to be a good girl, he wants it so bad. His body arches as he squirms against the bed.

"Nah, open up that pretty, li'l' fuckhole for me, princess." He runs a hand down his cock, ready to go again. Sam's voice cracks with his reply and his cock twitches against his stomach. He pants, reaching down to hook his fingers into his rim, pulling himself open, putting himself on display. His insides are red-raw, slick with the spend of the dozens of men he's seen over the last twenty-four hours. He's a disgusting, little whore, guts pouring out of his destroyed hole. Doesn't matter because he wants to be Vic's personal cumdump and he'll gladly take everything Vic has to give, up to and including his life. If only. "Shit, Sammy... Sweet, lil'l rosebud you got there. How many johns've you seen while you been here? I remember when y'was a virgin, all tight 'n' shy 'n' sweet. How many guys've you taken in that cum-hungry cunt'a yours over the two years we've had ya? Y'remember?"

"Over... O-Over a thousand." He chokes out the number, one he's long since memorised. He has the number in a little, black book in his nightstand; 1,567. Sam's had them all; big men, small men, rich men, poor men, young, old — he takes every cent, every cock, without complaint or hesitation. As long as they have cash because he's a whore. Because, as it turns out, plenty of guys like pretty, young men in panties with smooth chests, doll faces and a hard, slutty cock. And Vic is his favourite out of all of them.

"'S a lotta dicks, ain't it, Sammy? Lotta cum." He pauses, thinking as he pulls his head to the side, still toying with his cock. "Mm. I wonder how many'a them got ta see m'pretty girl cum..." Sam sucks at his bottom lip. And he's got a point. Johns don't give a shit about the whores, don't care for their pleasure. As long as the doll can put on a good sing-song while they're fucking, most of them just don't give a shit. But Vic? Vic makes him cum over and over and over until he's boneless, blissed out and drenched in his own sweat and tears, ears ringing, throat numb. And Vic's still tugging at his cock, licking his lips as he drinks in the sight of Sam's loose, gaping, slutty hole.

"Only you make me cum, Vic. Nobody else."

"Y'want me to make you cum, princess?"

"Please."

Then the tip of his cock pushes against his lax rim, the swollen head breaching him in one brutal thrust. The older man gives him no time to adjust, fucking into him hard, hands curled against his hips. Every thrust has Sam slamming against the headboard, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh deafening in the warm night. Sam can't help but cry out, every thrust hitting his prostate dead-on, tearing him apart.

"That's it, C'mon, darlin', take it. Lemme make ya squirt." He growls, thrusting into the slippery, sloppy clutch of Sam's guts. Desperately, Sam goes for his cock, his shaft aching for stimulation as Vic fucks up his insides. The older man slaps his hand away. "Don't need that, darlin'. Just need m'cock, don'cha?" His voice is saccharine sweet. His words pull Sam under, deep enough he can barely breathe. He's close to suffocating, drowning in heat and bliss. He hates it. Hates how Vic can give him everything he wants and more, while never being enough.

And then the trusts are deep, pounding rhythmically, undoing all that hard word, fucking the guts back into him. Vic wraps a sturdy arm around Sam's waist and props his leg against the headboard and his angle changes. He hammers his hips against Sam's lax body, driving his cock deep inside the younger man's fucked-loose hole with bruising precision. Vic's wetting his lips, sweaty and flushed, grinning and happy as he chases that little death.

His cock throbs insistently inside the tight clench of his princess's sweet, little, used-up cunt.  "Tha's my girl!" He snarls, his body shaking as he fucks into that tight warmth. The older man groans out a litany of half-formed words, the effort of speech long gone from his mind as he grinds deeper, deeper, deeper.

"V-Vic... Oh, God, f-f-fuck— Ngh— Vic! Gonna—" Sam's whines turn to screams as Vic leans down, sinking his teeth into the crook of his neck, breaking skin, tasting blood. The younger man just pants, head spinning with the pain and the heat and the fucking blinding bliss of Vic's cock pushing into him over and over. The older man's teeth are still buried in his neck when they both cum. They're animals; snarling, vicious, starving.

Heat floods Sam's guts and Vic lifts his mouth from Sam's neck with a bitten-back yell, the air thick with blood and sex. Sam can feel the wet slick of cum on his stomach, painting, staining. Vic thrusts lazily a couple of times before going still, buried deep. There's a bloody, toothy smile on his face, eyes filled with the ghost of lust. Sam smiles at the sight, body exhausted, blood smearing across his neck.

He pats a cold hand against Vic's nape, stroking idly as the aftershocks work through them, muscles jumping beneath his skin. He's leaking, a deep, rich crimson. He never feels safer than in Vic's arms, pinned beneath him, unable to move. If Sam could cut his heart out and stuff it in Vic's palm, he would. He fucking hates him but, in his arms, he feels everything at once and he doesn't have to think about tomorrow, about the masks he has to wear, about the lies he has to tell. He never has to think about anything because Vic will always be there.

And that's the greatest joke there is.

"Good girl, Sammy." The older man says softly and the younger man just shuts his eyes and soaks up the praise.

Vic never stays long but he stays longer than most johns, leaving right before dawn, after a final, biting kiss and a promise of 'next time'. Sam wonders if it's just because he and Vic have a mutual taste for rough, filthy, bloody sex. Or maybe Vic's like him deep down, lonely, desperate for physical affection. Sam falls into bed, unable to think straight. Head swimming, legs weak, whole body trembling.

After what feels like an eternity, the haze lifts. He stumbles into the communal washroom. He examines himself in the mirror, throat and neck splattered with dark, bluish-blackish bruises, and the bite mark is an angry, vivid red. The girls avoid him, eyeing him with a mixture of pity and distrust. Sam showers, washes off the grime, the semen, the sweat.

He steps back into his room, stares at himself in the mirror. Then he pulls on a chemise, slides his legs into a fresh pair of hose, re-laces a garter to his thigh, buttons himself up in a crisp, clean skirt, slips his feet into delicate, delicate slippers. Then he applies his war-paint. He dabs his bruised neck with rouge, hides his cheekbones in shadow, draws out his eyelashes with kohl. Each motion becomes a part of him.

When he's done, Sam leaves again, out on the prowl. Lures his prey into the shadows of the cathouse and hikes his skirts up. They'll fuck him but not like Vic does, not nearly as good. They'll fuck him and pay him, not enough to live on but enough to keep food in his belly and booze in his belly. They'll fuck him, john after john, until Sam's bone-tired and numb to his core and he passes out over the bar. Until next time.

In his dreams, it's a fairytale. A shit one but a fairytale nonetheless.

Vic slaps a ring in his palm, pulls him closer and kisses him rough. He'd take Sam out of the cathouse and into his bed. They'd steal kisses in behind the jailhouse, hands pawing at each other's bodies, hot and wanton. Faces close, breaths mingling, mouths seeking kisses, tasting of blood and whiskey and gunsmoke. They'd lay out under the stars and kiss and fuck. He wouldn't have to wear a dress anymore and, when he came, Vic would moan out Samuel. Everybody'd know. They'd be happy.

In his dreams, he's a good, little princess. In his dreams, he doesn't ache so bad. In his dreams, he makes Vic a better man, a man who's honest and loving but still a bit bloodthirsty. He's loved and he's happy and everything is so very good.

But it's only a dream. Maybe he's better for that.

[bloodsalted]

crowley's letting him linger in the nervous wake of his questioning way too damn long. dean knows it's on purpose. why? because he's that much of a dick and it's god damn predictable that he'd let dean squirm and enjoy it. in the meantime? he's downing his beer and waving the waitress over for another shot, "make it a double," mumbled under his breath and he wriggles his beer to gesture for a backer, too. she takes note crowley is finishing his drink and aims to bring him one over as well. course it goes on dean's tab. why? cause he's the one with the fake credit card to pay for this night. where he just got his ass kicked in pool. by crowley. if that wasn't humiliating enough after all the shit talking he did (it's a pool habit, he always ALWAYS shit talks) there's an added ante' to the mix that has him squirming inside. "pshh. you wish," he smirks. tosses his gaze towards the ceiling after, too.

confusion stamps itself upon the pool loser's brow. is that what he thinks it is? whitney houston? oh god damn it!!! a wandering gaze over the patrons of the bar. most are busy in drinks and trying to get laid but a few have been watching them play. this is gonna spread like wildfire. another eye roll and he caves. a bet is a fucking bet and he's not a BITCH. "fine," he grumbles and takes the steps forward he needs to close the distance between them. his hand slips into crowley's that he just used to point at himself. "ain't gonna step on your feet. you're looking at someone who learned his fair share of slow dance moves a long time ago." it's an easy way to get some tail. hey. he adapts! he learns! his arm wraps around crowley's middle. someone's chuckling. but their drinks are sat their table. good. he'll need one. "you're lucky i didn't ask for best two outta three," he smirks moving in a slow sway. "cause then? i woulda beat your ass.."

DEAN'S DEFEAT COULDN'T BE SWEETER. Cotton candy sweet. Absolutely tooth-rotting sweet, actually. The sheer disappointment across his face, that quiet cussing under his breath? Now mix it with the fear Crowley planted before of what's about to come; should win an award for this. He gives Dean a couple moments to wallow in said fear and mull over the possibilities he may or may not have mapped out— meanwhile savoring the final sips of his cocktail. " Would you? " Follows as soon as Crowley lets the straw slip out of his mouth again, expectation resurfacing as an expression of almost childlike curiosity. Then a squint. " I mean, Magic Mike me? "

That's something he'd much rather enjoy in a more private setting. He doesn't wait for an answer and instead snaps his fingers to switch the low background country tune to something impossibly cheesy. Louder in volume than prior tracks, Whitney Houston's 'One moment in Time' starts to play— under the eyes of all other guests, Crowley extends a hand to Dean. Fingers wagging for emphasis. " Let's celebrate our bromance duly. I'll even forgive you if you happen to step on my feet ", precedes his free hand pointing toward himself. " Before you stands a honorable winner, after all. "

[thiswasinevitableid]

If you are still taking meet ugly prompts, sternclay 22 nsfw???

Here you go!

22: you’re on a date with this awful, awful person who keeps getting under my skin because my friend and I have been eavesdropping all night and your date says something that makes me snap … I thought it was a first date, not a three year relationship.

Note: I interpreted "first date" loosely. Slight content warning for mentions of blackmail, including blackmailing someone into a relationship.

It’s hard to tell where the sting of gin on his tongue ends and the sharpness of the pines through the window begins. The combination would invigorate him were it not for the conversation playing out at the other end of the short bar.

“...Last time, I’m not leaving.” The bartender, a mountain of a man who Joseph would love to climb, has been dealing with a persistent suitor for the better part of an hour. They’re the only people in the place; ski season is far behind them and summer isn’t here yet.

“C’mon, you’ve got no reason to hang around.”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” The bartender finishes cleaning glasses, turns to put them up.

“Don’t you fucking turn your back on me! I’m not through with you, oughta drag you outta here by your hair you cheap, dull-”

The next word is an unkind name for men who, like Joseph, prefer men in their beds. The bartender doesn’t respond, though his hands tighten around the glasses. Damn it, the world did not go for a second war just for him to let everyday evil slide by.

“That’s enough.” Joseph stands, moving to where the other patron wobbles on his stool, “him being uninterested doesn’t give you the right to abuse him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, pretty boy.”

“I know that if you don’t leave, I’ll escort you out.”

The man throws up his hands, spits at Joseph’s feet before stumbling and stomping for the door, “Three years, Barclay, you’re throwing away three years in one night, and you’re gonna regret it. I’ll make sure you do!”

“Don’t think you will.” Barclay mumbles as the door slams. He’s twisting his dishrag to the point it’s ripping.

“Three years? Good lord, I thought he was just a run-of-the-mill drunk.”

“Nope. If you can call him tracking me down every few months a relationship.”

“I’m sorry.” Joseph pulls out his handkerchief, kneeling to clean up the spit, “still, I apologize for getting in the middle of a, um, lovers quarrel.”

“Please don’t, I’m glad you stepped in. Don’t know what I woulda done if you hadn’t.” His brown eyes study Joseph more closely, “have I seen you here before?”

“Through there.” He indicates the pass-through to the kitchen, “I come here as often as I can since the food can’t be beat.”

“Thanks.” Barclay smiles, starts wiping the counter, “yeah, Dani usually tends bar after the kitchen closes but her wife is down with the flu. Only seemed fair to let her take time to look after her.”

A big heart to go with a big frame? Joseph’s in big trouble.

“You, uh, you up here for the lakes or…” He’s now directly across from Joseph, sliding a fresh gin and tonic in front of him.

“I’m a private detective, a one man operation as of 1949; Kepler’s the optimal spot for me, since it’s between the mountain towns and the eastern edge of the city. That’s a lot of people who might need help. Not to mention lots of the residents closer to the lakes are wealthy, the kind where they’re always looking for someone to trail a straying spouse or track down the pearls their no-good layabout son sold for dope.” He lets a little bit of scorn enter his voice in hopes of letting Barclay know he doesn’t always agree with his clients, but that a man has to make a living.

Barclay rolls his shoulders, then leans forward, “any fun cases so far?”

Joseph pulls off his jacket as he thinks; if Barclay’s really interested, they might be here awhile.

---------------------------------------------------

He’s an early riser, so the banging on the door to his house (and office) interrupts his breakfast and not his rest. Joseph opens it and then fights to keep it that way.

“Detective Hayes. This is a surprise.” He smiles.

“I’m not here to catch up, Stern. I’m here so you can answer one, simple question: where were you between eleven-thirty and midnight last night?”

“In the dining room at Amnesty Lodge, talking with the bartender. If you need to verify that, just go to the Lodge and ask for Barclay.”

Hayes glowers in a way he recognizes as, “this won’t be an easy case like I assumed” and turns without a word. Two officers follow him. The third, Dewey, hesitates. He’d always been a pal. Joseph shoots him a confused look.

“Guy got shot in the woods near the Lodge last night. His only known contact in town was the bartender, and everyone else we questioned said the two had been arguing for a few days. Hayes thought the cook was a shoo-in to book but, well, his alibi aligns with what you said. Plus, some ranger Owens talked to said he saw Barclay talking to someone in the dining room at the time of the murder. Guess he was walking by the window on his way to-”

“Dewey! Get the hell over here!”

As his informant scurries up the hill to join the others, Joseph steps back inside to finish his toast. He only gets through one piece before the phone rings, summoning him to the managers office at Amnesty Lodge.

Madeline “Mama” Cobb sits behind her desk, whittling with the kind of force that suggests she’s doing this in place of putting her knife to another use.

“Barclay tells me you’re a detective.”

“That’s right, Miss. Cobb.”

“Great. I’m hirin’ you to find out who the hell killed his useless ex and is tryin to frame him for it.”

He sits down, intrigued, “I thought the police were handling the investigation.”

“I ain’t inclined to trust ‘em. Barclay can’t think of someone who’d set him up, and the police don’t think he was. Yet. But I happen to know there were scraps of a shirt Barclay owns on the trees nearby and that the fella who died had this on him.”

She holds a crumpled paper out. He unfolds it, reads, “Come to the old mill at a quarter until midnight. B.” He looks up, “meant to stand for Barclay, one would assume?”

“Yep. Whoever wrote that did a decent job forgin it.”

“How can you be sure it’s fake?”

“Because I got plenty of documents where Barclay describes a time. He just uses numbers, not words like ‘quarter until.”

“Did you suspect a set-up before you lifted this from the body so the cops wouldn’t find it?” Joseph tucks the note into his inside pocket.

“Course I did. You’re new in town, but there ain’t a person here who’d say Barclay is anythin but gentle. He ain’t about to shoot someone in cold blood, even that fucker.” She sighs, takes off her hat and runs a hand through greying hair, “that boy is as good as a brother to me. I know he’s been through some rough shit. He don’t deserve to get caught up in some goddamn murder scheme. So name your price, Mr. Stern; so long as it keeps him outta trouble, I’ll pay it.”

---------------------------------------------

He’s elbow-deep in Barclay’s dresser when the cook returns from his shift; he gave Joseph permission to search his room for signs of whoever took his shirt, but still, the other man doesn’t seem pleased with his presence.

“I’m sorry, but I have to be thorough. I’ll be out of here as soon as I can.”

“S’fine.” Barclay slumps down on the bed. After a moment he murmurs, “I know Mama hired you, but is there anyway I can convince you to quit? She, the Lodge doesn’t have much cash to spare this time of year. I don’t want anyone going without on my account and, and maybe this will all blow over if I just lie low, y’know?”

“It might. But until I think that’s the outcome, I’m inclined to agree with Miss. Cobb that we should work to keep you clear of this. And” he watches Barclay stand, moving to the window so he won’t have to see Joseph rifling through his life, “I promise that if it comes down to getting paid or bankrupting the Lodge, I’ll stop taking my fee. This is a good place and, um, it clearly means a lot to you. That makes it worth some belt-tightening on my end.”

“Thanks.” Barclay stares into the woods, then looks over his shoulder, “Joseph, I-”

It’s only because the mirror is above the dresser that he sees the black barrel peek from the trees. With no time to yell, he dives forward, pulling Barclay to the floor as the first bullet makes shards of the window.

“What the fuck?!” Barclay covers his head as another shot flies over them

“I think we just confirmed Miss. Cobb’s theory!” He pops up, fires once, and drops back down. Whoever’s in the trees isn’t expecting someone armed, so in place of another bullet they get breaking branches.

Joseph gives chase, leaping out the window and sprinting into the trees. Were they in downtown L.A, hell, even if he was still in Chicago, he’d have a better chance of staying on his target. But there’s no paths, no short-cuts, and every tree looks the same at this speed, cloaking the shape in the distance. Worst of all, he discovers that instead of dead-ending at a brick wall, he dead ends at a rockface.

Oh, and his hand is bleeding. He must have cut himself jumping out the window.

It looks like his investigation just took on a bodyguard element, and his wish to spend more time with Barclay could end with them both looking like swiss cheese.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

“You could talk to Duck.” Barclay finishes bandaging the slash on the back of Joseph’s left hand, “he works in the state park near here and knows a ton about the layout of the woods. There, not too tight?” He sits back on his heels as Joseph tests the tightness of the bandage.

“It’s great, big guy. Um, I’m sorry, I don’t know where that came from.”

“I don’t mind it” he winks, “pretty boy.”

His visit with Duck the next day, while informative, doesn’t give him much insight into how their assailant disappeared, especially when Duck points out that the rock face he ran across is over a mile long and hard to climb without equipment or a death wish. At least the ranger outfits him with a map with written-in details; most are about trails that are likely to be muddy (and thus hold prints) or spots where a person might be able to hide. And some hike recommendations, just because.

He tries not to think about taking Barclay on the one to a secluded lake and fucking him under the stars.

His schedule alternates between sitting in his office taking and making calls, shadowing Barclay when he’s out on errands or otherwise vulnerable (he’s spent more than a few nights on the floor of his room, that velvety baritone talking to him until they both fall asleep), and scouring the woods for clues.

A jay heckles a squirrel, which surrenders it’s pinecone and scrambles along the rocks. He’s wishing he could be so nimble when it climbs up and then...disappears. Following it, he discovers what he dismissed as endless rock is an optical illusion; the rocks above and behind align with the ones in front and below to make it seem as if it’s a flat face. But when he climbs over the bottom rock, he finds a narrow slot canyon. One big enough for a human.

Fifteen minutes of granite scratching his back later, he’s at the other side of the rocks. Smoke curls up his nose, and he trails the scent to a cabin which, according to Duck, is on a strange pocket of private property, just up a frontage road. Stranger still is the sign out front.

I.C All

Tarot, Palm Reading, and Other Psychic Services.

He knocks as wind chimes sing lazily around him.

“Come in!”

The first room is divided by a curtain, the half he’s in a rather eclectic waiting room. The dining room and kitchen are probably on the other side of the pink and yellow cloth.

Waiting for him in the next room is a man with a distinctly beatnik air about him, from his red glasses down to his brightly colored shawl and shoulder length hair. Laid out before him is a tarot deck, crystal ball, and several black candles. But that’s not what concerns Joseph.

“Before I sit down, can you ask your friend hiding in the bureau to come out?”

“Fuck” the beaura hisses, “uh, I mean, uh, there ain’t, uh, fuck-”

“It’s alright dearest, I suspect we may all benefit from this.” He gestures for Joseph to sit, “Apologies, but my hope was you were either a client I could turn away or one in search of a brief reading that I could perform before returning to more...pleasurable activities.” He grins as none other than Duck Newton steps from the creaky wooden bureau, looking like he’s been wrestling a very amorous tiger.

“Afternoon, Joe.” Duck sits on the nearby couch, “didn’t take you for the fortune tellin’ type.”

“I’m more interested in whether Mr…”

“Cold, but my friends call me Indrid.”

“Whether Indrid has noticed anyone coming and going on his property without permission?”

“I can’t say that I have, though it’s hard to do so; the walkway is guarded by Beacon, our dog, and everything but the walk up to the cabin is fenced off or, well, a massive wall of rock.”

“...Come with me.”

Soon, Duck is studying the slot canyon while Indrid worries his lower lip.

“I had no idea this was here.”

“No one did. It ain’t on any of the maps, and I never heard of anyone findin it on accident.” Duck pulls back, popping his hat on as he turns to Joseph, “this got somethin to do with Barclay?”

“I think whoever shot at us used this to get away. For all we know, the person who killed Mr. Douglas did the same.”

“To think, I encouraged Barclay to come here even more often once he told me his predicament; I thought no one could approach us without me seeing them coming. No, no this will not do at all” he shakes his head, “he needs to go see her.”

“You know he won’t, sugar.”

“He must. It’s the safest place for him. And the last anyone will look.”

Joseph looks between them, but before he can ask Indrid simply says, “You should ask Barclay about the Greenbank House. That story isn’t ours to tell.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------

“Home sweet home.” Barclay grumbles as he and Joseph step out of the car and into the shadow of a mansion in the most exclusive neighborhood in Lakeshore. It took all of his friends telling him he should go--and Joseph assuring him it’s location meant it wouldn’t look like he was trying to run away from the scene of the murder--for the cook to agree to a stay at his family home.

“What are you afraid of?” Joseph keeps his tone gentle as they climb the front steps. His friend had simply said he had unhappy memories of the house and would rather live in a mausoleum then stay there.

“It’s more dread. You’ll see when we get inside.” He knocks on the front door. It’s opened by the least congruous face imaginable; a man with greying hair and a groundskeepers clothes. When he sees Barclay, a smile bursts across his face.

“Barclay! How are you kiddo?”

“I’m...I’m okay. It’s good to see you Thacker.” He offers a genuine smile as he opens his arms and gathers the older man into a hug. When they separate, Joseph offers his hand and introduces himself. Having an extra guest delights Thacker, and he ushers them in with a promise that he’ll have rooms ready to go in a jiff.

“How’s Maddie doin’?”

“She’s good, and she’ll still slug your arm for that nickname.”

“Good old Maddie.” Thackers cheer falters, “do you wanna go see your ma? If I didn’t know you were comin, gonna guess she didn’t neither.”

“Yeah. Yeah I should go see her. Joseph, you don’t, uh, you don’t need to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s only polite to meet my hostess.”

Barclay leads him up a flight of stairs, then down a hallway where dust substitutes for walllpaper. Waiting for them in a red and orange toned bedroom is a woman with greying, black hair and a face not unlike Barclay’s.

“Dear heart” she rises from her armchair, drawing her son to her, “you came back.”

“Just to visit, Ma. Uh, this, this is Joseph. He’s a friend of mine. He’ll be staying here too.”

She studies him with a critical eye; Joseph thought Hayes had a judgemental gaze, but she could beat him any day.

“Hmm. The more the merrier, as she always said. How long will you stay?”

“A few weeks.”

She nods, regards the photo of another woman above the mantelpiece as if seeking council, “You’re not here for pleasure.”

“No.” Barclay rubs his arm, “I...I got into some trouble. Andrew Douglas was shot the night I broke things off with him. The cops are leaving me alone for now but someone else wants me dead.”

The woman’s face suggests she both recognizes and despises that name, “We will keep you safe.”

With that, she sits once more and picks up her book. Barclay hesitates, then bends to kiss her forehead before pulling Joseph from the room.

--------------------------------------------------

“How long ago did your mother die?” Joseph kicks his legs up onto the ottoman. Barclay alluded to her passing previously, but never gave details.

“When I was eighteen. Car accident. She went off the Kepler bridge. They, uh, they never found her, and just found part of the wreck.”

He intends to leave it there; they’re on the back porch overlooking the garden (“Thackers pride and joy”), early summer dusk on their skin and their arms occasionally brushing from the edges of their chairs. No need to kill the mood further. He just wanted some kind of context for the house and the widow within it.

“Ma never recovered. She loved mom so much that losing her was like losing a lung; she can get through her days, even enjoy them, but it will always be hard. She tried to keep mom around however she could; the whole goddamn house is the same as it was the day she died, even my room. She wanted me to stay too, but Mama offered me the job and I just...I couldn’t live in a haunted house anymore.”

Joseph tips his hand to the right, extending his fingers into the space between them. Barclay takes it and holds tight.

“I’m so sorry, Barclay. You had every right to leave, to make your own life.”

“I know.” He runs his thumb across Joseph’s knuckles, “okay, pretty boy, my turn for a tough question; why’d you really leave the police force.”

It’s not that tough a question, not when he knows the man he’s confiding in won’t go running to Hayes, “I joined the force because I wanted to solve mysteries and help people. But it turned out there was a lot less seeking justice and a lot more chasing off drunks who just needed a place to sleep off benches and harassing certain neighborhoods. Then I worked out that the chief was taking bribes from all kinds of places and was naive enough to think someone might listen to me and help me when I told them. Instead they threw me off the force. In hindsight, it could have been worse; they could have killed me and covered it up.”

“Jesus.” Barclay polishes off his drink, contemplates the ice, “glad they didn’t. Both because, y’know, world is better with you alive, but, uh, also because if they had we’d never have met.”

Joseph meets his eyes, smiling in a way that makes the other man blush, “that would’ve been a damn shame.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This is turning into one of the stranger cases he’s worked, in good ways and bad. The good is that his work days, when he’s not on the phone or digging through his notes, are spent with Barclay. His friend insists on cooking, has even brought him lunch at his desk, and usually the two of them have dinner with Thacker in the garden. They read or play chess in the study, take walks through the labyrinthine grounds, and even swim in the open air pool. Barclay in his swim trunks is a fine sight indeed. Joseph wonders if he ever brought boyfriends here, ever kissed them in the blue water or let them have their way with him in some hidden patch of lawn.

But it’s not all roses and revelry. The more he roots around in Andrew Douglas’s past, and in Barclay’s, the more questions he has. Why did Andrew come and go? What happened to large portions of Raquel and Sylvia (Barclay’s parents) fortune? And who wants to kill someone with no criminal record, no known enemies, and no heirs? If it’s the same person who murdered Andrew, killing Barclay would remove their fall-guy, so that makes no sense as a move.

His best lead comes when he learns Barclay’s family and Andrew Douglas lived in San Francisco at the same time. A friend in the city agrees to do some sniffing around there for any information that might point towards their killer. Two days later, he calls back and says he’s sending Joseph a “fucking brick” of evidence in the mail.

It’s been several days and he’s still waiting. He dozed off in his room after dinner, intending to cat nap, but it seems he’s overshot; it’s after ten. At least the mail must have come by now.

“Barclay? Did anything come--you have five goddamn seconds to explain yourself.”

His friend stammers from his seat on the bed, surrounded by papers, photo’s, newsprint, and a manila envelope with Joseph’s name on it.

“I, uh, I, it isn’t-”

“This is all evidence collected for the purpose of protecting you, so if you have something you’re afraid of me finding you’d better start talking now.” He snaps, looming over the other man from the edge of the bed.

Wordlessly, Barclay hands him a piece of newspaper. It details a kidnapping, one that ends--happily--with the victim being returned to their family. Four names are mentioned, but none of the perpetrators are the man in front of him.

“I was sixteen. A stupid kid. I had this perfect life and I got a little stir crazy, a little bored, and fell in with some other rich kids who felt the same. It started out harmless. Then James, the guy in charge, decided we should dream bigger. I was so, so fucking in love with him, I didn’t try to stop him. Not right away, anyway. I...I was their look-out for that kidnapping. But I couldn’t let them keep it up.”

“You struck a deal.”

Barclay nods, “Best part is, I managed to do it without either of my parents getting wise. We moved here soon after. I thought I could put it behind me.”

Joseph takes a closer look at the paper. The byline for the article is one A. Douglas.

“He blackmailed you.”

“Not at first. He, he” Barclay takes a shaky breath, “he went to mom first. Asked her how much she’d pay to keep my name out of the papers. James had told him about me and he was going to spread the story. That’s why she was on that fucking bridge in the middle of a fucking storm; she was meeting him.”

“Oh, Barclay.” Evidence crumples under his knees as he sits to comfort his friend.

“Then he came to me; now not only was I paying to keep the story quiet, I was paying to keep him from telling Ma why Mom died.”

“She died because of a blackmailer, wet cement, and a weak guard rail. Not because of you.”

Barclay looks at him, eyes coffee cups of sorrow, and simply shakes his head. Then he crumples forward and Joseph catches him, holds him tight while he finishes his story through his tears.

He paid off Andrew for three years. Ned Chicane, owner of the Kepler Museum of Curiosities, helped him with the family accounts so Raquel wouldn’t notice anything suspicious. Whenever Andrew came around, he demanded Barclay act as his “boyfriend” for the duration of the visit.

“Everyone must think I have terrible taste in men.”

Once they establish that, as far as Barclay is aware, only Ned knows about the blackmail, Joseph cups his face and says, as firmly as gentleness allows, “From now on, I need you to be truthful with me. You said you didn’t want me putting the pieces together because you were ashamed, but all I want is to help you. I can’t do that if there are big things you’re hiding from me. Understand?”

Barclay nods, and apologizes the entire time they’re gathering the strewn pieces back into the envelope.

“Barclay?” Joseph cuts him off and eases him down until he’s on his back, “I forgive you. Now please go to sleep before you pass out from stress.”

The cook smiles at him, eyes already fluttering closed, “You’re the boss, Joseph.”

He ignores all the urges that kickstarts in him and leaves his friend to sleep in peace.

-------------------------------------------------------

“Y’know, kind of wish we’d known each other back then.” Barclay looks up from where he’s helping Joseph sort the new evidence on the floor, “when I was in San Francisco, I mean.”

“It would have taken more than just a change of scene for me; my family does alright, but I’d have been way outside your circles.”

“So? Maybe then I coulda had a boyfriend who was ‘disreputable’ for bullshit reasons instead of real ones.”

“I’ve never once been disreputable.” He looks up from the photos in his hand, “and is that your way of telling me something, big guy.”

“Yes. I, uh, you can tell me to knock it off, but I, uh, I think you’re swell. It’s okay if you don’t feel that way but you said I should be…” he trails off as Joseph leans into his space,”honest.”

He kisses him once, so brief it barely counts but the larger man whimpers and tries to grab him before he pulls away.

“If we’re going to do this, I need you to promise me that you’ll tell me to hit the brakes if you need to; it won’t change my dedication to the case.”

“I promise.” There’s no dishonesty in his face, just boundless hope and affection.

“In that case, big guy” he lunges forward, pinning him to the rug, “you’re all mine.”

An unexpectedly high whine leaves his lover.

“You like when I’m rough?”

“Uh, uh huh, so much, people always want me to be and I don’t want to, wanna be, wanna beAHHHhhnnn” he arches his back as Joseph bites the patch of skin just below his beard.

“You’re so gentle, big guy, I thought you’d go straight to making love but” another bite, another gasp, “I think I’d better fuck you instead.”

“Please.” Barclays hands glide up to cup Joseph’s face and guide him down into another kiss.

Joseph rolls his hips forward and his sleeves up as speaks, “Now that you mention it, I can see how things would’ve gone if we met earlier. I was an obedient son but not beyond sneaking someone into my room when my parents were away” he undoes Barclay’s shirt, keeps grinding against him and licking his lips as he feels him getting hard, “or maybe we met down here, and you’d sneak me into the backyard.”

“Fuck, yes.” Barclays chest heaves as Joseph cards his fingers up through the dark hair to tease his nipples, “god, if how I, fuck, feel now is a clue, I’d have been so fucking mad for you.” He makes a charming groan as Joseph tongues his nippls and then nibbles his way up to his ear.

“It’s funny” Joseph kisses his cheek, “I knew so many guys like you on the force. Not you now, used to hard work and worry, but you then; spoiled and softer than a boiled egg.” He allows himself a moment of savoring their cocks teasing each other through their pants before continuing, “always wanted to discipline them, because it was clear no one ever did.”

“Please show me how.”

“Why?” He grins down at him, toying with his left nipple until it’s bright red.

“Because I wanna be good for you, Joseph. Wanna be every fantasy you ever had.”

“...Lord god almighty how am I supposed to say no to that?” Joseph undoes his suspenders, laughing at Barclay’s triumphant smile, “you’re a dream, big guy.”

He crawls so he’s straddling Barclays face, cock dripping pre-cum onto his lips. Barclays tongue keeps peeking out from between them, but doesn’t go further without permission.

“Since this is disciplinary, you don’t get a say in how it goes. You’ll take my cock as long and as deep as I want it, because I’m superior to you and you’re here to do what I say”

“Fuckyeah” Barclay paws Joseph’s thighs, opens his mouth so he can guide the head in.

“That, ohyes, that being said, if it’s really too much, tap my thigh twice.”

Barclay nods to show he understands, but is already pre-occupied sucking his cock like he’s starving for it.

“A good start, big guy, but if I just wanted my cock wet I’d have gone swimming.” He cups the back of Barclays head in both hands, “I want something to fuck, and your face is it.”

The man beneath him moans, fucks the air uselessly as Joseph pushes further in. He finds the resistance of his throat with a half-inch to go, and decides that’s good enough. He pulls halfway out, pushes back in, repeats the process a few times before finding his rhythm. Weeks of wanting mean it’s hurried and greedy, but the resulting moans suggest Barclay approves.

“You look so good like this, Barclay. God, if you’d been some fresh-faced officer, one look of those doe-eyes is all it, shit, would’ve taken for me to make this the only discipline you ever got. Any time I needed to put you in your place or just, fuck, just needed to let off some steam, I’d do this, get my, my cock in your mouth so often you’d run out of spit and be thankful for my cum in, in it’s place.”

Barclay is groping him again, eyes bright and lips managing some upward curve as his cock forces them apart.

“Then again” he tenderly massages Barclay’s scalp, “there’s no reason I can’t do that in this universe. Oh, ohshit, Barclay-” his words desert him as he cums, the other man swallowing eagerly and sucking him clean before he pulls out.

Joseph glances over his shoulder, “Can I take care of that for you?”

“Fuck, please?”

He rolls off of the cook, stays on his side and slips one arm under his shoulders. Then he sets his palm on the monstrous bulge in Barclay’s jeans and sets to work.

“I, I should unzip-”

“No” he kisses him, “we’re surrounded by evidence that I can’t have you cumming on. Don’t worry, I’ll clean up the mess you make cumming in your pants like a teenager.”

“Promise?” It’s an odd thing to say, but Joseph thinks he understands.

“I promise.” He quickens his pace, Barclay’s grunts growing louder when he does, “I’ll take care of you, big guy. I’ll look after you. You don’t have to lift a finger when I’m around.”

“Joseph.” Is all the reply he gets, Barclay already turning as cum spreads across his fly and clinging to the detective. His breath is hot, stays shaky even as his cock stops pulsing.

“Barclay? Baby, are you alright?”

“So fucking good, babe. I, I uh” he holds him tighter, “this is the first thing to make sense to me in years. Loving you, having you in my life, I get how we fit together so easily. Everything else, the murder, Ma, this person lurking around the last place that feels like home waiting to hurt me or hurt Mama or someone there, all of it, it’s so goddamn tangled I’m worried it’ll never get straight.”

Joseph rests their cheeks together, “We’ll figure it out, big guy. I promise.”

[pixelwisp-archive]

Itadakimasu!! | Part 2: Try harder, Paradis (Written Portion Included)

 Your brows furrowed - a small, nearly unnoticeable pout settled on your face as your index finger hovered over the reply button. You were hunched over the counter as your fingers danced across the keyboard, various snarky responses fluttering onto the screen only to be immediately redacted, another comment snippier than the last taking its place. At one point you got fed up and decidedly wrote ‘Fuck you Miya’, and to your horror almost clicked ‘reply’ before your reflexes caught you and quickly tapped on the ‘cancel’ button instead. A familiar ring sounded through the bakery at the arrival of a new patron, tearing your eyes away from the current dilemma as you shoved the phone into your back pocket, a smile as bright as sunshine replacing your recently sour features. It was decided then that you would deal with it later, maybe with some of Tendou’s or Lev’s help. They were good at being bitchy when they needed to.

Try harder, Paradis.

The comment burned itself into the back of your memory the rest of the day as you sat on how best to reply, and truthfully, you still had no idea. In reality, you knew next to nothing about this business. You were aware that they were located in Osaka, thanks to their twitter profile. You also knew that it was run by Atsumu Miya’s brother, who’s name escaped your memory and you’re far too petty lazy to bother googling it - and that for some reason, they’ve decided that Paradis would be their target practice for their criticism and holier than thou attitude. It was easy to assume the attention came from Atsumu Miya’s shout out after their visit a couple days ago, but why they’ve taken it so personally, you probably would never know.

Regardless, you couldn’t deny that the attention you’ve gotten from your little spats between the two business was nice - you and Tendou had been talking about wanting to expand and open up more locations in other prefectures (Tendou grins as his hands gesture dramatically. “No no, Y/n, think bigger, like Paris”), but the process of saving up ended up being slower than you two had anticipated. It wasn’t like you guys weren’t making a profit or anything - you had quite a few regulars and had a growing list of clientele that chose your bakery as their supplier for their restaurants, events, etc. But living was expensive; between the business expenses, rent, food, and bills, you had to admit less than you would have liked ended up taking residence in the cleaned out pickle jar that was tucked away under the kitchen sink - the one Tendou insisted on using because ‘with cash, it feels more real’, and had Tendou’s messy scrawl in bright fuchsia ink, ‘Paris’, across a crooked streak of duct tape that had been clumsily torn from the roll. A smile tugged at your lips at the thought of someday being able to take Satori to Paris like he’d always wanted. 

“Paradis, I’m home. You in?”

“In the living room,” you called back, looking back down at the tweet you had been once again staring at for too long a time.

“You would not believe what Ushiwaka texted me today, he- uh, you good?” 

You snapped your attention up at him and blinked at the defensive posture he held. “You look like you’re gonna set something on fire. I support you, of course, but I gotta hear the tea before we get the Kerosene.” A laugh emitted from you then, loud and boisterous, your head thrown back against the couch cushion. 

“Sorry, it’s this stupid Onigiri shop,” you explained as you showed him your phone with a sigh. Tendou squinted at the text, then leaned back with a grin. “ What’s wrong? I kinda like them, they’re snarky.” 

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t mind a little harmless twitter beef, but I almost feel like while I’m trying to keep it light and airy, this guy seems like he’s ready to go for the jugular.” The bitter taste left in your mouth at the mere mention of him made you scrunch your nose, lips puffed out slightly. Tendou must have taken note of the pout because he sighed and climbed onto the couch cushion you were leaning up against. Long, nimble fingers found their way into your hair as he hummed to himself. “Well,” he began, the mischievous lilt to his voice not going unnoticed by you.

“I have some news, but I don’t know how well you’re gonna take it.”

Prev | Masterlist | Next

Fun Facts - 

Whenever Kita tweets from the account, he uses the little Onigiri emoji to finish off all his tweets. He’s cute like that.

While Osamu does use emoji’s from time to time, he is partial to the :) because it just exudes bitch energy and he’s into that.

While Atsumu’s “pull your head outta your ass” might not have seemed very friendly - he knows its what Osamu needs, and frankly, wants to hear. Twin thing, you know?

You and Tendo live together, have since you were 17. You guys are platonic soulmates

One of your core memories with Ten was when you were both drunk in your apartment, and Tendou had insisted on a French accent for the better part of two hours because it was always a fool proof way to make you laugh, especially when you’re borderline shitfaced. When you were in the kitchen opening up another bottle of wine, you heard Tendou summon you in a sing song, slurred voice “Oh Paradis~” and for some reason, it stuck and suddenly Tendou calling you Paradis was second nature to you guys. So when you guys had finally made enough to open up your own store and had to come up with a name, Paradis just felt right.

A/n: Another chapter done!! I went back and forth between whether I wanted to add a written portion to this chapter or not, and ultimately settled on the little snippet above - I really just wanted to open the door back over to Paradis so we can get a little more of my favorite little bakery, as well as dive into Y/n and Tendou’s relationship! As always, I hope you guys enjoy, and feel free to reach out if you’d like to be added to the taglist!

Taglist -

@larkspyrr @oikawaandkuroostan @fucktheworlddude @doctorspencereid​ @keiarma @cherriechurros

[nova-of-avalonia]

Fun times at the ER

So last week (Oct 18-22) our condo was being fumigated for termites, which was awesome but everyone had to clear out including pets, people, plants and food.

Luckily my parents live close by so the hubs, three cats, and I moved in. It was chaotic but not horrible. (4 adults and 5 cats under one roof)

My dad got a headcold halfway through the week. We tried to distance me from him as much as possible but I ended up with one too.

Started Tuesday and last night (at 2am) came to a head with me being unable to breathe. Scared the shit outta the hubs as he drove me to thr ER 2 miles away.

No one at the ER seemed to care I am 13.3w pregnant and gasping for air. My oxygen levels were normal so they just kept repeating “you’re getting air, calm down” easy for them to say they weren’t the once wheezing with a chest closing off every few seconds.

Hubs wasnt allowed in with me until Covid test came back so that was scary. Triage didnt give a shit and kept asking me questions I couldnt answer cause I couldnt get air. Kept saying to calm down. I told one to fuck off at one point after her patronizing tone.

Finally got to a room where I waited 15 minutes until my husband down in the lobby asked for someone to please check on his gasping and pregnant wife.

Two nurses came in, gave me an IV, took blood, did an EKG, gave a nasel swab for a Covid test ans left where I was alone for another hour.

The breathing got a little better but was still wheezing.

Hour later I called the nurse so I could be unhooked so I could pee. Gave a urine sample where they did a pregnancy test 🙄. I couldda shown them the sono. Sorry I dont have a bump yet, guys, she’s only 3 inches tall at this point.

Finally covid test came back negative and they let the hibs up. It’s now 4:30 am. Nurse came in to say they ran every viral test known to man and they all came back negative which was surprising with my symtoms.

Coughing, shortness of breath, sinus leakage, sinus pain, teeth pain, sore throat, swollen glands, nasty yellow stuff leaking from eyes…

They did say my potassium levels were critically low, likely due from the pregnancy vomiting (every day for three months! Good times) they gave me a shot of potassium, and an IV drip and discharged me.

Still no one seemed concerned with the breathing.

It was all chalked up to a sinus infection, I have a script for Augmentin which my OB told me was safe for pregnancy. I callled this morning when we got home just to verify.

Hospital did an ultrasound and baby girl seems healthy. She was very active, moving around and kicking her feets.

Husband and I came home, my dad came over to make sure I didnt suffocate while hubs did errands, got a covid booster and my script filled.

Feeling a little better after sleep. I keep talking in my sleep and waking myself up. I never talk in my sleep so not sure what that’s about.

But yeah, fun adventures in thr ER

[ichiban-ka]

Hello! I want to request a prompt number 12 with Majima , thank you!!!

Hey there! I did my best to combine both prompts into one since you didn’t clarify which 12 you wanted (no worries though!) Hopefully you’ll like this one regardless

Goro Majima  |  Dueling Together

Couples love to talk about how they met their sweetheart to any open ears. You know how it is; they will gush and gush about how they first set eyes on each other or ramble about that great moment when they knew they had fallen in love, and the earlier the relationship the more annoying it is. You’ve heard so many tales from friends and drunken strangers alike: “When I saw him save that poor stray puppy, I knew he was the one for me!” “I fell in love with her the moment she placed that precious gift in my hands.” “Well, I simply fell in love with them at first sight.”

“His cooking is just that good, I was hooked from day one!”

For Majima, however, it was the day you had swiftly kicked his ass.

--

You were minding your own business speedwalking down Tenkaichi Street to grab a taxi back home, umbrella in hand, staring down at the wet pavement and counting your steps to keep your mind busy until the sound of a scuffle reached your ears, causing you to perk up and search for its source. It didn’t take long at all to find - you saw other passersby begin to step back, leaving a clear area in the middle of the street where only two men remained. 

The fight began right as you managed to squeeze through the crowd and wind up right up front, the perfect first-row seat to the brawl. Only one of the men was armed, wielding an ornate dagger that he soon showed his ability to use, hacking and slashing at his opponent who dodged the blade with an equal amount of skill. The armed man was quick on his feet, freakishly so, seemingly teleporting from one side of the ring to the other while still having enough air in his lungs to taunt at his enemy in a nearly endearing manner - perhaps they knew each other?

The enemy in question made up for his lack of agility in pure strength, sending kicks and punches that occasionally threw the other onto the rough concrete below. However, it wasn’t enough - the armed maniac got back up as quickly as he got put down - and you were able to tell he was running out of energy, and fast.

You analyzed all of this carefully. Really, this was none of your business, and you could easily get hurt if you intervened, but you weren’t about to stand passively while a stranger could possibly get killed.

The fight soon reached its climax, the brawnier man left exhausted, pinned to the ground under the other’s polished steel-tipped shoe. But just as he raised up his knife, poised to strike, you stepped in, using your elbow to deliver a precise blow under his jaw, then using his shocked state to your advantage, grasping your umbrella like a spear and jabbing the man in his bare torso straight at the solar plexus and he was done, left a whining and mostly unmoving mess on the pavement as the crowd surrounding you explodes into wild cheers.

You released a breath you didn’t know you had been holding before turning around and offering a hand to the other man.

“Hope I didn’t step in too late, sir.”

“Oh, not at all,” he replied, politely denying your offer and pulling himself up from the ground instead. “You have some good moves of your own.”

“Mhm, I get that a lot. I guess people tend to underestimate me,” you joked. “Mind if I have your name?” “Kiryu Kazuma,” he said curtly.

He left soon after his introduction, clearly not in the mood to carry a conversation with a stranger. You couldn’t blame him, nearly getting stabbed ‘tween the ribs must do that to a person. The crowd died out, as did the high from the brawl. You turned on your heel to face back down Tenkaichi, already dreading the long taxi wait, until you heard a voice wail behind you:

“Oi! You! Pretty one over there - ya just gonna leave a dyin’ man out on the street like this?”

--

Inexplicably, the two of you were drawn together after that night. No doubt it was a bumpy road, you getting used to his erratic behavior and he to your until then purely civilian lifestyle, but you made it work well. You balanced each other out, Majima bringing an excitement into your life you had never experienced before, while you gave him the safety and gentle care he thought he’d never earn again. 

Despite your fighting spirit, you rarely ever did duel with Majima. Whether you two were too exhausted from other fights you had during the day, had no time left for fooling around or would much rather cuddle up on the couch under a thick blanket, there was always something that had to come up.

Then, finally, the chance appeared.

Majima busted into your apartment so suddenly that you dropped the magazine you were reading right onto your face. “(Y/N)-chaaaaan,” he drawled, “Guess what!”

You peeled the magazine off your face. “What now?” Majima walked up to you, playfully snatching it from your hands. “Nah, (Y/N)-chan, ya gotta guess.” “Fuck you.” He barked out a laugh, throwing the magazine on the floor behind him. “Kiryu-chan’s outta town, babe. I don’t know how I’m gonna cope.” “Sometimes I wonder if you’re cheating on me with him, Goro.” “Hah! Not a chance.” He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead, “I’m just itchin’ for a fight, some kinda stimulation y’know.” You stared up at him. “C’mon,” he begged, “First one to fall loses. I’ll go easy on ya if you’re that scared’a me.” 

“Hey hey hey, don’t start patronizing me now,” you answered, peeling yourself off the sofa with a soft groan, “Look, I’ll indulge you just this once so long as you keep quiet this time. I don’t want the neighbours calling the cops on us. Again.”

He smirks. “Ya got my word.”

That's how you ended up facing each other in the backyard. Majima already riled up and ready to go, he gave you the mercy of five minutes to stretch your body and brace yourself for whatever was to come. “I’ve missed this, y’know. Gotta say, I think I fell for ya the day y’kicked my sorry ass on Tenkaichi.”

You smiled, raising your fists into position, “Bet. Hate to cut your fun short, but let’s just get this over with, hm?”

Majima put a hand to his chest, “Ah, why ya gotta hurt me so, darlin’? Was your magazine that steamy?” Before you could even retort, Majima charges right at you, giving you a split second to dodge him. 

Someone’s excited, you thought.

He turned to rush at you again, though this time you’re fully focused, easily evading him with a sidestep. That’s the problem when fighting against Majima - he moves fast and is a fast thinker, too. Either you wait for the perfect moment to land a strike or you wait for him to slip up or wear himself out.

He saw through your strategy, though. “C’mon, don’t keep me waitin’!”

Fine with me.

Majima made a bold move, swiftly swinging his metal bat at your head. You pulled up your forearms, braced, and took the hit - painful, but definitely not the worst you’ve had happen to you. There’s a brief pause when this happens, the bat’s force bringing with it its momentum, and Majima couldn’t move his arms, but you sure as hell could move your legs. You landed a kick to his gut, putting as much of your weight into it as you could, and it worked perfectly. Majima gasped, the air stolen from his lungs as he fell to the grass.

You wiped the sweat off your forehead with your sore arm, looking down at your panting boyfriend.

“Hah… Hah… Gotta say, (Y/N)-chan... Ain’t nothing prettier than that grin you got on your face right now.”

[some-cookie-crumbz]

Huwumi betting kiss in a bar?

I had way more fun writing this than I should have! Flirty Fuyumi is something I’ll have to indulge in more often! 

Gonna say this is rated T/ PG 13 so behave yourselves!

Also, Minor Trigger Warning: Aggressive Swearing, References to Sexual Content (Non-Explicit), Cheating (Don’t worry; neither Hawks nor Fuyumi are involved in this one!), Of Age Binge Drinking

Every time Misa had a rough break up, Fuyumi knew that their whole group was going to end up spending a night in a bar making questionable life choices. For as much as she loved Misa, the girl did not handle her heartaches well. Fuyumi was willing to wager that it was most likely because Misa wasn’t exactly the best judge of character. Many a time, she ended up letting partners slip into her life without focusing on the glaring red flags. She’d fuss and accuse and scream at everyone else in the group that they were being unfair, that her newest sweetheart had just been mistreated and needed love to guide them back on to the proper path. Every single time, the rest of them would agree that this was the last time they were going to deal with this from Misa. If she couldn’t be bothered to listen to their concerns and cool her heels just a little, then why should they constantly dab her eyes and pat her back when her ignorance got her hurt?

Because everyone has their weak moments, just like Misa, Fuyumi thought wistfully. She sipped at the sparkling water in her hand while Taigen slipped into their booth. “Well if it isn’t my most favorite people in the world,” he said with a tired huff, slumping down beside her.

“Hey, Tai,” Akiko, sitting to Misa’s left and rubbing her back, said with a quick wave of her other hand.

“Howdy hey Tai-Kins,” Nagisa sang, her tone only the slightest bit less chipper than usual. She was on Misa’s right, gently patting her head.

Misa herself had thrown her whole upper body against the table, hiding her face in her arms, and was wailing shamelessly. A part of Fuyumi was almost jealous at how unbridled her friend was in her grief. There had only been one or two instances in her own life where she’d ever dared to make such a spectacle of herself over anything. And she learned quite quickly to never do it again.

“So what was it this time?” Taigen asked, leaning over to flag down one of the servers, and then leaning back in his seat. “What caliber of douchebag are we labeling this guy as?”

Misa let out a particularly loud, hysterical wail at the prodding, making the other’s at the table wince. Fuyumi motioned Taigen closer to whisper, “Misa-Chan caught him and Akane-Chan touching each other in places where they really shouldn’t be.” He balked and stared at her, expression jumping between horror, anger and then settling comfortably to mortification. Fuyumi couldn’t blame him, though; she had probably made very similar expressions. And she couldn’t really blame Misa for being particularly upset, either, since she didn’t think she’d feel much better if she caught her significant other getting down and dirty with one of her younger siblings.

“Okay. Wow. That’s… certainly something,” Taigen trailed uneasily.

“That filthy motherfucker!” Misa outright shrieked, causing a few patrons at the bar proper to give them a sideways glance.

“That’s right, get it all out,” Nagisa encouraged quietly.

“They’re all motherfuckers, hun,” Akiko agreed, her own tone taking on a soothing note.

Taigen made quick work of ordering their first round of drinks – excluding Fuyumi, who insisted she really couldn’t tonight – and some appetizers to get started. When the food and drinks arrived, they managed to coax Misa up enough to eat and down her first two drinks, which seemed to put her in higher spirits. They let her vent what she felt comfortable venting and took her lead on when to sidetrack to a new subject.

The distractions were clearly having a good impact on Misa as she moved on to her third, fourth, fifth and sixth drinks.

“You bastards,” Misa slurred with a small hiccup, waving her glass about in a semi-circle to indicate them all, “make it seem so easy to just meet someone! Like I can just pluck any ole’ person off the street and BAM! SOULMATE FOUND!”

“Don’t you already just pick the saddest looking sack o’ flesh outta the gutter? At least if you pick someone off the sidewalk instead they might have their shit more stitched together,” Taigen scoffed, a sly smirking taking over his face as he sipped his own drink. “Well, that or if you just gathered your courage to actually make the first move instead of waiting for these parasites to catch a whiff of your desperation.”

Akiko started to outright cackle while Misa’s face turned a much darker shade that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Fuyumi was quick to set her drink down and lift her hands, ready to step in between any ensuing fight. Nagisa took everyone else being distracted as a chance to stuff another pot sticker in her mouth. “Say that again, you angsty twink!” Misa squeaked angrily.

Taigen’s eyes narrowed, the dark blue tint of them gleaming dangerous. “What did you just call me?”

“Ya heard me!”

“Okay, Misa-Chan, Tai-Chan, how about we settle down and take a breath? We don’t ended things to esca-!”

“Sorry for giving you some practical advice, damn! Maybe if you actually listened you wouldn’t constantly be getting pumped and dumped!”

“Oh, no! Tai-Chan, that is incred-!”

“Well not all of us can hook up with some dimwit from work! Besides, a truly worthy suitor prefers a lady who waits to be chased!”

“Misa, I don-!”

“Masaki is an absolute angel and you fucking know it, you jealous little asshole! And you know what? I’m gonna prove my fucking point that your fucking point is stupid!” he snapped back, slamming a hand on the table. There was a beat of silence before he whirled his head around to face Fuyumi. “Yumi! Go over to the bar and get you a smooch!”

“What?” she squawked indignantly. 

Akiko started giddily giggling into her hand. “Oh, yes, yes! It has to you, Yumi, babe!”

“But why me?” she argued. “I wasn’t even involved in their little wager!”

“But you’re the only one that’s single, aside from Misasasasauce,” Nagisa slurred, swaying a bit in her seat. “You’re the only one that can really prove Taikadaikado’s point.” She shifted the glass in her hand to take another sip but then stared at in horror as she realized it was empty.

“‘Sides, it’s good for ya!” Akiko chimed in, swaying to lean heavily on the table. She looked about to topple over at a moment’s notice.

“There’s no way for me to get out of this, is there?” Fuyumi sighed.

“Nope!” Taigen said, making a popping noise with the word as he shimmied out of his seat. He gestured grandly towards the bar across from them. “Now go, dearest Fuyumi, and find yourself a hottie to mack on! Make me proud!”

“No, make me proud, Fumi!” Misa shot back.

With a resigned sigh, she carefully slipped out of her seat and made her way towards the bar. She loved her friends, but they were ridiculous, honestly. She slid into one of the many empty seats at the bar a few spots away from a cute young woman in a halter dress, but opted against making the pass when she noticed the ring on the woman’s finger. There were mostly just groups there, all settled up together in proper booths. The only other two people that were at the bar proper were all the way at the other end from her and seemed much more focused on some hushed debate they were having. She flagged down the bartender, instead, to request a fresh water and a small bowl of cherries.

“My, what an odd order to place at a bar,” A deep voice chimed from beside her, dripping in amusement. She jumped and glanced at the young man making his way into the stool beside her. He seemed to be about her age with just the right amount of scruff gracing his jawline, baggy clothes that screamed workout attire to her, and a hat tugged down low over his head, hiding most of his hair. What caught her attention most, though, with the blazing gold eyes fixed on her like a predator on prey.

He didn’t strike her as being her usual type, but she kind of liked the way he was watching her. She admittedly did like the ones that seemed confident. Nine times out of ten they weren’t nearly as self-assured as they played at, so it was always cute watching them get flustered when she called a bluff. A smile flitted across her lips as her water and dish were set in front of her. “It’s called the Responsible Friend drink. Not for the faint of heart or low of impulse control,” she purred teasingly, plucking a cherry from the dish.

He hummed quietly beside her as he watched her split the cherry open and drip the cherry juice on top of the ice inside, being careful not to drip too much on herself. “That seems like an insult,” he hummed back.

“If you take offense,” she hummed, stirring the juice in, “that seems more like your problem than mine.”

He seemed taken aback by that, tilting his head at her curiously. “Do you… Not know who I am?”

She cocked her head and gave him a look at that. She tilted her head to try and get a better look at him, letting out a thoughtful hum. Now that she thought about it, there was something familiar about his face, but she couldn’t place it. Perhaps a model or something? Or maybe he’d had a short guest role on one of her television dramas? She shrugged instead and began dripping another cherry into her drink. “Kinda but… Not particularly. Why? Should I?”

He opened and closed his mouth a few times before shaking his head. “Actually, you know what? I like this better,” he mused, leaning one elbow on the counter and cupping his head in his hand. “So, you’re the friend staying sober? Or just keeping your wits so no creeps try to take advantage?”

Fuyumi nodded her head back towards her friends, who had seemingly forgotten their beef and were now aggressively singing some anime opening at each other, just barely keeping their volume manageable. “Those are my wards for the night,” she said.

He snorted. “You sure you don’t want something a little stronger than cherry water? Which, by the way, is still incredibly unusual. I mean, lemon water I expect, or even lime water, but cherry? Not so much,”

“But you’ve never tried it,” she retorted, taking a sip and resisting the urge to sigh contentedly. He made a small noise of agreement as a thought occurred to her, her smile turning mischievous. “I could give you a little taste if you want.”

“Oh?” he mused, perking up. He shifted a bit closer, clearly intending to swipe her glass, but instead she moved closer to him herself. He seemed a bit stunned as she leaned forward to press her lips to his, one of her hands cupping the side of his neck. The spark of surprise left his eyes quickly enough as he melted into the kiss with a throaty groan, instead sliding shut to bask in it. She tilted her head to give a playful nip to his lower lip. Getting the hint, he opened his mouth and allowed her tongue to slip inside, prodding his to press along her own. The taste of spearmint from his mouth mingled with the cherry juice on her tongue, making for an odd but not entirely unpleasant combination.

It was the scandalized squeals of her friends that pushed her to pull away from the stranger, making a show of smirking and licking her lips at him. There was a blush dusting up along his cheeks and, if she was honest, she couldn’t help but think about how good he looked like that. “There, I gave you a little taste. Maybe we’ll see each other again, sometime,” she hummed, grabbing her drink and cherries to head back to her table. She would blame her behavior, uncouth as it was, on the energy her friends had been pumping out all night. Plus, she reminded herself, she was likely never going to see the guy again. Despite what he’d said, she doubted that he was anyone that noteworthy.

Three days later, Fuyumi’s heart leapt into her throat when, grinning up at her from glitzy headlines about Number Three Pro Hero Hawks, was her bar stool beau.

[thirstyhellfirenacht]

The Ciarog Cockwarming Fic

Cia is part of The Conglomerate, a Beetlejuice Mafia AU. For more info visit @beetlebitchywitch, @sofasmut, @realmonsterboyhours @do-ya-hear-that-sound  @monsterlovinghours  @beetlejuicebeadoll

This fic was made specifically to kill @beetlebitchywitch because of our mutual thirst for one (1) Irish Demon.

The Clones belong to @yankyo from their amazing series “Who’s Who?”

Exhibitionism, public sex, cock warming,

----------

It had been months since you had the chance to go and visit Cia at his pub. The other had kept you so busy at home lately that you’d hardly been given the chance to leave the estate. Not that it was a bad thing- there was hardly a lack of entertainment with everyone around. But even with a large manor filled with so many people, it could still feel claustrophobic at times.

Not that being at Cia’s pub was much better in terms of crowds. In fact, the surprisingly small pub held quite a number of people in the small dining area. Out of all the Dons, you wondered how Cia could afford all that he could when it seemed like his Pub, while quite popular, wasn’t quite as... financially beneficial as the others fronts. You had asked him once, but he just gave a cheeky wink and said that after being alive as long as he’d been he was more than okay with a smaller mafia. You suspected that the Fae were involved somehow, but since he liked talking about that even less than the shadier parts of his dealings you decided to leave it well enough alone.

Normally when you visited, you sat at the bar and watched Cia work. He didn’t need to tend to the bar himself, but you got the feeling that he genuinely enjoyed it. Every time you were there he was bustling around and joking with customers and keeping your drinks topped off. He flirted and smiled and could make even the crankiest patron lighten up. Something about Cia just brought people in, even with that invisible wall he often put up to anyone who tried to get too close.

Tonight was slightly different, he had wanted to bring you here on a proper date. He asked you to wear a dress for him- not a completely uncommon request though that was normally when he and Bajo would take you out together. Even when wooing you he was still thinking of ways to tease his husband. But you'd been happy to oblige and had slipped on a flirty dress that Gio had brought you just the other week.

When you two had arrived, instead of taking his place at the bar he immediately started walking you around, introducing you to regulars and showing you off. It was a little embarrassing but the look on his face was so happy that you didn't have it in you to want to hide. He was proud to call you his partner, and you felt proud to be that.

Once he was done, he pulled you into a booth in the middle of the room with a perfect view of the stage ahead. For the next hour his attention was completely on you, buying you drinks and making you laugh. It wasn't often that you got his attention completely to yourself, oftentimes it was a tag-team with him and Bajo so this was very nice.

"This is nice." you commented after a few drinks, leaning against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you easily. "I've missed you." you admitted.

"I'm sorry, leannan." he said, stroking your hair and pulling you onto his lap. "I know things have been busy for me, but I'm gonna make it up to ye, okay? I'm all yours tonight."

You smiled and leaned against his chest, playing with his hair. "I'm all yours too." you replied, leaning into kiss him. Cia kissed you back and ran his fingers along your side causing you to shiver a bit. The alcohol combined with being so close to your lover kept you relaxed and content even if there were other people around.

"Is that a promise?" he asked and you responded with a teasing nip to his neck and a sound of confirmation. "Good." His voice lowered into his chest, and it was at that moment you realized what your words would mean to the man.

Ah, fuck.

A hand slipped up your thigh and under the hem of your dress, tracing your sex over your underwear. A soft whimper escaped your lips at the feeling and you could already tell how amused your lover was.

"Hush now, we don't want everyone here to hear ye do we?" he purred lowly in your ear. You shook your head, but you didn't try to push him away either. The lights in the pub went dim, which almost startled you before you saw a few people hop on stage. Your eyes widened slightly as a few of his clones introduced themselves as the entertainment for the night. Cia had planned this well, hadn't he?

For the first two songs, Cias' fingers simply teased along your panties, stroking over your clit in small circles and occasionally tapping in rhythm with his fingers. Small jolts of pleasure were sent through you as he acted like he wasn't getting your panties soaked from his teasing. Occasionally his hand would stray down your legs and press into the hickies that his husband had left the night before, adding a little discomfort to the pleasure.

Once you were sufficiently squirming in his arms, he slipped your panties off. "Eyes on the stage, leannan." he chuckled. "They've worked so hard for this, so you better pay attention." Easier said than done as a finger slipped into your soaked entrance. Once again he was teasing you, not giving you what your body craved. His finger swapped between very lightly pressing against your g-spot and sliding in and out of you. Occasionally you'd snap back to reality as the drunken crowd around you would laugh and cheek for the clones onstage. It was a blessing and a curse- on one hand the volume of the crowd meant you were allowed to quietly moan and whine but on the other occasionally someone would be facing your booth and you'd have to pretend that you weren't being edged and teased to the point were you were close to begging for Cia to take you to the back room and fuck you senseless.

A firmer press to your g-spot had you biting your lip and a shudder ran through your whole body. "Hold still piseag." he teased, pressing another finger into you and massaging your insides deeply. You were trying so hard not to shake and writhe in his arms as he took you apart with so many people around. Your heart sped up as you made eye contact with another patron for a second, who just smiled before turning back to their friend.

"You're throbbin' around my fingers, piseag." He said in amusement. "Is this excitin' ye? Bein' all worked up while any o' these people could see?" You couldn't even try to deny it as you gave a miniscule nod. At that his fingers sped up for a moment and you let out a sharp gasp, clinging to his arms for a moment as you felt your orgasm approaching. You were so close, and stars danced in your vision as you tried to focus on the band. God it didn't help that Jazz looked at you while on stage and gave you a knowing wink. That nearly sent you over the edge before Cia's hands pulled away, squirming under you.

It didn't surprise you in the least that you felt his hard cock, but it did surprise you when you felt it slowly pushing inside you. Cia adjusted you in his lap, hissing in pleasure as you were seated. Oh god, his cock was inside you with so many people around. You tightened around him at the thought and his teeth nipped at your shoulder in response.

"Sit still." he ordered, holding you firmly on his lap. "And not a peep outta ye." God you wished you had never told these boys about your cock warming kink. First Zhuk on the train and now this. These boys really were going to be the death of you.

For a far too long drinking song, Cia held you completely still, not touching you other than the cock deep inside you. It was torture, you could feel yourself dripping and soaking on him and to make matters worse, you could see the clones occasionally glancing over at the two of you giving you carnal looks. Cia had promised tonight he'd be all yours and you wondered just how much of him there would be.

"I see you starin', piseag." Cia purred into your ear again. "Thinkin' about my clones while I'm inside ye?" You tried to shake your head, but you both knew that was a lie.

"Can't... can't help it." you panted quietly. "They look almost exactly like you."

Another song started, the upbeat tempo had the crowd cheering like made. You assumed it was a very popular song but you could hardly think to remember the name, especially when Ciarog's leg started bouncing in time to the beat. You almost let out a cry of pleasure as his cock bounced against your g spot as he jiggled his leg under you.

"Ciarog.... please" you begged quietly, but he pretended not to hear you- an easy task with all the noise in the pub at the moment. That Irish bastard, he knew exactly what he was doing to you at the moment. You were even begging and he still wasn't letting up. You let out a small frustrated whine as once again you were edged closer and closer to orgasm. You were so close now, closer than you had been before all he needed was to keep bouncing his leg just a little more-

As long as the last song was, this song was as short. You dug your fingers into his pants in protest at the edge, but he didn't seem to mind. After all, his husband had done way worse to his thighs before. The clones thanked everyone for coming before headed over to your booth, all of them piling in and looking at you hungrily. Each of the clones' hair was tipped magenta.

"Did ya enjoy the show, eun òran?" Jazz asked with a shit eating smirk.

"F-fuck off." you said weakly, earning a chuckle from the group before you let out a gasp as you felt something warm and wet begin to lap at your clit. You closed your eyes, rocking your hips forward desperately as that sinfully good tongue was giving you what you'd been craving all night. For a moment the group looked confused before Ren stuck his head under the table.

"Chamie, ye animal get out from under there yer gonna blow her cover!" he scolded, pulling the clone back by the collar. You let out a whine from the loss.

"But she smells so good...!" protested Chamie. "And Boss literally has his co-" Wasp was quick to throw a hand over Chamie's mouth.

"That's 'cause boss knows how to be discreet, amadan." Jazz snapped back quietly.

Ciarog held you tighter against his chest for a moment as he watched his clones squabble amongst themselves. As much fun as he was having teasing you, it was a double edged sword as he was also teasing himself. He was ready to drag you to the backroom and fuck you senseless against the barrels of ale.

"I think she's been good." Ciarog decided, finally dipping his fingers down between your legs to rub slow circles around your clit. Chamie tried to duck under the table again, but he was held firmly in place by the others. Cia had made it clear tonight- he gets first dibs on making you cum.

"Oh god... oh thank you thank you thank you." you whisper quietly, trying hard to look natural even as the clones stared hungrily at you, taking in every twitch and gasp that you gave as Cia's fingers slowly pushed you to the edge. Even when he was giving you what you wanted, Cia was still being a tease- how had he learned to touch you so gently but still keep you headed towards an orgasm. Oh, it was near torture as he slowly built you up as he started an easy conversation with the clones in front of him. Even though they were all chatting, their eyes never left your face, none of them wanting to miss the moment where your eye would roll back.

As you got closer, they moved in to keep you as best hidden as they could from the other customers. They didn't want a stony-faced orgasm from their girl- they wanted something more satisfying. So when you finally peaked from Cia's gentle stroking, you were okay with letting your eyes roll back and letting out a shaky gasp as your dripping pussy clenched around Cia's cock. He groaned at the feeling, rocking his hips into you just a bit to get some stimulation of his own. Oh, he was going to ruin you once you two were alone but for now he let you ride out  your bliss on his lap.

"Piseag mhath" He cooed as you came down. He nodded at Chamie who reluctantly slipped under the table again and helped you put your panties back on, unable to resist a quick taste of your dripping cunt before hand. You shivered at the touch to your sensitive clit before you were removed from Cia's hard cock.

He tilted your head to look at him, and he gave you a soft kiss before pulling back. "Backroom. Now." he said, getting up and out of the booth before offering his hand. "I'm not done with you tonight."

[destinyesque]

Might Not Make it Home

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32632597/chapters/80949649

North Imaria has been under the merciless rule of the crown for over two decades and it seems the people have finally had enough. Unrest stirs among even the tiniest towns in the frozen mountains. Main streets grow silent as the noble guard rallies. There's enough fuel for the revolutionary fire; someone just needs to light the fuse.

Vizara is a bard, and a damn good one at that. She's played at taverns all across the north, seen the fight grow in her people. Her whole life has been for this. All the sleeping around, the ale and food and coin-all of it is secondary (not that she doesn't enjoy it). She's going to rouse her people into glorious rebellion against the unjust monarchy, and she's going to win. She just doesn't know how difficult it is going to be.

___________________

A young woman in vibrant violet clothes strummed on her lute, tapping her toe in time to the beat of the lively tavern tune. She directed a wink at a bargoer close to her before leaping up onto his table. Carefully avoiding the empty plates, her purple slippers stomped down on the wood with a soft, but audible thump. She sucked in a deep breath and began to sing. The song, “The Pickpocket's Lover”, was well known here, and soon the tavern patrons were singing and clapping along with the music. The woman weaved gracefully between the tables, spinning and dancing as the tune picked up speed. The whip-quick braid in her hair followed her eagerly, drawing curves in the air behind her head when she whirled around to play for the crowd behind her. Cheeks flushed dark with exertion and sweat dripping down her brow, she drew the song to its end. At the far side of the room, she struck the final chord, took a beer from one of the waitresses, and downed half of it in one gulp. The crowd at the tavern, now some forty or fifty people, cheered. The woman raised her mug in the air triumphantly.

 "Here's to th' North!" she cried, to even more applause, and then made as if to throw the mug to the ground. The waitress she'd taken the beer from quickly stilled her hand, as if she was expecting it. If she said anything to the bard, nobody could hear it for all the noise. The bard shrugged and took another swig. "'right y'all, I just gotta wet my throat a moment, then I'll be right back with ya." She fired another wink into the crowd as she made towards the kitchen, and if she kicked her lute case (already harboring quite a bit of coin) a little further towards the crowd, none of them seemed to care.

 The woman slipped through the door to the kitchen, soon followed by the waitress. At the last glimpse of her violet tunic and teal beads, the crowd turned back to their food and drink. The kitchen door swung shut, and that was the last any of them saw of the bard that night.

 ~~~~~

 Past that kitchen door, the bard nabbed a piece of fresh bread from the cook's hands, to an indignant "hey!" with no real malice behind it. She turned to the waitress with the smile of one who knows she has done something quite wrong, but who does not care. Appropriately, the waitress had a rather unimpressed expression across her face.

"Good show, eh?" The bard said through a mouthful of warm bread. The waitress huffed.

"Quite." The bard went on eating, as if oblivious to the other woman's annoyance.

"I'm thinking about addin’ a few more new songs to my repertoire." she said, "I've been writin’ some pretty songs as of late. 'Specially the ones about the coming revolution." She eyed the waitress at the last sentence with a hint of humor in her voice.

"Give me that!" The waitress ripped the hunk of bread from the bard's hands to another surprised "hey!" from the offended party. "You need to keep quiet about that revolution of yours. The only reason anyone here tolerates your ridiculous ideas is that you bring in good business. Step too far out of line, and we'll all get in more trouble than any of us can deal with."

"The crowd seemed to like me," the bard supplied. "It's strange, how the northerners seem to like the North. Can I please have my bread back?"

"Take this seriously! I know you couldn't care less about the rest of us, but if you get arrested, you won't get any work either!"

"I ain't planning on gettin' arrested, my friend. I'm only planning on gettin' the damn army outta here. And you can plan on gettin' business so long as there's any folk left here. Nobody's gonna care that I think the guard should get fucked. Hell, that's what they all think too."

"I hate you," the waitress growled, wild-eyed.

"Should'a said that 'fore you slept with me," the bard retorted, plucking her bread back from the waitress and promptly turning to walk further into the kitchen.

"Also, stop trying to smash my damned mugs!" the waitress yelled before slamming open the kitchen door open and walking back out into the tavern.

"I think you sang real well t'night, Vizara." the cook put in after a moment.

"Thank you!" Vizara, the bard, answered. "I can always count on you t' give a girl the credit she deserves."

The cook sighed deeply. "I do think you should cut back on the whole--well--the things that Melya was talkin’ about." She leaned over to inspect a simmering pot of stew in lieu of meeting the gaze of the bard.

It was a while before Vizara answered her. "I know. I don't want t' hurt y'all's business, really. I'm just damn tired of the damn monarchy and their damned games. So is everybody else. All they need is a push, and then we can get rid of the guard. Don't you wanna be free of kings? I sure as hell do.

Plus, I'm only here a handful'a times a year. I surely can't bring any real suspicion down here. Hell, Melya was just about the only waitress I recognized when I got here. Not that y'all have many other waitresses."

"Sometimes I think you talk just to hear your own voice," the cook commented. She ladled some of the stew into a bowl and handed it to Vizara. "Take one of the cloaks on the wall by the door and head outside for a bit, ‘kay? I'll talk to Melya,"

"Don't want me 'round anymore, huh?" she joked, pulling a cloak over her thin tunic and bare shoulders. "Really, you're the best, Eviah. The only one around here with any manners,"

Eviah made no reply, simply shooing the bard out the door with a roll of her eyes.

 The wind outside was biting cold. It was easy to forget near the fires and warm food of the tavern, but it worked its way through the fabric of the cloak in a matter of moments. Vizara huddled on one of the stairs leading down from the back door, watching for a few moments as her breath turned to mist.

"'bit like a dragon, ain't it?" she murmured to herself. "If only I had a horde of gold to go along with it."

She drew the cloak in closer. "Warm fire'd be good too." She absently cast her gaze around the small, dark alley. There was a bit of snow on the ground, but not enough to cause any trouble to pedestrians and carts, not that the carts could fit into the alley in any case. The overhanging roofs of the tavern and another nearby shop blocked most of the light from the moon, which was probably good, since nobody would've wanted to see the sundry food waste tossed back there. Vizara could hear the quiet rustling of what she presumed was a few rats digging about in the garbage, but far be it from her to take a look. She wrapped her hands around the hot bowl to bring some feeling back into her fingers, a bit numb from both the lute and the cold.

So she sat, eating her stew as the night went on and the comforting bustle of the tavern carried on behind her. After a short while, she set the empty bowl down beside her and took the lute off her back. Soft music began to drift up amongst the scuttling of the rats as she strummed the first few notes to a love song.

“Maybe I’ll play this one next,” she whispered. She leaned back against the door and hummed along to the quiet tune.

Her fingers stilled only a moment later as she heard some odd noise out in the street, past the entrance to the alleyway. The shriek of an animal (or perhaps a child? she couldn't say) echoed off the close walls.

“The hell was that?” She got to her feet, turning her head toward the noise. Again, the same shriek. Certainly the sound of a person now.  

Vizara fumbled in the waistband of her pants for a small knife, not much more than a toothpick. She dropped the cloak from her shoulders and slung her lute across her back once more.

With a deep breath, she crept out onto the street, tiny blade in hand. It was dark; few lanterns were ever out at night. The town was small, its people poor. Still, with a cursory glance, she saw the silhouettes of three or four people cast in the light of the brothel across the street. The screams hadn't stopped—they'd just gotten quieter. They'd become yelps, and then wordless protests, and now, just pained whimpering.

 She could see now—as she snuck ever closer—the small body of a child held down by the much bigger guards. The blade in her hand felt insufficient, useless. She faltered, slowed almost to a stop. The guards hadn't noticed her. She was quiet and they were occupied with the protesting figure in the dirt beneath them. She could back away into the alley just as easily as she had left it, and nobody would be the wiser. The crowd awaited her back in the tavern. She was much better suited to that kind of work—the rustling up, the inspiring, not the fighting itself. But, hell, who was she if she didn’t practice what she preached? And who was getting hurt in her place if she did nothing?

​

The glint of silver mail in the low light caught her eye once more. The crest of the royal family glowed gold on the guards' tunics, splashed with mud and blood and violence. Another strangled cry slipped from the child's lips as he was jabbed with the butt end of a spear. She was only a few lengths away from the closest guard. A full body shiver struck Vizara's body, shaking the little knife in her hand.

​

She started into a run, the movement catching the attention of one of the guards. They shouted to their companions, but the warning came too late. Vizara, much shorter than the guard nearest her, jabbed her knife into his armpit, where she knew was an opening in his armor. He stumbled back with a heavy huff, and the knife was yanked from Vizara's hands. She reached for it again, her left hand up to defend herself from the other two guards. Her fingers brushed the handle, but she couldn't get a good grip on it—she'd sunk the whole blade into his arm. Plus, he and his two companions were getting his wits about him once more. He was going for his spear amongst a slew of curses. It didn't come to that. Vizara heard a monstrous Crack! and then a moment later, her left arm flared up in pain. She fully lost hold of the knife. It didn't matter anymore. Her arm—what happened to her arm? She looked up to the flash of silver as she was struck in the chest with the blunt end of a spear.

​

She went down with a heavy huff. Her arm throbbed and maybe she couldn’t use her fingers? And her face was in the dirt and her chest ached and she couldn’t see anything for the dark and the terror.

​

She looked out over her injured arm, bleary and gasping. The child—a young elf, no older than fifteen—still lay prone on the ground, one of the three guards standing above him. Vizara's vision swam as dread descended.

​

One of the guards kicked her over onto her back and she rolled painfully over her lute. She winced, tried to sit up, but was immediately pushed right back down, slamming her head into the dirt.

​

"Fuck." she sucked in a breath. "Can—can I at least move the lute? Don't want to break the lute."

​

The guard who'd kicked her—a woman who Vizara would find attractive in any other situation—grabbed her collar and none-too-gently yanked her into a sitting position. Another guard maneuvered the lute from her back, jostling her hurt arm and eliciting a rather embarrassing whimper from her. She gathered up her wits and forced the stars out of her eyes.

​

"Ah, thank you." Vizara babbled, forcing a smile. "As a good bard once said 'you can break my bones but not my banjo'."

​

"You fucking stabbed me!" bellowed the guard she'd stabbed, and swung the body of the lute into her head.  

  ~~~~~~

 Vizara awoke with what she at first thought was a bad hangover. She felt groggy, confused, and her head pounded—a situation she'd found herself in many a time before. She moaned in pain and closed her eyes once more, but she found no comfort in sleep, for she had neither pillow nor bed to sleep on. Instead, the surface beneath her was hard, rough, and cold.

​

Her eyelids were heavy, and as her conscious awareness grew, she forced them open. Bewilderment abounded for a few moments. Where the hell was she?

​

The room was dark and small. A barred window above her head cast a square of light on the stone floor and glinted off the edge of a tarnished metal bucket. She recognized the trappings of the room—a prison cell for sure, she’d been in more than enough to know—but it took her a few moments to recall the circumstances that had landed her here. She had been all set to perform at the bar the night before; she'd make a bit of coin, flirt with some strangers, and sleep with even more of them. Clearly, something had gone wrong. Such a waste of a good night!

​

She racked her brain, piecing together all that had happened after her performance: the conversation with Melya and Eviah, the cold alley, and then the sight of the guards kicking a child that had spurred her to action. A grim satisfaction came over her as she remembered stabbing one of the guards in the armpit. At least she'd done some good damage before she'd gone down. Nothing after that came back to her. She must have gotten her ass kicked pretty quick after the stabbing; the pain in her head and her arm could attest to that.

​

She touched her injured arm, and it didn’t hurt terribly. The ambient light described an ugly bruise. Nothing that wouldn’t heal. And her head ached, but she could deal with that. After all, it wasn’t much worse than her usual hangover. Vizara felt across her chest for any more injuries. There was a pain in her left side when she pressed down on it, but it didn't seem to be too serious. She huffed a sigh of relief and immediately winced when her chest took issue with it. All things considered, she’d gotten off pretty easy.

​

With a grunt, she stood up. She could make out the shape of a wooden door in the dim. There was a slit under it through which a bit of light trickled. Probably how food was delivered to the prisoners. The thought of other prisoners stuck in Vizara's mind for a second—what had happened to the child? She prayed to any god that would pay her mind that he had gotten away. Although… if there were other prisoners, maybe she could orchestrate an escape. She'd been learning to rouse the masses for years now; surely, she could incite some kind of prison riot or revolution if she had to. But where was her lute? She didn't need that to inspire crowds, but it sure helped.

​

"If you bastards stole my lute," she murmured to no one. "I'm gonna fuckin' lose it."

​

She looked around the room, but there were only stone walls and one window and a dingy chamber pot. Nothing practical to help her, and no lute in sight.

​

Without anything to do and no chance of getting back to sleep, Vizara spent what seemed to be an interminable amount of time pacing about the cell. She found herself shivering in the cold air, but the movement helped. If she didn't find a way to get out of here soon, she could very well be stuck in this hellhole forever. The law of the kingdom wasn't known for its charity.

 The light from the small window had significantly brightened and then dimmed again by the time Vizara saw any company. She reckoned it was around sunset when there came the clamor of heavy footsteps outside her cell door. She moved to the back corner of the cell to give herself a bit of space once the guards came in; for they were coming in—the rustle of keys and the sound of voices reached her, dampened by the thick door but still clear enough. There was a soft click, and the door swung open, light from the hallway beyond cascading in. Vizara squinted at the loss of comfortable darkness.

​

There were three guards, dark in the doorway, just like the night before. She couldn't tell if they were all the same ones, but she vaguely recognized one of the female guards. They were dressed in the customary mail, with the sign of the monarchy across their chests. The longswords at their hip drew Vizara's eyes—she couldn't brute force her way past them, even if she had a weapon of her own.

​

She allowed two of the guards to approach her and none-too-gently shackle her right arm, hooking the other end of a long chain to a bar in the window. They backed away, now out of her reach, as if she posed any kind of danger to them.

​

"Vizara Whitecrest," the female guard started.

​

"Hello, yes, that's me," Vizara said, a fake smile on her lips. "It seems my reputation precedes me."

​

"I don't care much for pleasantries." she glowered. "I am only here to assess your account and determine an appropriate punishment."

​

"That's just great." Vizara sat down and put her hands in her lap. "I'm sure you know, I was rather very drunk last night, and quite out of my right mind. Now, I had no intention of attackin' anyone yesterday, but you must understand, certain things are bound to happen when one is that inebriated."

​

"I didn’t come here for idle chat and excuses." she said. "No proper bard drinks during her performance.”

 “Now there’s your problem, sweetheart. I ain’t any kind’a proper bard.”

  “You sure as hell didn’t seem drunk when you stabbed Oliver.” The woman harrumphed. “I’ve never seen a drunkard harm a trained guard, let alone one your size.”

 Vizara shrugged. “’Spose I got lucky.”

 “See, I don’t think you did. You knew just where to aim, and I’m damned if your aim wasn’t perfect.” She considered. “You’ve done this before.”

 “I ain’t done nothin’ of the sort.” Vizara insisted, and she could only blame her pounding head when she added “Only time I’ve laid a hand on a guardsman is in bed, and he damn near begged me to hit him.”

 The guard’s face screwed up in something halfway between annoyance and fury. Vizara winced, her smile falling. “I don’t mean any offense or nothin’, course! I’m just—"

 Patience run out, the guard strode into her space and slammed her into the wall, cutting her off with a sharp gasp. Her left arm pinned Vizara's shoulders to the wall, her right pressing into Vizara’s wounded chest. The bard wheezed in pain, and her mask of nonchalance faded into visible distress.

 ​“We both know you weren’t drunk, you stupid fucking half-elf.” She ground Vizara’s shoulders into the wall. “I’m not here to play games, and I don’t tolerate lies. If you’d like to keep your head, you’ll tell me everything. I want to know if you’ve attacked guardsmen before, and what I can do to make you never attack us again. I want to know about every Northerner who so much as fucking thought about going after the guard. Lie to me once more, and I will make sure you never sing again.”

 "I—" Vizara pushed against the guard's adamant armor before she could think better of it. "Fucking—get off me!"

​

The woman moved in an instant, grasping Vizara's left hand in her armored gauntlet and pinning it against the wall. Vizara couldn’t even tell what was happening until the guard’s dagger was flashing against her throat and she was screaming into it. Her head slammed against the stone wall and she almost didn't feel it when the guard let her drop to the floor.

​

She took in gasping breaths as her vision returned. She clapped her hand to her neck, now pulsing with blood. Her eyes drifted to the ceiling. Her throat worked painfully, as if trying to swallow back down the lost blood.

​

“It’s not hard,” the woman said, "all you need to do is sit there and tell the truth.” Then, to someone else, she ordered, “go make sure the windows are boarded for the storm. I can handle her.”

​

She knelt in front of Vizara and grasped her chin in one metal hand. The bard moaned and tried to turn away, but to no avail. She was weak and reeling from the pain.

​

The guard turned Vizara's face toward her own. Vizara saw the other two guards had left them, and the door to the cell was closed. She and the guard were alone now and there was no one there to save her from her suffering.

 “I’m not afraid to carve out your vocal cords and let you choke on blood until I’m kind enough to let our healer seal you shut. And right now, I’m really considering it for the insolence alone.” Her voice was quiet now. Soft. Almost saccharine sweet with the way she breathed into Vizara’s ear. “You’re lucky I’m nice. This doesn’t have to get any more difficult than you've already made it."

​

Even bleeding her brain dizzy, Vizara wasn't fooled. She would suffer more tortures before any of these people had finished with her. Not much of anything could save her now from that. But she was hurt. And she was alone. And she was afraid. And she wanted it to be over.

 "I'm don't know anyone else," Vizara rasped, tasting copper on her tongue. "I'm on my own. The tavern—they don't pay me or anythin' like that. I'm just there to make some coin and they want more business. 's that simple. 'm not from here, either. Don't know anyone here, 'cept a few folks I'm a bit familiar to. Nobody from my hometown's seen me in months. They're innocent in all this."

​

All of the sudden, it was very hard to breathe. There was a roaring in her ears.

​

"Please, I'm beggin' you. Don't hurt them," Vizara felt pinprick tears in the corners of her eyes. "Don't hurt me, neither, please. 'm just a fool of a bard. Wanted t' fight against the kingdom, someway, somehow. And I was stupid. I can’t do anythin’ all on my own. I can hardly defend myself. I ain’t a threat to anyone, ‘specially not the guard. I promise, I didn't want nobody to get hurt, 'least, nobody I cared much about. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’a done that. I’m so sorry."

​

The cell and the woman before her became watery, submerged in her own tears. The guard straightened up and Vizara waited for a blow to fall upon her. She waited for a reply. Waited for something. Waiting for anything better than waiting.

​

Damn near an eternity passed between them in silence, and Vizara finally peeked out of the shelter of her arms. The guard was looking at her, but not. She had cocked her head to one side to listen to something outside of the room. Vizara listened as best she could between the heaving of her chest and the tiny gasps hiccupping from her throat. There was a roar, she thought, like a great waterfall or a stampede of animals. She heard it faint, but even as she listened it came closer as if to suffocate her in the noise. She futilely clapped her free hand to a sensitive half-elf ear. A sense of dread came over her, but also a desperate hope. If this loud, horrible noise was as powerful as it seemed, maybe it could tear her away from here. Maybe it could drag the guard away. Hell, she’d be glad if this thing killed her if it meant escaping the grasp of this merciless woman. A woman who was now standing in the middle of the cell, paying no more attention to Vizara.

​

Vizara removed her hand from her ear, wincing at the booming, cacophonous sound. She pushed herself to her feet, but as the ground trembled, she fell back upon the floor. She pressed her left ear to the ground and her hand to her right, and she tried to keep the blood from slipping through her fingers. She pulled her legs to her chest and huddled close into herself. The noise was now right on top of her. This is the end of the world, rang clear in Vizara's tangled thoughts.

​

There was a tremendous crash, and everything shook, and small stones fell on Vizara's prone form.

​

And after a time, the noise receded into the distance.

​

And it was deafeningly quiet.

​

Vizara's ears rang and everything that she was hurt. She curled ever closer as wracking cries filled her chest.

​

But at the very least, she was alive.

[sheerfreesia007]

Ghoulfriend

Title: Ghoulfriend

Fandom: Kingsman

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Author: @sheerfreesia007​​

Words: 2,970

Warnings: Angsty, Fluff, Violence

Permanent Tag List: @paintballkid711​, @fioccodineveautunnale​, @phoenixhalliwell​, @synystersilenceinblacknwhite​, @linkpk88​

Author Notes: Welp the Halloween Special has come to an end my dears. I hope you all enjoyed it! I sure did. This last one is a little different then what I normally write and it was solely inspired by the movie The Corpse Bride. It was also originally planned to be way more sad but I couldn’t do it. I did listen to Whiskey Lullaby by Brad Paisley while writing it and that song is a tear fest for me so I’m shocked it’s not cry your eyes out sad. Let me know what you all think. I think this was my favorite one to write out of all of them.

Gif Credit: Google

The office was ornately furnished. Lots of dark oak wood furniture, tan paint on the wall, dark leather couches and desk chairs, the only thing colorful in the room were the rugs. Which were oddly in the patterns of Native American tribal patterns. The colors of those rugs were the only thing you enjoyed about his office. If you had your way the walls would be repainted a pretty denim blue color much like the worn blue jeans he liked to wear so often. There’d be deep charcoal gray curtains at each window the office held.

           “You know you really should redo this office. It’s so bland and devoid of brightness.” you said as you walked about the room, your long purple cotton dress swishing against your bare feet as you moved. Not expecting an answer from him you were surprised when you heard him hum softly.

           “The room doesn’t need fixin’.” he said softly and you whirled around in shock staring at him with wide eyes.

           “What’d you say Whiskey?” came the all too familiar voice of his partner as he walked into the office unannounced. You moved quickly to the side of his desk and pressed your hand to the surface using your energy to stand firm.

           “You heard me.” you said in a gasp as you watched him look up from the reports he was working on to stare at his partner in confusion.

           “Sorry Tequila, I thought I heard somethin’.” he said softly as he looked about the room as looking for the source of conversation he had been in before Tequila walked in. You held yourself tall and watched as his eyes quickly swept over your figure. You fell dejectedly to the floor and cried out in sorrow. Resting your back against the side of his desk you drew your knees up to your chest and buried your head in them sobbing as the two men talked above you about whatever it was that was going on at the moment.

 ---

           Anger and rage filled you as you stood in his office once again. You didn’t understand why this was happening and all your confusion was now manifesting into anger and rage. Turning away from him and his boss you stalked over to the small round table in the corner where he normally kept a bottle of his family’s whiskey, a tongue in cheek joke to his codename. 

           “Why can’t you see me?!” you shouted at the two men and feeling a static electricity erupting in your stomach you angrily swiped out your arm across the table. When the crash of the glass bottle hitting the floor reached your ears you stared with wide eyes at the mess you had made. You had done that. You had done something.

           “What in tarnation?” came a soft cry from behind you and you turned to see both men staring at the corner where you stood and the broken bottle lay not far from there. You couldn’t feel the static electricity anymore as the two of them stared at you but you could see the cowboy’s eyes widen slightly before he shook his head.

           “No! No, you saw me didn’t you?” you cried in desperation as you moved quickly towards him. He stood from his desk and walked towards where the bottle lay and began picking up the pieces of it. 

           “What would cause the bottle to fly off the table like that?” came his boss’ question. You looked over at the cowboy as he stood there holding the broken pieces delicately in his hands staring down at them.

           “Me! I did that! Look at me! See me!” you shouted as you moved closer to the cowboy standing as close as you possibly could without touching him.

           “I don’t know.” was the quiet response from the cowboy as he looked up and seemed to stare straight through you. Your world crumbled down around you in despair and you turned away from him feeling sorrow consume you once again.

 ---

            You were getting rather good at moving things now and while you stood there not far from your cowboy. When had he turned into your cowboy? You watched cautiously as he confronted a group of men in the bar he liked to frequent with Tequila. But tonight Tequila hadn’t been able to come with, so it was just your cowboy.

           The evening had started off easy enough but when the group of men dressed all in ripped flannel shirts, trucker hats, and blue jeans things had gone south real quick. They had been harassing the bartender in a crude manner and you could see by the clenching of his jaw your cowboy didn’t care for them at all. So of course him being the gentleman he was he had to open his mouth and say something to them and gather their attention.

           Suddenly one of the men lunged at your cowboy and they started swinging fists at each other. You moved away from the two of them and kept an eye on the other men in the group since your cowboy wouldn’t be able to. One of the men reached over to the table and picked up the pitcher of beer that they had ordered and moved towards the two fighting to help his comrade. 

           Anger filled you at the injustice of the group trying to fight your lone cowboy and you could feel the static seep into your stomach once more. You looked over to the chair that stood next to you and easily gripped the sides of it, raising it in the air and smashing it down on top of the man who was fighting your cowboy. 

           Silence rang out in the bar and you could see the wide eyes on every patron of the bar as they all stared at the broken chairs pieces littered around the now unconscious man who was slumped over your cowboy.

           “Would you all stop fighting!” you snapped angrily as your chest heaved with the energy you expended to help your cowboy. 

           “What the fuck just happened?!” cried out one of the men and you rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest in exasperation as no one heard you yet again.

           “The damn chair lifted in the air by itself.” said another of the men in a whisper.

           “Are you crazy? That don’ happen!” cried the last one still holding the pitcher. Feeling your patience running thin the static crackled in your stomach once more and you walked over to the man holding the pitcher and snatched it from his hand. You held it above him at his eye level and smirked when you watched him and his two other comrades watched with wide horror filled eyes as you moved it about in front of him before gently setting it down on the table nearby. With your little display of power you didn’t see your cowboy’s eyes focusing on your flickering image that no one else seemed to see.

           “The damn bar’s haunted. Let’s get outta here!” shouted one of the men and you laughed brightly before waving your fingers in the air.

           “Ooooohhhh” you called out to them as they all ran from the bar. You turned to your cowboy and gasped softly as his eyes darted around the space where you stood as if he was trying to find you. “Can you see me cowboy?” you asked softly wondering if he had seen you and if he could hear you now. But then his eyes moved over to the bartender who had come over to help him up from the floor. Sighing softly you turned away from him and walked away.

 ---

             “I know you’re here, I’ve seen you at the bar that night?” your cowboy said softly as he sat on the couch in his office. You turned from the bookshelf in the corner and watched him curiously. “I don’t know how you got here or why you’re here. Especially with me. I mean, I’ve read up on ghosts and a lot of it don’ make much sense to me. But I’ve read that ghosts latch onto something or someone when they have unfinished business.” he explained as his eyes darted around the room. You moved closer to where he was sitting and stood a few feet in front of him just silently watching him. “I just want you to know that I don’t mind you being here. As long- as long as you don’t turn vengeful and start trying to hurt me I’m more than happy to have you around.” he said softly.

           “Why?” you asked curiously as you tilted your head to the side watching him.

           “I don’t like letting people get close.” he explained almost as if he heard you, which you knew he didn’t. “I lost someone, well two someone’s, very dear to me and ever since then I don’t let people in.”

           “I’m sorry for your loss.” you say solemnly before moving to have a seat on the couch next to him.

           “This is stu-” he began to say but suddenly his head whipped to the side where you were sitting and you watched as he lifted a hand up in the air and swiped it down where you were sitting.

           “Hey!” you shouted and began to stand up quickly as his hand phased through you. You moved away from the couch with a scowl on your face at his stupid move and crossed your arms over your chest.

           “Lord have mercy that was cold.” he gasped out. “I’m sorry! Please, come back. I saw you sit, the couch cushion sunk in.” he explained quickly. Your eyebrows furrowed and moved cautiously back towards the couch. “Please, I’m sorry I did that. I just wanted to see if I could touch you. Though lord knows why I wanted to do that.”

           Moving around him you took a tentative seat on the couch next to him and watched with wide eyes as he told the truth and the cushion did sink under you slightly. You looked up to see your cowboy watching the cushion movement with a soft smile. “I am sorry if I did something to you by doing that.” he said softly as he shook his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

           “You were just curious.” you said softly as a tender smile fell across your lips as you shook your head at him.

 ---

             You stood in front of his desk and tried to gather that static once more inside of you so that you could help him. But no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t get the electricity back into you. You wanted him to stop and to go home, he was working himself to death and you had a feeling it had to do with whoever it was that he had lost. There was something that was reminding him of them or something was happening that was causing the memories to rustle up.

           “You have to stop cowboy. You’re going to kill yourself if you don’t take care of yourself.” you said softly in affection as you moved to gently sit on top of his desk. The papers and files that you sat on moved slightly catching his attention.

           “Leave me please. I don’t want any company.” he said coldly and you felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over your head. You slowly got off his desk and felt a sorrowful feeling that you hadn’t felt in so long fill your being at his words. You stood next to him and he nodded his head slightly in thanks. “You can go.” he said softly in the air with a tone of indifference and you were suddenly nowhere. Darkness surrounding you until you couldn’t see and you felt tiredness filling you making your eyes fall shut quickly.

 ---

             Your eyes snapped open and you found yourself standing in a spacious living room with large bay windows that showed the pretty image of sprawling acres of grass and sporadic dottings of trees. Moving towards the windows you stared out at the land spread out in front of you in awe. It was stunning and you idly wondered where you were. Being too caught up in the view you didn’t hear the soft voice of a woman from behind you.

           “Jack, c’mon sweetheart you have to stop drinking. You can’t keep doing this every time the anniversary comes up.” she said and your brain finally caught onto the new voice. Turning around you saw a pretty young woman with long dark hair dressed in a pretty red sun dress leaning over your slumped over cowboy. He sat slumped over a table holding a bottle of whiskey. He didn’t look like the cowboy you were used to. There were tear tracks running down both sides of his face, his shirt was undone at the top and his hair was messy as if he had run his hands through it one too many times.

           Moving closer to the two of them you watched silently as your cowboy took a deep pull from the bottle and breathed out harshly. She turned her head to look at you and smiled sorrowfully at you.

           “You’re who he lost.” you said quietly and she nodded her head sadly at your words. “I’m so sorry.” 

           “It’s alright sweetheart. It was bound to happen anyway. God had better plans for me and our son.” she said morosely. You watched in utter sadness as her figure began to glow and you could see the faint outline of wings spreading from her back. You smiled softly in bittersweetness, she was one of the lucky ones to have a direction while you were still stuck here. “I want to thank you for staying with him.” she said softly. You scoffed and waved a hand in the air dismissively.

           “To be honest I don’t think I had a choice.” you answered with a wry twist of your lips. Her hand came out to rest lightly against your forearm.

           “But you did. You don’t remember do you?” she said kindly to you as her eyes watched you sharply. Shaking your head you smiled sadly.

           “I don’t think I want to either.” you responded. She nodded her head sadly and you watched as her eyes filled with somber understanding. You knew whatever had happened to you the cowboy had been there for it and you had come to peace with it long ago. You didn’t want to taint the ease you felt around the cowboy.

           “Carmen, mi amor.” the cowboy said softly before he began to sob into his hands as they covered his face.

           “I can not stay longer my love. I wish I could but I can’t. But you have to stop this. I need you to be happy.” she said softly as she wrapped her arms around his shaking figure. She looked up at you as you stepped to his other side as you felt the crackle of electricity in the pit of your stomach. Your hand reached out and took the bottle of whiskey from his hand before moving to the kitchen sink and dumping it down the drain.

           “Wait, please.” the cowboy wailed softly.

           “Will you take care of him for me?” she asked kindly as she stayed wrapped around him and looked over at you. You nodded and your lips turned up into a sad smile.

           “Of course. I quite like this place. I think I’ll like it here.” you said softly nodding your head at her. She smiled warmly at you and you watched quietly as her figure began to shimmer and she disappeared from view. You turned to look back into the kitchen over your shoulder and when you turned back around you gasped as the cowboy was standing right in front of you.

           “Why can I see you now? Where’s Carmen?” he asked softly with wide eyes. You stared at him with your mouth hanging open in shock. “Where’s Carmen?” he asked again now, sounding sorrowful.

           “In heaven. She’s back in heaven. She loves you and wants you to stop drinking. She needs you to be happy.” you responded quickly as he began to turn away. At your words he turned back around and stared at you sadly.

           “I’m glad she’s there.” he responded quietly and you nodded, twisting your lips into a flat smile. All you could think about was how lucky she was to be up there instead of being stuck here like you were. “I’m sorry about what happened to you. It shouldn’t have happened.” 

           You shook your head and held up your to get him to stop speaking. You didn’t want to know what happened, you felt it would be too painful to hear and what good would it do for you besides just make you sad all the time.

           “Don’t tell me. Please. I don’t want to know what happened.” you said resolutely and watched as he nodded his head. “I did make a promise to her though” 

           “What was that?” he asked softly as he watched you quietly.

           “That I would take care of you while I’m here.” you answered and his eyes widened slightly at your words. You shrugged your shoulders at his response. “It’ll ease her in knowing that while she can’t be here to take care of you someone else will be. Besides there’s a pretty willow tree I saw that’s calling to me. So if you don’t mind I’d like to stay.” your wry smile makes him chuckle watery and he nods his head.

           “I’d like that too.” he said softly and you nodded before you felt your figure shimmer in and out of view. “Thank you.” 

[dontshootmespence]

Cherry Red

Summary: Ness says they can’t do anything about Chronos until the morning, so what should Dean do all night in 1944?

Pairing: 1944 Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,900+

Warnings: Spanking, p in v, girl on top, come, arousal from pain. 

A/N: For those of you 18 and over! This fulfills my @spnkinkbingo square for spanking. Gonna tag @impala-dreamer​ because I’m proud of this one. 

“Kid, we got nothing to kill the bastard and we can’t get it till mornin’, so why not go get some sleep?” Ness asks, deftly flipping his hat onto his head with the flick of his fingers.

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

He bids Ness goodnight with strict instructions to be back at 5 AM. Even though he feels like he’s in The Untouchables, he needs to get back to Sam as soon as possible. That being said, there’s no way in hell he was going to sleep his way through his free time in 1944. Something tells him there’s some good strong whiskey and a beautiful dame out there somewhere.

As he saunters down the block (he’d say he wasn’t sauntering, but the 1940s garb had him feeling some kind of way), he grabs the brim of his hat and tips it in the direction of anyone and everyone he comes across. He’s so outta place but he plans to play it up for as long as he’s here.

Under his feet, water splashes from freshly fallen rain. The streets around him smell of rain with tinges of cigar smoke, which happens to be coming from a bar named Cahoots.

Opening the door, the bell above it rings, alerting everyone in the bar to the out of place “cop” that just walked in. Deep brown wood is bathed in low light, bottles glistening on the simple shelf before the fellow patrons.

Dean starts to pull up a seat, seeing mostly men around him, but through the fog of cigar smoke he sees her. She scowls at every man who comes near, though most of them are acting like they’d never seen a woman before, coming on too strong thinking they were meat or not coming on strong enough. Sure, Dean had gone to bed with his fair share of women, but he was big on willingness. Their willingness was pretty sexy.

He strides over and gently pushes through the throng of men, ordering a whiskey neat before turning his attention to the woman at his side. “So what’s a beautiful dame like you doing at this bar all alone? Are you rationed?” He asks, feeling every inch Humphrey Bogart.

“How d’ya know I’m alone, g-man?”

Her hair is pinned in waves, perfectly framing her doe eyes - not innocent ones though, they held much more than most would think he’s sure. She’s decked in cherry red, a black belt cinching her waist and matching black heels showing every inch of her beautiful calves. He’s used to seeing more skin on a woman, at least one in a dress, but something about the way she’s dressed intrigues him. He wants to know more. Maybe Sammy had the right idea going after the classy girls.

Dean smirks and glances around at the other men in the bar; they’ve started to dissipate after realizing that the g-man had her attention. “Well, you aren’t wearin’ a wedding ring, so you’re not hitched and in the two minutes I’ve been here, I’ve seen you wave on about five others who’ve been desperately trying to make a pass at the doll in the pretty red dress.”

She blushes and glances down at her glass. “You got me, g-man, I am here alone. I’ve recently lost 180 pounds. I’m here to celebrate.”

He cocks his eyebrow, a little confused.

“Just dumped the cheatin’ bastard,” she laughs.

Dean extends his hand and introduces himself, learns her name is Y/N. Apparently, she’d only been going steady with the guy for a few months. “He seemed a decent guy, you know. A real dreamboat, but then I caught him in bed with another woman so I got rid of his ass. What about you, Casanova? What brings you here?”

Loaded question.

“A little time off before I meet up with partner to finish this case we’re working on,” he says. Technically true, but way off the mark. As per usual in his life. “Can I buy ya another drink?”

“With a face like that, why not,” she replies with a smile. It’s the kind of smile that can ruin a man like Dean.

But what a way to go. “Well, excuse me for a bein’ a little doll dizzy, but would you wanna take this somewhere else?”

“You take me for a charity girl?”

He assumes that means an easy woman, so he chooses his words wisely. “Definitely not. But maybe one who’s looking for a good time.”

“And you think you can show me that?”

Dean bites his lip and slips his hand over hers. “Absolutely.”

Placing money on the counter to cover both their tabs, he escorts her out of the bar and into the cool night air. “My motel is just done the block. Kinda here from outta town.”

“Well, as long as you can show me a good time anywhere, I’m good to go, dreamboat.”

He could get used to her calling him that. But he shakes that thought away and picks up the pace. Though there aren’t many people on the street, those that walk by seem impressed with the woman on his arm. As they approach the motel room, she leans into him, her eyes swirling with mischief. “How do you feel about a lady takin’ charge?” She asks, her cherry red lips forming a smirk that makes him feel things he definitely shouldn’t be feeling. “Lemme show you a good time.”

The key fumbles in the lock, but he manages and when they cross the threshold, she pins him to the wall, peeling the pinstripe suit jacket away from his shoulders. “Oh, the gun holster does things for me Dean.”

“Take a picture in that pretty little head of yours, because I need to take it off to do what I want to do. Need free range of motion.”

His hands skim up the backs of her thighs, gathering the material of her dress so that he can grab what he really wants. “I might be taking off this dress, but that doesn’t mean something else can’t be cherry red.”

Dean kisses her hard and starts to unbutton her dress, pushing it down to reveal the era’s lingerie. He had to admit that modern era lingerie had his approval over this, but if anyone could pull this off it was her.

Hungrily, they cover each other in love bites and kitten licks as they remove the remainder of their clothing. “Alright, doll, get on your hands and knees on the bed and I’ll give you what you need.”

She giggles as she crawls onto the bed, wiggling what is quite possibly one of the perfect asses he’s ever seen. When he rakes his fingers up the right side of her ass, she shivers and leans into the bed. “Trust me?” He whispers.

For some reason, she does. “Spank me, Dean.”

A guttural grunt gets caught in his throat, his cock straining against the boxers he’s still wearing. His hand comes down on her ass, the resounding sound of the smack making him even harder. She whimpers and looks back at him. “Harder.”

He does as she asks, a faint imprint of his hand forming on her soft skin before he moves to the other side. “Have to make sure they match.”

She snickers, crawling backwards and standing bare before him. “Sit,” she says quietly. He stares up with rapt attention, watching the curve of her body as she places herself over his knee; he’s pretty sure he’s died and gone to heaven, but he’s been to heaven before and it ain’t this fun.

A peace falls over, his mind going blank once she sinks into him, her body pliable and ready for whatever he touch he intends to give. He runs his pinky over her slit, she’s already wet. “Already?”

She senses the teasing note in his voice. “Absolutely. I can never seem to find a guy who’ll do this with me.”

Dean’s in awe and then he remembers when he is. “Everyone insist on treating you like a proper lady?”

“And I am,” she says. “I just like it rough.” She gasps the last of her thoughts when his hand comes down on her again. “Fuck.” Each successive slap brings warmth to her already heated skin. Her nerves are alight, the contrast of sharp smacks and his soft touches sending her body into overdrive.

With each hit, she moans, squirming against his clothed cock. “Dean, more, please.”

“Count them. Five each.”

“One, two, three, four,” she counts out in quick succession. “Oh fuck.”

He’s entranced by how wet she is, her juices slipping down the side of her leg. He has six more hits to go but all he can think of is being buried inside her. After one more hit on her right side, he switches to the left, giving her two before stopping himself, allowing her to stew in her own anticipation. 

During the in between beats, he watches how her body reacts, goosebumps prickling her soft skin, arousal dripping, muscles shaking. With the final slaps, she slips to the floor, her body pooling at his feet. She reaches up and pulls his boxers down, allowing his cock to spring free, already dripping with pre-cum. 

When her mouth slips over the tip of his cock, he moans, but even her mouth isn’t enough right now. He crawls backward onto the bed, silently inviting her up to join him. 

The bed dips under her weight, her tongue running up the length of his cock before she straddles him, her legs on either side of his hips. “Want this pretty pussy?”

“Doll, you have no idea.” 

She sinks down onto his cock and whines at the stretch. She’s only been with a couple guys, but none have felt like him, velvet soft and insistently hard. The way his mouth drops open makes her smile; she’s never had this kind of power over a man before, and it’s intoxicating. 

Reaching up, Dean grabs her by the back of the neck and brings her body flush against him. “Right here, doll. Move that ass for me.”

She moans into his neck, crying out when he grabs the flesh of her ass, the sting from his hands blooming anew. 

Dean moans. “Fuck me.”

Her body moves of its own volition, the pain of his grasp spurring her on. It’s frenetic and driven. And she starts to lose control. He steadies her hips above him and commands her not to move. He wants to watch as he pumps in and out of her. “Look.” He needs her to see it too.

As his cock thrusts upward into her, her breasts bounce with the force. He can’t take it. She’s completely blissed out and it’s all him. Keeping her steady with one hand, he moves the other to her pussy, massaging her clit with his thumb. “Oh hell, Dean. I’m gonna-”

She can’t complete her thought. Her head drops back, mouth agape as she cries out and her walls constrict around him and he’s not far behind. 

Pushing her back, he pulls out and pumps himself roughly, her body still shaking when he comes on her stomach. “Doll, you have no idea what you do to a guy.”

She dips her finger into his release and sucks it off, moaning at the taste. “I have some clue, sugar.”