#where he can find solace in something other than alcohol and where he can find it in himself to forge new relationships and build his

[ricky-mortis]

Curtwen Week Day 6: Happy Ending

[beloveds-embrace]

Chubby reader x monster!141…. Chubby reader where you are at all-time-low after your ex cheated on you with the woman you had always been insecure of (she was everything you were not), so now you are just done. Done with him, with her, with your terrible work that forced you to come in even while sick, done with life.

So you go to a bar, and intend to fully drink yourself and all your sorrows away. You don’t even care enough to ask any friends to accompany you- they knew. They fucking knew. Calling them friends anymore is just stupid- and you don’t care enough to look around at anyone; you know you aren’t anyone’s preference either.

When a man, big and burly, curling horns and two big ass wings (maybe one of those dragon shifters? You know harpies have feathers, but the rest of your brain is too muddled) sits down next to you, you just ignore him and continue nursing your drink, trying your best to bite back the tears in your eyes.

“That’s enough now, love,” he croons, and much to your confusion, he takes the glass away from you. His voice is rough and rumbling, like thunder. Too hazy, too drunk, you don’t even care enough to get angry at him. No, your eyes fill with tears instead. “No, no, calm down. Let’s get you out of here, alright, little love?”

Another man joins your other side, just as big and burly but shorter than the dragon man who is making you tear up by holding your drink, your source of solace tonight, hostage in his hand. This one is a werewolf, his ears flicking in your direction much like his grin and his tail eagerly thumping to and fro against your chair.

“Sweet lass,” he croons, your teary eyes flicking towards him. You can see his hands clench in the air. Why, why, why- you just wanted to drink away. They are both so handsome, such a shame they clearly don’t like you and are just bothering you for the sake of bothering you, a fat woman in a miserable corner. “Enough tears and enough alcohol, aye, hen? Yer aff yer heid!”

His words are so strange, your tears momentarily pause. “What…?” You wonder outloud, shivering when you feel a warm breath across your neck, warming your skin. The dragon. His hand settles on your lower back, nudging you to get off the chair with them, and you feel like crying again. He probably can feel all the fat there, how horrible-

“Careful there, little love.” Dragon steadies you with two hands when you get dizzy, and with weak hands you try to swat at him, try to move away, but the werewolf is at your other side and keeping you pressed between them.

“S’op… stop callin’ me that,” you mumble. The tears roll down then. “Not- not funny, not at all-“

Two other hands on your back, a tail thumping against the back of your thighs, you are still led outside even as you babble about everything. Your size, your ex, the one your ex cheated, your work, your ex-

You want your damn drink back.

For their part, Price and Johnny didn’t think coming out for a drink tonight would lead to finding their last soulmate. The second they had entered the dinky bar, John had expected to need to puff out a deep, smoky breath to keep his nose clean from all the overwhelming smells and Johnny had prepared to to keep his nose happily pressed into John’s skin.

They hadn’t expected to smell you, something like the smell of stepping into a warm home after spending time out in winter, something like watching soft, golden sunlight stream into the nest room on a morning they spend sleeping in with Kyle and Simon. Like soulmate, like the last link of John’s hoarde and Johnny’s pack, and he has no doubt that you are Kyle’s nest and Simon’s. Simply his. A part of him just as you are a part of them.

Driven so wholly by instincts, seeing you drunk and crying pushing them even more into said instincts, they easily you herd along with them, back to their home. All explanations, everything else can wait until tomorrow. You are so soft to the touch, all tender and squishy, they already think you so perfect. In the back of the car, it doesn’t take seconds before you are dozing off and dead to the world, already so trusting.

By tomorrow morning, Simon would be easily able to track down where you live and get all your items. And also find that shitty ex of yours. John hasn’t yet decided if he wants to thank or beat him.

Watching the way Johnny holds you in his lap from the rearview mirror while he drives, hands squeezing your lovehandles with a low groan, mumbling about how much he already adores you, soft bonnie hen, all theirs- John decides he doesn’t give a single fuck about your ex at the moment. He needs to hold you between his arms and wings, in the comfort of his nest.

Fuck, he might end up breaking more than just a few speed limits.

Part two

[solrabi]

ex-convict!sukuna gets into a bar fight for burnt out reader but she’s embarrassed of being seen with him. For more context, read this prompt.

ex-convict!sukuna series masterlist

There’s a fine line between procrastination and being burnt out, and you weren’t sure which part of the spectrum you belonged to. However, you could blame part of your confusion to the toasty bitter liquid in front of you. Condensation collecting around the large jar. College bars weren’t exactly crowded during finals week, but the bartenders were glad to have you there as you single-handedly kept them in business after downing drink after drink.

Your friends had long ditched you to catch some sleep before their study session the next the day—an event you weren’t invited to because you simply slept the entire time, not being much help with memorizing naming reactions in organic chemistry.

Your notes from the first half of the semester were still incomplete. Forget revising for the final. You were fucked, winging your past quizzes and exams by getting Cs.

Life felt stationary. No internships, no friends you could actually rely on, car broken down, and no boyfriend.

Boyfriend. Funny word. The closest thing you had to one was the older man you were messing around with. To make matters worse, he was an ex-convict without a job.

His truck, however, said that he had enough money to spare. His apartment? Not so much. Heat pooled between your legs as you thought about his room. His bed. A Pavlovian response. You only went there to momentarily forget about your struggles after all.

“You’re looking worse for wear,” a smooth, rich voice calls out from beside you. Geto Suguru—English Literature major. Honors student. Persistent ex-hookup from your second year. You were surprised that you were even able to recognize the midnight-haired man. He eyed your figure—slouched and red (courtesy of the alcohol).

“Need me to drop you home? I live nearby.” You knew he meant well. But a small voice deep in the corners of your consciousness told you that you were most likely going to invite him in. Finding solace in one man’s arms were enough. You were not going to split your loyalties. At least for the time being. You were too mentally exhausted.

Also, you weren’t sure how Sukuna would react knowing that you were sleeping around with other people.

His angry grunt after you asked if he had been hooking up with other girls was enough to tell you that your arrangement was exclusive. It was a good thing that you asked him while he had you sheathed around his dick. Who knew what he would’ve said if he was in his right mind?

“I’m alright, Suguru. Thanks for offering,” you slurred out. He wrapped an arm around you, probably to shield you from the leering eyes of the other drunk patrons at the bar. “It’s just colder than usual here. And you don’t have a jacket.” You simply nod at his reasoning. Relishing in his warmth and the smell of his subtle cologne. Much tamer than Sukuna’s and even then you’re able to sense his heavy natural musk.

Maybe it was because you’d been intimately entwined with him more times than you could count. You couldn’t even remember what Suguru’s scent reminded you of. All that clouded your mind was that darned tattooed ex-convict.

“You know, I’ve been watching you around campus for a while. I can tell you haven’t been feeling well for a while and—“ Suguru sighs before tightening his hold on you “—if you ever feel like you need to talk to someone, please know that I’m always there for you.” His warm smile almost feels fake. You couldn’t remember the last time someone showed you genuine kindness. Save for Sukuna immediately replying to your text where you’d told him you needed to let out some steam.

“Thanks,” you choke out, a singular tear falls down and for the first time in a while you see something other than pity in a peer’s eyes—concern. True and genuine concern. You felt cared for. Your tears began to flow out your eyes yes and you sobbed uncontrollably, unsure if it was the alcohol or the shred of kindness you were just shown.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said as he rubbed his arms up and down your shoulders. “It happens to the best of us. You’ll be ok-“ You’re suddenly left cold without Suguru’s warm hold. You turn to see his hand in the grasp of another man’s.

Sukuna. He was in front of you.

“Get the fuck away from her,” he spat at Suguru. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Suguru ignored the older man’s imposition and turned to look at you. Eyes softening again. “You know this guy?” Your tongue was too thick for your mouth to answer him.

What could you say? If you agreed then all the people in this bar (who were in your university) would know that you liked to mess around with strange men. If you said no then you’d have Sukuna’s supposed wrath to deal with.

You didn’t even know what he went to jail for.

Too overstimulated and confused to answer, you simply glanced around the bar. All eyes were on you three. An unwanted spotlight.

“Tell him you know me,” Sukuna’s red eyes bore into your delirious state through a frown. “At least I know where you live.”

You felt conflicted. On one hand, you had a man who was genuinely concerned for you and was explicit with providing you with support. On the other, was a man who knew about your emotional state and didn’t let you feel afraid to put your guard down despite never asking you about your troubles.

“That doesn’t matter. She didn’t say anything about knowing who you are. Hell, I haven’t even seen you around campus. Are you even a student at our school?” Suguru snapped. You were grateful that a mere acquaintance was so protective of you, but at this moment, everything felt uncomfortable.

Cold sweat prickled the back of your neck as you watched both the men raise their voices with each insult thrown at one another.

And to your horror, both the men started fighting one another. You looked away, shielding yourself and cringing. You heard a distressing crunch and didn’t want to guess whose nose had gone bust. It was all so embarrassing. Your friends always joked that you had the worst taste in men and they were right.

Humiliated, you ran out the bar, too frantic to pay your tab. The fight had gotten so bad that you could hear the faint sirens of the local police patrol cars driving towards the bar.

The bus ride back home was as excruciating as ever. Its rockiness and constant bumps on the mussed streets made it a nightmare to hold your bile in. The acidity of it had travelled up to your mouth, and you were grateful for the bathroom being in close proximity to your front door.

A few uncomfortable belches and spurts of vomit later, you dragged your dehydrated and exhausted body to your couch, scrolling through your phone to order hangover soup for the next day.

But your finger stopped before you could tap anything because a text had popped up.

11:27 pm | Sukuna Ryomen: are you okay

—

No part two for this. The “storyline” (?) is more focused on reader’s unhealthy coping mechanisms, and how sukuna affects her life 🥸

[chuellas]

Fine Line | Chuuya is always overworking himself, always choosing work over you and you’re finally fed up with it.

⤷ Ft. Nakahara Chuuya

Warnings | Fem!reader, mentions/consumption of alcohol, term “doll” used, a tiny itty bit suggestive if you squint, hardly edited, WC: 5k

A/N | I had no idea where I was going with this one when writing it but I had so much fun writing it

You’re sitting at the bar now. You moved from your reserved table after an hour of waiting, figuring it could go to a couple that actually planned on spending the evening together. You let out another sigh into your gin and tonic. You’ve been at this restaurant for about 2 hours now and haven’t eaten a single thing. It’s your date’s fault, really, they were the one that never showed up. You don’t know why you even try anymore. Dating was pointless in your line of work anyways. 

But sometimes going on dates warded off the loneliness and that incessant craving you get for normalcy.

You check your watch for the time only to find it’s now past midnight. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you finally make the decision to pull out your phone and call the person you actually wanted to spend the evening with. You're pleasantly surprised when he picks up on the first ring.

“Thought you had a date.” You’re greeted with a tone that’s laced with exhaustion but something else jumps out too — annoyance, maybe? Or maybe you’re just imagining things after downing your third drink of the night on an empty stomach.  

You hum, pointedly not answering his question directly, as you signal for the bartender to close out your tab. “You still in your office working on that mountain of paperwork?”

The pause from the otherside of the phone is a long one, it’s a contemplative pause you conclude, you can tell he’s trying to decide whether to humor you or to push his own question. It would be a waste of his time to go with the latter, you had no intention of breaching the topic of you being stood up yet again. This time especially stung with it being a woman and all. You thought she would have known better, or at the very least have the common decency to warn you of her impending absence, knowing very well how long it takes to get ready for a first date. You shaved and took an “everything” shower for this occasion.

A soft sigh of defeat is heard from his side and you grin widely, Chuuya is much smarter than he’s given credit for. “So what if I am?”

“Stay there. I’m on my way.” You don’t give the executive room to argue as you hang up on him. 

As if on cue the bartender brings you the receipt and your card, after signing you leave a generous amount of cash in the tip jar with a smile. You leave the restaurant the same way you came, without a word as the manager babbles on about how much of a pleasure it was to have your patronage. You wave him off with the same smile that’s feeling more forced by the minute as you step into the elevator.

When the doors slide shut after what seems like an eternity, you’re finally able to relax for a moment. The disappointment of another wasted night sinks into your shoulder, making them cave in. You deflate in defeat, having to resign to a fate that’s been set by some stupid carrot topped man that has to use his ability to reach the top shelf of overhang shelves. He’d never admit it but you’ve actually caught him doing it before. 

This was all somehow Chuuya’s fault. If he ever did anything other than work you wouldn’t seek solace in other people. You would be able to let yourself actually explore the feelings that stir in your chest when you’re around the ginger. But instead you’re stuck calling him after failed dates to see what he’s up to and if you can get away with bugging him. 

Headquarters is just a few blocks north of where you’re at, it shouldn’t take you more than 10 minutes to get to Chuuya. Well, maybe 20 since your favorite ramen place is on the way and you know they’re still open. So you have to stop there for two bowls because not only have you not eaten but you know Chuuya probably hasn’t either, being too engrossed in his paperwork to remember that basic bodily functions exist. 

Another 5 minutes after picking up the ramen and you’re making your way up yet another elevator to the floor that holds both your office on one side and his on the other. You take a moment when the doors open to decide whether you want to go straight to Chuuya’s office or if you want to stop at yours to change into something far more comfortable than the dress you’re currently wearing. Your stomach ultimately makes the decision for you when it rumbles loudly. The ginger’s office it is.

You don’t even bother with knocking, too tired, hungry, and impatient to wait on him to answer. The door creaks as you push and then groans out a complaint when you kick it shut behind you. Chuuya isn’t even fazed when you enter, his nose still buried in his paperwork. Thankfully the pile was no longer a mountain, more of a small hill now. It still looks like an hour or two’s worth of work. You’d offer your help if it weren’t for the fact that you’re pretty sure you’re drunk. 

Making yourself comfortable without a word you saunter over to his desk and choose to sit yourself on top of his scattered paperwork, plopping the ramen in front of him.  

Chuuya freezes, staring at the bag of food in disbelief before turning his accusing glare at you. “What the f-”

His words die in his throat when his eyes finally land on you. Even in your slightly, maybe more, inebriated state it’s hard not to notice the way his eyelids droop as his dual colored eyes scan your figure. He must be really tired, he’s usually far more tactful when he checks you out. 

You swing your legs where they dangle from his desk, pleased with yourself and his reaction. “I brought you some dinner. I didn’t get a chance to eat so I figured neither have you. Looks like I was right!”

Chuuya has to practically tear his gaze from you to see what you’re talking about. You untie the bag to reveal two containers filled to the brim with ramen. You lean in to read the labels to make sure you were taking the right container but in the process it gives the executive a nice view right down our cleavage. You have to bite back the smile that threatens to stretch at your lips when you hear the way his breath stutters. Maybe now you’re the one not being tactful but you figure someone deserves to appreciate the way you look in this dress since the intended party will never get to. 

“You stop at that shop down the road?” Chuuya clears his throat as he waits for you to grab all of your things before reaching for his own container.

You kick off your shoes and jump off his desk to pull a chair up to the opposite side. “Yeah, thankfully they stay open late. Can you clear some of the papers up? Don’t wanna get them stained in ramen broth.”

“Really makin’ yourself at home, aren’t you, Doll?” He raises a brow at you in amusement but clears his desk off regardless.

You hum and nod your head, too busy taking a bite of your ramen. Your eyes practically roll to the back of your head and you let out a pleased hum at the flavors dancing along your tongue. The savory taste of the broth alone almost completely washes away the lingering bitter aftertaste the last few hours left in your mouth. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until you had stepped foot into that shop. Now you are famished and even the most bland of foods would taste absolutely divine in this moment. You’re so absorbed in your meal that you don’t even take notice of the way the ginger sitting before you is watching you so intently that he hasn’t even touched his own food. 

It’s not until he clears his throat that you peer up at him. “You’re eating like you’ve been starved, didn’t you have a date tonight?”

There’s that question again, you suppose you gave him too much credit earlier. He wasn’t smart enough to just let it go. Or maybe he really was just letting his curiosity get the best of him. Either way there was no way in hell you were going to tell him that another date bailed on you. So instead you smile sweetly.

“You know how small the portions are at those types of restaurants, I took like two bites and it was all gone. Had some drinks after too. So, yeah, I’m famished. I know you are too. Eat.”

Your tone leaves no room for question. You’re both dancing around touchy subjects. Chuuya knows if he wants to get you to admit what really happened he would have to swallow his pride and admit he was overworking himself and he'd be damned if he ever let that happen. 

Or at least that’s what you thought. 

You watch him through your lashes as he opens the ramen and takes a bite, and then another, and then another. He hardly ever eats when there’s work to be finished. This is definitely a rare occasion and you have a sneaky feeling, somehow during the few seconds of your exchange in challenging glances, something shifts between the two of you. 

You stare at the other executive absolutely gobbed smacked at the fact that he’s actually listening to you. Your eyes are wide, your jaw is dropped open, and the chopsticks you were using to eat fall from your fingertips and splash into your soup. A few drops from the broth fly into your eye and you let out a hiss at the sting from the spices and temperature. 

The moment the two of you just had ends just as swiftly as you fan at your eyes frantically and then hold out your hand to Chuuya. “Eye drops- Oh my god your eye drops. Now, Chuuya.”

The ginger is jolted from his stupor when your voice becomes sharper. He reaches into the drawer to his left and produces a small bottle of eye drops, something you knew he keeps around due to his frequent late nights burning the midnight oil. It’s how he keeps his eyes from getting dry with exhaustion. 

You snatch the small bottle from his hands and throw your head back to all but squirt the soothing solution into your eye. It takes a moment to work, the sensation getting worse before it gets better. But after a moment you’re good as new, maybe even better than before. 

It’s a truly sobering experience and any left over buzz you were holding onto sadly fizzles out. You’re now stone cold sober and kicking yourself for coming here this late, know the only outcome is getting sent away so the ginger could finish his work in peace. You’re nothing but a distraction to him.

But if that were true, why even let you into his office, his space, in the first place?

“Thanks…” You hand the medicine back to Chuuya and pick your chopsticks back up to continue eating, pretending like nothing happened. “So, how many nights in a row have you slept here this week?”

You tilt your head to the couch that has a head pillow and blanket set up on it — inviting, almost, if you didn’t know how incredibly uncomfortable that couch was. It couldn’t be good for his back. You know he already deals with the residual chronic muscle pain he experiences after using his ability, especially after using corruption. You wish he would slow down, his body already pays for his ability, it doesn’t need to suffer because of his excessive working habits too. 

But then you would just sound like a broken record. 

Chuuya never really listens. He’s stubborn that way and it’s not just his body that pays for it, his social and love life pay the price for it too. It’s frustrating to care so deeply for someone who would rather think of others and their work than their own wellbeing. 

What’s worse, though, is that you’re selfish. You’ll take the heated stares and intimate touches in the dead of night on the rare occasions he’s not spending them at his desk over nothing at all. Maybe it isn’t selfish, maybe it’s self-deprecating but you can’t help yourself. You’ve tried to move on — that’s what you were trying to do tonight. But the universe has a sick and twisted sense of humor, so you once again find yourself in his office during the devil’s hour.

Suddenly you hear a muffled voice and you’re thrusted back to reality. Chuuya looks at you expectantly and you furrow your brows at him. “What?”

“I said: I figure you wouldn’t be eating with me right now if your date went well, you’d be over at his place, right?”

Your eye twitches in irritation and not from the soup broth that landed in it just moments ago. He’s trying to evade your question. Of course he was actively avoiding it, why would he ever admit to you something that you don’t think he’s admitted to himself. 

What’s worse is he’s pushing his question from earlier. Wording it differently to mask his nagging curiosity. His gaze is hypnotizing, something shifts again. You don’t think you care for the butterflies that erupted in your stomach. The usually light and exciting flutter of their wings now feel like razors slicing their way up your throat. It burns and you might throw up.

It’s so unfair, the way he makes you feel is unfair.

You don’t know what possesses you but a single syllable flies past your lips in response before you can catch it. “Her.”

“Her?” And this man has the audacity to look semi-amused as he says the word back to you in a questioning tone. 

In that moment you know he knows and you watch in abject horror as his amused expression twists into a knowing one. Now you’re sure, he’s aware that you know he knows. 

Your eye almost twitches again at the way his brow raises in amusement at your answer and suddenly you feel defensive. You don’t give a shit if he knows what you’re trying to do by dating around. You don’t care if he knows that each attempt has ended in failure. You don’t care that he knows that each failure ends in you crawling back to him.

You don’t care.

You don’t.

You steel your expression, eyes becoming sharp as they bore into Chuuya. “Yeah, it was supposed to be a woman I was meeting tonight.”

“Well she’s an idiot for not showing, especially when you look like that.” His tone sounds sincere and it makes you want to throw up.

You let out an incredulous scoff — you can’t believe that he just said that, of all people. “She’s not the only idiot.”

“She’s not?”

Now he’s really starting to piss you off, his smug expression tells you all you need to know. This must all be a game to him. He’s toying with you, he has to be, and he has been for a while now but you’re finally sick of it. You’re tired of the constant back and forth but not getting anywhere because he would rather stubbornly overwork himself half to death to have an excuse to avoid you than admit his obvious feelings for you. 

The revelation sends your whole body into a fit, you’re trembling and seething and it’s pouring out the seams. You’ve cracked. You should congratulate him, really, no one has elicited this much emotion from you before.

Chuuya’s demeanor changes when he notices how worked up you seem to be getting but he’s too late. You’re already past the point of being settled down because you’re shaking like a goddamn chihuahua. Your nostrils flare in irritation and ears flush in anger. 

“No, she’s not the only idiot that’s managed to fumble me. Look in a mirror and you’ll know who the other person is. Enjoy overworking yourself to death. I’m going home.” 

All at once the blazing rage that washed over you burns out when Chuuya makes no indication of moving to stop you and immediately you wish the ground would just crack open to swallow you whole. Suddenly you’re all too aware of your response to his play. It was more of an overreaction. How embarrassing? How is it that he’s able to elicit this strong of a reaction from you. 

How can he not follow after you like he has better things to do?

But he does have more important things to do than console you, doesn’t he?

For the second time tonight you’re mortified, but unlike earlier, this one was your own doing. You just threw a fit, had an actual tantrum, over someone who has made it clear he’s not ready for something that you think you are.

Maybe selfish is the right word.

You contemplate halting in your spot and apologizing but your pride keeps you from doing so. You should have never put all your cards on the table. You curse yourself for ever letting your true feeling for the ginger slip that one drunken night several months ago that when asked about the next day you had conveniently forgotten all about it. Something tells you that he remembered it clearly, so, if not stopping you was his final response to your confession then you have to accept that. 

Your hand reaches out for the door knob and you almost flinch when it comes in contact with the cold metal. He’s really just going to let you leave like this. Your head is a mess— no, your whole body is a mess. Your head is filled with fog, a mist of endless thoughts descending on you to make everything blurry. Your chest is like a tsunami of emotions washing over you in sharp waves. Then there are those damn razor sharp butterflies that are still threatening to claw up your throat. 

But just as you start to turn the knob, a gloved hand covers your own and halts your actions. Your breath hitches when the anxiety you’d been feeling just a moment ago completely dissipates. Chuuyas chest is pressed against your back and his forehead falls to your shoulder. 

“Chuuya wha-”

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish your question when he mumbles out, “I don’t need a mirror to know that…”

Oh. 

Is he really implying that he knows he’s been a fool? Is the world coming to an end? Chuuya? Admitting to being an idiot? You thought there was a higher chance of getting struck by lightning before hearing anything of the sort from the executive himself. 

“I’m sorry.”

You blink, you think your brain’s been fried, convinced that Chuuya can see the steam rolling out of your ears as you short circuit. “For what?”

You croak out the short question, words catching in your throat. It surprises even you when a sob follows. You hadn’t realized that the emotions you were feeling hadn’t dissipated but instead had been forced out in the most embarrassing way possible. 

“I…I’m sorry for…” Chuuya trails off and curses under his breath, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Jesus Christ. I’m sorry for not putting you first.” 

His voice trembles in something akin to fear. Something in your chest tears at his tone and it hurts. You look up at the ceiling to try to blink away the water that’s blurred your vision and take in a sharp breath after getting winded from the sudden blow. Your hand finally falls from the door knob and you both stand there in silence. The only noise is the grandfather clock that stands tall on the far end of his office, if it wasn’t for the loud ticking, everything would feel frozen. Something about the silence on your part is agonizing, you want to respond, but your voice is caught in your throat, swallowed dryly as you try to wet the dry patches stinging the lining of your esophagus.

Funny how your eyes feel too wet while your throat is too dry. 

You try to take a few breaths to calm yourself down enough to speak but you can feel the impatience radiating off of Chuuya and it just makes you even more anxious. It almost physically pains you but you take a step away from the ginger and stride across the room to an open window. Fresh air, something you always appreciated about Chuuya is that he prefers open windows and fresh air to fans or air conditioning if he can help it. The executive doesn’t follow, he hasn’t even moved from his spot. His head is still drooped down from where it was resting on your shoulder and suddenly your mouth and throat flood with saliva. That familiar feeling of nausea hitting you like a freight train once again.

You clear your throat to speak but realize -- how the hell do you respond to that? Are you really upset with Chuuya? Yes. Are you upset with yourself for letting things go this far? Also yes. So, as much as you want to blame all of this on the gravity manipulator, you can’t. 

Your shoulders slump and your gaze stays glued to the twinkling city lights in the skyline as you finally speak. “You always chose work. Always.”

Chuuya looks up at that. Your words seemingly hit a nerve as irritation flashes across his face before he can contain it. You bristle at that, preparing for an argument. You’re exhausted and don’t want to argue but you will if you have to because although you know you’re at fault too, you’re not going to just let this asshole get away with his part in all of this.

Luckily, the ginger simmers down easily and slumps again, showing you how truly exhausted he is. “That’s not entirely true, I chose you…Sometimes….”

“You think I should be grateful for that? You only chose me instead of work ‘sometimes’ to make yourself feel better about stringing me along.” You’re not looking at him when you speak, too interested with the view, or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself.  “Or to get your mind off of work. I was just an escape to you. Nothing more.” 

This time you don’t have to look back at him to feel the frustration radiating off of him in a similar way gravity manipulation does when he activates it. It’s hot, his frustration, you imagine if you reached out there was a chance you’d get burned. It’s rare to witness Chuuya losing his cool like this, the only other person besides yourself that could get him riled up like this long gone from the organization. Thinking about him makes you even more bitter so you take another stab at Chuuya.

“You certainly put on a convincing act, though. So congrats for that I guess.”

Snap. 

You imagine that’s the sound that would’ve been made when Chuuya’s patience finally breaks. His steps are heavy and you almost think he’s activated his ability. You almost forget how fast he is because you barely have time to turn around before he’s got a firm grip on your face. His hold is unrelenting as he forces you to look at him. 

Chuuya looks like a wreck, so many emotions written all over his face but most of all he’s hurt by your words. You know it’s wrong, you shouldn’t be lashing out at him like this but a part of you is pleased that he looks just as devastated as you feel. This is not your proudest moment by far and you’re sure you’ll feel ashamed over it later. Right now, however, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel guilty in the slightest. You said what you said and you're going to say it with your whole chest.

A shaky breath is let out by the executive standing before you. “That’s unfair. You’re being unfair.”

There’s no way this man is accusing you of being the unfair one here.

“You were unfair to me first. I’m tired. Be straight with me or just leave me alone, Chuuya.” Any fight you had in you moments ago vanishes as you finally give up.

Chuuya’s reaction shows you that he sees it, the way you’re letting him hold all the cards in this, making this his decision, the final one when it comes to this situationship. You’re done, you’re tired and now you just want this shitty night to be over with. If you had a white piece of fabric on you, you’d wave it like a flag, surrendering completely. 

He’s not good with his words, Chuuya has never been as articulate as some of the others, but he is good with actions. His actions have always spoken volumes for him, so why wouldn’t that work for him now? The executive pulls you in and crashes his lips to yours in a desperate attempt to convey to you what he couldn’t speak.

You’re a little slow on the uptake as your brow furrows and you attempt to pull away. You look at him incredulously but the expression he’s making has you halting altogether. His eyes are screwed shut and his brows furrowed in concentration and maybe a little bit in fear by the way you can feel his lips and hands slightly trembling against your face. It clicks then.

Chuuya Nakahara is finally choosing you over his work. 

This was him telling you in his own way that he’s not letting you give up like you wanted to. And if you can claim to know anything about Chuuya, it’s that he always makes good on a promise. That’s what has you melting into his hold and returning his kiss with just as much fervor. 

You both stay like that for a long while and you feel like Chuuya is trying to devour you whole in this one single kiss. As if he’s scared that if he doesn’t, you’ll slip from his grasp forever, but that would be impossible with the way he’s holding onto you for dear life. Even if you wanted to, which in this moment you didn’t, you couldn’t escape him. But you do need to pull away for air though. You shift your face the best you can away from his and even though he tries to chase your lips, you manage to separate from him.

You instantly bring your hands up to his wrist and nuzzle your face into his hands, showing him you still have no plans of going anywhere. The tension in his body dissipates and he watches you closely, patiently waiting for your response. As if you kissing him back wasn’t enough. 

“You piss me off, y’know that?” Chuuya lets out a chuckle at your statement and leans in to rest his forehead on yours.

His eyes bore into yours and there’s something there that you’ve never seen before, a sort of adoration you think he’s been holding back for a long time now. “Yeah, I have a confession to make that might piss you off even more…”

You stiffen in anticipation for the worst, staring up at him suspiciously with narrowed eyes. What was it now? You wrack your brain thinking about what he could possibly still be holding back. All you wanted was to know where you stood with him and now you do. So what else would he be hiding from you?

“It’s, uhh…Well it has to do with your date tonight, and maybe all of the other first dates that stood you up…” The look on your face must tell him that you’re picking up on where this is going and his grip on you tightens once again. “It was fucked up of me, I know. I’ll- I’ll make it up to you…I’ll take you out on two dates for each first date I ruined.”

Oh. 

You can’t even really find it in yourself to be that upset. It clears up a lot of inconsistencies for you. You have full confidence in your personality and looks, so it wasn’t adding up why you were being stood up so much. Even with you being a part of the upper echelon of the Port Mafia, that’s not public information. So, intimidation was ruled out too. You are becoming increasingly more annoyed at the thought of it all.

Maybe you should find it in yourself to be more upset about this…

Your expression displays just how unconvinced you are by his words, Chuuya can clearly see it and sense it so he tacks on some extra sweet talking to sooth your overthinking. “I’ve got a lot of time to make up for anyways.”

Your previous statement of Chuuya not being very good with his words is a lie. You were lying. The simple statement is enough to have you melting into him again. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe he got lucky. Maybe you’re just that down bad for him. Or maybe it’s all of the above. Who knows (you do).

Either way you find yourself giving in again for hopefully the last time tonight, but not before you decide to add a condition for your own benefit. “...Fine. But any trip or out of town get away counts as only one date.”

“Don’tcha think you’re getting greedy now, Doll?” Chuuya lets out another chuckle, shaking his head a little.

You shrug with a soft grin on your lips. “No, you owe me. Plus, it’s like you said, got a lot of time to make up for.”

[demonicbaby666]

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

[writerastray]

It's always on the tip of my tongue { affection part 2 }

General Masterlist - Read this before interacting

Disclaimer:

⚠︎ My works are all protected. I do not permit any form of copying, translation, or reposting. Please reblog if you want to share my work.

⚠︎ My work is only appropriate for adults over the age of 18. Ageless/blank blogs will be blocked.

-> Word count: 7.6k

-> Relationships: Lee Minho/afab!Reader

-> Rating: 18+ → Mature/Explicit

->Genre/Tropes: Romance, Sexual Tension, Smut. Other Additional Tags to Be Added. (Spoiler tags: Something more than friends to Lovers?)

-> Warning tags: Alcohol Consumption. Explicit Sexual Content. Other Additional Tags to Be Added.

-> Synopsis: Part 2 of Affection. As you try to move on from Felix and figure out where your relationship with Minho stands, his past resurfaces, challenging the feelings between the two of you.

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The sun was rising, casting a warm glow on the room as dawn approached. Another night spent trying to forget Felix, finding solace in Minho's arms.

It was easy to forget with him around—his arms encircling your waist, feeling his heart beating, lips grazing your neck, and fingers near your breasts, legs intertwined. Everything felt momentarily easier.

Reality would hit when the day began, and your fantasy would shatter. Then you would need to go back to your dorm; then, your heart would yearn for another. 

He kissed your neck, a low grunt escaping him, saying nothing, just staying.

You waited, delaying the inevitable. And it came. 

"Y/n," he murmured, his hands gently guiding you to face him, his sleepy gaze meeting yours. 

"Minho."

He kissed the top of your head, nose, cheeks, and your lips. 

"Five more minutes?" You asked. 

With a nod, Minho rose. You remained, reluctant to face the day just yet.

You hoped things would change, but it got more confusing. You still thought of Felix, but now Minho occupied your mind everywhere—in the coffee shop, in the stray cats, in the sweet brown of your coffee that reminds you of his eyes, in the soft blanket you use to sleep, that's never as cozy and warm as being in his arms, or the sunrise, where you are the most happy in his bed.

As time passed, Felix was slowly being erased, and instead of relief, it became painful. You didn't want the feelings to vanish; it made you anxious. 

You wondered how Minho felt over this. He knew you. He knew you, on some rare nights, still cried over Felix. And, he also knew you looked at him wanting something more than friendship.

Was he going through the same turmoil? Did he think of someone else while his hands caressed your waist? Did his dreams betray his unspoken desires, just as yours did? Did he want to be with them, or were you erasing their marks on his heart just like he's doing with yours?

Want to keep reading? You can check it out on my AO3—just click this link to continue: It's always on the tip of my tongue🖤

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Author's note: Hi! I hope you liked this story. English is my second language, so please excuse my errors. Constructive feedback is always appreciated! I do not permit any form of copying, translation, or reposting of my work.

Did you enjoy this? If so, please reblog it. Thank you for reading! Sending love 💕

Copyright © 2023 by Writerastray.

[kavalyera]

freedom (losing all hope was freedom)

read on ao3

Rosemary finds solace in brutality

cw: beating someone to death, referenced childhood trauma, referenced alcoholism, references to religion

THERE WAS ALWAYS something nostalgic about wanting to kill someone with just her fists alone.

Hitting something until it breaks, hitting someone until they tap out. It’s always been something Rosemary’s known even before her embrace.

Slipping into the crowd, a pit fight somewhere out in the great desert. It’s night. It’s beautiful. It’s perfect for the innate urge to hear bones crack and people yelling. Years stuck in the dark of wilderness camps and the sweat slick of other kids that want to kill as much as he did at that time. And those people at those wilderness camps allowed it.

Fighting in the desert, as cliché as it sounds, has always been a historical thing. It still happens, sometimes on a larger scale. Armies out in the desert under the blazing heat of the sun. They have sandstorms pushing on them, and the added bonus of other soldiers lined up to kill them.

They aren’t on the battlefield. But Rosemary knows that the Camarilla can just be likened to one.

Fighting is a simple concept. It’s a broad term too. Fighting is defined by acting out conflict. In other words, violence. Fighting can come in different ways. There’s the sly maneuvering and the traditional—hit each other until either one of you passes out or taps out. In professional fighting, tapping out is the safe bet. The ring, or octagon, can be splattered with blood until one passes out from a knockout or taps out. The referee doesn’t step in until it’s made clear that one of the fighters can be confined to a hospital bed for a good three weeks or so. That’s why in professional fighting there are rules. If they’re broken, the fighter that breaks it loses more than just their title or the ability to win. But also their dignity within the ring. It’s a lose-lose situation for both people in the ring; one fighter wins due to their bones breaking or being unable to stand, and the other loses because they broke the rules. Both lose their dignity in the sport.

Street fighting is something different. Or underground fighting, or pit fighting—the idea is essentially the same. Hand to hand combat between two or more individuals—traditionally just two—taken place in public places with no set of rules, just bare knuckle hitting. Sometimes there’s weapons, sometimes there’s not. Most cases it’s a sudden thing where two people get heated on the street and try to kill each other before the cops detain them or one dies, dead on the side of the road like roadkill with a mangled face and broken ribs.

So Rosemary is in the great Southwest where sand covers the side of roads for miles upon miles and there’s nothing but the sound of the gentle breeze of isolation and the dawning truth of being a neonate in this unpredictable world. Rosemary always knew where these people fought, it was a sixth sense that seemed to be the foundation of his beast. It was the basements of bars or run down restaurants where it only opened at night, or in parking lots of long abandoned towns, or right on the side of the road under a flickering streetlight.

The bar here is no different. It looks run down, gritty travelers and nearly homeless people finding a place to stay for the night. There’s a guy, he sits on the edge of the stool, nearly standing up, hands jittery and his clothes dirty with the smell of methane and blood. “You come here often?” Rosemary asks. It’s a rhetorical question.

‘Cause who the hell goes to a shitty bar in the middle of nowhere in the southwest on the daily?

“I.. nah. First time here.” He says back to her. They’re nearly the same height if it weren’t for the guy’s posture being that of a shrimp, a neck hump evident under that jacket that seems to be fished out of a dumpster. “You?”

“Yeah.” She knows the fight is somewhere here. There’s blood in the parking lot. Right in between the cars and motorcycles. “You’ve been through hell?”

The guy’s gaze drifts off, he’s nearly distant before he gets back into reality. “I’m not religious.”

“You know what I was talkin’ about.”

Rosemary’s hands itch for something deeply carnal.

“I had everything.” He slurs out after drinking. “What would you know? You look… look, uh—”

Not him. Thanks.

“Young?” Rosemary finishes the sentence for him. Eternally young. Embraced at 24. If life had been different, he would have been in college or something. She thinks back to the life she could have lived. Maybe a successful fighter, maybe a tattoo artist.

(The fantasy is just a mere dream that haunts Rosemary when the sun comes to rise over the horizon and she’s inside of a tight, dark space so he doesn’t die.)

The sun has just set, it’s roughly eight something. Being someone like Rosemary is something that could kill most people. The guy’s words are dragged on ramblings, Rosemary slips out when he doesn’t notice. Outside is better. He can’t drink. She wishes she can again. Drinking—other than brutal bare-knuckling—was always a self destructive sanctuary.

Hi, Ai—

He can hear her.

In the back of Rosemary’s head like a thought that’s in a vaguely different voice than her own.

I don’t believe we’ve met. Rosemary thinks.

I sound so fucking stupid talking to myself.

“You a druggie?” There’s a guy that says that.

Rosemary is squatted on the edge of where sand meets asphalt. Car next to her. He plays with his keys, the metallic glint of Saint Christopher’s emblem swooshing around.

“There’s a guy in there.” Rosemary says.

“Don’t give a shit. Do you have a light?”

“No.”

“Damn.” He sighs out. “Dealing with kids fucks you in the head, you know?”

What was an elementary teacher doing here? “Babysitter or something?”

“Volunteer.”

Rosemary’s ears seem to fade into static as the guy is silent after she’s not replying back. The chime of his keys in his hands, Saint Christopher’s emblem clinking against keys. Saint Christopher—Rosemary’s never been religious—her family was. His uncle, his cousins, his uncle’s new wife; down back in San Diego. They went to church on Sundays. Rosemary stayed at their house, watching the dogs in the neighborhood fight. Teeth bared and barks loud.

Saint Christopher was a martyr, much like most other saints. He protected travelers and motorists, fitting for a tall man that took the opportunity to carry the Christ child over a river.

Rosemary hears it.

It makes everything in his head stop.

“You deal with troubled kids?” Rosemary asks as he stands.

“Yeah, man.”

May I never be complete without brutality.

The volunteer tastes blood and has to start swallowing as Rosemary’s knuckles meet his throat. Her name—Mary—is the last thing he sees before a bruise forms on his throat.

May I never be content without bloodshed.

“You fucking bitch!” Rosemary knows that sentence well enough to know he’s winding up to hit back.

What’s a scar to an asshole that can’t die anyways? Rosemary takes his punch to her left ear. Her ear’s always been damaged for as long as she remembers. You get into fights at eight or nine with much older kids who are equally as fucked as you are, you’ll end up nearly deaf in one ear ‘cause all they know is to hit the head as hard as they can. They’re mostly right handed.

It takes immense willpower not to sink his teeth into the juncture of the guy’s throat.

In the height of the brutality, Rosemary is God.

It takes ten, no, twelve or thirteen seconds before Rosemary hits the guy in the teeth. He doesn’t know how to fight. It’s embarrassing how many punches slip. In violence, Rosemary is his own God.

Rosemary’s on the guy’s back, his spine digs into her inner thigh, her knees pin his arms down—he thrashes; his legs flop around like fish out of water. Rosemary’s left hand pulls the volunteer’s head up from the asphalt, his nose is bleeding, both nostrils drowned in blood as it flows down the curve of his lips and chin. He gargles something—stop!—Rosemary guesses. Or: fuck! It’s one or the other.

Rosemary’s right hand hits his eye. The thin skin over his knuckles, bare knuckled, meets the soft swell of a black eye forming. Rose’s weight pins him down. Her fist meets his face again. The beast is clawing at him again—no. No longer clawing. The beast is out, unchained, uncaged; a rabid dog that’a found a semblance of power in baring teeth and biting down.

The sound of flesh getting hit by hard muscle and bone was always so familiar to Rosemary. Who Rosemary is at the height of a beat down is what she is at her core.

Rosemary looks at the man. He notices he’s stopped moving. No one’s seen her. Good. It takes immense willpower not to drink.

Good God. Good fucking God.

God bless this perfect shit-show.

Rosemary stands up, kicks the guy over on his back and he’s lying, bleeding on the asphalt. One hand draped over his stomach; both his eyes swollen with a vivid violet. His throat, no doubt the structure of cartilage is broken. The volunteer is barely breathing. Rosemary stands over him. He stops breathing. The rise and fall of his chest was bare before and in her stillness, he’s dead.

“Fuck.” Rosemary sighs out. What the fuck?

The volunteer is dead. Dead on the asphalt like roadkill with a mangled face and broken ribs.

Rosemary looks at her watch. 8:23.

It took twenty minutes to kill someone.

She steps into her car, a fucked up, beaten down car that gets the job of being a courier in these modern nights done easily. Saint Christopher’s emblem attached to the key ring looks at him.

“Fuck!” Rosemary yells, hands hitting the sides of the steering wheel before driving off.

One night, Rosemary feels the rush of human adrenaline.

In those twenty minutes, Rosemary was God.

thank u for reading as u can see i am immune to making non violent ocs uwu

[xlocalxpunkx]

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…

[zombie-rott]

Shotgun Opera // Chapter Three.

<< Prologue One Two [A03]

Chapter Three [A03]

Klaus Hargreeves is down and out when he finds himself in the arms of a man who takes advantage of his desperation. Suddenly Ben finds pulled back from the void to witness an horrific attack that ends up throwing Klaus’ train completely off the tracks. But harsh realisations, dark intrusive thoughts and the fear of following through all point them in the direction of Diego, the only living sibling Klaus’ feels he can trust. But things have changed for him too. He’s learning to navigate a life with his partner, Eudora, and cope with loss of his ‘dream’ job.

Can they all work together to concur their demons? Can Klaus get sober once and for all? And what happens when an unexpected spanner is thrown into the mix?

Warnings [Please Heed!]

Drug Addiction / Drug Abuse / Alcohol Abuse / Prostitution / Rape&Non-Con / S**f-Injury / S*icide Intent / Psychosis

(More to be added)

Chapter Extract:

“Didn’t I tell you to split last night?”

“Your exact words were ‘fuck off, Casper.’”

No matter where Klaus found himself, whether in a room with four walls or a dumpster with no more than a lid, he could never manage to get away from his 'gift'. His apartment was no exception to the rule.

Honestly, it was no wonder that Klaus had a chronic resistance to sobriety. Of course, Ben was well in tune with his brother's addictions and reasoning. He was possibly the only of their siblings who understood the medium's predicament, even going as far as to say they were justified (but never to Klaus' face). But no matter his insight, Ben could never fully understand what it was like to be a walking, talking flesh bag plagued by the undead.

While the medium slept, Ben counted exactly three ghouls that moved freely throughout the home. Two came through the walls from other units, their bodies twisted in horrific reflections of their deaths. Then there was the elderly lady who favoured Klaus' kitchen, specifically the corner just next to the window and the old iron radiator. She wore a blood-soaked nightie, with brain matter caked into her hair and across her shoulders. A bullet-shaped hole between her eyes suggested a gruesome demise, perhaps one she chose for herself.

Ben inspected her, even going so far as to ask questions. But she only murmured at him rather than to him, clots of blood bubbling from her mouth and down her chin. No words, just haunting moans. Her presence made him feel uneasy, and the other two in the living area weren't much better. They were loud and angry, both seeming to know the other. Ben did his best to avoid them lest his very presence start something that couldn't possibly finish in a decent conversation.

He hugged the wall and moved cautiously back into his brother's bedroom, where he sought solace atop Klaus' dresser. There he hovered awkwardly, thoughts askew as he watched the man toss and turn, going through the mental checklist instilled in him from young teenage-hood (Is Klaus still breathing? Seems to be. Not choking on his vomit? Not yet).

With little else to do, Ben processed. He couldn’t help but rake his eyes across the pale vastness of his brother’s skin. It was a canvas of bruises, some new and some old. There were at least two separate track sites the specter could see, and he was fairly certain others were hidden from view. There were bones protruding, scars in various stages of healing, bite marks, and even burns. All painted a grim picture of Klaus' sordid reality. 

Then there was the harsh and brazen way in which his brother talked about himself, as if he were nothing more than dirt on a shoe. Ben's disembodied gut twisted at how easy it was for Klaus to degrade himself to nothing more than a problem. Klaus who enjoyed collecting trinkets. Klaus who painted his sister's nails and demanded his done in return. Klaus who wanted nothing more than to love and be loved by his siblings. He'd reduced himself not to his hobbies or collections but to the family shame.

Ben knew before he left that things were bad. Hell, it was the very reason he'd gone in the first place. And while he wasn't naïve enough to assume Klaus would fix things, he'd never suspected it would turn out quite as bad as it was.

READ THE REST ON A03

[tuatism]

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.

[lost-my-sanity]

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.

[kudzuoath]

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.

[icey--stars]

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!

[thvnderr]

❀ *◦ 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

PINTEREST

[ryuzakemo128]

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."

[raywritesthings]

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!