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demonicbaby666 · 3 months ago

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Where I Don’t Belong

One shot | Supergirl Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Supergirl

Pairing: Kara Danvers x fem!Reader

Genre: angst & smut

Words: 3.7k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, jealousy, spanking, oral, fingering, strap-on use, degradation (like a little tiny bit), daddy kink, overstimulation, implied squirting, top!Kara, bottom!reader

Summary: Never one to deal with rejection healthily, you find yourself moving from bed to bed, night after night, trying to find solace in the bouts of pleasure strangers offer. But when Kara, the person who drove you to commit such deeds, confronts you, the trajectory of your evening is completely altered.

A/n: I'm rewatching Supergirl, so reap the benefits, peeps, cause after this, it's back to my JJ fic! Also, @rafesgfs didn't let me smoke until I finished this, so it's thanks to her that this was completed today <3

Festering shame that started the night at only a simmer boils over and burns your whole body, sets your skin alight and sloshes the alcohol sitting in your empty stomach in tight circles, like that of a washing machine. It's fucking filthy. Hot, sticky and filthy being pressed up against a stranger, grinding against a hardening cock in hopes that maybe the moderate length of it will taper the resounding feeling you hold for another.

Everyone deals with rejection in their own way.

Sweat marks your forehead, and the bitter smell of stale spirits permeates your nostrils. Somehow, you convince yourself all you know is the music and the empty promises the body behind you has to offer.

You hear him mutter something, groan in your ear at how you feel so good, how he can't wait to fill you, stretch you. The churning in your gut intensifies, and your throat is thick with bile. You force yourself to moan–ever the obedient woman. He wants to feel wanted; you want the same. It's easy to use each other, get lost in a bit when there will be no consequences, knowing the following morning you'll be gone, and two people will have a hollow sense of satisfaction buzzing between only their legs. It's what you tell yourself; 'It's easier this way', 'You're doing what you need to cope and survive', and 'You're only human'.

The dancing - if it can be called that - continues with your eyes shut as you try to alleviate the steady burn of desire coated in sticky shame. Addled with flashing lights, the black behind your eyelids brings you little comfort, but you're no longer naive to think anything really will, other than sex, that is.

It's mucky, the alleyway by the side of the club. The thick air smells like bad decisions and cigarettes, yet you haven't the mind to care. His lips are rough on your neck, stubble rubbing uncomfortably against your collarbone, and you're beginning to pick apart the scent of his sweat under the worn-out notes of cologne. Crazed hands palm at your breasts so manically it becomes hard to derive any pleasure from the act - you force yourself to try.

Between all the frenzy, your purse slips past your shoulder, landing on the soggy ground, and you find yourself welcoming the reprieve the opportunity garners.

You spin around, trying to squint past the inebriation to locate it. It's landed short of a murky puddle, and you thank your lucky stars that there were only a few specks of dirt littering the suede material. The effects of endless nights spent dancing and fucking echo in the cracks of your worn-out muscles, your squatting position not helping to dull the ache at all. You know the longer this position is held, the more it'll hurt to stand up, but your reflection stares at you on the surface of brown water, holding you hostage with a haunted picture painting its canvas.

Sleepless nights tug at the bags under your eyes, leaving the skin gaunt. The colour does not show, but you know, under your concealer, it's tinged purple. There's no shine to your face; highlighter only takes you so far in accentuating your cheekbones and brightening your false smile, never filling the devoid look of a rejected, broken heart.

The matter of fact is, even if your body is feeling the brunt of unfavourable coping mechanisms, it's better than lying awake in bed and relying on benign hope to see you through the dark hours of the day.

Brushing the muck off your bag, ready to discover how you would end the night, you look to where your companion should be waiting. It would either be a cheap hotel or his place, never yours; there was something too visceral about doing a stranger in a bed that not even alcohol could mask.

Except when you turn, it is not a gruff face you find but, "Kara?"

Confusion marks your face, the question of where your soon-to-be fuck had gone evident because before you can quite finish, let alone begin to ask, Kara's already opening her mouth.

"He's fine."

"Where?"

"What?" she feigns ignorance, picking at a pristine nail.

"Don't be coy, Danvers," you spit out, trying to sound as authoritative as a whisper would allow. Angry as you might be, no amount of rage or blood toxicity could divest you of the need to keep her secret. "Where is he?"

She doesn't even try to hide it—the disgust. Her face is awash with it, and her grimace would sting if she hadn't so wounded you already.

"He's lucky I didn't-" She startles as you step forward, palms jabbing at her chest and knocking her back. If it weren't for the shock of your sudden strike, you're sure she wouldn't have budged at all, but you take the small victory point all the same and continue your mission of forcing Kara off her high horse.

"You didn't what?" you ask through gritting teeth, "Beat him to a pulp? Drop him off the top of a building? Kill him?!"

Aware you were now raising your volume to a level bystanders would be able to hear, a fact proven by the far-off looks of a group of young women, you reined your fury in, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders.

"Do you know what you've put me through?" she asks without malice, her choked voice chinking your amour. It seems a genuine question, born from betrayal. Her eyes are wide and waiting, incredulous to believe you'd ever knowingly hurt her in the way you supposedly had.

"What are you talking about?"

"Every night," she begins, her jaw twitching. "I have to listen to you with them."

"You're the one that said we wouldn't work. I'm trying to move on," you sigh.

There's a change in her, a nerve hit, partially hidden by the darkness of the night, but you can sense the change. You see it dance in the narrow shadows of her face, the street lamp illuminating the crux of her soured expression. It's the same stance she's practised over the years, standing before a foe, sizing them up that she now models. Her pupils dilate as her gaze turns predatory, and her nostrils flare to accommodate the substantial drags of air she inhales. With a single stride forward, purpose chiselling at her grinding jaw, fingers move to your hips and hold you firm enough to leave bruises.

She pulls you into her. The bump of your hipbones clashing against each other vibrates down your legs and weakens your knees, leaving you at the mercy of Kara's hold.

"By sleeping with the whole of National City?" she seethes, her sharp remark losing more and more of its potency with each puff of exhaled air landing on your lips.

"What was I supposed to do? You made it perfectly clear you don't want to fuck me!" you yell, the pugnacious timbre of your voice unrecognisable in your ears.

Gasps bounce off the narrow walls of the alleyway, and incoherent whispers promise gossip will follow you and Supergirl for the next few weeks. You can see it now: a hot news story, the presenter dissecting a blurred image of you and Kara, berating, conspiring, and alluding to anything that will bring in more viewers.

"I never said that."

She has you off your feet in less than a second, one arm wrapped around the back of your knees and the other raised skyward. You're off the ground, soaring up and up, till the bodies below turn to ants and the city their humble colony.

"Kara," you screech, throwing your hands around her neck and holding tight. "What are you doing?"

"I think what I'm doing is pretty obvious." She's got a smug smile tugging at the corner of her lips that's both titillating and vexing.

"You're being obtuse on purpose, and it's not nearly as cute as you think."

Kara at least has the decency to look a little sheepish at that.

You know the city's landscape well enough to gauge where you're headed. Once a sanctuary, the lofty apartment greets you with its open windows and dim lighting. The TV is on. The faraway laughter of a sitcom audience grows louder the closer you get, igniting a flame to shed light upon shrouded memories once untouched by melancholy. Buttered popcorn still lives in the cracks of that grey couch, the longevity of their stay prolonged by a burning need shared between two people to laugh a little louder and forget the world around them for a little longer.

You're helpless to the flood of emotions that sweep over you the instant your feet touch solid ground. So much so that when Kara grows bold, dragging you closer by your hips and crashing her lips onto yours, you do nothing but cling to her.

She's warm like the first fire forged on winter's night and as dangerous as the spitted flames that crackle through damp logs, leaping towards any surface they might set alight. No matter how often the licks of fire eat away minuscule patches of skin, the brief bouts of pain they elicit will always win out in favour of staving off the cold.

The delve of Kara's tongue into your mouth seeks to devour you, plunging your stomach into the fiery pits of hell, and you let yourself believe, not for the first time, that the only way you'll ever feel alive is to live in heated moments like these.

The strangers you'd laid with took and took, using your body in much the same way you used theirs, imagining you were someone else, or happily viewing you as no one at all, just a body bred for pleasure. These dalliances may have been brief and fleeting, but they were safe. By morning, it wouldn't matter if expectations weren't met; there would be no discourse about seeing one another again. The sex was transactional. It was a dynamic you'd never have and would never want to have with Kara. What you feel for her runs deeper than one-night stands and self-destructive choices.

"Stop." You step away from the blonde, unaware of how close you are to the edge of the windowsill, until it's too late and the sharp corner of brick bites at the back of your ankles, knocking you off balance.

You want to fall, feel the wind against your back as you wait for the inevitable end. Kara doesn't let that happen. She doesn't even allow you the grace to right yourself before her hands are back on you, this time at your waist, whooshing you away from the cool breeze of the open widow.

"Are you okay?" she asks, holding tighter than strictly necessary, eyes frantically searching for any signs of distress.

"I'm fine." There's an urge to have her closer again, to feel her pressed firmly against your front, trace the seam of her lips with your tongue and discover how pliant the Kryptonian would become under your touch.

"Tell me you don't want this," she whispers, lowering her gaze from your eyes to your lips.

"I-"

"Tell me you don't want me, and I'll take you home. Pretend that none of this ever happened."

You want so badly to do that, to rein in your desires and do the sensible thing that would save you from bludgeoned heartbreak.

"You know I can't."

A beat passes, charged, and laden before the both of you pounce. Kara drags you forward, melding her mouth to yours, encouraged by your hands at the back of her neck.

"I've missed you," she mutters between kisses, holstering your legs up around her hips.

It's a puzzle how she manages to continue winding you up into a mess, nibbling and suckling at your neck whilst simultaneously navigating her way through the apartment, all the way to her bedroom. On her unwrinkled sheets, she sets you down, prying herself away long enough to rid you of your clothing. There's a flicker of something dark in her eyes as she casts her eyes up and down your naked body, stopping at the places you know your previous lovers had marked.

Cords strain in her throat, and you know she's fighting to keep sane at the sight of her property being tarnished with ugly bruises and clumsy scratches. You yank her forward, digging your fingers into the space between her gold belt and the blue fabric of her suit, aimlessly trying not to think about how vulnerable you are sitting stark naked whilst she presides over you, judging you for your poor decisions. Pleading silently for clemency, to be absolved of a crime you never knowingly committed, you stare up at Kara. You urge her to see the fidelity in your heart that will always gleam brightly in your eyes the second she comes into view. Her features remain stoic.

"You knew, didn't you?"

"I don't-" She cuts you off, ripping your hands away, flipping on your stomach and pinning you down to the bed.

"You knew that I would be able to hear you. That I would be listening to the sounds of you getting fucked over and over again." The harsh bite of her palm rings in the gelatinous flesh of your ass.

A perverse pang of pleasure shoots straight to your core, tearing a muffled moan out from your throat.

"You like that, don't you?" Kara questions, her self-satisfied lilt a clear sign she's already aware of the answer. "You want me to punish you, don't you?"

"Yes," you weakly admit, burying your shame in the sheets below.

"Don't move."

A gust of chilling air is all that's left of Kara. You can feel her moving around the room in bursts of movement, hear the drop of her clothes, and the opening and closing of drawers. A niggling need coaxes over your limbs, tempting them to wriggle and writhe with each new sound that piques your interest. You're getting wetter by the second, imagining all the ways you'll finally find your release with the only person you've ever wanted it with, the imagery enticing enough to send your want into overdrive and your hips angling forward, seeking any friction you can get against your aching clit.

"Don't even think about it." The blonde tuts, her presence welcome as she settles behind you. A hand clasps around each ankle, and Kara drags you back with little care for the hiss you make as cotton brushes against your sensitive nipples. "Get on your hands and knees."

You follow her orders, waiting for her touch that never comes. Instead, Kara crouches down, keeping a hair's width away from where you need her most and blows lightly over your sex. You shiver, trying your hardest not to flinch as her breath cools your warm slick.

"You're dripping," she comments lowly, teasing a single finger through your slit.

It's impossible not to lean back into the much-needed touch and command more with the insistent rise and fall of your hips. But Kara's prepared. She withdraws, maintaining her proximity to you. Another puff of air bristles against your cunt, this time colder.

"Kara, please," you beg, shaking with ardent need.

There's no warning to her tongue delving into your pussy, no preemptive to her harsh approach and fast licks. Left to your own devices, your arms give out. You're left crying into a pillow and gripping onto sheets as Kara runs a muck of your mind and body. The pressure's teetering on the brink of being too harsh, and no matter how much you try to pull away–ease the sting of her pointed tongue against your clit–Kara holds you open, gripping onto your thighs like a vice.

Your moans carry. They vault through the bedroom and ring between the obscene wet sounds coming from between your legs. There's barely time to release another before lips surround your bundle of nerves and drag the abused bud into a waiting mouth. It's painful and perfect all at once. There's no break from the pleasure. It's all-encompassing, surrounding you like morning fog seeping into the pores of your skin, covering every inch of your bare body in a blanket of sheen sweat.

A scream tears from your throat when Kara plunges two fingers inside you, and you use the last dregs of sanity within you to bite down on your arm. She's picking up speed faster than you can adjust. The brief milliseconds between every jagged thrust dwindle until all you feel is a constant vibration, a never-ending hum expanding over the entire length of your sopping cunt.

The coil in your stomach is wound so tight you can feel your muscles contract, and the pressure grows rigid like a metal rod along your spine. With one sharp slap to your ass, you break. Moans are pouring out of you, and your pulse is racing, but where you expect relief to flow, you only find more tension. It doesn't stop. The roaring waves of pleasure keep growing and growing and growing till you're screaming and shaking and begging for reprieve.

"One more," Kara pants, replacing her mouth with a thumb. "Give me one more baby."

How anything can hurt so much yet, yield such strong undercurrents of insurmountable bliss is mind-boggling. You're in limbo, stuck on the edge of euphoria and torment. It's a fine line that Kara forces you to walk, but with no other option, you absorb yourself into the pleasure and leave behind the bite of overstimulation.

You know you can, that you'd cum however many times she wanted. You've been riding the aftershocks of your orgasm for no less than a minute, and already you recognise the signs of your impending release. It happens fast, but what it lacks in duration, it makes up for in magnitude. Every part of you quakes, from your wobbly lip to your unsteady knees, that collapse beneath you. Thankfully, the sturdy mattress catches you, greeting you with its cool exterior–a welcome change from the heat emanating off your body.

Floorboards creek behind you, dulled by the non-stop thud of blood pumping through your ears. You want to tell Kara that she needs to stop. You need a break. The command dies on your tongue, melted into a contented sigh by the warm lips pressing along your spine and the puffs of cool air following each peck.

"Tell me when you're ready," she croons hot and heavy into your ear, sending another chill down your spine as she continues her mission of being your personal air-con.

"I don't know if I can," you reply, turning to face her, but the action is cut short when you feel the end of her prodding at your entrance. The only thing left for you to do is whimper.

Kara doesn't push any further. The tip of her faux cock leisurely slides between your slit, swinging up and down. Warmth circulates low in your stomach, and small jolts of gratification swing like a pendulum against the walls of the enclosed area. Her hands clasp around your waist, and you brace yourself for impact, expecting Kara to sink into you. The chime of your rough breathing fills the silent space. Nothing happens for a few seconds, then Kara firms her grip and guides you onto your back. You let her, unopposed to finally seeing her golden locks, shimmering eyes and bright smile.

She's hovering, holding herself on sturdy arms and waiting for the go-ahead. Even now, with desperation etched into her features, looking almost pained at having to wait, Kara still puts you first. Your wants, needs, and desires all outrank reason and logic. It doesn't matter that all she's known the past few years is heroism and gallantry–that she yearns to separate herself from all of it–she'll be Supergirl for a few seconds, applying that restraint she's had to use since the day she landed on earth. She'll hold herself back for you.

Looking into her crazed eyes, you nod. She's held back long enough for you, her family, and the world.

"I'm ready." You place your hands on her lower back, pulling Kara forward till she's fully seated inside of you, stretching you so wide it almost burns. "Fuck me like I'm yours."

The world fades away as you watch Kara's eyes harden, two piercing sapphires eclipsed by blackened lust and an impassioned demand to possess. Immediately, she begins pummeling into you at a brutal pace.

"I heard what you called them," Kara grits out, her eyes red, her hips stilling the moment her cock roots itself as far into you as it can get. "What you cried out when you imagined they were me."

"Don't stop," you plead between guttural breaths, scratching at her impenetrable skin.

"I want you to say it. I want you to tell me how you're going to cum on daddy's dick."

This is all so unlike Kara, and that very thought–that this version of her is all yours and only yours, that you get to see her feral and unencumbered by the scruples of morality and duty–has you beyond desperate.

"Yes." You hiss at the blunt edge of Kara's hip, knocking against you as she forces herself impossibly deeper. "I'm going to cum all over your cock, daddy."

Your complacency draws rewards. Kara is back to pounding into you.

There's something new occurring within you, a sudden pressure forcing Kara out. You can't understand it, not between the shudders running rampant through your body, so strong they feel more like convulsions. Her thumb is steady and swift over your clit, circling the swollen nub till everything becomes too much, and all you see are blazing white lights scattering and interspersing themselves across your vision.

You can feel your cum rush out of you, spraying onto Kara's cock the moment she leaves you. With every added second, her thumb stays working over your clit, and the push to release everything in you is flooding through the bedsheets, soaking the material through to the mattress. The white lights fade, and Kara's face emerges for only a brief moment before all you see is black.

—

"Kara?"

"Mmh."

"I won't wait forever for you to be ready," you say quietly, fingers skimming through the valley of her breasts. "I can't."

"I know," she sighs, burrowing her nose into your hair and inhaling. She closes her eyes, and you feel her puckered lips on your scalp. "I know."

Taglist: @iliketozoneout @homo-oddity @noahrex @lovelyy-moonlight @yeaiamme2 | Click here to be added to my taglist

#kara danvers #kara danvers x reader #supergirl #supergirl x reader #arrowverse #arrowverse x reader #kara zor el x reader

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xlocalxpunkx · 3 months ago

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Wish You Were Here

Logan Howlett X Fem! Mutant! Reader

Warnings: ANGST, mentions of sacrifice, sad! Logan, angst asf, mild implied smut, blood, drinking, mentions of blow

Summary: Logan replays the song ‘Wish You Were Here’ by Pink Floyd, over and over again. He met you in the new universe, bringing back all the memories of his old life with you. That night, he drank himself to sleep.

The dark, strong liquid ran down Logan’s throat. He found himself at the bottom of the bottle once again. Digging around the apartment, he found Wade’s secret stash, beginning to drink that too.

Seeing you again had been too much. The slow guitar filled his ears. Wade had showed him how Spotify worked, creating playlists for the Wolverine to listen to. You had used Spotify in his world, but he had never bothered to learn. Logan didn’t like a lot of them, but he went looking for this song after he saw you at Wade’s party.

“Logan..” you whispered, gently kissing him.

He was on top of you, making you moan and plead for him.

Logan blinked away both the memory and the tears. In his other world, you were his. You were his to protect, to love, to cherish. And you had died with the rest of them. He couldn’t save you.

Your giggling brought a smile to his face. The stupid, fancy restaurant was nice enough to take you out on a first real date. It wasn’t Logan’s style, or yours, for that matter, but he wanted to treat you to something nice. You deserved it. The long, elegant red dress you wore hugged you in all the right places. It showed off your curves. Your cleavage stared at him from across the table.

“Thank you, Lo.” You smiled at him, caressing his hand.

Logan started crying, taking another swig of the liquor. You looked the exact same as you did before. The way you smiled at him, told him your name. He had frozen, not responding. He had killed you, it was all his fault. Seeing you again was unbearable. He left and went to a bar, not sticking around the party where you were. Now, he found himself finding solace in the alcohol around the apartment. He was even considering doing the blow Blind Al had left out, but knew it wouldn’t work for him with his healing abilities. He didn’t care what it was, he just needed to not feel anything for a while. The song was your song. You had sung it every time it came on. You were more tech savvy than Logan ever was or could be.

“So… so you think you can tell… heaven from hell? Blue skies from pain?” You sang out, in the passenger seat of the truck. You and Logan were sent on a mission by Charles. You installed Bluetooth into the old pickup. Logan opted to just let you control it the entire time, but would request a song every now and then.

“Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail, A smile from a veil? Do you think you can tell?” Your slow, melodic voice brought peace to his ears. Even despite the sad lyrics, the emotion in your voice, Logan felt content to listen to you sing all day, night, years even.

He was putting himself through misery. Remembering the way you sang this song, remembering the soft words, gentle touches, passionate kisses between the two of you. The love you gave him was everything he ever wanted. You showed him kindness, when no one else had. Tears fell even more quickly.

“How I wish, how I wish you were here. We're just two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl, year after year,” You had belted out. You felt comfortable around Logan, to sing like this. You didn’t sing around the other x-men, which made Logan feel all the more special around you.

“Running over the same old ground, what have we found? The same old fears, wish you were here..” Your voice died out.

The memory faltering, being replaced by the image of Logan finding you dead.

Blood seeping from your fatal wounds. He hadn’t been here. He hadn’t been here to protect you. “Lo…” you choked out, releasing a final breath. You were in the doorway to the mansion. He knew you had tried to use your power to protect the others, sacrificing yourself first. It had meant nothing, no one was left alive.

Oh, he wishes you were here. To hold him, to comfort him. He knows you would tell him it’s not his fault, it was never his fault, but he knows it is his fault that you’re gone. You had begged him to stay that night. He would give anything to hear you sing again…

A/N: Sorry for this y’all, I’m just angsty asf and listening to this song on repeat made me think of Logan thinking about his old family. Crying in the club tbh…

#Wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool 3 #gender neutral reader #Pink Floyd #wish you were here #Logan Howlett

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necros-writing-stuff · 1 year ago

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Foxes and Minxes: Collabo'ween Day 21

GN!AFAB!Reader/M!Teacher!Bailey

Warnings: Me being very British with everything referenced here (sorry); Alcohol; Gloryhole; Hints of Yandere Reader; References to bullying; Condoms; Bailey POV and he feeling guilty; Only pronouns for reader are they/you.

Word Count: 4010

Notes: This is the telepathy mixed with teacher prompt! Bailey is not the telepathic one, though, and I kept it subtle methinks. It's also just fun to think of where Bailey might have ended up if he hadn't become the caretaker.

His paycheck is late. Again. Leighton has been holed up in his office all day yelling at delinquents, telling Bailey to come back later every time he'd popped his head in. The first round of students had set a bin on fire in the cafeteria. The second had been encouraging someone to moon passing cars at the gates. The third had popped River's tires.

Sure, the kids here were usually shitheads, but to this level? It had to have something to do with graduation coming soon - they were all in their final year of Sixth Form afterall. Most of them being 18, but not fully grasping that they were adults yet and that they could be arrested for what they had been up to.

Some of them were in his class: economics. Or rather, missing from his class today. They'd been put in the isolation room to write out lines at desks with screens on them so they couldn't talk to each other. Bailey had been in there once or twice as a kid, hell, Winter had been the one to put him in there a few times. Strange that they were now colleagues. Strange that Winter hadn't applied to be head of the school (or at least deputy) after all these years.

As it was, with the shitheads mostly missing, his class was quiet. Sixth Form classes were smaller than the secondary education classes, the other teachers who had to handle both levels had it worse. Typically UK schools have all of the desks pushed into larger tables to facilitate group work and to make larger use of the room's space, but with how bad the students are here all of the desks had to be separated to discourage certain behaviours.

Right up front was his favourite. A shy kid, huddled up with their notebook. He couldn't tell whether or not they were doing the work or absently doodling while their mind wandered. He didn't care either way. They'd finished their exams, the only reason they were still here in class was because they all had to be until they walked out with their grades or failed and were pushed out anyway. School policy. One that severely annoyed everyone who wanted a free period to wander around.

His favourite kept mostly to themself, barely interacting with the others even though they were silently chatting amongst themselves or watching the documentary he had put on to keep some of them occupied. Only educational programmings allowed. Yet another school policy. God, it was miserable here. He'd be watching Breaking Bad otherwise, all of these students had hit 18 so he wouldn't get in trouble from parents about it. But no, instead he'd had to throw on some bullshit scaremongering thing about the dangers of ecstasy pills he'd found on YouTube.

Funny thing, growth. Back when he was their age, he'd have bullied his favourite. He was as much of a little shit as the rest of them are today. Now he finds solace that at least one of them paid attention. And they'd be gone soon, replaced by another bout of insufferable 16 year olds who would be eager to push him to his limits - only to find that he knew their games and wouldn't be putting up with them. Same old song and dance every new year.

Which is why he wanted his fucking paycheck. He goes home bordering on having an aneurysm every night, the least he can have in return is his rent money. He's not late, not yet, he'd saved up enough to have reserves, but it still felt better to have it. Plus, he'd be able to get himself a takeaway tonight. That Chinese place he likes is open on a Tuesdays. Some egg fried rice, noodles, chicken curry, those salt and peppered chips. A lovely break in his recent health kick he'd been on.

Bailey sinks into his seat, sighing at the thought as he chews on a pen cap. His favourite looks up from their notebook, their eyes passing over him quickly before going back down. Not a new thing. They're a jumpy little thing like that. He'd bumped into them once and they'd whimpered as though he'd struck them. Kinda reminds him of all of those videos of foxes just squealing because they can - so he'd nicknamed them after the animal.

He's not a stranger to the signs of an abusive upbringing - the bullying couldn't have helped either. But he's not the one to offer support beyond letting them use his classroom instead of the library. They could go to Doren if they wanted a shoulder to cry on.

The bell rang then, the students mostly springing up and rushing out to head to the cafeteria. His favourite was stayed put until everyone else left.

"What you got today?" Bailey reaches under his desk, fetching a box from his bag and his homemade panini with it. Ham, lettuce, and tomatoes filled it up.

"Same as usual," you respond with a small smile. Which means…

Bailey catches the Yorkie when you throw it over to him, and in return he tosses a bag of Maltesers. That's your usual deal. You bring the Yorkie, Bailey exchanges it for whatever sweet snacks he has that day. Whichever parent it is that always packs the bars for you clearly hasn't clued in to the fact that you've grown sick of the chocolate. Luckily for you, though, Bailey could inhale a whole four-pack in ten minutes.

And with it not being a class, that also means he doesn't have to abide by the 'educational' videos only rule. At least, that's the excuse he'll tell Leighton if he's caught putting on fucking Hannibal.

But it's a nice time, eating with his favourite as they watch the show over the lunch hour. Sure beats the fucking staff rooms. Bailey might just quit if he has to hear River complain about that Whitney kid again.

It's quiet again (save the chewing), but this time it's a comfortable quiet rather than the eternally tense silence of a classroom full of kids a moment away from doing a crime to lull the boredom.

Little Foxie relaxes now that they're alone, your shoulders sloping and your eyes focused rather than shifting. Poor damn kid. But, not his circus, not his monkeys. He won't see you again after next week anyway.

"Which exam do you have left?"

"Just physics. I'm dreading it, though. Sirris kinda does best with biology, so I've had to teach myself quite a bit. Just wish Leighton would hire more teachers - Winter's started nodding off in class apparently."

Yeah, you aren't wrong there. Overworked, underpaid. And that's what separates you from the other student. That empathy you have for others. How you've held onto it for this long despite the torment of your peers never fails to amaze him.

"I'm excited to head off to uni, though. It'll be way different than here and I won't have to be around people I don't want to see." There's hope I'm your tone.

"What'd you pick again?" Bailey can barely speak intelligibly with all that chocolate stuffed in his mouth. Like he's ever been one for good manners though - and it seems to entertain you enough when you smile at him.

"I'm still not sure. Psychology's an option, but creative writing or even zoology sound cool, too."

"Zoology? Didn't know animals were your thing."

"I started thinking about that after that field trip to the forest last month. You know how Winter is trying to find all of those ruins but there's the bears and stuff that could hurt him? It would be good to work to keep people who work there safe by taking care of the animals. Oh, and the fact that they're extinct everywhere else in the UK. They're important."

Eden would disagree, but his old friend would keep to himself so long as he was left alone out there.

"That, and well… animals are honest, you know? I don't have to worry if they'll be bad like people. They'll let me know what they want, I just have to learn the body language."

Bailey snorts, finishing his Yorkie as he nods. "Aye, good point there. They say never work with kids or animals, but I used to work at the dog pound when I was your age and wrestling screaming huskies into the bath tub was easier than these lot."

You return to being pensive, head cooking to the side. "How many of them do you think will go to uni?"

How many of them will you have to avoid, you mean, judging by the nervousness that eases back into your voice.

"Not many. They'll be the better ones who do anyway."

No more chatting after that. There's not much more to say - you don't exactly go into personal stuff with your students. You've covered what was appropriate to talk about, and that was enough. That's how it always is. It's how it continues in the week to follow, until you graduate.

He'll miss you. Just a little bit. The chocolate coated apple you leave on his desk with a thank-you note with a voucher for the local Chinese place is a nice touch, too. Did he even tell you he liked that place? He can't remember, but probably.

Bailey knows why he harbours such feelings toward you. You're the kind of kid he'd hope to have if he was ever unlucky enough to spawn.

"Good luck, Foxie," he whispers to himself as he eats the apple - and what do you know - it's melted Yorkie chocolate. Maybe you should have added confectionary to your list of things to study.

A bittersweet heaviness settles in his chest, causing Bailey to rub the area as he frowns. Your note didn't have a social media handle, and now that you'd graduated you could add him on there. He'd like to keep an eye on your progress, but if you'd rather not then he understands. It's a new start for you, and he was a part of a difficult past even if he'd tried to offer safety in the storm.

He still couldn't help but feel left behind. And not for the first time, he thinks.

Dwelling on his sorrows won't do, though. It's better to get your demons out before they dig dens: so to Darryl's club it'll be tonight.

Bailey stays to fix his classroom up and get everything he needs for the summer. The kids left screaming for joy - his work hasn't stopped just because it's a holiday. He'll have to check his units and adjust all of his educational bullshit.

His flat is small, just a single bedroom and a joint kitchen and living room, but it's enough. He guesses. Bailey's younger self would kick him in the balls for ending up here instead of as some big-shot lawyer or whatever he'd had in his head back then.

Chucking his box of work shit onto his coffee table, Bailey pushes his dark hair back out of his eyes and heads to the shower. He can afford to spend half an hour in there, Leighton had sent the paycheck over. Its just what he needs, the scalding water loosening his muscles up and getting any sweat off of him from the summer heat.

The outfit he chooses to wear is simple, but it's tailored just right to make his body look it's best. Dress shirt in white, black slacks, Italian loafers, his woolen long coat. He doesn't put it on until he's eaten, though, opting to shovel pasta into his mouth with his towel around his hips.

It's still bright when he heads to the club even though the hour is late. Bailey finds himself thankful for it, the setting sun keeping some warmth as he waits for the bouncer to thin the line out and let him in.

The environment inside is energetic, music pulsing through the building as lights are focused on various dancers performing on the stages in various stages of undress. People sit around watching with drinks in one hand and money in the other, ready to throw the cash when they find a dancer that gets them going enough.

Bailey didn't bring change. Instead, he's off to the bar, taking an empty spot and ordering a whiskey. Then, he waits. Tourists come to this town for the beach (and the underground sex industry), many of them in the club tonight. Many of them good looking and looking for a fuck without ties. Luckily for one of them tonight, so is Bailey.

His eyes scan the crowd, trying to scope out some cute thing he can make eye contact with and smile at so they'll either come to him or he can go to them. Sadly, the club's occupants tonight seem to be mostly local. And he isn't paying for one of the dancers either - Bailey likes it here and he'd rather not end up banned and have to venture over to Briar's seedy little hole.

With no luck, Bailey settles for watching the dancers and listening to the conversations of groups around him for a while as he sips his drinks. Yes, multiple. If he can't fuck, he'll get a buzz and go home feeling merry at least.

That time closes in, his eyes feeling heavy before it even reaches one in the morning. Fucking hell, he's feeling his age these days. He's not fourty yet, but it's coming, and his back especially is feeling it.

Placing his latest empty glass on the bar, Bailey goes to get up when something catches his eye. Red hair, pretty face, young. Someone he doesn't recognise. He thinks. He's had enough to drink at this point that he can't see the best - but what he can see he likes.

Now it's just about getting their attention.

Another drink is ordered - this time a virgin cocktail. He's had enough alcohol, he'd like to be able to walk home without falling over. Then it's back to lounging against the bar, staring at the pretty red-head and willing them to look his way.

And willing. And willing. And… shit. Yeah, they're not interested. Plus, Bailey needs to piss.

The crowd goes up in cheers as one of the favourite dancers comes onto center stage, everyone glued to their spots as the music switches to their routine's soundtrack. It fades away as the door to the toilets swings shut behind the dark haired man. There's barely anyone else in there, and the two that are hurry to get out to watch.

Not wanting to risk having some creep take a photo of his dick while he pisses, Bailey stumbles into a stall rather than over to the urinals. He's surprised to notice a gloryhole in the side of the stall; the owners here don't like that shit happening in the open. And it's a bug fucking hole, too.

A deep sigh leaves his lungs when he relieves himself, his head falling back and his eyelids closing.

The door squeaks open, footsteps echoing as they make their way over to the stall right beside his own. Swearing under his breath, Bailey keeps an eye out for a phone coming under or above the stall. The stalls don't save you from pervs with cameras, but it does mean you can trap them in the stall and threaten them until they hand the phone over and you can delete what they took.

"Hey, sorry, I couldn't hear you out there."

Bailey's eyebrows crease as he shakes his dick and puts it away. Are they talking to him?

"Yeah, no, I'm in the bathroom now. What did you call for?"

Nope, not for him. Nice voice though, bit of an accent. Definitely not from around here. Could be his tourist.

"I- really? Really? You promised I'd be able to stay out the full night! You always do this, you always-"

Oh, yikes. Controlling partner, it sounds like. Bailey knows he should go, but to leave now while they're arguing? To interrupt it? That feels more awkward than to hide and pretend he isn't there until they leave first.

That accented voice only gets more upset, causing Bailey to cringe and hold his breath.

"No! No, I'm not doing this anymore. We're done, you fucking freak! Yeah? Yeah? Go ahead, burn my shit, like I care."

Oh, good for them, he guesses. He can still hear the tears in their voice. Tears that evolve into sobs when they hang up and, by the sound of things, sit down on the toilet seat. Time to go, Bailey thinks. He'll be really quiet about it, though.

Which he fails at. Immediately. His loafers slip against the tile and his fist flies into the wall. Bailey doesn't hurt himself, but those sobs cease immediately.

There's some flashes of movement beyond the glory hole, flashes of red hair going past while Bailey remains completely frozen.

"Are you okay in there?"

"I should be asking you the same thing," he shoots back. "But yeah, I'm good. Caught myself."

"Guy from the bar, right? You were looking at me."

Ah, so they're avoiding the question. Fair enough. He can't blame them for not wanting to tell a stranger about the partner they just broke up with.

"Yeah, sorry, didn't know you were taken." He grunts as he finally stands back up right, smoothing out his shirt and working on tucking it back in.

"Were." It's whispered, accompanied by the shuffle of clothes. He'll leave them to it, he supposes.

"I, ah. Good luck with your-"

They weren't pulling their pants down to take a piss. They were pulling them down to press their pussy against the glory hole, giving Bailey a good view of it.

"You have a condom? I'm free now so…"

Bold little minx, aren't they? Forward with what they want, but responsible enough to ask for a condom. Which Bailey would have forgotten if they hadn't mentioned.

"Yup," is all he says, the 'p' popping as his pants come down again. Fishing out the condom from his wallet, Bailey keeps the packet held between his teeth as his hands get to work. One wraps around his cock, the other pressing against their pussy and thumbing their clit.

Such a cute giggle they have, such a cute little cunt they have. Just what he needs to keep make his day after all of the goddamn stress. He's clumsy though, the drink and the two different movements of his hands making his ministrations rough. Not that the minx next door seems to mind.

He's quick to harden, ripping the condom packet open before rolling it down on himself.

"Just spit on me, I don't want to wait longer."

Fucking hell, yeah he can do that. Leaning down, Bailey rolls his tongue around in his mouth, gathering spit before drooling it all over their cunt. And he just can't resist giving it a lick when he picks up how good it smells.

They laugh again, wiggling their hips so that his tongue teases their clit for a few seconds before he pulls away. Then it's right to what they both want.

The angle is awkward, standing up so straight his back leans away from the wall as he presses himself in. Completely worth it when he feels how tight and warm it is - even around the condom they feel like heaven.

Reaching up, Bailey tightly grips the top of the stall dividing wall to keep himself steady while he pumps in and out. Nice and slow to start, nice and slow to find the angle he likes and a rhythm that makes sense. He keeps his head down, watching himself sink in. Such a good sight to commit to memory.

The minx starts whimpering, gyrating their hips to demand more from Bailey. Strange that the whimper seems familiar, flashing images of a certain fox-like ex-student through his head. And a flash of heat through his lower belly.

"Fuck," Bailey hisses, shaking his head and trying to focus on the here and now. Completely inappropriate to think of you right now. He's never thought of you that way, and he won't start now.

But then the minx whimpers again, leaving Bailey with the thought of his little Foxie bent over his desk, taking him rough and hard while they both watch the door from fear of being caught.

You're gone. He won't see you again. It's not like he'll have to look you in the eye on Monday and face the shame of having had these thoughts. What's the harm in indulging in them when they make his skin feel so aflame?

"Yes, Sir, more!"

Oh that fucking helps. Sends his mind reeling about how nice you always were, how you knew what he wanted from you whether it was your behaviour, work, or conversation. It would translate into the bedroom, Bailey knew that much. You'd be such a good little one for him, on your back with your knees held to your chest so he could get a good view of what's between your legs. What he'd be tasting, savouring.

"So good, Sir, so good," the minx whines, that one fucking title the sweet spot in it all.

Bailey snarls, pumping hard and fast right into them, right into you, his brain stuck in a world where you're in his apartment, laying in his bed and clinging tightly to him while he makes your anxiety seem out of your body with every hit against the slick, gummy walls of your sweet cunt.

It creeps up on him, electricity sparking up his spine as his balls tighten. Bailey hasn't come this close to finishing so quickly in years, a realisation that sobers him for a second. His teeth dig into his lower lip, but it doesn't slow down the building explosion that hits him.

He loses control of his hips, feeling like they're being pushed forward by an unseen force as he buries himself into the minx, spilling spurt after spurt of his seed into the condom. It drains that burst of energy he'd had, his cock slipping out of the minx as he struggles to stay standing.

"You okay in there, handsome?" There's no mocking in their voice, just amusement.

"Shit - sorry. I'll finish you off, here-"

"Nah, it's all good. My phone won't stop going off and if I don't answer that bastard really will burn my shit. I left my mother's necklace over there so I should head over."

"Don't go alone if you can help it," Bailey grunts, putting his clothes to right again and disposing of his condom in the bin. Next door, he hears the minx putting their clothes to right as well.

"Yeah, I'll grab my friend on the way out. She's probably out of money at this point anyway."

Their stall opens, footsteps heading off. Bailey isn't long behind.

Two seconds. Two seconds of seeing them clearly in the mirrors above the sink as he passes. Two seconds where he sees them fixing their hair - an obviously fake wig that he can make out clearly since the drunkenness has faded. Two seconds where he can make out their face in the bright light of the bathroom.

One extra second when you turn back, panic in your eyes at the knowledge that he'd realised who you are. The panic fades though. Instead, you're smiling in a way he's never seen you smile before. It's confident. Fox-like.

"Or maybe I'll just head back home since there's no ex-boyfriend. Could go back to yours. Bet you'd like more of a taste, Sir. I'll even hold my legs apart for you."

Bailey can't move. Can't chase after you and demand answers as you scurry off, your hips swaying in that outfit. Can't believe his cock is hardening again, and that you'd know just what he wants. Just like he'd thought you would.

Why do you always know what he wants?

#collaboween #spill my guts #necro's fics #bailey the caretaker #gn reader #afab reader #cw alcohol #yandere reader #degrees of lewdity

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yoyokf1 · 5 months ago

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The Sun, the Earth, and the Moon

Summary: Not too sure what to put here cause I dont really know what this is about

A/N: I was kinda imagining a story where the mc was in love with a guy but he didn't love her back and idk i put a bunch of references to the balls in the sky in it so yeah also i know nothing about how space works so dont call me out, i doubt anyones going to really see this but i also have no idea how tf to use tumblr im just bored so try not to judge too hard

Warnings: slight mentions of mental health problems? maybe ED's or SH oh and very very slight mentions of drugs/alcohol, bad writing (i dont understand the english language and its the only one i know), is angst a warning?? i think this is angsty, yapping.

WC: 491??

It didn't take much to fall in love with him. He was the Sun, bright and overwhelming in every aspect of his being. I was nothing but the Earth rotating meaninglessly around him. Without him I would be reduced to a dark point in the universe, a void with no life.

My affection for his was endless and I would do anything he wished just to see him happy, to see him smile and laugh, to know that I was the one who made him do it.

Unfortunately though, love is not always reciprocated, and he had no need for me in his love, not in the way that I needed him. So, I hide my feelings, for his friendship is better than him not being there at all, some light is better than none. What more could I want when just a glance in my direction gives me hope and strength so that I stay another day? And why should I ask for more when he is already happy shining his brightness fully on someone else? Why would I be selfish when it is directed to someone more deserving of it than I would ever be.

How could the Sun ever love the Earth? The Earth with its inner poisons and deadly mindsets, how could the Sun love something that is sick? Something that is dying from its own actions of cutting, starving, poisoning.

Yes, it is better that he is shining his light onto someone else.

So, I drift away to be with the Moon, dark and brooding, a reflection of the Sun being the only thing that makes him alive to me. The Moon circles me just like I circle the Sun, but he does not truly care for me. We are both just a means to an end to one another, a person for which we can find solace in as we slowly self-destruct ourselves, hiding in each other's embrace and silently wishing that we were different people.

And the Sun does not care, why would you care when all life revolves around you? Why would you care when you already have everything you need? Why would you care if I stopped showing up? Why would you care if I slowly disappeared? Why would you care at all?

The Moon revolves around me, for I am his darkest desires and his guilty pleasures, he does not truly know or understand me. But who does? I entertain him as when I look at him, I see glimpses of the Sun, even when they are polar opposites. Perhaps it has something to do with the way they both neglect my needs. But everyone is leaving, the Moon is drifting away from me and leaving me alone, and as I too gradually depart from the Sun's warm embrace he does not notice, I am just a means to an end, why would someone want me for who I truly am?

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tuatism · 1 year ago

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just posted something similar on main but i think i can explain better when i connect it to klaus so to my tua blog this thought goes.

bug like an angel (mitski) is so four "klaus" hargreeves coded

klaus is a lonely character. this is something that's true throughout all the seasons, and we can see how in each season he finds a new replacement for personal connections or worse; a replacement for the love he had lost with dave. in season one he had already been a drug addict (which i will touch on in another point), in season two he seeks solace in his "alternative spiritual community"/cult, and in season three he looks for (familial) love with his father.

going further on season three's replacement, i think that it is by far the most impactful (whilst not being particularly relavent to how he relates to the song, but i want to talk about it whilst i'm thinking of it). klaus looked for familial love with an alternate version of his father because, in part, i think he saw some of himself in that reginald. he saw someone who was constantly drugged and was treated as a joke by his family and was essentially discarded whenever he wasn't useful. sound familiar? of course, that reginald wasnt actually much like klaus, but it's easy to see how if you're desperate for someone, anyone, to connect to you'd strive hardest to find it in the father who never loved you. the father who's affections you've been starved of your whole life. anyways, moving on

i think the direction i'm taking this one is pretty obvious; dave.

throughout the show there's multiple (sometimes rather subtle) moments where klaus clearly wishes for nothing more than to be with dave again. in a cruel joke from fate, it's discovered that klaus cannot permanently die, which only makes it harder for him. i believe that part of why he has such a difficult time moving on is due to the fact that dave died. obvious point, i know, so let me explain further. with most relationships, they'll end mutually. be it a calm break up, cheating, a fight, family issues, etcetera; most relationships have something that can clearly be defined as an "ending point". klaus and dave never got this, especially since klaus can communicate with the dead. in theory, klaus could talk with dave whenever he wants (at least in season one he could), so it'd be hard to really consider the relationship as being over.

after dave dies (and before the slight time reset) klaus swears to go sober so that he can see dave. he finds during the torture scenes that the only way for him to speak with ghosts is to he sober, but he knows that (in that moment) he wouldn't be able to go through with it unless he's physically restrained. he made the conscious decision to reach out to diego for help, hoping he'd be able to go sober for dave. time is rewound slightly and his meeting with dave and the whole restraint thing is undone, causing klaus to make different decisions regarding his sobriety. he still tries, yes, but in the end he has to have the drugs physically slapped away from him. in season two he is also sober, albeit much more successfully. he, once more, comes horribly close to relapsing to drinking when he goes to the store and buys all manner of alcoholic beverages (although they are all dropped and promptly broken when he arrives at his home).

im choosing to interpret this lyric in the less literal way because i think thats more interesting to interpret with klaus. i've already touched on him seeking love in other forms, so i won't dwell on that, but it may be touched on.

klaus is at rock bottom, in season three we watch him lose basically everything. he lost his one and only love, he lost his cult (although the degree to which he wanted them is debatable), he misplaced his trust, and he lost all hope to see dave again. he knows that there's no use in it, yet he can't help but yearn to be with dave. deep down klaus knows that not only can he not die, but the dave in the new reality may very well be out there somewhere; along with the fact that he will never be klaus's dave no matter how much he wishes. he will never be truly happy again, no matter how much he wishes.

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lost-my-sanity · 7 months ago

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Late night thoughts under the stars

The crew was winding down from another celebration, many drinks were shared, songs were sung, and copious amounts of meat was eaten. I was tired but not enough to start heading to bed. I had a lot on my mind… well, he was on my mind again.

The moss haired swordsman, the first mate of my crew. Lately things have been a bit tense between us. We’d often gravitate towards one another, finding solace in our conversations. I’ve always found him attractive, the rippling muscles underneath his shirt, the way he swung his swords with such intensity and precision, and how no matter how hard he tried, his internal compass was completely broken.

Zoro was one of the people I felt closest to on the crew. We’d often take naps next to one another, sit near each other during parties and celebrations and even late at night when either of us was supposed to be on watch, we’d find ourselves deep in conversation. We were dangerously close to the point where we could easily call ourselves some sort of relationship other than platonic. There was a few instances of drunken kisses stolen under the stars, but in the morning it was as if it never happened.

As I was lost in my thoughts of the swordsman, it was as if he felt the calling of my heart because he sat down next to me and wrapped a strong arm over my shoulder.

“You’re doing it again.” He stated bluntly, a small smirk upturning the corner of his mouth.

“What do you mean, Zo’?” I asked, brows knitted in confusion.

“You’re getting lost in your thoughts. What’s going on in that mind of yours?” He stated, the hand on my shoulder giving a soft yet firm squeeze.

“Do you really wanna know?” I ask in a soft voice, not sure if I was ready to open this can of worms or not.

“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t care” he spoke, words firm and honest.

“Well… I’ve been thinking about you… thinking about us.” I said, taking a deep breathe waiting on his reply.

“Oh?” He breathed out as well.

“What about us?” He asked, and eyebrow raised

“How I’m tired of pretending I don’t like you… how we should just get our heads out of our asses and give us a real shot”

I spoke, determined that if I was going to confess that I’d make sure there was no way to misinterpret it.

“Well..” he paused for a moment, his face blank for a second, which caused my heart to beat in my chest even harder.

“Okay…” he stated blinking slowly.

“I.. I guess I’m in the same boat” he confessed as well.

My eye brows shot up, not really believing that this would be what he would say.

“Okay… let’s do this then.” He stated, firm in his resolution.

“You really mean it Zo? There’s no going back once we start this.. I don’t do anything by halves you know this” I said with a smile.

“Yeah, I know you don’t” he joked back.

“Honestly, I think we’re ready. Why should we wait and pretend that we wouldn’t be good together? We basically are dating anyway, but now I’ll be able to officially call you mine” he spoke, rubbing my shoulder softly.

“You’ve been mine for a while now, and I’ve been yours.. I have no desire to entertain the idea of being with someone else.” He spoke, and a wave of relief washed over me.

I pulled him in closer, his nose touching my own, as I stared into those beautiful eyes I’ve spent countless nights dreaming of, I knew this was the right choice. I pressed my lips against his for the first time without the added courage of alcohol in my system.

He returned it in earnest, matching my rhythm easily. It was like we were in perfect sync. I pulled my head back and rested my forehead against his, knowing that this was just the beginning of something incredible.

#zoro #roanoa zoro #one piece x reader #one piece imagine #one piece

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kudzuoath · 1 year ago

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No one asked for this but I’m writing about Temperance/Odette

• Her given name is in fact Odette. When she joined the Dawning Star Temple, she took the name Temperance. It’s the name she prefers.

• abandoned at six in Baldur’s Gate by her mother. Born in Elturel and lived the first six years of her life there. Was in Baldur’s Gate because it was a stop on the way to Neverwinter where her mother was traveling in order to marry her second husband.

• Kell Corners — or “Kell of the Corner” found and tried to take care of her. Was human, a conman, and an alcoholic. Genuinely liked kids and tried to do right by them where he could but was also not above using them, especially to fund his addictions. Ran a sort of small time thieving ring and paid lip service the actual thieves guild.

• Through Kell, she met Eldrey, another tiefling living on the streets who was two years older and extremely charismatic. Eldrey very quickly became her best friend, and both girls eventually broke from Kell and started running their own cons.

•Until, at 13, she tried to rob a drow woman named Saraid who served in the Dawning Star Temple. Rather than alert the guards, she brought her back to the Temple and had her work there to pay off her debt. Whilst in the temple, she found solace for the first time in her life — and discovered a genuine talent for herbalism and alchemy. So much so, Saraid petitioned to take her on as an apprentice and she became a ward of the temple.

•whilst working there she met a half-drow her age named Sage who was skilled with herbalism and medicine, as well as a very, VERY tall tiefling boy named Shepherd, who worked in the kitchens twice a week and had a bafflingly loving and large family. They became a very close knit group.

• Eldrey and Temperance still remain friends through all of this, and even mange to stay close. Close enough that Eldrey is her first kiss and first relationship when Temperance is sixteen. Though this fractures fairly quickly as Eldrey makes no secret of how much she resents Temperance taking up with the people on the Temple and leaving her to run her cons alone. Accuses her of putting on airs and looking down on her despite this not being true. The resulting argument end with Eldrey completely vanishing from her life.

• until three years later, at nineteen, Eldrey returns and asks for Temperance’s help. She claims to have messed up bad and to need a place to hide. Convinces Temperance to let her stay in the temple in secret.

•only Eldrey is lying. And one night a week after being allowed to stay, she lets in more people, who then break into the inner sanctum of the temple — where an artifact known as Lathander’s Litany was kept. A phylactery containing a tiny piece of the soul from hundreds of years worth of his followers who earned the honor of immortalizing their power and knowledge within it. In times of strife, one could attune to it and be granted divine power akin to an aasimar (of the scourge variety).

• Temperance discovers this plot to steal it and charges in to try and stop Eldrey — thinking she can stop her oldest friend before she makes a terrible mistake. Only she’s discovered by the head of the Temple as well as Saraid. Chaos ensues. the phylactery breaks in Temperance’s hands and all those soul fragments wind up in the closest container they can find — her. Naturally this knocks her the fuck out.

• when she wakes up she’s already in a cell in Wyrms Rock and learns both Saraid and the head of the temple are dead. As well as several other clergy members. Discovered as she was in the inner sanctum she was blamed for the deaths and the missing artifact — something not helped by the event being very blurry in her mind and the myriad whispers of the extra souls in her head. Not to mention the grief and the fact that Sage comes to visit to scream at her for her betrayal.

• Temperance spends eight years in prison. During which she discovers what happened to the Phylactery, and to her. It’s in prison she makes her Oath of Vengeance, which is upheld not by a god, but by the myriad souls from the phylactery. Something that allows her a modicum of temperance (lol) over the righteous fury she holds inside her.

• at the end of the eighth year, Temperance manages to break out of prison and seeks help from Shepherd. Who surprisingly believes her when she tells him she didn’t know what Eldrey was planning and does t know who killed Saraid and the head of the Temple. He helps her get out of the city, and suggests she go by a new name if she doesn’t want to get caught. He also gifts her with a pair of earrings enchanted to work like an amulet of non-detection.

•so she is Odette again. And she wants to find Eldrey. Her oath as much as demands it. For three years she searches — righting wrongs and putting down the wicked as she goes

•then she’s found by bounty hunters, and being dragged back to Baldur’s Gate. Only she has the good luck to be zapped aboard the nautiloid instead.

#temperance crier #Odette crier #tav backstory #the phylactery does more fucked up things to her #but this was already getting long

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icey--stars · 11 months ago

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Part 8: 2.2k words, Eris's POV

Series Index

A story of finding solace in another. Azriel finds himself needing danger in a peaceful world, and what is better than the Autumn Court, ruled by his old nemesis, Eris Vanserra?

WARNINGS: drug and alcohol use, scars/referenced trauma

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

~ 1 week later ~

Eris

Eris was finally finishing up the mountain of paperwork on his desk, writing one last letter to a farmer which should’ve gone to one of his council members to deal with (specifically his economics one) but it’d slipped through and Eris had already let it sit there for a week. The farmer deserved a response.

He contemplated the use of “it’s” versus “its” for a moment before finally signing it and putting it into an envelope to be delivered by a messenger tomorrow.

Taunya wagged her tail from where she was lying under his chair, leaning into his touch when he gently stroked her head.

However, a wad of shadows appeared in front of his desk and began swirling rapidly before a very particular male appeared.

Eris raised a brow, staring at Azriel blankly.

The male stared back wordlessly. Eris finished the wax seal without looking, sending the letter to the messenger rooms to be delivered with a brief flare of flame. Azriel’s stare didn’t break still.

As Eris took in more from his peripherals, he realized that the male looked… more worn than usual. He looked tired. The circles under his eyes were deeper and his wings sagged more than usual and his hands seemed limper than usual.

It was odd to see the shadowsinger so off-balanced. Eris didn’t even have a damn clue why. According to all reports, the world was entirely still peaceful and unless some revolution just began in the Night Court, then Azriel should be enjoying some more free time than usual.

And maybe that was the problem, Eris deduced.

Finally, Azriel broke the stare and looked down at his feet. “Want to play a game?” He asked.

Eris shrugged. He didn’t have a reason not to. “What game?” He asked.

“Maybe chess? Or some other card game?”

Eris hummed. “Chess sounds good. I have a good game set in my room. Any reason for the sudden appearance, Azriel?”

Azriel shrugged. A movement that seemed slower than usual. The male had less… Well, fire to him tonight. The male seemed muted for some reason. “What can I say? I was bored,” Azriel answered.

“I hope you’re good at chess, Azriel,” Eris said in a challenging tone. “Because otherwise, I’m going to wipe the floor with you.”

“You can try,” Azriel said, smirking a little.

Good, good. He was perking up a little.

Truthfully, however, he did miss that night they played poker for long hours into the night. It’d been fun and a good break from… everything. He felt less stressed than usual and could easily tell that the shadowsinger was more at ease than ever before. It seemed like Azriel wasn’t completely emotionless as he claimed to be, with how something seemed to be affecting him.

Obviously, something was bugging the spymaster. Something big or something small, he didn’t know. But it was certainly something.

Eris put on his signature smirk, raising a brow at Azriel. “Very well then. We shall duel. But first, let me finish cleaning up and organizing my paperwork.”

Nothing was incriminating on the table, so Eris didn’t care as Azriel watched him slide different letters into different piles and papers into drawers and then put away his ink and pen. He briefly pulled out a lead pencil to write down what each pile was so whatever sleep-deprived future Eris dealt with the next batch of paperwork wasn’t left completely floundering. Eris changed his organizing categories every time he put things away it seemed like.

He finally stood from his desk, smiling as he saw Taunya standing as well, wagging her tail happily and then bouncing over to Azriel as well, demanding pets.

Azriel hesitantly pet the hound on her head and Eris smiled. “Taunya tends to be a love bug, so you’ll have to excuse her.”

Azriel turned his gaze to the hound who was trying to lick his palm while he scratched behind her ears. “She’s cute,” he commented. “Percy’s ears were more perky than this.”

Eris chuckled. “I’m surprised you remember his name,” Eris admitted. “But I have to tell them apart somehow, right? Taunya’s always had droopier ears.”

“How do you tell any of them apart when they look so similar?” Azriel asked. Curious. Eris could work with curious Azriel, especially over his puppies.

“Percy has scars and the siblings tend to be pretty easy to pick out. Some are lighter colored, some have droopy ears and some are more muscled. Like the equivalent of an Illyrian in a dog.” Eris glanced at Azriel to see his reaction to his little joke.

“An Illyrian, you say? Which ones?”

“Cadoc, Pyro,” Eris listed off. “They have a bit more beef to them than the others. You’d notice if you were around them more.”

“Hmm,” Azriel hummed, smiling a little as he looked down at Taunya.

He looked up after a moment. “So where’s this chess set?” He asked, putting his hand back at his side, hiding it behind his hip.

Eris’s brows furrowed for a moment before he realized and simply made a hand gesture to walk out of his office.

Azriel really was self-conscious about those hands. Eris had been watching his hand pet Taunya and the shadowsinger must’ve thought differently. Eris didn’t even know what happened to them, just that the male’s hands were covered in burn scars and always had been.

Sometimes he wondered, but he kept it to himself. But the fact that Azriel felt he had to hide it had a weird sort of rage rumbling within him.

Eris led the way to his bedroom, snapping his fingers to summon the fancy chess set from his closet onto the table from before.

Both males moved to sit down in their seats from before while Taunya nudged Azriel for more pets.

Azriel stared at the dog for a moment and Eris watched them interact curiously. His dogs liked Azriel, oddly.

“Demanding love bug,” Azriel muttered just loud enough to be caught by Eris’s ears.

Eris smirked and blew a heated breath across the chessboard to clear it of dust and dander. It was a wooden set, with the dark pieces set in front of Azriel and him with the lighter ones.

“Which pieces do you normally play, Azriel?” Eris asked.

“White,” the male replied. “But-“

Eris turned the board around. He had no qualms about going second. He’s played both pieces equal times anyway. Some of the people he used to play in the military preferred white. Some preferred black and Eris? He didn’t give a shit.

“Alright then,” Azriel muttered and moved one of his middle pawns forward beginning their first game.

Eris mirrored the move exactly, looking up to watch Azriel. The male showed nothing, but it was quite interesting to see his eyes darting around. The male moved quickly and Eris followed. He was good at chess. In his free time, he sometimes got bored enough to read strategies for it. Some people would see it as a game, but as a general for a large portion of his life, he saw it as useful.

After all, it was like moving troops into places where they couldn’t be attacked by a fast-moving troop like rooks or knights while also keeping an eye out for the others. All in a way where sacrifices were made to move forward to complete the job: kill the king.

The first parts of the game were pretty fast, but as they slowly began to capture pieces, they started to take longer turns to examine the board, eyes flitting around, planning in their heads. Eris had to hand it to Azriel, however. He was a very good chess player.

“Do you have anything to drink?” Azriel asked after capturing his queen.

Eris lifted a brow. “What do you want?”

“Alcohol?”

Eris snapped his fingers and produced some wine for Azriel. “It’s from the Day Court,” Eris explained.

Azriel hummed and began to drink it a little. Eris held back a little grin of victory. It seems he must have a good guess as to what the shadowsinger’s tastes were.

“Are you gonna make me drink alone then?” Azriel asked. “Or pull out a cigarette like last time?”

Eris felt himself bristle immediately at that comment. “I’m surprised you remember that part at all,” he replied calmly, not looking up.

“That’s not answering me,” Azriel said, setting his wine glass aside.

“And? You didn’t ask something that dignified a response. Only an action. The answer is no since you’re-”

“Oh shut it,” Azriel interrupted. “We were playing chess just moments ago and now you’re getting pissy.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen me pissy, Azriel,” Eris said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m at ease right now.”

Azriel rolled his eyes. “I’m just saying, it’s weird to drink alone.”

“You want me to pull out a cigarette then?” Eris asked, bewildered.

“Sure,” Azriel mused.

Eris’s brows furrowed in confusion. “You are a very interesting male, Azriel.”

He summoned one of his cigarettes with a wave of his hand. It was already settled between his fingers elegantly. “Care for one?” He asked, pointedly looking at the other male.

“This is enough,” Azriel said, raising his glass into the air briefly. “I’m not getting drunk like last time though.”

“Oh shadowsinger,” Eris chuckled. “I must confess, seeing you asleep on my rug was a sight to behold.”

Azriel muttered something to himself. “You won’t be seeing it again,” the male at last replied.

Eris shrugged and breathed in the mirthroot, his eyes fluttering shut at the immediate bliss that it brought. Maybe he was a bit more tense than he thought. “I never thought I’d see you so embarrassed, Azriel,” Eris said, watching the smoke trail from the cigarette toward the ceiling.

“I’m not-”

“You are,” Eris said. “Your little shadows tend to move faster when you are.”

Azriel’s eyes narrowed and he glanced at the shadowy bits moving around him a bit more erratically than usual. “How do you know?” Azriel countered.

“I’ve seen you enough times, Azriel. Your poker face is impeccable, but your shadows are not under your constant control and can give some clues away. Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t help anyone in any board game like this, merely a way to see a bit more than you put out.”

Azriel’s jaw tensed before he sighed. “It’s your move,” he said, gesturing to the board.

“You killed my queen, you ass,” Eris mused with a little tilt to his lips.

“You left it open,” Azriel protested, spreading his wings slightly in a movement that had Eris focusing on those claws at the tips.

Eris rolled his eyes, breathing in another swig of mirthroot before moving one of his pawns forward. He had Azriel right where he wanted him. The male just couldn’t see it.

Azriel huffed. “Really? A pawn?”

“Are you going to tell me to play a different way?” Eris asked, smirking. “I thought you were good at this, Azriel.”

Azriel rolled his eyes and leaned over onto his knees, examining the board at more of an eye level. Eris smirked. He had the male right where he wanted him.

Azriel moved one of his rooks and Eris was even more pleased. He just left his king perfectly out for attack.

“You know, I didn’t take you initially for a mirthroot smoker,” Azriel mused as Eris pretended to study the board silently.

He glanced up, meeting those hazel eyes. They looked more brown than green right now, but he could still see a few flecks of that irresistible green. It tended to come out when the shadowsinger was mostly covered in darkness, but the warm light of the Forest House brought out the brown.

“Are you judging me?” Eris asked, his metaphorical hackles raising again.

“No,” Azriel responded. “I’m curious. You hide it well and most would assume the smell comes from your council.”

Eris rolled his eyes. Many members of his council were smokers, but they rarely did it during meetings. Only once or twice in which they were immediately judged silently. “You might be surprised, Azriel, but being the High Lord of a court is not everything it’s cracked up to be.”

Azriel’s lips twitched. “I’m well aware of that fact, Eris. Rhys is my brother.”

Eris rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going to share the true reason for his smoking. Not ever.

“How strong is the scent?” Eris asked curiously.

“Not really noticeable,” Azriel admitted. “But I suppose here it’s a lot stronger.”

Eris hummed and took another deep breath of the drug. His eyes fluttered, but he forced them open. “Right,” he mused and then moved his piece directly into the perfect place to checkmate Azriel.

“Checkmate,” he said.

Azriel stared at the board before sighing in defeat. “Good one,” he commented and stood, his wings stretching out behind him. “I suppose I’ll be off then. Good game.”

Eris smirked, standing as well and offering out a hand as Azriel chugged the last few gulps of wine. “Good game, shadowsinger. Perhaps we could play again sometime.”

Azriel shook his hand shortly and then quickly pulled away. His hands went behind his back. Right. The burn scars. Azriel had many more cracks than Eris initially realized. That usual rage at Azriel hiding them returned, but he hid it well.

“Perhaps,” the shadowsinger said before he was gone. Eris rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers to clean up the chessboard and wine glass. The sky was dark and Eris sighed, his eyes fluttering shut at last in relaxation.

Night normally meant he could let down his guard more because nobody was going to “awake” their High Lord from his slumber unless it was urgent. Good.

↢ 『 ☾ 』 ↣

TAGLIST (see post for getting added)

@bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @bubybubsters, @fieldofdaisiies, @ladylokilaufeyson5, @marina468, @mali22, @skyesayshi

and the 🌟 of the show: @catboyjamesbond

Ask in the comments to be added!

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #acotar fic #azriel #eris vanserra #eris acotar #azris #azris fanfiction #mywriting #acotar gift exchange

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thvnderr · 1 year ago

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❀ *◦ christopher bang. agender. he/she/they/any. undefined. ⇝ hey, isn’t that lynx park? i think that the twenty-six year old from anchorage, alaska works as a gravedigger and groundskeeper at gothland sepulture & mausoleum, but outside of that people describe them as black eyeshadow smeared down after a night wasted away, dirt under the fingernails, coughing burning ichor during mass. i hear they are crude & hopeless, but they are also known to be loyal & resilient. consider giving them a visit at their home in the black dog motel and get to know why they’re called the tower.

CW for abusive household, wrong imprisonment, crude themes. TW for alcohol mention, death, murder, violence and politicians

What can you expect from someone who was lulled to sleep with screams and crashing glass? Someone who watched telemarketing until their eyes didn't let them be awake until sunrise when things were more quiet? Someone who would tiptoe into the dirty living room of the apartment just to verify that their mother was still breathing before leaving on their own to school.

"The apple never falls far from the tree", people would usually be weary about them even if Lynx never really did anything worthy of suspicion, but the whole opposite. They carried on with life anyways, because if there was something remarkable the counselor had said was that bullies get high on victim behavior and attention; but he had forgotten to mention that standing for oneself is also important. So Lynx stood heinous acts one after the other, until the wrong words made them snap and throw themselves fist first against the attacker. They were both suspended and they were devastated; nothing worse than having to spend time home.

The family moved shortly after being evicted from the apartment and managed to spend their savings in an old RV that was parked in Anchorage. Lynx thought this fresh start could be good for them, but the fights continued, the side eye from people lingered and their wishes of becoming an architect were soon stomped on.

Time passes by and they change empty playgrounds for loud parties, candy for cigarettes and juice box for alcohol. High school is decent; they find a good group of friends that included the then junior Fallon Amarin and quickly find some solace in a bunch of misfits that had it shitty at home as well. The growing hope of people that believed in them is taken away when police showed up at the trailer. "Lynx Park? We need you to come to the station for a few questions".

Some cult killings had taken place in the woods and witnesses had identified Lynx as the last person seen with the victim; not only that, but the bloodied blade that was Lynx's property had been the murder weapon. They argued that yes, they had argued with this person, but that the victim stole the blade from them and hadn't seen it ever since.

While their statement was convincing and most importantly true, the only other suspect was the son of a politician that was on vacation with their family in Alaska. But why even bother to look this way when you had a perfect messed up person that fit all the standards of what people expected from a poor soul that suddenly had a psychotic break?

The trials were tiring and long, their sanity threatening to just declare themselves guilty to be done with this. Lynx was thrown into jail while awaiting for official sentence and it was a bit more than two years in there where he had to endure even worse situations than the ones he had at home. People were polarized about this case, half of them suspected Lynx and the other half defended him; it was thanks to some change(dot)org or something that they were finally given a fair trial and released after Lynx could prove their alibi.

They were in Fairbanks at this point and while having some decent food at a local dinner they heard of the news about a dead girl in Anchorage and a suspect by the name of Fallon Amarin. Lynx had never bought anything faster than they did for a bus ticket back home.

Upon arriving, they headed to the trailer park where their parents weren't surprised by their release or visit; if anything, curious that they were still alive. "Yeah, you see, your dad and I needed the space so we got your things in a box n' it should be somewhere around 'ere". Lynx had lost the capacity of feeling any kind of disappointment about their parents at this point so they just took the box and left.

They managed to get a room for a couple of nights for free after convincing the clerk that they'd pay back and then apparently their rambling about their friend being accused for the horrendous crime convinced the other.

Lynx keeps to themselves mostly, specially working extra shifts at the graveyard to get that extra cash; at nights they can be found in different partying spots or sneaking away with a dancer from either the sugar's lounge or the empty field lounge. They're pretty crude in general and have no expectations from anyone after all they've gone through. Honestly, they're just sad.

FACTS

Very paranoid, doesn't trust people easily.

All pronouns hold the same type of value for them when referring to their persona, so they truly don't mind if someone calls them by they/he/she/xe or any other.

Either the edgiest clothes or the coziest ones.

Very selfish with their possessions which are not many ofc.

Very attached to things of sentimental value.

Wants a pet but can't really afford one.

Really good with like calculations and numbers!

Convinced they saw Slenderman in the woods short before they were accused of murder.

CONNECTIONS

Fellow motel residents or regular clients.

A dancer they spend the most time with when at the lounge. Doesn't have to be sexual.

Hookups, people they meet regularly at the partying spots, people who believe they're innocent, people who believe they are not or are on the fence about lynx.

Someone they probably had a fight with about anything.

Lynx keeps borrowing money from them.

Unlikely friends/hookups/enemies

#anchorintro #lynx.intro #abuse tw #violence tw #death tw #murder tw

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ryuzakemo128 · 1 year ago

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I'm Not Sure How Late, But I'll Be There

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x Volkova [Female Reader]

Genre: Fluff & Angst

Masterlist

Summary: Billy finds comfort in his girlfriend's apartment, after a particular bad night with his father, a yelling match ensued between the two of them and it ended up with his father shoving him into the bookshelf. Leading him to run out of the house, heart pounding and tears streaming down his face. Desperate for solace and support, Billy seeks refuge at Volkova's apartment.

Trigger Warning[s]:

Mention of Abuse

Child Abuse

Yelling

Author's Note: Second attempt at writing something for this character. I hope you like it.

[Billy Hargrove Point of View]

I parked my car into the driveway, I was fifteen minutes late and Max wasn't there to pick her up, so I didn't bother waiting around for her to show up in the school's parking lot. I waited fifteen minutes for her, there was no sign of her. Figuring she must have found someone else to take her home or decided to use her skateboard to get back home.

I walked into the house, I sighed relieved, my father wasn't home until much later as he was a security guard for a bank. In turn caused him to work odd hours, during this week he would return home in the mid to late evenings. I made my way to my bedroom and started drinking beer. As the afternoon continued marching forward, alcohol dulled the senses and numbed the constant pain.

I was training to become a lifeguard at Hawkin's Community Pool. Which engulfed and taken over my afternoons, Volkova worked at a diner late at night to put towards her education and I didn't want to be stuck here forever. I didn't want to stay here in Hawkins forever. I wanted to move back to California, where we used to live and the place I loved more than any other.

My father walked into my bedroom, Susan stood in the doorway behind him, they were looking for Max by the looks of it.

"What the hell, Billy? Where's Max?" My father's voice boomed, his words laced with anger and disappointment. I could feel my pulse quickening, my body tensing up.

"I don't know, alright? She wasn't at school, and I didn't see her when I left," I replied, my voice strained. I had been late picking her up, and now it seemed like everything was falling apart.

"You're her brother! It's your responsibility to look out for her!" he shouted, his face turning red with fury.

"It's not my responsibility to take care of her every second of the day!" I shot back, my own anger starting to bubble to the surface. "She's perfectly capable of taking care of herself."

My father's eyes narrowed, and he took a step toward me. "You think you're so damn important, don't you? You think you can just do whatever the hell you want without consequences?"

"Say sorry to Susan for your disrespectful behaviour," he stated shoving me into the shelves behind me, pushing a little hard each time he said it and by the last push, my back was against the shelves I was about to cry.

"I'm sorry Susan." I replied, I didn't want to apologize to her and I certainly didn't want to get hit in the face again.

"Go find Max!" Neil stated, my father didn't want me to come back until I got her back home.

It felt like my heart was caught up inside of my lungs, my face felt hot and my tears stung the corners of my eyes.

"Billy, what happened? Are you okay?" Her voice was filled with worry as she gently placed her hands on my arms, her touch grounding me in the midst of my turmoil.

"I… I had a fight with my dad," I managed to choke out, my voice wavering. "It… it got physical this time."

"Did he hurt you?" She asked, frowning concerned and I could see the worry etched onto her features like a painting. "Do I need to beat him up for you?" she added trying to ease the tension.

I couldn't help but let out a small chuckle, despite the heaviness in my heart. Volkova had a way of injecting humor into even the darkest moments. Her dark humor was like a balm for my soul.

"No need for that, he's not worth it." I replied chuckling at her remark.

"Well, I suppose we should get something to eat then? My treat." She replied going to a quiet booth away from the prying eyes of others around us.

We sat in comfortable silence, taking solace in each other's presence. Volkova knew when to offer comfort and when to give space. It was one of the things I loved most about her.

"You know, sometimes I wish I could escape from this town," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Start fresh somewhere far away."

I'm Not Sure How Late, But I'll Be There, I'll be there waiting for you no matter what time it is and no matter how dark things get. We can find our way out of this darkness together.

"Thank you for being here for me," I whispered, my voice filled with gratitude. "You're my light in the darkness."

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raywritesthings · 1 year ago

Note

i know you rb'd it a while ago but if you're still interested in doing it, ship asks (and if you don't actually vibe with any of these ships feel free to skip!)

roy/riza: 8, 9, 15 hawkeye/trapper: 15, 21, 26 margaret/hawkeye: 15 (i really want to know what songs people associate with ships lol), 46, 50

Oh, fun variety with these ones! If it's alright with you, I'm gonna skip #15 for all three (at least for now) because it takes me a while of listening to music while specifically thinking/looking for parallels/vibes with a given ship before I can come up with anything. By the time I do that, I'll forget to come back to my ask box to answer this! So apologies, but also my music taste is extremely old-fashioned so it probably wouldn't be all that interesting anyway.

Roy/Riza:

8. What do they love most about the other? Why? I think going from a strictly canon reading, Riza loves the ideals that Roy believes in and wants to put in place as reforms. She's dedicated her whole life to helping him achieve that. And in turn, and I think Roy loves Riza's loyalty - not to him, specifically, but to their shared cause. He knows he can trust her above anyone else to see it through, even if she has to go through him to get there. In addition, I think they both find solace in knowing each other so well, having met before the military really entered their lives and changing together through Ishval and beyond. 9. What do they dislike most about the other? Why? I think Riza dislikes Roy's carelessness most because it makes her job harder because it in some ways betrays their goals. Roy is the one and only person she will ever trust with her father's life's work and the only person she trusts to see the necessary reforms put in to in some way try to atone for their actions in Ishval. She also can't cope with the idea of living without him, so for him to try and fight a killer in the rain without thinking of how severely disadvantaged this makes him understandably upsets her on multiple levels. For Roy, I think he probably most dislikes the fact that Riza clearly can't cope without him, more so because he would hate the idea of her suffering like that in his absence than because he sees it as some kind of character flaw.

Hawkeye/Trapper:

21. Do they enjoy domestic life? So, given it'd be the 50s and they're two men, that's a tough one. I think in the absence of any fear of being "discovered" and discriminated against/arrested, though, they'd get on fine together. They already have experience sharing living space, and in the worst possible conditions. There's little things that would bother each other (just watched "Alcoholics Unanimous" yesterday, and they have a wonderfully domestic spat about Hawkeye using Trapper's towel while shaving and Trapper's toenail clippings ending up by/under Hawkeye's bed), but I think they'd be able to just bicker for a few minutes and move on. The major roadblocks are pretty much external factors (how their relationship would impact Trapper's ability to see his girls, the strain of living semi-closeted in 50s America, etc). 26. What sacrifices do they make for the other? Given the way the show was written, it's easier I think to pinpoint the sacrifices that Trapper makes and could/would make in a relationship with Hawkeye than the other way around. He's almost always the one getting roped into Hawkeye's schemes or messes (good example is him blatantly committing perjury in "House Arrest" while coming up with a cover story for where Frank got his shiner), and if they were to pursue a relationship back home he would be the one having to give up his stable family life with the wife and two kids unless they kept it secret, and then Hawkeye would be the one sort of making sacrifices there (but I just can't really see that lasting or being something either of them would put up with for longer than just a casual "every once in a while" sort of thing when they happened to both be in the same area). Not that Hawkeye doesn't ever make sacrifices for Trapper (from the infamous "Longjohn Flap" to shelving any sadness he might have over Trapper possibly leaving in "Check-Up" in order to celebrate with him), but it's something he'd have to work on in a serious relationship with Trapper. For the record, I don't think he'd struggle too hard with it, just the way the show framed him as the protagonist and Trapper as his sort of "second" gives it that slightly uneven dynamic. Probably the biggest thing is that, once stateside, Hawkeye would likely have to be the one to move so that Trapper could remain close to his daughters. Depending on where you land as to how much Hawkeye really loves Crabapple Cove or not, that may be a small or a really large sacrifice.

Margaret/Hawkeye:

46. Do they consider their relationship casual or serious? Is the answer different depending on who you ask? Why? Hm, this one probably depends on the circumstances. I think in "Comrades in Arms", Hawkeye was looking for something more casual than Margaret (partly because Margaret was married to Donald at the time, and partly because he liked their dynamic as-it-was whereas Margaret seemed to think she needed to go into Mistress Mode like with Frank or the generals that used to come knocking). I think Hawkeye valued Margaret's friendship so much at that point that he'd rather that not change and they not be together than to be together and have her change her behavior for him. If we were talking post-canon, I think it could almost end up flipped, where Hawkeye might cling to Margaret harder for the sense of familiarity she gives him while she's more focused on figuring out her life post-army. Then again, I could also see them mutually agreeing to a casual thing post-war based on the finale kiss. 50. Would they ever break up? If so, why? Who would handle the breakup better? Haha, well they sort of did? If they were in a genuine relationship, I could definitely see them breaking up (and getting back together, and breaking up again, etc). The big, unresolved thing between them is their political/ideological differences, which the show really de-emphasized as the years went on and Margaret became part of the "in" crowd less enchanted with the army/the war (compare her clear distress at the idea that peace talks might be starting in an early scene with Frank from I want to say "Dear Dad" vs her commiserating with Hawkeye about the points system being changed to keep them longer in "Peace on Us"). However, without the army/the war as a mutual enemy of theirs, they could definitely end up butting heads on politics again back stateside which could possibly result in a permanent break. I'm not sure who would handle a breakup better, honestly. I think Margaret would handle it worse at first and then probably get over it if she found someone new, whereas Hawkeye would probably be outwardly fine but miss her long after she was gone.

These were all really interesting to think about, so thanks for sending them in! List is here for anyone interested in sending in other questions/ships!

#fma #royai #m*a*s*h #piercintyre #hawklips #i think the preferred ship name now seems to be #houlihawk #but if i switch now then there's a bunch of stuff i wouldn't have in the tag and ah well #riza hawkeye #roy mustang #hawkeye pierce #trapper john mcintyre #margaret houlihan #emerson replies

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whispermask · 2 years ago

Text

gasoline in your heart ch.9/10 | soap/ghost/könig

read on ao3 | first ~ next | ch wc: 4.5k, total 34k | completed

tags: smut, eventual ot3, fwbs to lovers, porn with feelings, jealous!ghost

dead dove time*: this fic as a whole features a brief mention of a past suicide attempt, briefly graphic past child abuse (not CSA), past abuse of alcohol and present alcohol use, and at times dubious consent (consuming alcohol and engaging in sexual activities; dubcon voyeurism; dubcon sexting)

*this chapter features a detailed description of a panic attack and dubcon for drunk sex, proceed with care

summary: soap and ghost start hooking up; soap and könig have apparently been hooking up; ghost doesn't know how to deal with it (eventual polycule)

preview: He’s unsure if König would want to be touched during something like this, but the panic attack shows no signs of abating, König’s breaths coming harsher as he begins to choke and sputter. In a desperate attempt to de-escalate the situation, Simon places a hand flat on König’s chest under the flap of the vest and over his heart, which he can feel racing under his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Simon smokes his second cigarette of the night alone on the terrace, off to the side and obscured from view of the flat where the party rages inside and has started to spill out onto the patio.

He’s not as pissed as he had been with Bam on Christmas, but he’s getting there. He’d downed two bourbons before Soap had even introduced them to Leo, the host of the party, a friend Soap had met in Basic.

The flat is more of a penthouse really, taking up the entirety of the topmost floor, easily the size of an aircraft hangar. It’s a traditional open concept layout decked out in shimmering gold tinsel and bursting with hanging wisteria. Leo’s even placed a stage and hired a DJ, the vastness of the space making for a perfect venue, especially with all the furniture cleared from the living area. A catering staff work frantically in the large kitchen with smartly dressed servers carrying trays of hors d'oeuvres and crystal flutes of champagne to glitzy and increasingly sloppy partygoers.

Soap’s generous estimate of at most twenty guests had been laughably wrong. At least seventy people are in attendance, with more still filing in through the ornate french doors that lead into Leo’s penthouse. The flat is full to bursting as guests are forced onto the terrace to accommodate the press of bodies, all of whom are dressed to the nines in floor length gowns and designer suits. It’s more sequins, rhinestones, and feathers than Simon has ever seen in one place in his life. As the evening’s progressed, he’s come to realize the whole affair is less of a party, more like an exclusive event, the scope of which was severely albeit unintentionally downplayed when Soap had presented the plans that morning.

Soap had apologized profusely when they’d driven past the building of flats in search of parking, where flapper girls and their sheiks lined the pavement waiting to be admitted by the doorman who was checking names from a clipboard. König’s demeanor had shuttered upon the realization that this was far from an intimate gathering, but he’d insisted on toughing it out. They were already dressed and here after all, and said as long as Soap didn’t leave his side he’d be fine. Simon had felt a pang of sympathy for König, a tenuous thread of solidarity. König probably longed for the veil in the same way Simon longed for his mask, for different reasons perhaps but each finding the same solace in facelessness.

They–Soap and König–are somewhere inside, Simon having ditched them when he’d reached his limit of making nice. Soap had acquainted both König and Simon to Leo and his various other friends, artsy types from Edinburgh Soap knows through some of the local galleries he’d done art shows at. Simon had wanted to run for the terrace at the first introduction of König as Soap’s boyfriend and Simon as Soap’s friend-slash-coworker. Simon knows it’s a foolish thing to be upset over, knows that Soap knows they’re so much more than that, but they haven’t really talked about labels. In that moment, it’s like he backslid from all the progress he’d made earlier in the day, feeling out of place all over again.

Two hours had dragged painfully, Simon attempting to socialize, answering questions about their line of work as vaguely as possible as he downed drink after drink, hoping to quell the nervous buzz under his skin. It had come to a head when Leo had commented privately to Simon on Soap and König’s relationship, how Leo had been hearing about this boyfriend for some time but had yet to meet him, how delighted he is to see Soap finally settling down with someone. Simon had excused himself from the conversation and made a hasty escape, as stealthy as could be despite his drunken state and figuring no one would notice his absence anyway. In all honesty, he’s rather content to sit this one out.

The city lights twinkle before him like ships breaking apart in a dark sea. He’s long since ditched his suit jacket and removed his tie to unbutton his collar, doesn’t recall where he left them, and he’s sipping his seventh bourbon between puffs of his cigarette. From inside, he can hear the speedy bass-thump of some electroswing song. They’ve got a little under an hour until midnight, and Simon has no intention of seeking out Soap and König before they do what they’ve come here to accomplish, which is ring in the New Year together.

As he mopes and drinks away his solitude, he hears the approaching sound of footsteps, dress shoes tapping out a rapid beat as they grow louder on the approach. Suddenly, König rounds the corner where Simon’s been hiding. Simon can hear his ragged breaths, his chest stuttering as he fights to inhale, loud even over the music from inside. König’s lost his suit jacket and his glasses, and he’s got both hands pressed over his face, covering his eyes. He doesn’t notice Simon as he comes into view.

“Oi,” Simon says, abandoning his glass and cig on the ledge to brace his feet and square his shoulders in time to catch König before he barrels into him.

“Öha,” König gasps, grabbing Simon’s forearms to steady himself. He can barely force the word out, throat constricted. Without his hands covering his face, his eyes are huge and wet, and he can’t quite meet Simon’s gaze.

“You alright?”

König barks out a deranged laugh, answer clear as he moves out of Simon’s grip to slam his back against the brick façade and sink to the ground, knees pulled up tight to his chest, looking impossibly small as he brings his hands up to cover his face again. Simon crouches in front of him, concern creasing his brow as König hyperventilates.

“Here,” Simon says, already reaching for König’s tie. “Can I loosen this?” König nods and Simon grips the knot, slips it lower and pulls the ring of it out from under König’s collar, which he undoes the first two buttons on as well. The vest he unbuttons entirely, pushing the flaps of it open to give König more room to breathe.

He’s unsure if König would want to be touched during something like this, but the panic attack shows no signs of abating, König’s breaths coming harsher as he begins to choke and sputter. In a desperate attempt to de-escalate the situation, Simon places a hand flat on König’s chest under the flap of the vest and over his heart, which he can feel racing under his palm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

König grabs onto his wrist, squeezing hard enough that the bones in his wrist crunch. Simon thinks he’s about to be shoved away, but König instead holds him more firmly in place, clinging onto him like a lifeline.

They sit like that while König tries to even out his breathing. He eventually pulls his other hand away from his face, eyes scrunched, and reaches for Simon’s free hand where it’s braced on the ground. When he finds it, Simon brings their joined hands up to his own chest, laying König’s palm flat over his heart, a perfect mirror of one another. König catches on as Simon slows his own breathing, inhaling deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, exhales ruffling the loose strands of hair that frame König’s face. König tries to match the rhythm of his breaths, fighting himself at first as his eyes finally meet Simon’s. They pull him back from the edge together one breath at a time.

“Give me a sit-rep when you’re ready, soldier,” Simon whispers.

König’s breathing evens out enough for him to say, “Too many people.”

“That bad, eh?” Simon asks. König drops his hand from Simon’s chest first, Simon following suit so they’re no longer touching.

“I was managing,” König replies. “Then some of Johnny’s friends pulled him away to dance and some of his other friends made me do Jager shots with them and then I got very intoxicated very quickly and I couldn’t find Johnny and there were just so many people.”

“So you got the hell out of dodge?”

König nods. “That’s when you found me.”

“You found me, actually,” Simon quips.

“Oida , always with the semantics,” König says and rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile in his voice. Simon doesn’t need a translation, König’s been calling him Oida for what feels like ages despite it only being a handful of times when their paths happened to cross.

“I’ve been hiding out here,” Simon admits. “Not really my thing.” He gestures in the direction of the party.

“How long do you think before Johnny notices we’re both missing?” König asks.

“I give him ten minutes at most,” Simon says. He moves from where he’s crouching to retrieve his camels and bourbon, coming to sit beside König with his back against the brick which is frigid even through his clothes. He lights a cigarette and offers the carton to König who takes it without a word. They smoke side by side while he finishes his drink, sharing body heat where their shoulders are pressed together.

König breaks the silence when he asks, “You and Johnny… when did you know?”

The bourbon’s loosened his tongue, and he’s answering before he’s even really thought about it. “I wasn’t keen on him at first, but he’s got this way of getting under your skin, doesn’t he? Like, I couldn’t stop thinking about him once I started. Maybe from the first day we met.”

König flicks his cigarette before saying, “It doesn’t take much, does it?”

“And what we do, all of us. We cheat death, and have to make do with living in between the moments we’re not cheating death,” he continues, surprising even himself with his conviction. “Fuck, even the synergy when we’re out in the field together, like we’re of one mind. The line starts to blur between admiration and desire. After Graves, I wanted to protect him, but it wasn’t long before I just wanted him, pure and simple.”

“Johnny and I, we were friends first, just kids when we met. The wanting came later, once we knew how to name it,” König says.

“How did you do it, and for ten years no less?” Simon asks.

König shrugs. “It’s not that hard when you love someone.”

“You never stopped wanting him,” Simon states as he finishes his cigarette and drops the butt in his empty glass where it sizzles against the melting ice.

“Nein .”

“Johnny says you were seeing other people, but tell me honestly. Have you been with anyone else? This whole time?”

“Not once,” König answers, a decade of longing causing his normally clear voice to shake. “But I know what you mean about blurred lines, because I felt that way about you once.” The admission renders Simon speechless. “I never would have acted on it, you have this sort of intangibility about you, like you really were untouchable. I was surprised when Johnny told me you two had fooled around. But you really care about him, ja ?”

“Yeah,” Simon agrees.

“To be honest with you, I’m not sure where I fit,” König confesses as he stubs out the remainder of his cigarette on the wall behind him.

“You’re taking the piss,” Simon says, scoffing with incredulity after the day he’s had.

“Not at all,” König says. “Seeing you two together, it made me realize how much I want you both, and how much I want you to want me. It feels like Johnny was never mine but he could be ours.”

“Earlier tonight, in the loo–” Simon starts, but doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He tries again, “This is all new to me, but I liked it. A lot.”

König doesn’t respond, and to Simon it feels like there’s not much left to say. Their mutual confessions hang heavy in the air between them.

“You know,” König says, breaking the silence yet again, something Simon is learning he tends to do when it becomes too awkward, like a nervous habit. “It’s traditional in Vienna to dance the waltz at the very start of the New Year,” he continues. He rises and offers his hand to Simon. “You enjoy dancing?”

“I’m absolutely mad for it,” Simon deadpans, but he takes König’s offered hand anyway and lets himself be pulled to his feet, the bourbon making his limbs feel loose and heavy. Blissed out and head fuzzy, he’s not overthinking like he normally would, pleased to go with the spirit of the newness of it all as König directs his arms and legs with his own.

“The music is all wrong, but here,” König says, and takes Simon’s hand and places it on his narrow waist, places his own hand on Simon’s shoulder, takes Simon’s other hand in his, lifting it so that Simon’s holding König’s arm up. König’s palm is warm where it rests on his.

“You lead, but I’ll instruct you,” König says. “Let’s try a basic forward-backward half box step.”

Simon says, “The way you say basic makes it seem like I should know what any of that means.”

“Hüft’s nix schodt’s nix. I think you’ll be surprised at how well combat training translates.”

“We’re both pissed, so keep your expectations low.”

König taps Simon’s left foot with his to start, indicating for him to step forward as König steps back. Then he repeats the same action but with a side-step, leading in reverse. After the first box, Simon begins to understand, and as König whispers “Eins, drei, zwei. Eins, drei, zwei,” under his breath, Simon counts along in his head, watching where his feet land. He glances up at König, chuffed that he’s managed to retain some level of coordination in this state, but as soon as he looks away from his feet, he steps on König’s toe, who yelps in response.

“Sorry,” Simon says, already pulling away.

“Na, na, it was bound to happen,” König responds, not letting Simon get far. König initiates the waltz again, but Simon takes the lead from the first step, starts to rotate them in a half circle as they dance in the narrow space, out of view from the main party, to music that makes no sense for a waltz.

Simon inevitably steps on König’s foot again, and then somehow manages to step on his other toe too, which sends König toppling back into the brick wall, pulling Simon down with him. Their dancing devolves into drunken laughter and a struggle to keep themselves upright. Simon glances up at König’s smiling face, sees his blue, blue eyes which glint in the moonlight. Without meaning to, he looks down at the pout of König’s lips, glances back up to find König looking at his lips too.

The fire that had been burning low in his gut after their encounter back at Soap’s studio blazes to life, supernova hot and spurred by the alcohol which turns his blood molten in his veins. He uses his body weight to pin König to the wall, who allows it without protest, even slides down a bit to bring them eye to eye. Simon takes both of König’s shoulders in each of his hands, keeping him in place as he brings his lips just an inch away from König’s, so that he can feel the puff of König’s breaths. Weeks of frustrated jealousy bloom into maddening lust, a desire deep in his bones to claim ownership over this man who has challenged him beyond all measure of his own humanity.

A low groan starts in the back of König’s throat as he tries to shove their mouths together in a kiss, but Simon shakes him once, hard, knocking him back against the brick wall and he goes lax under Simon’s touch, letting Simon support his weight. Simon gets a hand around his jaw first, then moves it to cover his neck and pins him against the wall so that König’s held in place by the threat of it. He feels immensely powerful, having finally tamed this challenger that had previously been undefeated, and the primal surge at the conquest has his prick hard and aching in his slacks in seconds. Something akin to victory unfurls in his chest as he moves to close the remaining space between their lips.

At the barest press of König’s lips, he hears a sharp gasp to his left. He turns his head towards the sound and sees Soap watching them, mouth agape and eyes wide. He doesn’t look angry, but aroused, curious, Simon realizes. Jealous, even. Without a word Soap turns on his heel and saunters back in the direction of the penthouse, swaying on his feet, seemingly just as intoxicated as Simon feels. When Simon backs away from König, they lock eyes, an understanding passing between them as they move to follow Soap inside.

Guests have overtaken the terrace, and Simon has to press his way through, trying to clear space for König to pass behind him. Glitzy partygoers grind on the dancefloor inside where the music plays at full volume, and Simon feels the vibrations of the bass through the soles of his shoes. He can barely hear the shouted conversations of the people around him, their chatter no more than an ambient hum. He scans the sea of bodies, searching for Soap’s tweed cap, which he spots as Soap disappears down a dark hallway adjacent to the entryway.

As he and König pass a server carrying a tray of champagne flutes, he grabs two and downs them consecutively, craving more liquid courage. He abandons the empty glasses on a nearby table and catches König sideeyes him, but he withholds his judgment as they follow Soap down the hall. Drinking like this is an old vice, not one he partakes in to excess as often as he did when he was a younger man, but these last few weeks–this whole day really–have activated that raw, vulnerable part of him that hides in his chest, that he carries with him everywhere he goes, that thing with a voice like his father’s and all the anxieties of a scared little boy. He refuses to let it control him tonight.

Soap disappears through an open door at the end of the hall into a dark room, Simon and König only a few steps behind. As Simon closes and locks the door behind them, Soap flicks on an antique glass lamp. They’re in what Simon can only assume is Leo’s bedroom, with its huge plush bed and ornate furniture.

Soap stands across from Simon and König next to the bed. He pulls his cap off and tosses it away, crosses his arms over his chest. “You can kiss him now,” he instructs, a tremble in his voice.

Simon’s not sure if it’s an order for him or König, but König makes the decision for him when he presses Simon into the bedroom door and lowers his mouth to Simon’s, the first soft press of him growing firmer as spit slicks the way and their lips slide together. Simon braces his palms against König’s chest as König grabs Simon’s waist, a reversal of their earlier positions when König had tried to teach him the waltz.

He doesn’t hear Soap approaching but is startled when he feels hands fumbling with the clasp and zipper of his slacks. He opens his eyes just enough to look down to see Soap on his knees between his and König’s legs, already grabbing at Simon’s prick through his briefs, mouthing along the shaft of it and turning the fabric dark with saliva. His erection had flagged between the terrace and the bedroom, but it’s back with a vengeance when Soap pulls his cock through the hole in his briefs and suckles at the sensitive head.

Simon moans into König’s mouth as Soap licks his way down to suck on his balls, licks back up the underside to take him into his mouth fully. He grips the base, clever boy, and sucks him so slowly, bobbing his head as drool drips down the shaft. Simon reaches for Soap’s hair, intending to fuck into his mouth and make Soap take him harder, faster, something, but König stops him with a hand around his wrist.

In the next moment, König’s got both of his wrists gripped tight, and he’s raising Simon’s arms to pin them against the bedroom door above his head. The dominance in the display König makes of him has his knees buckling, but he’s being held up by König’s sheer strength and Soap’s fingernails digging into the meat of his hips as he sucks Simon deeper, deeper.

König breaks the kiss to mouth at Simon’s cheek, chin, jaw, gets down to his neck and bites hard, sucking a bruise into the skin there, in the same place Soap loves to leave his mark. Simon’s held in place by König’s teeth, by his large, strong hands, while Soap works his cock at a torturous pace, drawing it out to the point of ecstasy, painful and pleasurable in equal measure.

“Fucking hell, Johnny,” Simon growls as he tries to thrust his hips up, to force himself deeper down Soap’s throat. Soap grips Simon’s hips and pushes him back into the door with all his strength, and Simon can feel the fine shiver in his biceps as he fights to push against Soap’s hold. König grips both of Simon’s wrists above his head in one hand and uses his other hand to wrap around the base of Simon’s cock, jerking what Soap can’t swallow down, a sensation that never fails to get him off.

“Fuck, fuck,” he chants, and his orgasm crests without preamble, squeezed out of him by König’s fist onto Soap’s tongue as he swallows around Simon’s prick. Some of it dribbles out the corner of his mouth as he lets Simon’s wet cock slip from between his lips to dribble the last spurt of spunk onto the wood floors.

König releases him at once and he crumbles to the floor without the support, boneless, blood roaring in his ears. Distantly, he hears a loud knock on the door behind him. Leo shouts through the door, “Midnight’s in five!” Simon couldn’t care less.

On the floor in front of him, Soap’s got his trousers undone and a hand fisting his cock furiously inside of them. Simon reaches for him, gets on his hands and knees to crawl forward enough to kiss Soap. He can taste the salt of his come on Soap’s tongue, smell himself on Soap’s lips and chin. He brings a hand up to pinch Soap’s nipple through his shirt, feeling the hard barbell and tugging it gently as Soap groans into his mouth. He knocks the suspenders from Soap’s shoulders and works the buttons of his shirt open, exposing his lightly furred chest and his hardening nipples, the glint of the piercings catching in the lamplight.

Above them, König looks down on the scene the two of them make, lazily palming the massive bulge of his prick through his pants. Simon breaks the kiss and reaches for König’s belt loop and hooks his forefinger in it, using it to tug König closer as he fumbles the button and zipper open. König pulls himself out for Simon to see, jerks himself in earnest. He’s fucking huge because of course he is, but Simon doesn’t feel emasculated, if anything the swollen heft of him makes his mouth water, remembering how Soap had moaned while König fucked him.

Simon turns back to Soap, gets a hand around the nape of his neck and brings their mouths together again in an open, sloppy kiss that’s all tongue. He bites and licks his way down Soap’s throat and chest, sucking on his pretty nipples, getting them wet and pink and putting on a good show for König.

Soap’s moans grow louder and Simon can tell he’s close. He kisses his way back up Soap’s body to catch his mouth in another sloppy kiss, cups each of Soap’s pecs in his hands, thumbs his nipples, drives Soap crazy with gentle touches and flicks, making him shout when he gives them both a sharp tug. He’s shooting off in his pants within seconds, catching his come in his other palm so as to not ruin his slacks. He brings his soiled hand up to grip König’s cock which is inches from his face, slicks König’s skin as they jack him together, Simon watching their fists move together, transfixed.

“On his tits,” Simon says, moving behind Soap to give König better access, all the while pinching Soap’s nipples. He basks in the dirtiness of it, a voyeuristic delight that has his prick twitching, a desperate attempt to get hard again.

“That’s it big guy, come on me, fuck yes,” Soap babbles, staring up at König who grunts his pleasure, hips thrusting into his and Soap’s combined grip. König’s back bows when he comes, jizz splattering across Soap’s chest in long, wet stripes. He drops to his knees, cock still dribbling out the last few pulses into his hand. Soap looks down at the mess, brings a hand up to swipe through the spunk on his pecs and brings it to his mouth as he looks back up at König, glancing between him and Simon, an unspoken offering behind his eyes.

Without a second thought, Simon leans forward to lick up the mess from his right tit, sucking Soap’s pierced nipple into his mouth on each pass. König follows suit, cleaning the other side, and Soap moans, covers his face with one hand and eventually pushes them both away with the other, overstimulated and skin as sensitive as a live wire. They lie on the hard floor together, catching their breath. Simon stares dazedly at the ceiling, piss drunk and high on endorphins, residual waves of pleasure still pulsing in his gut and groin.

From outside the bedroom, the music has stopped and they hear the chant of the guests as they begin to count down from ten, nine, eight, so on. A thunderous cheer erupts to the tune of “Happy New Year!” as the music starts up again.

Over the din, König whispers, “Happy birthday.”

Simon rolls onto his side and props himself up on his elbow to look down at Soap and König, who stare back at him, a feeling of wonderment passing between the three of them. He leans down to kiss Johnny first, and feels König move in closer on Soap’s other side to kiss along Simon’s cheek and eventually capture his lips from Soap. Simon breaks the kiss to catch his breath, and König bends his neck down to kiss Soap as well.

Simon holds them both while König presses sweet pecks to Soap’s lips with loud, obnoxious smacks, making Soap laugh. The tenderness of the moment coupled with his drunkenness makes his eyes water. König and Soap break apart when they hear him sniffle, to see the wetness on his face. When they lean in together to kiss the tears away, the soft press of their lips against his scarred skin is like something akin to sacrament, holy in the way they drink this exquisite pain wrought by their touch. In that moment he feels protected, invincible. He cries harder, overcome.

Soap whispers against his cheek, “Let’s go home.”

*******

Öha: sorry Oida: literally old man, but the connotation is more like mate/dude as I've come to understand it Hüft’s nix schodt’s nix: doesn't help, doesn't hurt, used when someone is hesitant to try something new

#soapghost #mw2 #modern warfare 2 #call of duty #soapghostkönig #soapböx #cod #cod könig #cod ghost #cod soap #mw2 soap #mw2 ghost #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #gasoline in your heart #my fic #mw2 fic #soapghost fic #cod fic

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ladyravenblack · 4 months ago

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Part 5:

The morning after my little drink escapade was less than uneventful, everyone had some thing or another to do, leaving me alone in the hotel. The night before had been a mistake, it had allowed too many bad memories and nightmares to take hold of my mind and the liquor had hazed my brain too much to fight it. Sleep had never fully enveloped me, I had been hanging on a precipice of dread through the hours, rising when the alcohol had finally wore off to clean up and become pristine again. My smile had never fallen past a tight lipped twist of my lips, and I had no intention of letting it have a chance to slip.

With the hotel empty I pace the lobby, utilizing the lack of other people to really imagine and think of what this place could be. The power I could hold with it under my watch.

Tick, tick, tick- my cane and the clock on the mantel tap in rhythmic harmony as I go back and forth. I already had Charlie where I needed her, Vaggie could prove a problem with her innate distrust of me, Angel would fall in line soon enough since it was clear he was more of a follower than anything. Then there was her, Salem. The meek little doe that tainted my thoughts, that ravaged my mind despite the few words spoken between us, despite my lack of knowing her story, she tore at me. Her absence had driven me down a path I had never wanted, turning to a drink instead of using my brain to find a way to get what I want.

My claws skim over the top of my cane, leaving light indents along the top of it. Her confused, pained face from our last interaction had me itching to comfort her, hold her and tell her I would do everything to sort any issue she may have and I despised it. Why her? It must be physiological, something the body is demanding that the brain isn’t. The touch of her had lingered for a few days, like she had spoken a curse over me to make me feel.

Her scent still lingered in the hotel, a deep smell of honeysuckle, if I close my eyes I can see the gardens. The sprawling roses intertwined with climbing honeysuckle, the bayou lapping at the shore, wind shifting through trees and I crave it.

Unwillingly I find myself traversing the halls, lingering in spots the honeysuckle seems to coat more heavily. Following it back into the observatory we danced in so long ago, the scent strongest here, as if her whole life centered around this room.

My fingers trail along the phonograph, odd that someone so young prefers something so old. Images of her dancing, moving across the floor like a spirit, flits in my mind. I wish to hold her again, to keep her hands in mine as we move through this Hell.

A wave of honeysuckle rolls over me, alerting me that she’s near. They must have come back sooner that I had anticipated, or perhaps I had taken longer than I thought in her space.

Melting into the shadows, I stay, wanting to watch as she comes in with a smile. She speaks to Angel as she begins to play music, a soft gentle opera tune. My heart gathers speed, her voice a shot of adrenaline.

“Ya know toots, smileys gotta have it bad for ya” I will have to do something about that pesky fucking spider.

“Nah he’s so pent up” she waves a hand, dismissing the spider's teasing words as Angel continues to spit out how I have looked for her at every meal and how my eyes linger on her during activities. She looks at him, eyes narrowed and brows brought together.

“Really? Me?” A look of confusion, disgust, then defeat crosses her features before that simple, polite smile returns. Disgust for me? Do I really elicit just such a feeling in her? “Not me Angel…I’m nothing. A nobody. No, he probably just wants to know where everyone is at all times. He’s horribly controlling”

Angel chuckles in response, nodding slightly. Her voice flits through the air as she jokes about how atrocious I am, a demon in its entirety, a truly disgusting being; and it hurts. Pain I have never felt before finds its way into my chest as I leave, seeking the solace of my room. Flowers that had once been a beautiful present, a profession of love and friendship from likely our dear Charlie, now spill rotting leaves onto my table.

Honeysuckle snakes up the trees at the forefront of my still broken memory, the shredded bayou that I find solace and nightmares in. A stinging sensation bites at my eyes and the lump in my throat suggests tears but I’ve not cried since I was a baby. No tears had fallen from my eyes since before even my father lay his hands on me. No, no I will not cry over words.

Of course I’m vile! I’m The Radio Demon! The protector of this hotel, of that ungrateful little doe downstairs. Does she forget that I am more powerful than anyone within these walls? That I am more than her tiny mind can comprehend? And how dare that slut of a spider agree and laugh along? I would have to teach them both a lesson in manners.

But how? Without ticking off Charlie how do I go about showing those two I am not to be trifled with? Bring their nightmares to life? Their bodies racked with fear as the night drags on with my images filling their minds? A laugh bubbles from my chest, the threat of tears gone. What had I even been tempted to cry over!?

I kneel beside the honeysuckle, pulling its roots and all from the dirt. I would not have this scent in my room if she was not attached to it. Flower after flower, I rip the earth to shreds, leaving their fragile orange and yellow petals to sink in the water. What a waste of time spent on her, even if it’s time I had to spare I could, and should, have done something else. Not following her scent like a love sick dog.

More flowers are torn from the ground, no longer just the honeysuckle but the roses, the violets, even the ferns meet a demise at my hands. I can have nothing delicate, nothing beautiful lest I hurt it, destroy it. Even when I only touch once, things rot from the inside. Falling to dust like they’ve aged out of existence in seconds.

If only I could do it to myself.

I brush the thought, fighting the dread, the uncomfortable feeling of being not enough yet again. Why do I want to be enough for her? She’s just a patron, a misguided being seeking a soul she can never have back from someone she doesn’t even know! What a naive little doe.

That must be it, yes. I only wish for her to be my prey, to put her life in my hands and trust me with every crevice of her being. To be in control of her. Charlie is already under my thumb, and in turn Vaggie. I need her brightness, her shining beacon of light, so I can lure in more like her.

To feed on that soft, unmarred flesh would be a meal for royalty. My claws bite into my own hand, blood slipping between my fingers, dripping to the floor. I need time or I may just rip that little thing to shreds when I see her again.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the long mirror upon my wardrobe; my ears are upright, antlers grow to a large state, anger burning in my eyes, I am a fearful sight and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. So why does it not please me? Why do I wish to be less in this moment?

#alastor #hazbin hotel #alastor x oc #fanfic #hazbin alastor

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ophelia-jones · 10 months ago

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Chapter 8 of my supernatural fic Don't Dream Alone

(whole thing available on AO3, link in pinned masterlist)

"So get this," Sam said, entering Bobby's office without looking up from the book in his hands or checking to see if he was interrupting anything. "The sandman lore I've been able to find has mostly been the same, familiar children's stories from Germany, the Netherlands, northwestern Europe, and that sort of places. This lore doesn't match at all. It usually goes two different ways. Either the sandman is friendly and puts children to sleep so he can whisper stories in their ears..."

"Which is where dreams come from," Bobby grumbled. "Tell us something we don't know, Sam."

"Right, ok, so the other legend is about the sand he uses in people's eyes - which causes them to fall out. He then takes the eyes back home to feed his children," Sam continued.

"Ew," Dean screwed up his face in an almost comical expression of disgust. Solace smiled at him, amused despite the gravity of the situation. Other people would be drowning in dread and fear, but this was just Dean's life. He reacted honestly, like a child. It was a side of him she had not seen much when he was younger. He had tried so hard to be like his father when John was still alive; he'd probably been trying to imitate him since he was a young boy. As time passed and John was not there to scold and judge, Dean had been able to relax and just let himself do the things he hadn't done as a kid. He got excited about little things, and he loved his favorite things and favorite people with the unshakable devotion of a child.

His sweet tooth would likely catch up with him sooner or later, especially with his avoidance of dentists and the hours spent sitting in the driver's seat. His jokes were often corny, his music dated, and he had only just started trusting beer with caps that didn't twist off. He was an eternal man-child in these ways.

On the other hand, he carried such a weight on his shoulders that would crush most people, and he carried it with apparent ease and confidence. He knew truths about life that had driven men and women mad, and he had known more loss in his short life than most people experienced in a long lifetime. He sagged, sometimes, under it all, but he didn't give up. He knew if he tried to turn a blind eye to the evils of the world that innocent people would suffer. Innocent people, like his own mother, would die. He couldn't let that happen just so he could try and live a 'normal' life.

How could one person be both of these things at once? She studied his handsome face carefully, her eyes soft and her mind distracted as she pondered the mysteries of Dean Winchester. She wasn't sure for how long or what she had missed, but when Dean looked at her with those light green eyes, she realized he was waiting for her to react to something someone had said. His eyes narrowed slightly as he realized she had completely checked out of the conversation, and a knowing smile played on his lips. One corner of his mouth tugged up in a smirk as he recognized the look on her face as one of admiration. He was used to being gazed at. The longer he looked into her eyes, though, the more he saw in her eyes. It wasn't a simple attraction. It wasn't run-of-the-mill lust. There was a yearning he recognized deep in his heart. His breath caught in his chest, and his lips parted slightly as they stared silently at one another.

*Ahem* Sam cleared his throat.

"Sorry, what was that last part?" Solace asked, tearing her thoughts and eyes away from Dean.

"I think the lore that passed into fairy tale is partially true," Sam told her.

"It often is," she agreed.

"These sleep demons do 'whisper stories' to their victims in their dreams. They produce nightmares and dream ideas that seep into the victims' waking world. They start to become paranoid, delusional, depressed. These lead to the victim isolating themselves. Often, they develop drug or alcohol dependencies that make the line between reality and dreams blurry. They sleep more and more. Until, eventually, the power dynamic shifts and..." Sam informed them excitedly. He always got a buzz when he discovered something this important.

"The sleep demon takes over, and the original inhabitant of the body remains in a dream state," Bobby surmised.

"What, so this is just some long drawn out way for the sandman to possess someone?" Dean asked with a tone of disbelief. "There's usually an easier way."

"Not for these guys. See, they aren't the same as true demons. They're more of an ancient disembodied soul," Sam explained.

"A ghost," Dean said plainly.

"Yes and no," Sam replied.

"It's either yes or no, Sammy. It can't be both," Dean told his younger brother irritably.

"No, then. These are souls who were evicted from their bodies by another Sandman," Sam explained.

"So what, they are trying to get a body back for revenge?" Solace asked, her heart growing icy at the thought that Em was out there, somewhere, he body gone and here soul lost in the ether somewhere.

"No. It's so they can finally die. They take possession of the body, kill it, and then they can move on to... I don't know. Heaven. Hell. Somewhere better than being stuck here, unheard, unseen, and hopeless," Sam explained. He was almost giddy with this information. It was a fascinating new monster to him. He didn't know he had just told Solace her dearest friend had become one of them.

Solace bent at the waist, putting her head between her knees and trying to breathe.

"No, no, no, no, no..." she murmured through the lump in her throat.

"Are you... are you ok?" Sam asked. His eyebrows drew together in concern. He hadn't even gotten to the part he considered the bad news yet.

"Is there more?" Solace asked without changing position.

"Um... yeah," Sam replied tentatively. "It seems like, well, if I'm right..."

"Spit it out, Sammy!" Dean snapped. His hand was stroking Solace's back to try and ease her grief.

"Well, since you have interacted with this one so much, in the dream realm, the theory is that it has already attached itself to you," Sam said hesitantly. Dean's head snapped up, and he scowled at Sam as if he had been responsible for putting Solace in danger rather than simply delivering the news.

"What? How is that possible when it sent all those pajama wearing psycho sleepwalkers here? How could it control ALL of them while being latched on to Solace like some... some... *dream leech*?" Dean asked hotly. He wanted answers and wanted them NOW.

"I'm not sure yet," Sam admitted. "These things aren't usually this powerful, and I haven't found any documented cases of one fighting this hard for a body. They usually move on when someone isn't easily taken. This one seems very determined and almost *angry*."

"Like it's really pissed off at something," Bobby mused out loud.

"Like it's personal," Solace said, sitting up. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes, but she had gathered her composure.

A contemplative silence fell over the group. There was clearly more to the story than Solace had let them in on. Maybe even more than she had told Dean. They would get to that, and soon. She had to fill them in on everything if they were going to figure this out before anyone else died. They held their breath, hoping she would realize this and decide to start talking without them having to pry.

"Sam? Is there a way to kill this thing without killing the host body? Or at least without creating a new one?" She asked earnestly. Dean already knew what she was thinking, and he wasn't going to let it go down like that.

"Yes, there's a way. You aren't going to die just so you can take this thing down with you. There's always another way. There's got to be!" Dean asserted. As he declared this, he stood and began to pace in agitation. He stopped in front of Sam and looked his little brother in the eye. "Tell her, Sammy!"

"Um, yeah... yeah, there's another way," Sam stammered with no confidence behind his words.

"What is it, Sammy? How?" She asked, but it was to prove a point. There was no hope in her voice. She knew Sam didn't know of any other way. Sam stood there, his mouth opening and closing, but he couldn't put a whole sentence together.

"I... um, well...." He said, looking first at Dean and then to Bobby for help.

"Just because we haven't found it yet doesn't mean there ain't one. Don't you go rushing off half cooked like these two idjits like to do," Bobby told her. There was a gentleness in his voice she had never heard before. Solace nodded and stood up, approaching Sam and taking the book from him.

"Ok. Let's keep looking," she said. Her voice was deceptively calm. She turned her attention to the book as if it were any other case.

The men exchanged glances, silently deciding to let her be for a while before pressing her for more details.

This was her case, after all.

**********************************

"I'm really worried about him, Lacey. He doesn't want to sleep at all. He has alarms set for every thirty minutes when he does break down and close his eyes. He says he doesn't want to go too deep because he is afraid he won't wake up. The other day, he told me he wasn't sure if I was real or if I was the dream. At first, I thought it was just his way of trying to be sweet, but..." Em shook her head sadly. "I'm scared for him."

"Does he have any history of like, bipolar disorder?" Lacey asked as carefully as she could. She knew it was a sensitive topic, and she didn't want Em to think she didn't believe her.

"No, not at all! He's by far the most stable man I've ever dated!" Em asserted.

"Considering the source, that doesn't mean much," Solace teased.

"Hey there, pot, watch out before you call this kettle black!" Em replied. She tried to sound light and playful as usual, but there was something underlying her words. Something in her tone of voice that told Solace that her friend was well and truly scared.

"Ok, look. I'm in Wyoming at the moment. I'll start heading that way. I'll reach out to a couple of friends who might have some ideas along the way," Solace told Em.

"Sam and Dean?" Em asked.

"I don't think this is a Winchester level hunt yet," Solace said. Em seemed to be holding her breath on the other end of the call. When she finally spoke again, her voice broke.

"It feels pretty serious to me, Lacey," she said. Solace paused. Even her heart seemed to miss a beat. Solace didn't want to call Dean. The last time they'd been in the same town on a hunt, he'd left the roadhouse with a bartender with long black hair and a body built for sin. She had left without saying goodbye, and neither of them had reached out since. Now, it was a matter of pride that she waited for him to be the one to call.

"We don't have a lot to go on yet. I hate to bother them before we even know it's a case. This isn't necessarily supernatural. Let's rule out the more mundane stuff before we start yelling monster in a crowded theater," Solace replied.

"You and your mixed metaphors!" Em sighed. "It just FEELS super weird to me."

"That's because you're too close, Em. You care about the person involved. It makes it harder to see the forest when you're staring at one tree," Solace replied.

"If that's true, maybe you should tag out of this one and tag a other hunter in," Em suggested.

"I don't even know your man," Solace told Em in an attempt to reassure her.

"You know what I mean," Em said. There was no hint of humor in her voice. She was genuinely conflicted.

"Look, I'm on it. If it's beyond me, I'll be sure to speed dial the big guns, ok?" Solace told her as she steered her truck into a campground for the night. She would do some.researchnusing the parks wifi and get a few hours of sleep before heading to Wisconsin in the morning.

"Ok," Em replied. "I do trust you, you know. I'm just scared and tired. I'm so tired."

"I get it. I'll sort it out," Solace assured her friend. "I haven't let you down yet, have I?"

"No. No, you haven't. Thank you, Lacey," Em replied. "And Lace? I love you."

Em was the closest thing Solace had ever had to a sister, and they knew damn well they had each other's backs. They had been through a lot of shit together, and neither doubted the other person's love. It was an unspoken truth. Neither woman had the sort of upbringing that made them quick to say deep, meaningful things or express emotion without making it a joke or sarcastic. This declaration was new for them.

"I ... I love you, too, Em. It's going to be ok," She said softly. She dismissed the uneasy feeling in her gut as indigestion from eating at a dodgy food truck earlier in the day. It wasn't the holy guacamole loaded burrito, though.

It was the beginning of the end. Tricky thing about those gut feelings - a person often only recognized them.for what they were when looking back at them after it was too late.

#spn #supernatural fan fic

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