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galaxy-tacos · 1 day ago

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Ohhhh-- ohh hohohohhh- hhhrr look what I'm gonna binge read for thr next hour or so

-Flood me like Atlantic-

Chapter 1

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: alcohol use, descriptions of drowning, swearing, sadness, eventual smut, non-con hurt, bondage, blood, let me know if I miss anything the warnings will be updated as we go.This is the first chapter of a series in progress :)

Note: this being the first post of a new blog, I do not expect a lot of traction. But to anyone who does read I hope you enjoy, and have an amazing day!!

The water is filling his lungs.

He scrunches his eyes to fight off the salt already burning deep up his nose, threatening to flood his whole body as he sinks, sinks…

He could swim up, but he doesn’t. He could be scared, but he isn’t. He’s resigned to die. To be buried in the cold, dark ocean, and become one of the many forgotten things that call it their tomb.

He’s sinking, deeper and deeper, feeling his body go stiff as the icy darkness wraps around his limbs.

The last blue light of the surface has abandoned him.

And he can’t be sad, can he? He knows that he chose this, after all. Even if he can’t remember it. Even if the tiniest inkling of regret is creeping up on him with each bit of light lost.

He goes limp, parting his lips to let the water in.

•••

“Hey, kid!”

His eyes flick open, a little gasp leaving his lips as a heavy fist raps on the bathroom door.

“Fucking finish up, you’re on in ten minutes.”

Fuck.

He doesn’t reply, just rubs his temple as the pain in his body registers. He peels his face off of the arm he’s resting on the paper dispenser.

Did he actually fall asleep?

The ache in his legs as he readjusts on the toilet lid tells him he’s been sitting here for way longer than he intended.

He stands up, cursing at the immediate stab of pain in his lower back.

“Kid, you in there?”

“Yeah… yeah!” He scrambles to the sink, prepared for the horror that must be his eyeliner after having his face smashed for the past 20 minutes or so.

It is… not good.

“Hurry up.”

“Okay.”

There’s a single yellow lightbulb dangling in the middle of the ceiling, illuminating what he hopes to god is a poor portrait of himself. His cheeks are hollow, his skin is pale. And not even the copious amounts of black eyeliner dredging his eyes- and now the side of his face -can hide the bags under them. The all-nighter he pulled in preparation for tonight shows, letting each and every one who will look at his illuminated face tonight know just how nervous he’s been for the past few days.

He just prays the other bands don’t get a jab in about it.

He rubs his cheek with the side of his hand, smearing the black off as best he can before swiping his bangs into his eyes to hide the whole mess.

He takes a deep breath.

He looks fine… really. Not like this is his first show. Not like he’s gonna fumble the hell out of it, even after weeks of practice behind closed doors. His fingers itch for the familiarity of the smooth keys on his sleek, black keyboard.

He knows them better than the feel of his own skin.

The second he opens the door he’s swallowed into the noise of the bar. The acoustics in here aren’t bad- he can hear every noise, every voice laughing with the rock music pouring out of old dusty speakers. He blinks hard to adjust to the light as he weaves his way through the crowd, eyeing the low-set stage against the far wall.

His stage.

He mounts it, hunching down besides the legs of the keyboard to look it over, adjusting a few knobs carefully.

“It’s tuned.”

It takes him a few seconds before he realizes that the voice is directed at him. He looks up, thumb swiping anxiously over the rim of the keys.

“Huh?”

“You shouldn’t touch that.” The man says, leaning against one of the concrete pillars to his left. He’s fiddling with the strings of his bass, And remarkably, he’s almost eye-level, even though his shiny doc martens are planted on the floor below. “It’s already tuned.”

He looks about the same age as him. 22, a few years older maybe. But the confidence he exudes is almost enough to convince someone that he’s only in this dive bar for kicks. A hardened veteran, disgusted at a spindly kid getting their eye-liner smudged fingers all over the keys.

“I know.” He says, barely giving the newcomer a glance. “But I’m about to play it. I want my songs to sound the way they always do.”

“Do they always sound like you’ve fucked up the keyboard?” Comes the reply. And oh boy, he’s on in five minutes. This joker needs to let him do his thing, otherwise he’s concerningly close to having a mental breakdown right here.

“No.”

“You oughta write music that works with a properly tuned instrument, Holmes.” The stranger swipes his long fingers through his bangs, dragging the stray beaded strands back to join the tight knot pulling the rest of it out of his angular face.

“S’what I do.”

“And you are?”

“III.”

Two minutes. A small smile creeps to the young musician's lips. “Yeah? Where’s I and II?”

“IV and II are at the bar, smart ass.” III says, stepping closer. His eyes bore down onto the hands now fiddling with the power cord leading into the wall. It’s dragged firmly across the stage to where it ought to be.

“-they’re not shitting their pants over a tiny dive bar gig.”

Now he’s pissed. And yet that anger is manifesting as what feels like tears in the corners of his eyes. If his eyeliner starts running even more, he’s gonna kill this man, and then himself. But before he can say anything the lights dim, and Highway to Hell fades out of the dated speakers.

His heart lurches against his ribs.

The tall stranger actually smiles, stepping back against his pillar. He folds his arms casually over the bass slung across his waist, settling down for the show.

The musician is half-certain he sees a wink from between the long strands of hair once again falling out of that obnoxious man-bun, but he ignores it. He doesn’t have a choice. Because in less than a second, there’s a pale blue spotlight illuminating his hunched shoulders and smudged, sleep-deprived face.

He hears his name announced half-heartedly by the same voice that pulled him out of his impromptu nap a few minutes ago, and a few faces in the spotty crowd turn to eye him expectantly.

Is this… what hell is like?

The mic positioned over the keys suddenly looks like the face of a monster, calling his name with every intention to bite. But he leans into it almost robotically, clearing his throat and hearing the sound bounce against the plaster walls.

“…Hello.” He says, a little too softly. He wonders if he ought to talk more, if they’re expecting him to introduce himself again or ask them if they’re having a good night. Somehow, this is the first time the dilemma has crossed his mind.

Then he settles with the simplest thing that comes to him.

“This song is called Atlantic.”

His shaky fingers start to move over the keys. He taps them lightly, hitting the first one too hard and compensating by barely brushing the next two. But nobody seems to notice, and he takes a deep breath, praying to any gods that can hear him that he gets this right. He knows this song. He wrote this song.

He feels the eyes of the bass player following his icy fingertips, willing them to fail as they glide across the row of white keys. And somehow, it serves to steady them, if out of spite. He steps closer to the instrument, bowing his head and jutting his knee forward as his lips graze the mic.

“Call me when they bury bodies under water…”

The room goes silent. The entire world does, and so does his mind. The notes drift softly from his mouth, falling into air full of listeners for the first time.

“It’s blue light over murder for me…”

His eyes drift close as the music consumes him.

His hands remember, now- they pull the notes out of the ivory delicately and powerfully, lapping at them like waves and stirring them with his voice in perfect cohesion.

This is who he is.

“Crumble like a temple built from future daughters, to wasteland when the oceans recede.”

Eyes are on him, freezing him and orbiting around him. But they can’t get behind his closed eyes, and they can’t tell him he’s playing his own song wrong. The worst they can do is hate it, and well… he tries not to think about that. Hopefully they've all had enough drinks to convince them this slightly awkward performance is a good one.

And hopefully he’ll be able to have enough drinks tonight that no matter what, he’ll have had a good time.

He’s nearing the end of the song, and he notices his hands going harder on the notes. “Don’t wake me up.” There’s a knot in his throat. “Don’t wake me up.”

And then there is silence.

He blinks his eyes open, fighting the shivers in his body as all sense tells him to look at the crowd. But all he can concentrate on is the black smudges on the white keys, and the blue light bathing it in a haze.

After a few seconds, his ears fill with a spattering of applause. One person “wooh!”s, and a few more nod approvingly once his eyes finally peel off his feet.

He feels a tiny smile crawl to his lips.

Then he looks at III.

The man is still leaning on his bass, watching him with dark but almost approving eyes. He doesn’t look ready to pounce on him anymore, though god knows, the great part of his confidence probably lies in how well he’s gonna mop the stage with that meager offering.

The singer looks away, trying his best not to scowl as he nods his thanks to the crowd and returns to playing, this time announcing a song he only wrote a week ago. There might be a little free-styling involved, but he thinks he’s up for it.

And thus his twenty-minute slot drags on. A slow beginning, sour glances from III, then shuffling his feet and nodding his head as he retreats to the darkness behind his eyes and lets his hands take over.

Near the end, he’s almost confident. He finds himself rocking back and forth slowly as the last notes of his final song die out, a few claps once again resounding in the tiny venue. “Thank you,” he whispers, blinking a tear out of his eye.

And then he steps off the stage.

He feels weightless, almost like he’s dreaming. The lights blur in his peripheral like jellyfish and he makes a b-line for the bar, feeling more euphoric and terrified than he’s ever felt in his life. His first show. His first show. And they didn’t boo him off the stage.

He plops down on a stool and rubs his eyes, ordering an old fashioned and hoping it will keep the elation going. Fuck, he’s tired.

Suddenly he’s being attacked. Or at least, slapped on the back so hard it zaps a few hours of energy back into his abused body.

He turns to the person beside him, blinking in confusion before he realizes that this is one of the men III had gestured to before the show. Either II or IV, he doesn’t know. The man is wearing a black t-shirt, two scythes making an ‘X’ dangling on a silver chain around his neck. his bright blue eyes are enthusiastic. “Nice show, man.” He says, taking a swig of his beer. “Loved that little bit in the middle, that depressing solo bit. You’ve got a fucking voice and an ear for those ivories, brilliant stuff.”

“Thank you.” The singer replies, hoping the compliment is genuine and not something a certain fellow bandmate put him up to. He reaches for the drink slid to him across the counter, taking a modest sip. He swirls the cherry in the bottom of the glass.

“Are you on next?” He asks, trying to make eye contact as he takes another sip. “Do you sing?”

“Fuck yeah, and fuck no.” The man giggles. “I’m on drums, see.” He points to the stage and the slightly sad, unassuming drum set in the corner. “Gonna tear it up. Hope you’ll stay.”

He’d like to stay. He loves music. But he’s afraid if he doesn’t get sleep soon, he’ll never make it home conscious. “Thanks, I’ll try.” He says, almost rubbing an eye before remembering the black puddles he’s turned them into. He sighs.

“…Tired.”

“Hey!” A new face says before the drummer can reply. It sounds like the voice of a woman, and is quickly followed by yet another unsolicited hand on his shoulder. He turns around wide-eyed.

“Nice show, kid.” Says a girl yet again no older than himself. Her head is shaved, clean black lips glistening in a smile.

“I’m Venus, the opening act. What’dya think?”

He, of course, had slept through it. But the pretty girl beaming at him can’t possibly know that.

“It was fantastic,” he says, trying his best at a smile. “V-very good.”

Something in her face tells him she might not be entirely convinced. But he’s relieved when she instantly changes the subject, manicured hand squeezing his shoulder playfully as she leans over him to eye the drummer.

“You with the next band?” She asks. Her silver snake bites flash in the neon light above the counter, stirring something in the singer's chest. He folds his hands over the sleeves of his loose sweatshirt, tipping his glass to his lips again and sighing.

The drummer takes a long swig of his own beer, nodding with a smile curling his lips. He pops off and says, “I’m II. And you’ll see me on the drums.” He directs both of their gazes towards the stage with the tip of his bottle, something twinkling in his eye as he says, “there’s III over there, and IV. Best Bass and guitar duo you’ve ever heard.”

Venus laughs, hunching casually against the singer's shoulder in a way that, if he had any more brain cells, would make him blush. He just eyes III over the rim of his glass, watching as he concentrates on tuning his own instrument. He’s talking to a guitarist in plaid pants and a black leather jacket, someone instantly nameable as IV.

“Yeah?“ the girl says. “Where’s I?”

II shrugs, big blue eyes still watching his band mates with a profound fondness; probably due to what was once the contents of the beer bottles stacking up around his elbows.

“Nowhere.” He says smugly. Then he’s swiveling around, hanging on the shoulder of his new extremely sleep-deprived friend and wiggling his fingers up at Venus. “Or maybe it’s you, huh?”

Both of them laugh, and there’s no clear reason as to why. But there’s now two attractive people hanging on either side of the singer, and he wonders how he came so easily to such an inconvenient honor. It’s all he can do to hunch his shoulders and finally take a long swig of his old fashioned, hoping he doesn’t look as terrible as he feels.

Then suddenly, IV appears, dragging II off of his stool without so much as a warning. “Five minutes, hon.” He says, swinging his guitar to the side to pull his bandmate into himself. “Let’s fucking go.”

“Nice talking to ya.” II says, smiling big and knocking his head against IV’s shoulder. “See ya after the show!”

The singer can’t help but smile, waving goodbye slowly before turning his attention to the cherry at the bottom of his glass.

“Come on.” The pretty girl says over the music, breath rustling the hair over his ear. “You look fucking beat baby, come on and hang in the back with the rest of my crew, huh?”

He slowly registers the words. “Oh-“ he looks around for a second, almost like his blurry surroundings might offer an excuse. “Like, in the back of the bar?”

“In the back room, man.” She says, and as she steps back she lands a playful smack on his shoulder. “It’s the place to cool down after a show, and you look like you could use a nap.”

He can’t argue there. Literally, he cannot. He’s about to fall flat on his face and if he doesn’t find some caffeine or sleep soon, there’s no way he’ll make it home safely tonight.

“Alright.” He says, voice already a mile deep from exhaustion. He tries to smile kindly, but his lanky body almost flops off the side of his stool as he stands and he finds himself struggling to stay composed at all. He turns after her, prepared to follow for whatever solace she’s offering. She takes his hand and leads him through the crowd, sparing a glance back at the stage just as the lights dim and the radio fades.

His eyes follow her gaze, watching as the spotlight comes on and lands on three figures on the stage. ll at the drums, beaming, IV swaying softly with his guitar, and III; taking up center stage and swiping his hair out of his eyes.

Venus drags him through some beaded curtains and the crowd gathers around the stage as slowly, they begin to play.

#i love this #THE WRITING STYLE *MWAH*#RAAHHH #i need this in my veins #and i know im gonna cry like a baby when im done or som #and then im gonna cry more #>:)#we ball #man my soul is boutta turned into finely made dust #and then be used as a spice 8dk #idk #man i like this #ill returned again with more tags once im done maybe #hehe #sleep token fanfiction #taco does the reblogos

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dipperscavern · 9 months ago

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can I be cheeky and ask for riding jon’s face 🫣🫣🫣

yes… oh yes you absolutely can….. i fell asleep last night to the thought of jon snow canonically being a munch (funny enough) — we’re on the same wavelength anon ! (written w shy!reader in mind)

you’ve heard the talk, heard the different ladies from different statures talk about “the act”, and it’s always a different answer. some say it’s mediocre… others, that it’s their favorite way to feel good, and some, say it’s terrible. you’ve heard stories of men never caring about the woman’s pleasure, and how their only purpose was to give them children. the thought made you shudder.

you, yourself, have never had time. time to freely choose who you trust enough to share that sacred experience with (or even touch yourself). the men at castle black are sworn to celibacy, and even if they would abandon their oath for a night with you, you wouldn’t let them. most of the men at the wall are untrustworthy, and you want more than just a quick fuck. even if these thoughts plague you, you’re too busy with your duties to worry about it. a thing you’ve since long accepted.

until jon snow.

you had been there for jon since his arrival at castle black. never batting an eye at his surname, always trying to make his life a little bit easier. there was also the stolen glances, the soft touches you both passed off as “accidental”, the longing for each other. you both remained as merely “close friends”, until things boiled over and you found solace in each others lips. it didn’t go farther than that, the tentative kiss being soft & exploring, and that was okay with you. you didn’t expect more. until you got more.

sometimes, you hate jon for being so easy to talk to. your shy nature has slowly melted away in his presence, and you find yourself unable to be embarrassed about the questions you ask or answer. your late night talks are what keeps jon sane. he wants to know everything about you, and you both would talk till morning if you could (you have before). the topic often shifts, landing on anything and everything on the planet. even “the act”.

imagine jon’s surprise, when the most beautiful & endearing woman he’s ever met drops her gaze to the floor and bashfully tells him she’s never cum before.

jon short circuits. he asks if you want to. he asks if he can make you. and you say yes.

jon snow is a giver. tasting a woman is a pleasure in itself, and he’d tell you as much if you asked. his mind ran a million miles an hour, thinking about all the ways he could make you feel good. it doesn’t take long before the desire to taste you takes a hold of him, and so he does.

“You’re hovering.”

he’s not wrong. you are. you thought you had heard it all, but the act of sitting on someone’s face has clearly alluded your ears. you’re unsure. you don’t want to hurt him.. suffocating the first man you lay with would have you begging the gods to open the ground and swallow you whole. and it’s not just any man, it’s jon.

the soft glide of jon’s fingers across your thigh bring you out of your head. his hands are cold. they feel nice in contrast to your own skin, nerves lit on fire.

“I don’t want to hurt you…”

“You won’t.”

“Jon-”

“Do you trust me?”

he’s steadfast in his reassurance. his thumb has been rubbing circles in your hip while you both have been talking. does he do it all on purpose, or is he just this naturally desirable?

“You know I do, but-“

“Good. Sit.”

you still hesitate, and that’s when jon takes matters into his own hands. his hands stop their tracing, and instead grip your thighs, bringing you down himself.

whatever expectations you had are exceeded tenfold. jon eats you out like a man starved. your head spins with the way you can feel his tongue, exploring you and swiping over your clit. it has white hot pleasure shooting up your spine, and your thighs quiver ever so slightly, but jon’s firm grip keeps you in place. he’s confident in his movements, precise and sure in a way that makes you see stars.

jon thinks he’s found the place where he would be content to meet his demise. you taste so good, and the pretty sounds you’re making have blood rushing straight to his cock. jon has always loved the sound of his name on your lips — whether it be small acknowledgments in passing by, or just mentions in mere conversation. but he’s found he much prefers hearing you moan it.

you’re almost embarrassed how quickly he has warmth building up in your belly, pressure building as he gives you the most pleasure you’ve ever had. he’s giving and giving and giving, and you find yourself selfishly taking all of it. he doesn’t slow down, keeping a steady rhythm that makes the cord in your stomach wind impossibly tighter.

“Jon, I’m-!”

you don’t get to finish your sentence, interrupted by the snap of the cord in your stomach that was previously tightening. pleasure overtakes your nerves, flooding your veins and momentarily removing your ability to speak (or think). jon’s tongue doesn’t stop fully, only slowing down to help you ride out your peak.

you catch your breath, feeling jon kiss the inside of your thighs as small aftershocks have you clenching around nothing. you find yourself seeking his touch (as if he hasn’t been constantly on you), your hand running along the surface of your thigh to find his own. he reaches for you, trapping your own smaller hand beneath his own. it’s reassuring, grounding you back to the present after he brought you so far over the edge.

you move to get off, to let him get up & breathe — but he doesn’t release his grip, keeping you in place. you hear him speak.

“Only once?”

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