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thunderheadfred · 3 years

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🦅Hawks HC’s🦅

This is SO unnecessarily long. Some NSFW. Minors do not interact.

- - - - -

General

Has zero social life or hobbies outside of work. He knows it’s unhealthy, but like, who has the time?? Oh? Lots of people do?? Haha what are healthy work/home boundaries? He desperately wants to retire and always talks about a world without heroes, but the truth is he would have no idea what to do with himself if he got his way. Take him to a park at midnight and watch him turn into a giant repressed child on a swing. He’ll do a standing-360 and it will be terrifying.

Listens to music way too loud in his headphones to drown out wind noise. Probably half deaf at this point. His musical taste is wild; listening history all over the fucking place. Algorithms have no idea what to do with him.

That visor? It’s prescription. Wow is he far-sighted. He wears glasses. He’s not blind without them (rather the opposite) but they help him see things directly in front of him without massive eye strain. Yeah, he looks really hot in glasses.

Prefers communicating via text. Sometimes it’s a lot of dumb memes, but mostly it’s sincere. He can say what he means when he doesn’t have to put on a public front.

Smokes like a chimney. Self medicates with stimulants. Coffee, tobacco, sugar. Fidgety, likes things in his mouth or hands. Gnashes on toothpicks and popsicle sticks. He really should go back to therapy, huh? His teeth are sparkling white for the cameras but his breath could use some work. Chews gum a lot to compensate, and always does it really loudly with a big shit-eating grin.

Impatient as fuuuuuck. Rude about it. If you take too long doing anything, you’re going to hear a foot tapping. He’ll smile and laugh it off, never ever directly criticize you about it. But lord, the dramatic sighs. He WILL nudge you out of the way and take over in order to finish a task faster, and it’s truly fucking annoying.

LOVES food. Has the metabolism of an actual bird. Will seize upon any excuse to eat. No need to be self-conscious about eating in front of him; he wants you to enjoy it. Steals bites from you and talks with his mouth full. Prefers street food and take-out, usually eats while walking or flying. Sit-down restaurants are an invitation for gawkers.

He’s one of those celebrities that looks way taller on TV. In real life, he’s small and compact. So you’re surprised the first time you see him in person. He has a big head. Literally.

If you’re taller or bigger than him, he does Not Care. He treats everyone like they’re four feet tall, even Endeavor. Everything you do is cute. If you’re actually short, he’s going to carry you around all the time, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Collects big chunky overpriced watches. All the better to tell you you’re late.

Half his clothes are brand fucking new. Sometimes he forgets to take off the tags. (Don’t look at the prices, do NOT) He never seems to wear the same thing twice. He also never seems to go shopping. Brands just give him stuff, and he shrugs and goes “yeah okay.”

The other half of his clothes are old, faded, and patched up. Every item he acquires for himself has deep sentimental value. If you tell him to throw away that nasty ten-year-old pair of frayed cargo pants, be prepared to find out how wrong and evil you are for even suggesting it.

He doesn’t snore; he coos. Loudly. Like a fucking pigeon trapped in a megaphone.

- - - - -

Dating

Gift-giving is his love language. Bringing your favorite snacks. Leaving novelty magnets on your fridge. He found a copy of that book/game/movie you mentioned like a month ago, don’t you remember? If he has to go out of town on a job, he’ll bring back the ugliest possible souvenir, just to annoy you.

He likes gifting jewelry especially. Covering you in shiny baubles, little golden things. Not expensive, but unusual. Antiques or handmade, even bizarre vending machine crap. Gets really handsy if you wear or show off his gifts.

Since you’re the first person who has given him The Feels, if you are resistant to his advances (like, say, because he’s way too famous and you’re terrified he’s gonna break your heart) he’s going to go fucking nuts trying to woo you. Doesn’t have a single patient bone in his body but will wait as long as it takes for you to come around. He’ll act like he’s cool with just being friends at first, just hanging out, haha. Oh you’re busy today? That’s cool. Inside he’s shrieking like a tea kettle. Go ahead, make him wait.

Don’t bother giving him a key to your place. He’s coming in through the bedroom window or patio door. Just put out a damn welcome mat on your balcony... or a bird feeder.

A bit of a voyeur. He likes to watch you do your normal routine without interruption. He can see from miles away so if you’ve got your lights on at night, he’ll creep for a while before he comes in. It comforts him immensely, seeing a little slice of the world that isn’t constantly in need of saving.

Is super talkative and funny but a terrible communicator. Makes more jokes the worse he feels. Will almost never tell you what he needs. Most of the time, he doesn’t even know. You will learn to read between the lines and gradually notice his tiny unconscious cries for help. Back rubs make him emotional.

He shows up at your place at the weirdest times. All hours. You’re never ready. At first it was infuriating, because you wanted to look your best and have time to prepare, but you figure out pretty quickly that seeing you in your natural state is his favorite thing. He never gets to be around normal people, doing normal things. A boring, lazy afternoon is his idea of paradise.

He’ll pick through your things and ask a world of invasive questions. A medicine cabinet raider. He wants to know every fucking tiny thing about you, live vicariously through you.

He actually lives in a top floor penthouse. Because I mean, where else? Never spends any time there; mostly he seems to roost on the balcony. He has used the front door maybe once. He much prefers your place, and will only take you back to his after months of dating. It’ll take like, an entire emergency. You’ll end up in his bed by mistake.

Because when you finally come over, he’s embarrassed. Its sparse. White. Things in boxes. A new furniture smell. Like he’s not done moving in, though he’s lived there for years. He wants you to move in So Bad but doesn’t want to be pushy. If you don’t start leaving your stuff there, he’ll steal things from your apartment. Where the hell is your favorite t-shirt? Or that pillowcase you like? Dammit Keigo.

He’s a decent cook, a habit he made himself pick up because he thought it might make him feel more normal. It... didn’t. He never actually cooks until you give him an excuse. He’ll bring you breakfast in bed and watch you eat every bite with big hungry eyes.

He’s got a separate wardrobe for his hero costume and all his feathers. Yeah. His feathers. Because he can detach and control his feathers at will, when he’s alone at home he kind of just... shucks off his wings. The first time you see him do it, your eyes fall out of your head. He walks around in a tee shirt and boxers with these ugly little stumps covered in brownish, blood-red down. It actually looks kind of gnarly, like he got mauled by a bear.

He’s never dated until you. No one has ever been in his apartment until you. No one has called him Keigo until you. He has some bigass intimacy issues. Because. Y’know. The trauma. But god, he wants you in his life so bad, even if he has no idea how to make time for your relationship.

He’ll want to keep you to himself for a while. Once you go public he’s going to have an arm around your shoulders at all times. Publicly Displays his Affection way more than is socially acceptable in Japan, and gives precisely -100,000 fucks.

His fans either love you or hate you. There is no in between. He will immediately take your phone and threaten to drop it from a great height if he catches you reading shitty gossip about the two of you. Does NOT care about his public image anymore, doesn’t want YOU to care about it either. He’s gonna retire soon anyway, remember? That’s a lie.

Being a charming motherfucker is the core of his public persona, so you will get jealous. A lot. He will flirt shamelessly without realizing it. He will get photographed in compromising positions with gorgeous people.

Once you accept that he’s basically an actor 80% of the time and that Hawks and Keigo are separate identities, you’ll both feel better. When he comes home (to YOU) and falls over exhausted and stops being Hawks(tm), when he scratches his ass or burps in front of you, when he yells to you from the bathroom, when he groans childishly about his shitty day while laying face-down in your lap, you’ll know you have nothing to worry about. Keigo is all yours.

Boundaries? Never heard of ‘em. He’s either a million lightyears away or he’s glued to your hip. The whiplash is astounding.

Absolutely says “I love you” wayyyyyy to soon. It thrills you but scares you off at the same time, because there’s no way Hawks - The Hawks - can actually mean it, right? (He does)

Rings? Nah. When things get serious, he will make a necklace out of a feather for you, and if you ever take it off, you better be asleep or in the shower. Even then you’re on thin fuckin ice. If you’re not wearing it he knows. He’s never mean about making you put it back on, it just makes him nervous if he can’t feel your heartbeat.

- - - - -

SPICY CHICKEN NUGGETS

High sex drive. Horny like 25/7. Probably a symptom of having way too much pent up stress.

Often takes care of it himself when he doesn’t have the emotional resources for anyone else, even his S.O. Figures you don’t want him coming on to you as often as he would like to, but he’s too stupid to talk to you about it first. Morning masturbator.

Yes he’s fucked around a lot but he’s not exactly a playboy either. People have always thrown themselves at him, and before he met you he let them do it. Especially when out of town and staying in a hotel. Whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, etc.

He’d never be unfaithful to you though; his loyalty and dedication are frankly a little unsettling. Sometimes you feel like the only thing in his life other than hero work. Teach this man to knit. Make him join a book club. Christ. Anything.

Does in fact have seasonal mating patterns and it’s super embarrassing.

An underwear-sniffing perv. He’ll definitely hump your pillow.

Gets a sick thrill out of breaking in and startling you. Coming up behind you in the dark, sneaking into your bed. It’s probably his worst habit, and even he hates that he does it. If you get better at detecting him he’ll be so proud. Land a slap on him and he’ll be a horny mess.

Dog-whistles at you. Often from rooftops, and you have no idea where he is but you know he’s leering.

He will call you a lot of really stupid pet names. He likes the way you blush when he finds a newer, stupider one. Calls you angel when he’s really far gone.

Likes to scratch you with his stubble until your skin turns raw and sensitive. If it annoys you or hurts a little? Even better. Making you squirm is his new favorite thing. Especially when going down on you. Your inner thighs are always exfoliated.

His cock is average in every respect. This is not a bad thing. He knows how to please you with every totally normal inch of that cock. He has some kind of homing beacon installed on your sensitive spots.

Goes absolutely insane for blowjobs. Any time, any place.

Likes to bend you around in all kinds of positions with an assist from his feathers to hold up an ankle here, an arm there. Get used to floating mid-coitus. It just seems to happen.

Spanky.

His number one priority is making you feel adored and at home in his bed. Ohhhhh he likes to make you smile. But if you encourage him to get pushy and dominant with you, you will have a good, good time.

He’s switchy, and will lose his shit if you initiate or take control. Again, he’s always horny for you, because he can finally let go. Breathe in his direction and he’s hard.

Doesn’t moan much, but Babe, he’s a dirty talker. He’s not smooth or deliberate about it, it’s more like he can’t fucking believe you let him do whatever he wants to you. You like that huh? Like he’s in stages of shock. He’s singing your praises to high Heaven and muttering oh shit oh shit oh shittttttt and laugh-crying as he cums. He never talks about his feelings; he fucks about them.

After. Care. King. He loves pampering and clucking over you anyway, this is simply another excuse to do it. He knows exactly how much water you drink in a day. Can’t take care of himself for shit, but you? You’ll never have a need he won’t try to fill. What’s all that hero work for if not this? Yeah, soak it up. You deserve it.

#hawks #takami keigo #hawks headcanons #hawks x reader #hawks x y/n #hawks x you #gender neutral #smut #bnha #mha #mha headcanons #bnha headcanons #mha fanfiction #bnha x reader #mha x reader #fred writes #no idea why I’m writing these #guess I’m just in a Mood

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mxvladdy · 3 years

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Sleep HCs

It’s a sleepy day for me and by doggo so here are some sleep head cannons of the brothers bc why not.

Lucifer

Is a stomach or side sleeper. Not because he likes it but out of necessity. His back still irritates him, so when he actually schedules some shut eye he preps meticulously.

He bathes before hand, usually soaking in a mix of muscle relaxers to help release some of the tension from the work day and to help with his nerve damage. His favorite scents are lavender and a blend of spearmint. They make him a little drowsy and soften his perpetual headache.

His bed is very nest-like. Pillows and blankets meticulously placed to help him stay in one place while he rests. Too much tossing and turning irritates him. He likes feeling cocooned and tight. It is a self soothing mechanism he developed over his first few years in the devildom.

But this is all when he actually has time to sleep for more than a few hours.

Most of his sleeping is little naps thrown in over the work week. On average he gets about 14-18 hours a week. It’s enough (so he says but he is a cantankerous bastard regardless so it’s hard to tell for sure)

He sleeps like the dead, hands down corpse like. But don’t let that fool you, he doesn’t sleep like the dead. He is up and moving the moment he hears something that sounds like trouble.

Runs cold. Has fancy silk pajama sets. A gift from Diavolo.

His mattress is extra firm.

Mammon

Back and side sleeper. He has a bed- but he uses it mostly as an extension to his wardrobe. Let's be real. He’s a messy guy. He normally crashes on his couch after a wild weekend bender.

He moves a lot in his sleep, kicking, tossing and turning. An absolute tangle of limbs and clothes. Like Lucifer he has a few scars and old injuries that twinge and hurt when he lays on them. Not that it stops him.

He sleeps like the dead, tossing and turning and all. Short of someone dragging him off his couch or touching goldie he doesn’t wake up.

Snores and drools-will not admit it but when he stumbles out of his room looking like a hot mess, crusty eyes and bedraggled hair you know he had a great sleep.

He doesn’t have a set sleeping schedule. He goes until he crashes- like the energizer bunny.

Sleeps with one body pillow. Likes the feel of having something draping or touching him in his sleep. Reminds him of when he would fall asleep with his brothers after a long day of training and studying in the celestial realm.

Runs hot so he likes to sleep in his boxers and a tank top.

His mattress is medium firm

Leviathan

Does he sleep? The world may never know.

Between the energy drinks he practically IV drips into his veins and he determination to power though another level he doesn’t remember when he sleeps.

He just blacks out. A blink turns into a twelve hour coma.

His tub is comfy as hell and everybody knows it. It cradles him when he sleeps, blankets and pillows are now molded to his shape.

He washes his tub lining often. He really likes the smell of citrus and musk. Whenever the smell begins to dissipate he’ll toss it all in the wash. Minus his novelty pillows. Those get dry cleaned or spot cleaned.

He’s a side sleeper. Once he’s settled he ain’t moving.

Though since he doesn’t plan to sleep 80% of the time he passes out at his desk. But can you blame him? I bet he has a super cozy gaming chair and pillow.

Runs cold. Cocoons himself in mounds of blankets. Snake burrito.

He doesn’t have a mattress but the mound of pillows and blankets is the equivalent of a medium soft mattress

Satan

Probably has the most normal sleep schedule. He has a set wind down time and lights out time too.

Does he keep to it? I mean- it’s the thought that counts. If he is wrapped up in a good book or research time just gets the better of him.

He has his bed nestled up against the one window of his room that isn’t covered in books or shelves

Uses the eternal moonlight to read. Drifts off most evenings with a book slipping down his chest.

Sleeps propped up on a poof or reading pillow. Doesn’t like things covering him. He runs hot so his pajamas are enough for him.

Needs the least amount of sleep out of all the brothers. He loves that. Means he can read and do more without it hampering his mood.

Very light sleeper any shift he does in his sleep wakes him up. But he normally falls right back to sleep.

His mattress is firm

Asmodeus

Scheduled down to the minute. If he doesn’t get his nine hours of sleep be prepared for a scene.

Starts getting ready for bed about two hours before he actually falls asleep. Hot bath, oils, new face mask to try, the works. School can be stressful you know? And six brothers? It’s a miracle he doesn’t have wrinkles yet.

He keeps his bedroom tidy and always smelling good. Needless clutter messes with him and makes it hard for him to fall asleep.

Has a noise machine and an oil diffuser on when he sleeps. Even if he's in bed he knows his brothers aren't so it helps mute them so he can sleep.

Sleeps in the nude. He doesn't run hot or cold but he likes to sleep in a cooler room. Helps shrink the pores or something like that.

His bed is large but sparse. He really only needs his silk sheets and a thin cover. He has a few bolster pillows and poofs on the bed but really he doesn't sleep with pillows.

Is a back sleeper and- no one will tell him this on fear of death but he is an ugly sleeper.

Mouth open, limbs akimbo, soft little snores and snorts. It’s cute, whether or not he thinks so.

His mattress is soft

Beelzebub

Tries to have a good sleep schedule. It’s imperative to keeping up a healthy body after all.

But he gets so hungry. He gorges himself when he starts to feel tired in hopes that he can sleep a few hours before getting up for a midnight (or anytime snack)

He drinks a lot of tea actually right before bed. It makes him sleepy and fills up his stomach.

He sleeps on his stomach with his arms wrapped around his pillow. Another one that sleeps in the buff too. He is a night sweater too.

He only started covering himself for bed when you started living with them. It’s only polite.

Gets about 2 to 3 hours at a time with a snack break in between.

He doesn’t have a lot of pillows mostly because he has eaten them while dreaming. Constantly buying new pillows adds up ya know?

He doesn’t toss and turn but he does roll over once or twice in the night.

Dead silent when he sleeps. He just emits a deep rumble when he snoozes. From his chest or his stomach. It’s a 50/50 split.

His mattress is medium firm

Belphegor

Ha.

The king of sleep. The lord of stealth sleeping. It’s become a sport to him now. How many sleeping nooks can he find around R.A.D so Lucifer’s blood pressure spikes looking for him. His highest score is 37.

If he could sleep with his eyes open he would. But he can’t and he hates it.

He likes to sleep during the school day. It’s a mix of protesting this dumb idea and so that he can stay up at night when everything is nice and quiet.

It doesn’t matter to him where or how he sleeps. As long as he can curl up around something soft he is happy.

Likes it dark and very snug when he’s sleeping. A very still sleeper. Once he’s comfy he locks in place.

Murmurs in his sleep. Little disjointed things. You can have a full fledged conversation with him. He’ll give you little grunts and sighs in response.

If he does get to his room before falling asleep he buries himself in blankets to the point where you can't figure out if he is in there or not. (Kinda like those lizards that bury themselves in sand, same motion and everything.)

Again doesn’t care where he sleeps but his mattress is soft.

#obey me #obey me headcanons #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #Obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor

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spaceorphan18 · 3 years

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99 Perspectives #42

A/N: The Story of Kurt and Blaine told through the eyes of everyone else but them. Each chapter is a different perspective in the ongoing tale of their love story.

I started something like this a while back - and now I’m taking the idea and really running with it. Each chapter is a ficlet of a different character at a different point in Kurt and Blaine’s life - documenting their love story. This starts in Audition, and each chapter will be paired with a different episode until reaching Dreams Come True.

[Ao3]

***

Noah Puckerman (Props)

“A real man would wear the fucking dress,” Puck barks, slamming the locker door beside him.

He has come up beside Kurt Hummel, who had been reading his phone. Kurt narrows his eyes as he looks to him, and all it does is piss off Puck further. How hard is it to do something you’re probably naturally inclined to do anyway? It’s not like he hasn’t seen Kurt wear corsets and high heels. They need to win this competition. He needs this win - because there has to be something in his life that makes him feel less like a loser. And he doesn’t get why everyone else isn’t putting forth as much effort as he is.

“Excuse me?” Kurt’s voice is low and harsh. God, it’s so fucking annoying. Why does he have to put up a fight about everything?

“I said that if you were a real man, you’d man up and put on a dress and win us nationals,” he says, a bit of threat in his voice. It’s always worked as a form of persuasion before.

Kurt still isn't backing down. “I don’t know what kind of Neanderthal world you live in, but gender identity has nothing to do with the clothes you wear.”

“That’s not what I’m fucking talking about, and you know that,” Puck says. He’s doing his best not to lose his cool, but he just gets so fucking mad. “This is about nationals and winning.”

“Hey, guys, anything I can help with?” Blaine Anderson walks up, with his dopey friendly grin. The two of them are rarely separated, so Puck’s not surprised that Kurt’s watch dog (more like an overzealous puppy) has popped up.

“Yeah, you can convince your boyfriend to put on a dress so that we can win nationals,” Puck bites.

Blaine tilts his head back and forth. “I don’t think that’s really how it works.”

“Well, someone has to man up and do it if that’s the way we’re going to win,” Puck argues. “And Kurt is the best option. Or, I guess you’re both the same. I mean, Blaine, you seem to have more balls than Kurt but you’re both a couple of…”

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up,” Kurt’s angry now, stepping between he and blaine. “I don’t know why you have it stuck in your head that dresses on men are somehow going to make a difference. Unique and Vocal Adrenaline aren’t going to win because of novelty, so you should get that right out of your fucking dumb head, and focus more on your singing and less on your intimidating.”

Puck lets out a frustrated yell, and slams his fist into the locker with a bang. “You are the fucking worst, you know that?”

Blaine looks like he’s about to say something, but Kurt doesn’t let him. “No you are,” Kurt says, venom dripping from his voice. “Don’t try to intimidate me, because I will punch you back without reservation. And if you’re so hellbent on a man wearing a dress, why don’t you do it? Or is coming off as gay a line you draw when it comes to your own bizarre rules for winning?”

“Fine,” Puck shouts, loud enough for the few others in the hallway to notice him. “If that’s what it fucking takes. I’ll show the whole school what a real man looks like.”

“Yeah, you do that!” Kurt shouts back at him as he begins to walk away. Blaine only stares on in bewilderment.

Fucking losers. Fucking school. He’ll show them all. All he has to do is find a dress.

#s.o. writes things #99 perspectives #need to catch up on these #i'm behind #it's also nice to write something that has nothing to do with smut #omg

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19red · 3 years

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hello, this is me trying to strong-arm my brain into stopping the constant tweaking and re-tweaking of the same stinking 3k so I can write on and get to the good parts of this project namely p and j having all the sex thank you very much

The day after Patrick and Jonny bang a chick together, Patrick wakes to the weight of an alien limb squashing his bladder. The alien limb belongs to a furnace-hot, tentacular mass plastered all along his back. The mass smells oddly familiar, kind of citrusy—as if it stole Jonny’s body wash.

Patrick squints his eyes open. A blade of sunlight filters through the half-drawn curtains and stabs him in the face. Right under the window, Jonny’s suitcase dribbles clothes onto the floor.

It shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together, but Patrick’s really dumb first thing in the morning. Plus, he needs to pee. Bad. Which is pretty distracting.

He paws at the tentacle swung over his waist, fingers catching on—a beaded string. Did the alien mass steal Jonny’s bracelet too? Patrick struggles to lift his head. He wants to see.

The alien mass stole Jonny’s whole arm. What--?

A growl spills in a damp, ticklish huff into the crook of Patrick’s neck as the mass coils itself closer. Something hard pokes Patrick’s ass. His nostrils fill with a waft of scent his hindbrain understands as so viscerally Jonny that recognition smacks him dizzy.

The mass is Jonny. Last night, he and Patrick banged a chick together. That thing wedged between them, growing firmer by the second? That thing is Jonny’s—

Patrick’s heart plummets straight to his dick.

It’s okay. It’s whatever. Patrick isn’t gonna freak over a physiological response. Bodies are also really dumb first thing in the morning.

“Jonny,” he says, wriggling to catch Jonny’s attention. Jonny has always been his go-to guy in a crisis. Except, in this instance, he is also the crisis itself. Jonny’s hips buck forward once, twice—Patrick stops breathing for the handful of seconds it takes Jonny’s sleep-drenched, horny-ass body to lose interest and stutter back into relative stillness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks. Visions of impending awkwardness swarm his brain. If Jonny were to wake up right now, full-mast boner pressed to Patrick’s ass, and discover the tent pitched in the front of Patrick’s sweats, he might rush to conclusions. Their ability to make direct eye contact would definitely endure permanent damage. They’d have to restructure their life with the aim of reciprocal avoidance. Patrick would have to request a trade. Jonny would probably drop out of the NHL. He’d forsake hockey and society at large and end up trampled to death by a giant moose while he hides from Patrick in the Canadian wilderness.

Fuck, Patrick thinks again. When a whole minute drips away and Jonny doesn’t stir, he thanks the hockey gods. With very little, very slow movements, he dislodges the arm pinning him to the mattress. By the times he’s free, the light slanting in from the window changed the angle of its assault to his pupils. Still careful, he slides the covers off himself, sits up, swings his legs off the bed. His feet land on the floor just as a variation in the pattern of Jonny’s breathing alerts him it’s all been for nothing. Jonny is awake. Or, like, as close to awake as Jonny manages to be coffee-free and before noon. Which is not much, thank fuck.

“It’s early,” Patrick reassures him. Jonny gets real pissy when he doesn’t get his full eight hours. Patrick doesn’t want to get stuck with Captain seriously cranky and his legitimately lethal death glare on the flight back to Chicago.

Jonny hums, lids fluttering open and back closed immediately, dark lashes kissing the top of his cheekbones. Patrick expects him to just roll over and sink back deep into snoring, the man is easy like that, instead he plumps an arm over the empty space next to him and mumbles, “Come back,” so low Patrick feels the vibration of it in his belly more than with his ears. Jonny must think Patrick’s some chick, maybe his ex or the one from last night.

“Dude,” Patrick chuckles to clear his throat. This is prime chirp material. Jonny’s such a clingy loser. “It’s just me.”

The side of Jonny’s mouth that isn’t squashed into the pillow tugs up in a smile, then his eyes tremble open, searching the space in front of them for Patrick’s, as if he knew where to find him, as if he weren’t surprised. It’s a bit like being punched but with weird, devastating gentleness. Patrick’s left breathless and dazed, a slow ache spreading below his ribs. “Sorry,” he says, legs moving on their own accord. “Sorry, gotta piss.”

Jonny flops onto his belly and sprawls across Patrick’s side of the bed. With a sigh, he hugs Patrick’s pillow to his face. “Be quick,” he whines—or maybe not. It’s muffled and Patrick is already halfway out the door so he can’t be sure. It doesn’t really matter.

***

“Where’s Tazer?” Duncs asks in lieu of good morning when Patrick shows up at breakfast almost two hours later, no captain in tow.

Patrick chomps on a hunk of strawberry toast and shrugs. Contrary to popular belief, no clause in his contract bids him constant awareness of Jonny’s whereabouts.

Duncs squints, clearly feeling entitled to a degree of eloquence involving efforts of the verbal variety and resenting their lack.

“Don’t tell me he’s sick,” Shawzy says.

The legs of Stromer’s chair screech against the floor as he scoots away from Patrick. He ends up almost in Brinsky’s lap. “It better not be catching.”

“Oh my god,” Patrick puffs the words fat with annoyance. “He’s sleeping. I mean, I guess he...” He is for sure. No chance Jonny is still waiting. If Patrick barged back into his room right now, Jonny would laugh, would tell him to stop trying to make things weird. Patrick knows this rationally. Yet some spiked grip squeezes his insides with the same vicious strength of an anaconda trying to crush itself a snack.

People can’t die from upset conscience, can they? Especially not if the upset is unquestionably misplaced, right?

“I mean,” Patrick snaps after a second, “the fuck do I know.”

Duncs eyebrows shoot halfway across his forehead.

“Whoa,” Stromer gasps.

“Wait,” Shawzy says. “Are mum and dad fighting?”

Patrick grinds his molars. Everyone’s so fucking pressed. It’s not like Jonny is a regular at team breakfasts. In fact, unless attendance is mandatory, Jonny prefers to limit the number of people upon which he inflicts the ghastly spectacle of his slow de-zombification to a minimum.

Patrick casts his mind back to the last time the two of them didn’t resort to room-service during game trips. He dredges up both no recollection of that happening in years and the stomach-sinking hunch that maybe this is weird. Maybe he should have gone back. Maybe that would have been the normal thing to do.

“Shut up,” he says, to the voice in his head and everyone else. He grabs a pitcher of coffee and fills his cup until it brims. “Don’t talk to me. I’m waking up.”

“He’s rubbed off on you,” Shawzy appraises.

He’s more right than he’d probably care to know—nope. Patrick yanks his thoughts away before they can trip over that precipice and splat into the phantom embrace of Jonny’s body and its heft, its warmth, its neediness.

“Shut up,” he repeats, and with big emphatic motions designed to put a period on the conversation, he whips out his phone. He trusts the mindless scrolling will work its time-warping, mind-numbing magic and when he’ll look up next, all the weird will have been purged from this day.

Between sips of coffee, he pores through the stats for the last game, skims the emails in his inbox and rage-reads a review trashing the new Twilight book. He considers sending the link to Erica so he can vent about the snobby assholes who think they’re smarter than everyone else just because all the books they read are boring as fuck, but she’s probably at work already. He scrolls through his contacts. The one of the chick from last night jumps out. Her name’s Chelsea, which is pretty lucky. She was hot, Patrick recons, and thinking that feels normal. Feels safe. Feels like something Patrick would love to feel more of, thank you very much.

Hi, he types, riding the spur of the moment. This is Patrick from last night.

Stupid and risky, his inner Jonny warns. Never give your number to one night stands. Patrick ignores him and for the sake of clarity and glory, adds, The one who made you see god with his tongue.

“Look who’s joining us,” Shawzy’s voice announces just then.

Patrick’s gaze springs up, landing squarely across Jonny’s chest. Patrick knows it’s Jonny’s chest even though he doesn’t let his gaze climb up to the face attached to it for confirmation. The chest is sailing across the breakfast hall toward Patrick. Well, not toward Patrick specifically. Toward Patrick and the rest of the guys.

“Morning,” Jonny mumbles, dropping his scrambled eggs on the table and his ass between Seabs and Crow.

Patrick’s phone chimes.

well hello patrick 😜

“Slept well?” Shawzy probes, feigning innocence. Patrick’s hackles rise.

“I guess,” Jonny says.

Patrick allows himself another quick glance. Jonny looks good, which means like his usual self, which means nothing like a dude who went through the transformative experience of witnessing his best friend o-face. It’s kind of annoying, actually. Patrick’s nerves are all fried. He’s half-convinced in the right light anybody could look at him and simply—tell. Patrick Kane got off with another dude in the room and enjoyed it. For a blink he’s fourteen and trying to fight a guy almost double his size who called him a cocksucker, that slammed him against the boards and told him not to bother standing up since everyone knows he does his best work from his knees.

His phone chimes again.

“Tell me the truth.”

totally hit me up again next time ur back here

“What?”

Patrick’s heart rate spikes. Would Jonny even be up for it?

Won’t be for the rest of the season :(, he types.

Maybe things feel weird because threeways are a novelty, maybe they just have to work up an immunity. People have threeways all the time and afterward their lives go on undisrupted. But if you’re ever in Chicago… his fingers are so clammy they smudge the screen when he hits send. He reaches for his cup.

“Did you keep our Kaner up all night?”

Patrick’s head jerks up.

“What?” Jonny says, flat.

For the first time since Patrick sneaked out on him, they make direct eye contact.

Shawzy drones on in the background, “Saw you trying to score that hot--”

It last precisely long enough for a sip of coffee to get its lanes mixed as it plunges down Patrick’s throat and somehow u-turn its way out of his body through the nostrils.

Patrick’s lungs try their best to turn inside out.

“Dude,” Shawzy says.

Stromer slaps Patrick’s back a couple of times, hard.

Duncs throws a handful of paper napkins in his general direction and winces in open disgust as Patrick snatches one mid-air and uses it to dab at the liquid leaking out of him. “Gross.”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Patrick informs them tartly between fits of coughing. Some treacherous asshole on his right is fucking cackling. He sweeps the table with an encompassing glare and catches Jonny’s eyes again, all dark with concern. The back of Patrick’s neck prickles with embarrassment. “I’m fine,” he repeats, steadier, and Jonny looks away so Patrick does too, hurriedly withdrawing like from the touch of something scalding.

He zeros in on Chelsea’s new message.

might fly in for a couple of weeks around christmas actually

Patrick latches on to the conversation, blocking out his surroundings, trying his hardest to look busy. Fuck everyone and Jonny too.

We could catch up then if you have time ;)

totally 👅🔥🍆🔥, she texts. And after a moment, say hi to porn dick from me btw

Who?

🙄

Patrick bristles. For some reason, the thought of this random stranger sitting around with her head full of pictures of Jonny’s dick makes him hitch. His chest riots with some misguided protective instinct. Jonny would be insufferably smug if he knew, no doubt about it. It’s not that big.

it is! 100% porn worthy

You don’t know what you’re talking about

???

I’m just saying, are chicks even into that? he writes, just to be an asshole but also because he’s pretty sure chicks hate porn. It’s supposed to be a feminism thing. Erica once made him a whole speech about it or whatever.

big dicks? They are

Haha

their also into porn btw this aint the middle ages AND they have way better taste in it then men

Can you prove it? he asks, hoping it sounds flirty and not confrontational. He wants this chick to bang him again but not over the head with a blunt instrument.

maybe if u stop trying to outdick ur bf with ur personality ill send you some recs

“Who are you texting?”

Patrick elbows his cup off the table and scrambles to catch it before it crashes against the floor. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his coffee-soaked hand.

Jonny laughs and at the sound, Patrick’s heart stumbles, then sprints up his throat. “You’re a mess,” Jonny says. He stole Stromer chair.

“Yeah, no, fuck off.”

Stromer is nowhere to be found. He and the rest of the guys must have migrated to the lobby. Patrick picks up the phone from where he abandoned it to make the save and shoves it deep into his pocket just as it pings.

Jonny quirks an eyebrow. He’s smiling.

It feels like Patrick trudged around all morning with a lead rib-cage before the universe caught the glitch. The sudden slack from gravity makes him giddy. “Don’t be nosy.”

“I’m not!” Jonny protests, all put upon outrage. He flicks Patrick on the hand. “Just saying, team’s gonna suffer if you sprain a thumb.”

A laugh bubbles up Patrick’s chest, loud and easy, and just a little embarrassing.

For a moment, Jonny looks impossibly pleased but then he catches himself. “Everything alright, yeah?” he asks, turning bashful. His eyes drift to the small heap of crumbs he’s sweeping together with his pinkie.

Patrick nudges his thumb against the back of Jonny’s hand. “Yeah. You?”

Jonny’s lips curl up at the corners. “Of course,” he says, looking up, gaze dark and soft.

Of course, of course, of course. Jonny would never let anything happen to them. Patrick stomach flutters. “Okay,” he smiles, dimples out, and Jonny beams back. Time goes fuzzy as they stare at each other in silence—until the ping of an incoming text makes them both startle.

“Again?” Jonny bitches. A moment later, his forehead creases and he puts his serious face on, “Everything okay with your sisters?”

“Yeah, no. It’s not--” Jonny’s eyes flicks to Patrick’s mouth. Patrick hadn’t realized he’d been chewing on his bottom lip. He stops and it tingles, his own breath turning chilly enough to sting as it laps over the bite. “Just-- the chick from last night,” Patrick’s tongue says forgoing any input from his brain. It’s fine. It’s whatever.

“Oh,” Jonny says.

The world keeps rolling. Unfortunately, so does Patrick’s tongue, “Yeah. She’s cool. She was fun.”

“She was okay.”

Patrick can’t believe the understatement. “Okay? Just that? You’ve got some tough standards, man. She was--” as he searches for the right adjective, it suddenly hits him that Jonny has more experience, at least when it comes to threeways. It’s fucking unfair, but entirely possible, the mind-blowingest sex of Patrick’s life would barely chart as okay for Jonny. While he was dating Lindsay, the two of them got up to some kinky shit, Patrick’s pretty sure. Not that he spent any time thinking about it. He licks his lips. “It was hot, right?”

Jonny scoffs. What an asshole.

“Fuck you.”

“It was hot,” he grants. His cheeks are turning pink. He means it.

It feels like scoring the game-winner in the Stanley Cup final. The rush of triumph makes him cocky. “Hotter than the one you had with Lindsay?”

Jonny scoffs again, to Patrick infinite delight. “It was!” Patrick surmises.

“Lindsay’s hotter than her.”

“No way,” he is so offended on Chelsea’s behalf, he barely registers the deflection. Lindsay dumped Jonny. No matter how she looks, her insides must be rotten. Patrick hates that Jonnys is still hung up on her. He kicks Jonny’s foot to make sure he has his attention. “Maybe we should try again. Chelsea’s coming to Chicago around Christmas.”

“Is she?” Jonny kicks him back. “You two move fast.”

“She’s got family there, I think.”

“Sure,” he sounds skeptical. He admitted it was hot, why wouldn't he want a rematch? He and Patrick and some hot chick, she doesn’t even have to be Chelsea, she can be whoever. Small and blonde, like Jonny likes.

“Or we could find someone else,” Patrick says, growing more committed to the idea each second it lives in his brain. “Just go out and see what happens.”

“You think that’s smart?”

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I think you’re boring.” He goes in for the kill, “Captain serious.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’d even let you pick, I don’t care.”

“Starting to sound a bit desperate there, Kaner,” Jonny flashes his most punchable smirk, the one that’s a little lopsided and always makes Patrick squirm.

Patrick starts a mental list of ways to wipe it off his face. Maybe if he shoved two fingers up Jonny’s nose… “What?” he asks, kind of distracted.

“I’m just saying, If you want to see me naked that bad, you only have to--”

“Fuck you,” Patrick sputters. “I was being generous. Bros before hoes or whatever.”

“I’m telling Erica you said that.”

The thought is terrifying. “Don’t,” Patrick shrieks, so loud people in their proximity stop mid-munching to give them the stink eye.

It’s their cue to clear off, a pretty timely one, considering they barely make it on the bus. They’d probably be yelled at, if they weren’t Kane and Toews.

Jonny saunters past Colliton’s glare and flops down next to Seabs. Patrick takes the two seats right behind, stretching out until he’s almost horizontal.

He checks his phone. Chelsea sent him a text and a link. The texts says, one of them looks a bit like your boy. you’re welcome. The link-- Patrick slaps the phone face down on his thigh.

“You okay there, Kaner?” Jonny asks, glancing over his shoulder.

Patrick feels his ears burn redder than the Hawks home jersey. “Yeah, no. Real peachy.”

#belle #i KNOW i have a tag for my writing #but rn i'm blanking #??????#stuff i wrote

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astrovian · 3 years

Text

the official ranking of Claude Becker outfits

the official ranking of Daniel Miller outfits here

the official ranking of Adam Price outfits here

all Claude Becker outfits & rankings under the cut

we all know RA looks good in a suit, blah, blah, blah

after two of these rankings, this outfit is the physical embodiment of a yawn

I do appreciate the patterned tie to change things up a tad even if I’m not into the pattern itself. the intent is there, just not the execution

I will give props to the team for giving Claude a patterned dress shirt here (you have to squint a bit on the second image - more on patterned dress shirts later), but they really should have upped the game a little - change the tie & be less subtle with the shirt pattern

and I ask you, does Claude Becker not strike you as a man who would insist on at least a pocket square with his suits?? dream bigger stylists

3/10

@whoever stores old movie props if these weren’t disposed of immediately after filming i will pay you for a copy of one of these

putting aside the hilarious social commentary and fucking literal writing on this magazine cover done by some poor prop designer at 2am (”How to starve artists and other capitalist things”, as well as ”Claude Becker rolls up his shirtsleeves and unties his tie and puts on a vest and casually hangs his hands from his pockets” etc.), this is a nice change-up that made me question why we don’t have RA in just a waistcoat and dress shirt more often

also that tie pattern? fab. I love it. that is how to do a patterned tie. I hope we all know RA looks good in a suit, blah, blah, blah is paying attention

that being said, minimal points because we don’t actually see Claude wearing it in real life

4/10

where, oh where is my polo shirt? oh look, it’s right there

is there any RA character who is not afflicted with a polo shirt? not recently, apparently

I genuinely thought that it was a dress shirt for a moment which had me disappointed at the banality but then that turned into utter devastation as I realised we actually are looking at a long sleeve zip up polo shirt

the draping of the coat? phenomenal and what really brings this entire thing together

the long/three-quarter sleeves? the zip-up rather than buttons? better than one can normally expect from a polo shirt... and then they went and added stripes to the collar and sleeves?? regret

could be a lot worse but could ultimately also not be a polo shirt as well 4.5/10

could have tried harder during lessons but was a pleasure to have in class

I’m sure you all know my long-sleeve shirt obsession with RA but I made a promise to be honest with myself on these lists. the only feeling this outfit evokes is a ‘eh’

the equivalent of a middle slider 5/10

the Claude you’d actually have a fun day with

there’s something about RA in a hoody that just bangs. good lord I also have a weakness for those forearms

I also thought for a good moment these were dark jeans, but they disappointingly turn out to be sweatpants? however, it has made me think that we need to see RA in some darker denim shades more often

this Claude is could have tried harder during lessons but was a pleasure to have in class but with just a little more fun and class to boost it *just* outside of the ‘eh’ zone

5.2/10

now this is how we do a long-sleeved shirt

I think it’s been fairly well-established by now that loose, long-sleeved RA is my ultimate weakness, so it’s nice to see that Ocean’s 8 is also making a concerted effort to murder me

also Claude’s obsession with sweatpants is giving me life

this is the Claude you make pasta with. and that pasta would be damn tasty, too

5.9/10

come hither

just-woken-up Claude is made 100x better by the bed head hair and the sleepy gaze

this man needs to get back into bed for a snuggle (preferably with me)

I can’t decide if I’m into the loose boxers or missing the tighter Adam Price undies. either way, it’s definitely not a bad aesthetic. and it reminds me, like dad chic Adam Price, that we don’t get enough of RA in shorts

I feel bad assigning numbers to a a shirtless one BUT Claude does transform into being fully-clothed in this scene so I’m going with it 6.4/10

you can kiss my hand anytime

the blessing of this film is not only the visual assault of attractive actors from all sides and genders, but it also instigates in me the thought that RA is wearing printed dress shirts and I can’t remember the last time I saw this?? I never even realised how much I need to see a lot more of this kind of look on RA until we were blessed with this vision

look at those lil’ elephants!! adorable. I hope Claude has a closet full of these with different animals on them

this outfit was so good, RA even wore it in his behind-the-scenes interview

7/10 for a printed, suited dream

the Claude you take home to mom & dad

god, it’s even better without the suit jacket

this is my honest appeal to the powers that may or may not be to put RA in more printed dress shirts

7.6/10

sometimes I think I should be more ashamed of myself

I feel like I need to preface this one thusly: okay, but like hear me out for real this time

I know this is ultimate hipster white-dude look and RA plays into that character so fantastically with Claude here. I mean just look at his expression. something about this whole look makes me want to simultaneously punch this man in the face and also take him home with me

this is a man who you know is a mistake before you make it, but choose to follow through anyway. he’s that last shot of tequila or the 5th glass of wine. you know you would go for him too. don’t even try to deny it

is the high ranking because of the novelty factor? is it because I’ve never seen RA wear a beanie like that and honestly the infamous running Daniel Miller could take notes? is it because I can’t take anyone who wears a beanie like that seriously?

all we do know is that I also can’t believe this is so high on the list

7.8/10

the moment we all learned Claude is 100% a bottom

one of the most iconic Claude moments in the film. RA plays the ‘dumb horny idiot’ character so well in this scene

not so into the pinstriped suit jacket but the hoodie peeking out from underneath combined with the thin scarf makes it for me

8/10

question: how may teeny-weeny scarves does Claude own, exactly?

who could forget the iconic moment when Sandra Bullock nearly shivs RA?

we have another printed dress shirt and I am HERE for it. it even has birds this time!! nice to see that Claude is not just a land mammal sort of man

I will concede that this is the sort of pattern that few men can pull off but RA is making it work and I am living

8.7/10

I’m not sure I can make a comment on this one that is even remotely appropriate except for “I told you Claude is a bottom”

safety first, buy some proper restraints for the bedroom please Claude/10

modern royalty au Thorin

this is the moment that every single Hobbit fan went “hell yeah, now I have the perfect new aesthetic for my modern royalty Hobbit AU” (as an avid lotr/hobbit fan, I am not joking here)

RA looks like royalty here because he should be. please sign my petition to have RA usurp the British Queen

for real though, that baby blue sash is the 1000% perfect added touch to this suit and we love RA in a baby blue. a decent (and clearly successful) effort to match the faux Met Gala theme: European royalty. however, it is also pretty accurate re: the imaginative effort that most men have with altering their Met Gala outfits to fit that year’s theme

we need more RA in ‘modern royal’ roles for the #aesthetic and also so that he can dress like this more often

9.3/10 for a princely (or dare I say kingly?) figure

James Corden looks so gleeful running after Claude that it makes me happy. I get it, James. I get it

there’s really nothing spectacular about the general outfit here - except for the swagger RA is giving this

pants? shirt? boring, meh

check scarf? a brilliant switch up from Claude’s normal thin scarves.

the popped coat? now we’re cooking

the sunglasses and wind-ruffled hair that screams “I’m hungover but I still look effortlessly handsome”? delectable

the dogs?? the best set dressing one could ask for

the attitude and ‘I’m too cool for you’ swagger? priceless and what makes this the second-best outfit of the whole film

9.6/10 this man could punch me and I would be grateful

hot diggity dog, someone get me Claude’s handcuffs

from the front view, it could be argued that this outfit (well, technically it may not really be a separate outfit as it’s the undone version of modern royalty au Thorin), while fairly exceptional, does not first place make

however, someone had the idea to shoot RA from a side angle in this and for that I am eternally in their debt

it’s all about the tease with this one. the glimpse of the suspenders (and holy shit, RA in suspenders was not a look I had thought about before). the way the waist coat hangs off Claude’s chest like that, just enough to make its presence obvious. the cufflinks. the delicate pocket watch chain.

if previous outfits on this list have been all sex and swagger, this is the foreplay. the subtle strip tease.

10/10

#thanks for the responses to my photoshoot query y'all I think that is next #though it might be a two-parter given the volume of photoshoots #then thinking lucas north after that #hoping to get photoshoots pt. 1 done next week sometime anyway #but who knows because good ol' Boris Johnson is sending me back into an unsafe environment to teach germ-riddled teens very shortly #so I need to spend some serious time doing prep work for that over the coming week #let's pray I don't catch covid from the kids until I can get vaccinated in summer!!!#based on previous experiences I give it 1 & 1/2 weeks before us teachers start dropping like flies #ANYWAY #richard armitage #claude becker #ocean's 8 #ocean's eight #oceans 8 #oceans eight

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slipping-through-my-fingertips · 3 years

Text

mad woman

part of my folklore series

Summary: Kurt is concerned that Santana has lost her voice; Blaine helps her get it back.

Notes: I really feel that this song embodies Santana. I can’t explain it but it just reminds me so much of her. HAPPY 1 YEAR OF FOLKLORE!!!!!

AO3

Anytime he heard Santana singing in the shower, Kurt wondered why she gave up performing. Sure, she had the Spotlight Diner shifts but she was seldom a soloist. More likely, Santana opted to be backup vocals unless she was feuding with Rachel that day. It was like glee all over again. Her voice silenced or drowned out by the attention seekers. She didn’t fight for it as she had during her short-lived time as a member of the Treble Tones. Hell, she wasn’t into the music as much as Elliott and Dani were when One Tree Hill had been a quintet.

Kurt was worried about her. Though she’d deny it, Santana loved to sing. She needed glee just as much as the rest of them. The problem was since she moved to New York it was like she lost her voice.

He remembers feeling like that when he first arrived. Without NYADA, Kurt was another drop in the huge sea of city folk. No longer did he stand out for his bold fashion choices or being gay. Here, the things that once made him eccentric were just another thing people tried to ignore as they went about their days. No one in the city had time to pick on or compliment a newcomer from a small town in Ohio.

At first, Kurt liked it because the fear of being beaten for being himself had completely vanished within a few weeks of moving. That was all behind him. Way back in Lima. After a few months, the novelty wore off. He actually started to miss the stares from his classmates at McKinley High.

He hated to admit it but Rachel may have been right when she said they were similar. Sometimes, Kurt felt like Tinkerbell too. He needed applause to live. Craved the attention. Then, he got it at the Winter Showcase. Madame Tibideaux handed the limelight to him on a silver platter. The entirety of the NYADA staff got to hear him sing.

Of course, he could’ve thrown up because he was so nervous and completely unprepared. Yet, it had been exhilarating. That rush of being on stage with a captive audience. Combined with his attendance to NYADA being on the line, Kurt hadn’t felt this energized since he last saw Blaine in person.

None of that seemed to faze Santana Lopez.

Honestly, after pulling her into the band and having her quit, recommending the evening dance classes at NYADA, and taking her out to Callbacks on weekends, Kurt was out of ideas. She refused to get on stage. But he saw that small smile on her face when she hummed under her breath when she thought no one was listening. No matter how vehemently she denied it, she missed singing. So, Kurt called Blaine.

“I don’t know, Kurt, it’s kinda hard to help when I’m not seeing the situation for myself.” Blaine sighs, likely bummed he can’t solve this.

Kurt practically saw him pouting through the phone. Thank god, they weren’t on Skype. He hated seeing his boyfriend looking so defeated when he wasn’t there in person to kiss the top of his head.

Blaine had become the self-proclaimed advice-giver of the New Directions since he transferred.

He helped Mike Chang fix his relationship with Tina when they had a week-long fight about only eating at Asian restaurants on their date nights. Tina had been pissed. No simple apology was going to cut it. Blaine single-handedly compiled a list of Tina’s favorite places to eat and added a few of his personal favorite date night places.

When Finn would forget special dates and Rachel got fussy about how Finn never uses the couple calendars she made for them, Blaine stepped in and helped him set up a reminder alert on his phone.

And there was that whole fiasco about Miss Pillsbury not-so-subtly hinting that she wanted to get engaged. Blaine was able to straighten Mr. Schue out pretty quickly that day. For the life of him, that man didn’t understand why Miss Pillsbury was acting so weird.

“You don’t have to be so roundabout, you know?” Kurt told him.

“Huh.” Playing dumb, typical.

“Just come up to the city, Blaine,” he said. “I know you want to ask.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, boyfriend of mine,” Blaine huffed. “I have zero ulterior motives while being completely unhelpful to your current predicament.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure that’s the case. I’ll see you next week.”

“Unless Cooper can find an earlier flight!” Blaine exclaimed.

He had been using up the countless number of frequent flyer miles his older brother had racked up to make weekend trips to New York. After Cooper discovered their long-distance relationship (likely after one too many late-night calls from Blaine missing his boyfriend), he offered them to Blaine.

Blaine arrived the following Friday. McKinley had some teacher’s day so Blaine was able to hop on a morning flight. He was waiting in the loft when Kurt finished classes for the day.

“Okay, we’re going to Callbacks tonight,” Kurt said, removing his coat.

“Hello to you too,” Blaine replied, standing up from the sofa. “How are you, Blaine? How was the flight, Blaine? I missed you so much, Blaine.”

Kurt rolled his eyes and ignored his boyfriend.

“This isn’t about you, Blaine,” he said, “it’s about Santana.”

“Wow, Blaine, you look great! Aren’t those my yellow pants you’re borrowing?” Blaine crossed his arms.

“Hey!” Kurt exclaimed. “Those are my pants!”

“Yeah.” Blaine blushed. “I rolled them so they’d fit better.”

Kurt marched over to him and knocked him onto the couch. “You look hot in my clothes.”

“I look better out of them.”

Instead of verbally agreeing, Kurt unbuttoned his yellow pants. Blaine was quick to keep up removing his own shirt and attempting to pull off Kurt’s as well. However, Blaine was sitting on the couch and Kurt was kneeling between his legs. It was proving to be rather difficult a task.

“Kurt…” Blaine groaned, “come up here with me.”

“I can’t very well do what I want up there, Blaine.”

He sat up straighter. “Is this payment for not properly greeting me because I’ll take a blowjob over ‘how do you do’ any day?”

Kurt pressed his face into Blaine’s naked thigh. “So long as you aren’t accepting blowjobs from anyone but me.”

“No, I would…” Kurt licked around Blaine’s hip. “Never.”

Within seconds, Blaine’s head was fully tipped over the back of the couch and the only thing coming from his mouth were moans. He couldn’t even force the word ‘Kurt’ from his lips. When Kurt finally gave in and decided Blaine had received efficient teasing, he sucked at the tip until Blaine screamed his name.

They were quick to clean up their mess afterward, unsure of when the girls would be home. It was one thing to have sex in the living room, it was a whole other to get caught. Though, Kurt figured Rachel owned him after Brody paraded around naked for the few months they dated.

“Okay, now that we’ve defiled Santana’s bed, can we focus on helping her?”

“Step one, don’t tell her about this,” Blaine suggested.

Kurt slapped Blaine’s chest.

“Ow.”

“Be helpful. You said if you were in New York, you’d be able to help better. So do it.”

“FIne,” Blaine replied, “no Callbacks. I have a better idea.”

Turns out that idea was a speciality club night of Alternative Tunes.

“It’s open mic. There’s gonna be singers, poets, magicians, and I heard their harpist is opening tonight,” Blaine explained, as they waited in line.

“Is that why she brought your violin?” Rachel questioned.

“Yup!” Blaine held up his black case. “I haven’t played to an audience of more than one in a while.”

Kurt smiled at him. He loved when Blaine performed just for him almost as much as he enjoyed watching Blaine in front of an audience. Something about his face just lit up on stage. The same way Santana’s did in front of a microphone.

“As much as I love talking about violins…” She rolled her eyes, “is there alcohol at this place?” Santana asked, “because that’s like 90% the point of going out.”

“Yes, there’s alcohol,” Kurt confirmed.

He told Blaine they’d need at least two drinks into Santana before they brought up performing to her. Which proved true. After nursing two long island ice teas, Santana was finally talking to Blaine about being on stage. He hadn’t gone up yet and she was teasing him.

“Come on, you brought your own instrument and everything,” she said. “Give us a show and tell.”

With that, Blaine stood up and walked to the stage. No one was in line so he went right up after the juggler finished. He tapped the microphone and introduced himself.

“I’d like to dedicate this first one to my boyfriend.”

He mouthed an “I love you” towards Kurt, who blew a kiss back.

Then, he was lost in the strings. The next song he did was for Santana. Blaine didn’t announce it or anything but he watched her face when he could during the progression of the song. When he finished his set, Blaine thanked the audience. Kurt whistled and clapped, Rachel was jumping up and down while screaming for an encore, and when Blaine was back at the table Santana offered to buy him a drink.

Without Kurt even realizing it, the next performer on stage was Santana. Just her. She didn’t introduce herself as Blaine did, the piano music just started to play and then she was singing.

“What do you sing on your drive home?

Do you see my face in the neighbor's lawn?

Does she smile?

Or does she mouth, ‘Fuck you forever’?”

Kurt couldn’t say why exactly but the song suited her well. Santana was always one to command an audience when she soloed. Soft instrumental with harsher lyrics was always her style.

While Santana had the audience and Kurt captivated, Blaine bounced back over to their table. He had two drinks in his hand.

“For you,” he said, passing Kurt a mojito.

In return, Kurt pecked his check. He really was so lucky. Then, his full attention went back to the stage.

“Every time you call me crazy, I get more crazy

What about that?

And when you say I seem angry, I get more angry

And there's nothing like a mad woman

What a shame she went mad

No one likes a mad woman

You made her like that”

As Santana finished her song, Kurt and Rachel turned to Blaine, who was positively beaming. He’d done exactly what he had told Kurt he could do.

“How?” Rachel asked.

“I’m a smooth talker,” Blaine said with a smirk.

Kurt rolled his eyes.

If anything, his boyfriend was a clumsy mess. Romantic and adorable? Yes. Tripped over his words? Constantly.

“Come on, Blaine, give it up,” Kurt said.

“Magicians never reveal their secrets.”

Rachel huffed. She had a glint in her eyes suggesting she wasn’t giving up. Rachel rarely did when she really wanted something. Kurt had a theory that she could pester anyone enough to get what she wanted. Example A, a ticket to NYADA by tracking down the head of admissions and inviting her to Chicago to watch a show choir competition.

Before Kurt could tell Rachel to drop it, Santana returned. She had a new drink in her hand.

“Compliments of the lady in red,” she told them.

“Excellent song choice,” Kurt said.

“Blaine’s idea.” she shrugged, sipping her drink.

Blaine was still beaming.

“It’s perfect for her, isn’t it?” Blaine replied, “When I first heard it I knew I had to hear Santana do a cover of it.”

Santana winked at him from across the table.

“What is going on with you two?” Rachel asked. “The devil incarnate and the sun from teletubbies should not get along this well.”

Santana shrugged. “He’s besties with Britt.”

“It’s true.” Blaine nodded. “She even called us the Sunshine Twins.”

Kurt’s eyes drift to Blaine’s—his—yellow pants. “Yeah, that fits.”

#klaine #klaine fanfiction #klaine fanfic #my fics #folklore series

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s-c-r-i-p-s-i · 3 years

Text

Candy is Dandy but Liquor is Quicker

[Dead by Baelight’s Kinktober // Day 8 and 18 : Outfit/Skin, Cornered]

🖤 🖤 🖤 “Don’t come any closer,” you warned shakily, backing up against the boarded-up door as he stalked forward, every step radiating confidence. “Or you’ll what?” He asked, leaning in. “Arrest me?” Playfully rattling the costume handcuffs on your belt, he set his gun against the door. You stared up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and he just snorted, curling a finger in your hair. “Darlin’…” Tilting his head, his fingers traveled lower, slowly ghosting over your neck, your collarbone…. You inhaled sharply in frightened anticipation, goosebumps rising, only for him to skim over your chest entirely, plucking one of the mini bottles from your bandolier. “I would love…” Long, bony, but strangely elegant fingers unscrewed the cap, flicking it off where it clattered across the floor somewhere. “To see you try.” 🖤 🖤 🖤 Pairing: Deathslinger (Caleb Quinn) x F! Reader

Rating: Explicit

CW: non-con/dub-con, bondage, drinking, smut, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4,927

Something… odd had been happening lately.

Not the cankerous growths and sickly orange flowers that were always so abundant this time of year - or whatever passed for a year in this everlasting hell. By no means was that unprecedented.

Ask anyone who’d been there long enough to know and they’d tell you; there was a certain… cyclicity to things. Recurring phenomenon - the red envelopes, the flowers, the mysterious gifts wrapped up like Christmas presents. Always sequential, always in order, like some crude imitation of seasons. (And for what? No one ever aged a day.)

No, this was something new.

And new, in the Entity’s realm, was never a good thing. But… You had to admit, this seemed mostly harmless.

Look - It’s not like you were ever really in control of what you wore here, anyway. Most of the time, you were just stuck with whatever clothes you were wearing when you rolled into the fog. Sometimes She (that omnipotent thing in the sky) threw you in something else. Nobody ever really paid it much mind. The Entity worked in mysterious ways. And people, frankly, had more important shit to worry about.

But then when the flowers started blooming this year, things got a little weird.

She -…

She started putting people in costumes.

Cheap polyester numbers, mostly - the kind you’d buy from a big-box store, straight from one of those awful clear vinyl bags.

…It was starting to look a lot like Halloween. Jack-o’-lanterns even began appearing, scattered around the campfire and adorning the generators.

And nobody knew what the fuck was going on. Hell, not everyone even knew what Halloween was. You had quite the diverse cast; some people weren’t even from the same world as you.

The general vibe around the campfire was just… mild amusement if anything. You had a chuckle, then moved on. That was just the way of things. Everyone had these… survivor blinders on. You guess it was hard to get phased by something so minor when you all got murdered on the daily, but…

But you weren’t content with that.

You always had trouble just accepting things at face value. You wanted to know why.

Like - was the Entity stroking out? Things always did get a little strange around this time. Almost as if She were sick.

It was rare, but there were these little… Well, Feng called them glitches, and it was apt a term as any. Just little things, here and there, like She couldn’t quite enforce the rules of her own game.

Almost everything in this world seemed to be harvested from people’s memories. So… Maybe she was starting to pull things at random. Spiraling.

Was this the synaptic failure of a dying god?

Probably not, but there was nothing to do besides let your mind wander, and it was the only theory you had.

And then….

Then She whisked you away to Frontierland in the gaudiest slutty sheriff costume known to man and pit you against the goddamn cowboy.

Yeah, no - that was about a step too far to have been a happy accident.

Maybe you were thinking too hard. Maybe She just had a fucked up sense of humor.

When the fog cleared, you found yourself in the saloon with the others. You half-heartedly laughed it off (“Yeah, yeah. Okay. Very funny.”) and then moved on. Business as usual.

But not before rolling your eyes and discreetly downing one of the liquor minis from the shitty novelty booze bandolier sewn to your costume behind everyone’s backs.

At least She had the decency to stock it.

You were finishing up cleansing a totem when you heard the telltale crack of a gunshot split the air from all the way across the map. Not anywhere close enough to be dangerous, but a dead giveaway as to who you were up against.

…And cold hard proof that your little outfit was far from coincidence. The literal and proverbial smoking gun.

The moment you heard it you deflated, head falling back.

Seriously? What the fuck was She playing at?

Why you?

It wasn’t much of a conscious decision; you found yourself plucking another bottle from your bandolier and knocking it back without a whole lot of thought. You were obviously going to need it. Staring blankly ahead, you incredulously shook your head as you thumbed the moisture from your lip.

Okay. Alright. That was it, for now, you decided.

The Entity gave you a fully loaded bandolier - seriously, you were armed to the teeth with the little mini bottles, to the point it was actually kind of heavy. But you already felt a little weak in the knees after just two shots. It had been a while, so your tolerance was understandably nil. You didn’t want to be useless to your team. More importantly, it now felt critical you get out of there without running into the killer.

The Deathslinger was one of those ones. Not overly talkative, like a couple of the killers were, but he definitely got a kick out of the whole thing. There was a stark difference between the two camps, so to speak - the ones who only seemed like they killed because they had to, and the ones who were completely in their element. And he was obviously one of the latter.

It was that goddamn laugh. Low and sultry. Chuckling whenever he hooked someone or when a survivor did something exceptionally dumb. Even when you weren’t the target of it, you’d come to associate it with pure humiliation.

And you just knew that he’d take one look at you, in your stupid sheriff costume, and… Oh. You were steaming mad only thinking about it.

So you made it your personal mission to avoid him this trial. And to do that, you had to actually get out. Which meant no more drinks for you!

You should have known She had other plans.

You did your best to keep a low profile, tried to make sure you were on the opposite side of the map from him at all times, while still being useful. A difficult balancing act.

But you couldn’t just leave your friends hanging.

When you saw Meg’s aura flare out in distress as she was lowered onto the hook, you began making your way over, quick and quiet and praying to every god you knew that he would be long gone by the time you got there.

And, lucky you, there was no sight of him. So you crept towards the hook, privately taking solace that at least you weren’t alone in the goof factor; Meg was all dressed up like Wendy - the fast-food icon. The Entity really outdid herself, the braids were right on the nose, and you were almost loosey-goosey enough to make some stupid quip. Almost. Maybe when she wasn’t dangling from a meat hook.

You pulled her off the hook with care, but just as her feet touched the ground, another gunshot rang out, this time much louder. A spear whizzed by so close that you could hear it shear through the air just before it embedded itself in the post, inches away from you both. No sooner had you whipped your head around to find the source than the sound of shoes pounding against the ground filled your ringing ears.

You looked back and Meg was gone. Peeled off like a bandaid.

You decided you better get the hell out of Dodge too.

First things first, you needed to get out of the open; that was just asking to get shot. So you made a mad dash for the saloon. You figured you had a good head start since it should have taken him a hot minute to retrieve the harpoon, dislodge it from the hook, shove it back in the gun… Sounded like a whole ass process.

Except, when you looked back behind you he was hot on your tail. Trail. Hot on your trail.

You made a snap judgment, deciding you’d try and lose him by running up to the second story. Was it cheap? Absolutely. He obviously had some kind of bum leg, unless that brace was some kind of bold fashion statement. Not that it had ever slowed him down, any. But you were desperate. And all’s fair in love and war, right?

Swiftly turning the corner, you galloped up the stairs and dove into the first room you saw, hopping through the window.

By the time your eyes adjusted to the indoors and you realized it was a dead-end, it was too late. The only other exit was boarded up, and you could hear his boots unhurriedly thumping up the creaky steps like he was in no rush at all. Step. Step. You rushed to the boarded-up door and gave it a good open-palmed slam to test its strength - you’d seen killers smash through these like they were cardboard, but it just wouldn’t budge. Shit.

He was getting closer. You could hear his spurs. Hissing, you banged your fist against the boards in frustration. What, impending injury wasn’t bad enough? She had to add insult, too?

The footsteps stopped, and so did everything else, it felt like. Holding your breath, you slowly began to turn around. There he was in the window, backlit and silhouette, dusty sunlight filtering through his ghostly white hair. You had to admit, he cut a striking figure, something cinematic. There was just the trouble of the gun. Aimed right at you.

Didn’t have to climb over the window if he just reeled you to him. Smart man.

Before you could think to dive for cover or something smart like that, he began lowering the gun. It was hard to tell what expression he was wearing, backlit as he was, but you could feel those spectral eyes looking you up and down. From your cheap western style boot covers, all the way up your legs to your fluffy petticoat and layered skirts, the ill-fitted booze bandolier slung around your shoulder… and finally, the gold, plastic 5 point sheriff star nestled between your tits.

Oh God. Here it comes…

He didn’t even have to say a word, hot embarrassment already surging to the surface before he even opened his mouth.

“Well. Pardon me.” You could make out the glint of dirty teeth in the dark as his grin spread. “Didn’t know you were an elected official.”

Why the hell was he exempt from this bullshit, anyway? You’d seen Ghostface in a devil costume, and Myers in a cat ear headband, so you knew they weren’t immune. Maybe the Entity thought he looked stupid and campy enough as is. But… she couldn’t have dressed him up as Woody from Toy Story or something? He probably wouldn’t have gotten it, but you would have found it funny. Maybe then you wouldn’t have felt so small and humiliated.

You hated this. You didn’t even know what to say until he started climbing over the window. Then you had a pretty clear idea.

“Don’t come any closer,” you warned shakily, backing up against the boarded-up door as he stalked forward, every step radiating confidence.

“Or you’ll what?” He asked, leaning in. “Arrest me?” Playfully rattling the costume handcuffs on your belt, he set his gun against the door. You stared up at him, eyes wide as saucers, and he just snorted, curling a finger in your hair.

“Darlin’…” Tilting his head, his fingers traveled lower, slowly ghosting over your neck, your collarbone…. You inhaled sharply in frightened anticipation, goosebumps rising, only for him to skim over your chest entirely, plucking one of the mini bottles from your bandolier. “I would love…” Long, bony, but strangely elegant fingers unscrewed the cap, flicking it off where it clattered across the floor somewhere. “To see you try.”

And on that note, he finally tipped it back - you watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed it down. Shaking the empty bottle at you, he slipped it back into its holster on your belt. “Bit frivolous, you know.” He commented, curling his finger in and snapping it back. “A flask does just fine. No need to reinvent the wheel.”

“Right, well,” you huffed, and moved to squeeze past him - he was clearly in good humor, at least, so maybe he’d let you off easy. Wasn’t a little whiskey and a laugh good enough?

Apparently not.

You were immediately met with an arm shooting out, hand landing right beside your head, caging you in.

“Woah there, where d’ya think you’re going, sweetheart?” He smirked down at you, a crooked thing that flashed his teeth, scarred lip snagged over a canine. You’d never noticed before, but one of his incisors had a gold crown. Now that you’d noticed, you couldn’t stop looking at it, the alcohol still floating around in your bloodstream turning you into some sort of easily distracted magpie. He was missing one of his bottom teeth, too. It was… kind of a mess in there, huh? Smelled like whiskey and tobacco.

“You got me all the way up here, I’m not too keen on leaving already.” Sliding his hand from the door, he guided you away by the small of your waist, and you… you just kind of let him, stiltedly trying to follow his direction.

“So how about you…” You reached the bed and he grabbed you by your shoulders, turning you round to face him. “Just sit your pretty ass down.” Just a slight push and you were bouncing on the bedsprings, palms catching your fall.

In the back of your mind you were already fearing the worst, but much to your surprise he just sat down next to you on the edge of the mattress, looking almost comically large and out of place on the twin-size bed. All you could do was blink at him dumbly, unsure what was happening.

He took a long breath through his nose. It felt like forever before he finally released it and said, “Have a drink with me.”

“I…” You drew out the word dubiously, clearly meaning to decline. You were already too tipsy for comfort considering present company was a killer.

“Didn’t ask,” He said gruffly, pulling two bottles from your bandolier and offering you one. “Indulge an old man. Or we’ll do it the hard way.”

Hard to argue with that! You didn’t know what the hard way was, but you didn’t want to find out. So you took the bottle, lips pulling together in a tight, awkward half-smile when he clinked his against yours.

This was weird. Awkward, and in a whole different way than you’d been preparing yourself for.

You actually found yourself glad for the burn that flooded your body as you downed the shot, heat loosening your tense limbs and taking the edge off this… incredibly odd situation, if only slightly.

Besides the obvious threat, it felt like maybe, despite everything… he was really just a lonely old man. In want of someone to drink with. A slice of normality. Isn’t that what you all wanted? You guessed it couldn’t hurt. It was keeping him away from the generators, anyway. Buying you all some extra time.

And… maybe this was what the Entity wanted. The reason she brought you here like this.

“Now, miss,” He spoke, and you turned your gaze up to him, blinking owlishly, your head swimming. There was a lot to take in at this distance. All these different textures. Scars and stubble and pockmarks. You found it all fascinating. “I’ve got to be frank with you.”

You know, you hadn’t really heard him speak at length before, but you were starting to realize that his whole aesthetic, he didn’t really sound straight out of a spaghetti western like you might expect. There was a trace of that, especially in his vocabulary, but his accent was much more reminiscent of… Canada, somehow. With a slightly Irish lilt.

It was ludicrously unexpected, and something about it just made a dopey smile float onto your face. You didn’t even realize you were doing it, until his eyes drifted down, and he huffed with almost fond incredulity.

“Think that’s funny, huh?”

You’re almost positive you missed something he said. You heard it, you just didn’t… process it right. This time when he spoke, you tried to pay attention.

“I don’t usually go taking what ain’t mine, but damn if you don’t look like a present addressed just to me.”

It was your turn to huff, bobbing with amusement. “Okay, cowboy, I know what it looks like, but…” It wasn’t like you chose this outfit.

“Honey,” he interrupted, “I think you’ve mistaken me for the wrong kinda wrangler. It’s not cows I’m after.” He paused, tipping his head as if reconsidering, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “But if a heifer’s in need of a good driving…”

It took you a solid minute for your brain to catch up. He was content to watch the cogs turn until it did.

He just called you a cow!

A cow in need of a good dicking!

Your mouth hung open in shock and he - he just laughed.

“Little slow on the uptake, aren’t cha? Had a few already? How bout one more?” His hand began trailing up your leg, dirty fingers slowly dipping beneath your pure white petticoat.

Suddenly, one thing was very clear.

You had to get out of here.

Shaking your head, you tried to stand, but you were swiftly reeled back as soon as your feet hit the ground, pulled into a hard lap, all bones and brace and knobby knees and God knows what else.

“We’re gonna have one more,” his voice materialized right beside your ear, tone final as he pulled another mini from your belt. You shook your head, whimpering some protest between tightly closed lips as he pressed the bottle to your mouth. Behind you, you heard him sigh through his nose like a beleaguered bull. Then his other hand came round your face, pinching your nose shut.

You didn’t wait around for your lungs to give out. There wasn’t any point in that. You knew he wasn’t going to give in. But you did. Almost immediately. Your lips parted for air and got tequila instead, swallowing sloppily as you tried not to choke, rivulets of amber dripping down your chin while he murmured, “There you go… Nice and easy…”

His hand lowered to your throat to tip your head back, your world spinning as a wet sensation dragged across your chin, the man licking up the tequila in one broad and obscene lick. That rotten chuckle inundated your senses. “Awful cute when ya can’t even keep your eyes straight.” He tapped his fingers along the column of your throat, adding in afterthought. “Awful cute anyway, but I’m not really in the mood to fight just for a little company tonight. You gonna be good for me now, darling?”

“…Uh-huh.” You nearly sobbed out the sound, voice meek and pathetic. But you’d be lying if you weren’t starting to feel… sweaty under your skirts, inner thighs getting embarrassingly slick. That always happened when you were drunk, but never this bad.

And despite all the awfulness churning in your stomach, you still felt heat pool in your gut as he cooed, “Good girl. Not at dumb as you look, are you?”

You didn’t even realize he was actually expecting an answer until he probed again, “Are you?”

You quickly shook your head.

Humming, he seemed to accept that, because he was soon re-adjusting you on his lap and catching your lips with his in a messy kiss. He tasted strong and dry, your tongue prickling like your taste buds were trying to retract at the mere slide of his against yours; like salt on a slug. When his hand crept up your skirt this time, you didn’t try to stop him, even as his middle finger began tracing your sopping panties, dipping into the wet seam. You could scarcely think, devolved into a gooey pile of nerves and feelings that he was amusedly plucking at.

Peeling your panties aside, his fingers parted your folds, a pleased rumble emanating in his throat and vibrating in your mouth when his thumb brushed against your clit and your hips twitched in response.

You were gasping for breath by the time he finally pulled his mouth away, but he gave you no time to recover, already pressing two fingers past your resistance. In some attempt to ground yourself, you grasped at his arm as they began curling and pumping inside you, but your weak, drunk grip made it about as easy as catching clouds.

At some point, your barely-there vision drifted towards the window and you dimly realized you were facing it, completely exposed. That if anyone came up the stairs, they’d be able to see everything.

You’d just have to hope his heartbeat would be enough to keep them far away from the saloon. Eyes fluttering to the ceiling, you pushed the thought from your mind. It wasn’t hard. Not when the feeling in your stomach was reaching a fever pitch, nearing the point of no return.

In some ways, he was a lot gentler than you were expecting. Which was good, because you felt hopelessly vulnerable right now, helpless and disorientated in his lap, his looming over you making your mixed up brain feel protected even though some part of you knew that wasn’t right.

Everything felt numb except where he touched you; the heat of his breath on your neck, the kisses he pressed to your skin, the scrape of his beard, the brush of his long hair against your shoulder. All your wires were crossed, every little sensation going straight to your core.

Gasping out as your climax crashed over you, your hips lurched, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand. Unbothered, he just kept stroking you through it until your hips finally began to sink back down and your cunt stopped desperately trying to milk his fingers. Withdrawing slowly, he pressed them into your open mouth, the tang of your own juices spreading across your tongue. You didn’t know what it said about you that your blind instinct was to obediently suck, but that’s what you did, and he breathed out in a low, steady hiss.

“Careful, now. Fool me too good and I might have to keep you.”

Pulling away, he encouraged you to lay on the bed, settling between your legs. You watched the ceiling drift then snap back to place every time you blinked while he fiddled with something - you weren’t sure what until he was fixing your arms above your head and the apparently not-so-novelty handcuffs from your costume were being snapped around your wrists.

Then his hands were skating over you appreciatively, over your ribcage, the curvature of your waist almost reverently. “Guess the good Lord finally answered my prayers.” He murmured, flicking the plastic sheriff star between your bosom. “Not really how I woulda done it, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh? After all…” The man sighed, fingers curling into the top of your blouse and slowly dragging the gingham fabric down over your breasts until they were revealed to his eerie, quietly covetous eyes. “We don’t exactly have all the time in the world, do we?”

What was that even supposed to mean? It seemed to you as if you had nothing but time. Maybe not in this particular trial - and as if to punctuate that thought, you felt a generator kick to life, the familiar thrum of hope in your bones.

Did he know something you didn’t? Or were you just too foxed to follow?

Exhaling, he rolled his hands over your breasts, admiring the feel of them for just a moment. It seemed like he wanted to take his time with you, but the reminder that you were on a timer was the spur in his side that eventually pushed him to move on.

You heard him audibly fiddling with his belts and wondered if you were getting out of this alive. It was cold comfort, but at least you’d probably managed to save everyone else. Not very heroic when it wasn’t even really your decision. But it was something. Maybe. Something to cling to as you felt the heat of him slide across the mess he’d made of you.

Whimpering, you curled inwards from your core as he entered you, bound hands lifting up and both grasping at his chest at the feeling of being run through. By no means was it violent. It didn’t hurt, exactly. But it had been a long time, and he was unforgivingly long and solid and foreign. An intrusion on your body.

“That’s it. There you go, gorgeous. Hang onto me.”

You did, your hands abandoning his chest to loop over his neck, accidentally knocking the hat off his head in your bound fumbling. He didn’t seem to care, swooping down to take your lips again while you struggled to get used to the feeling of him moving inside you.

With how wet you already were, it didn’t take all that long before pleasure started to win out, every little bump and grind against your sweet spot pulling you closer to the edge again, his mouth muffling the pathetic stream of sounds trying to escape yours.

This time, the fall from the top was a slow one, liquid heat spilling out across your core - though you weren’t quite aware how literally until you felt it physically starting to pool beneath you, a wave of embarrassment flaring when you’d realized what just happened. Okay - you didn’t - that had never happened before, drunk or not.

Your hopes that he didn’t notice were dashed as he pulled away to chuckle heatedly in your ear. He wasn’t far behind though, laughter broken by a groan as his hips snapped against yours, burying himself deep as he could go. You felt the alien jerk of his cock inside you, radiating warmth.

Panting, he nuzzled at your neck as he came down, whiskers scratching at your skin. You felt… suspended in place, not sure what came next. But you guessed it wasn’t up to you. Hesitantly, you let your fingers slip into his sweaty white tresses, the texture thick and rough like the mane of a horse, dusty and… probably unwashed for God knows how long.

There was that awkward feeling again. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit no matter how you turned them, but you weren’t allowed to leave.

Eventually, he took a deep, centering breath and withdrew from you, guiding your hands back to the bed and clicking open the safety release of the handcuffs, setting you free and letting them fall wherever on the floor.

Rubbing your wrists, you groaned in discomfort as he dragged his fingers through the mess, pushing his cum back inside you. No. You just wanted to be done.

But then he pulled your panties back into place. Pulled your shirt back up. Smoothed your skirts down.

His gaze lingered on you for a long moment before he heaved a big sigh and finally dismounted.

Pulling you up by your arm so that you were sitting up, he grabbed his hat from the bed, and you felt him plop it onto your head and adjust it.

“Suits ya.” He said softly, and it was the first thing he’d said in a while. Part of you was waiting for the other shoe to drop, not sure if he wanted a thank you, or…

He eyed you for another long moment, like there was something more he wanted to say, but… Instead, his gaze flicked down to the bandolier round your chest.

You swallowed hard as he plucked the last two bottles from your belt, the thought of taking another shot making your stomach churn and your gag reflex curl.

Patting your thigh, he bonelessly plopped himself in the nearby chair, rolling his eyes as you just stared at him. “Go on, get.” He snorted, uncapping one of the little bottles. “Don’t fall down the stairs on your way out.”

He was letting you go? Just like that?

You hesitated, something about this seemed… unfinished. You weren’t sure if you wanted to go.

But you didn’t want to wait around until he changed his mind, either.

So you uncertainly began heading towards the window, pausing when you remembered - “Your hat…” You reached for it, intending to give it back, but…

“Keep it, I don’t care.” That sounded unexpectedly crabby, and when you looked back, he wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at the wall, avoiding your gaze as he tipped back a shot. “Wear it if you want to see me again. Don’t if ya don’t. I can take a hint.”

You blinked, unable to believe he was sulking. Now. After everything.

Your fingers hovered over the brim of the hat. You needed to quash this now, while you still had the chance. Your conscience was screaming at you, leave it, don’t encourage him, don’t even give him hope.

Don’t bring it to the campfire. Don’t anything. Just… leave it on the windowsill, you told yourself. It shouldn’t have even required thought. Nothing about this was okay.

You didn’t even know his goddamn name.

And yet… You found your hand slowly lowering, falling back down to your side. You gave him one last, long look before grabbing the windowsill.

You could always decide later.

🖤 🖤 🖤

Thank you for reading!!!

🖤 🖤 🖤

Notes:

Thank you Pugge for beta'ing most of this!

I do not know WHY this took me so long to write but I’m fairly happy with it. Sorta wasn’t the direction I originally had planned for this, but what can I say, I’m cursed. I got the Midas touch, except instead of gold, everything I touch turns to non-con.

This piece was written for Day 8 and 18 of the 🔞 Dead by Baelight 🔞 Discord server’s Kinktober. Anyone over 18 is welcome to join here.

#dead by daylight #dbd #deathslinger #caleb quinn #my writing #oneshot #scripsi

39 notes · View notes

snowdice · 4 years

Text

First Anniversary (Part 3) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters: Logan, Patton, Remy (only in the fist part)

Summary:

Logan and Patton go on a trip for their first anniversary. It’s mostly fluff (except just a bit in chapter 3).

(It’s part of a series but it literally doesn’t matter except for like 1 joke so if you want to just see them being dumb and in love, you can read this without context.)

Notes: Superhero AU (really doesn’t matter at all), fluff, so much fluff, just a hint of angst in the middle, but overwhelmed by fluff rather quickly, past child neglect/abuse, they’re soft husbands, allusions to sexy times

Me: I’m going to write a cute fic about the logicality anniversary trip!

Patton: Remember that one detail about my backstory?

Me: Now?

Patton: Now

Part 1 Part 2

For the day of the trip Patton had planned, he’d decided he wanted to walk around the small tourist town to shop and then go to a show at the small theater in the evening. He had said he wanted to get up early and have the included breakfast at the Bed and Breakfast, however, now that the hour had come, he seemed quite resistant to the idea.

“No,” he whined, curling up into an even tighter ball and holding a pillow over his head.

“Patton, love, they’re going to stop serving breakfast in half an hour and I am hungry,” he reasoned.

“nt ah eeyo.”

Logan chuckled. “What.”

He turned to glare at him from under the pillow. “Eat a pillow,” he said.

“Hmmm, I believe the owner of the Bed and Breakfast would not be particularly enthused if I did that.”

“Don’t care,” he grunted.

“Hmmm,” Logan said and then made the pillow fly out of his arms suddenly.

“Not fair!” he claimed, sitting up to level him with a pout.

“Is that so?” Logan asked, watching him from his position with his head propped up on his elbow. He was already dressed.

Patton pouted more and then before Logan knew what was happening, a different pillow was being slammed into his face. He shoved it away.

“Okay, if you’re awake enough for a pillow fight, you’re awake enough for breakfast,” he said before lunging at him. He squealed and hopped out of bed to escape, laughing. Logan followed him over the edge of the bed.

“I’m getting dressed, I’m getting dressed,” Patton protested as Logan approached.

“Oh, so now he can figure out how to get dressed?” Logan asked, leaning forward to kiss his cheek.

“Mmhmm, now quit distracting me.” Logan pinched his side in reprimand, and he squeaked.

Patton got dressed quickly and they managed to catch the tail end of breakfast before walking hand in hand to the downtown shopping area.

Patton pulled him into store after store and most of the day was spent with Logan trying to convince him that they didn’t need windchimes made out of soda pop bottle lids because they lived in an apartment and also they were horrid, that they did not need a giant greed recliner and had no way to get it home, and that considering they lived together the postcard tradition really, truly was not necessary. He managed to win on the first two fronts (though only just) but caved on the last one. Patton was already writing a little message on the back of one when they stopped for lunch at a local restaurant and refused to let him see it even once he’d finished writing it.

After lunch, they went to a few more shops and Patton forced him to buy a shirt with the town name on it despite the fact that he did not understand why they would want to wear shirts from some random town in the city. He also got Logan a blue and black tie that admittedly was in good taste and a baseball cap with a bluebird on it which got the grinning man a side eye.

Logan managed to escape from the clothing section of the latest shop by pretending to look at some of the novelty devices the place had. Though, honestly, who needed a toaster that also cooked eggs at the same time as the toast or a waffle maker that made smiley face waffles… actually thinking about it, it would be best to keep Patton away from this section as well. That in mind, he turned to exit the aisle and find his husband again.

He found Patton standing in front of a display of dish cloths with different stitched patterns on them. Yet, he noticed him glance periodically at the display next to it that was home to a small group of stuffed animals, particularly, his eyes seemed drawn to a stuffed blue dog.

Logan observed him for a moment before moving to walk over to him. He noticed his eyes drifted again to the stuffed dog and one of his hands reached out to touch its ear gently.

“Patton would you like to buy that?” Logan asked.

He drew his hand back instantly, seemingly startled by Logan’s presence and fisted it by his side. “No,” he said with a quick laugh. “Of course not, that would be silly.”

Logan walked over and picked the stuffed animal up to consider it. “Why would it be ‘silly’?” he asked.

He seemed to squirm a bit under Logan’s gaze. “It just… is?”

“That is not a reason,” Logan tilted his head at him, watching as his discomfort seemingly grew. “Talk to me, please, Patton.”

He chewed on his lip and Logan waited patiently, knowing that expression meant Patton was working on trying to get words out and struggling with them. “I didn’t have any stuffed animals when I was a kid,” he divulged. “I mean, maybe when I was really little, but I don’t remember. They always seemed nice,” he said. “I don’t know. But I mean, I’m not a kid anymore.”

“So?” Logan asked. Patton just stared at him. “I’ll buy it for you.”

“I… I’m in my 30s Logan.”

“I’m aware of your age.”

“You… it’s silly. You don’t have to…”

“If it’s something you really want, I want to get it for you. It isn’t silly.”

Patton stared at him for a long moment.

“Do you want the stuffed animal, love?” He nodded twice with little barely there movements. “Alright then.”

He led Patton to the front of the store where the register was, stuffed dog in hand. Patton shifted his weight back and forth as Logan paid for the stuffed animal. Instead of taking the offered bag from the cashier once he’d finished the transaction, Logan turned and offered it to him. He took it around the middle. “Thanks,” he said softly and pulled it to his chest.

“Of course,” Logan answered. “I hope you like it.”

Patton nodded, and they exited the store together.

“Do you want to go to another shop?” he asked.

Patton shook his head.

“Should we go back to the Bed and Breakfast then?”

“Yeah.”

Patton was silent the entire way back to their room, but as Logan started to unlock the door, he began to sniffle. Logan quickly finished unlocking the door and pulled him inside. “What do you need?”

“Hug?” Logan responded immediately to the request, hugging him gently. Patton’s own arms came up around him and squeezed him tight; the stuffed animal pressed into Logan’s back as he did.

“Just a lot of feelings,” Patton explained after a minute. “Mostly good, just kinda overwhelmed.”

Logan nodded and felt himself relax a little bit at the assurance that nothing major was wrong before picking him up and carrying him to the bed to lay down.

Patton laid down on his back and set the stuffed animal on his stomach to stare at it. “W-what time’s the show?” he asked.

“Not until after dinner,” Logan told him. “We have plenty of time.”

Patton nodded and squirmed closer to him. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

Want to read more? Click below!

Part 4

#sanders sides #logan sanders #patton sanders #logicality #tsss #relabeled; refiled # just the smallest hint of angst though it's mostly fluff # allusions to sexy times #adriana writes #labeled universe #past child abuse #past child neglect #fluff #angst #allusions to sexy times #relabled; refiled

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authorwiththedragontattoo · 4 years

Text

Draco Malfoy and the choice between what’s right and what’s easy

so this is just a little character study of draco malfoy in the fourth harry potter film: harry potter and the goblet of fire

No warnings apply / general audiences

mostly canon compliant (i took a few liberties here and there, but only minor things)

enjoy!

“Don’t boast, Draco.”

Like a brick wall, Lucius Malfoy’s dictatorial words brought Draco Malfoy’s frivolous bravado to a humiliating halt. The thud of Lucius’ cane knocked the breath from Draco’s lungs and left the playful taunting in his throat.

He hadn’t meant to start showing off so ungracefully, he had always been told that the key to undermining your peers was not to crassly exhibit your superiority; but to get under their skin and have them slowly doubt their own worth against your poise and position until all it took was a look for them to cower back into their place.

Draco had never been very good at that.

Seeing the Weasley’s, and fucking Potter and Granger so joyously carefree and indecently elated caused such a juvenile need to prove himself better than them in the only way he knew how. His ivory cheeks flushed a hue of pink as shame began to burn in his stomach for allowing himself to act so childish in front of his father; who was able to cut deep into the self-esteem of those around him with only a well constructed glance.

“There’s no need with these people.”

Draco nodded and composed himself. His father was right of course, he had nothing to prove to his classmates, he shouldn’t care what they think of him. He wouldn’t. He knew he was significantly greater than them in many aspects, and he didn’t need the approval of a couple of low-lives and a mudblood to know this.

Yet as they walked away he itched to turn around and see what they were saying about him.

“That always was your biggest weakness, Draco. Your craving for attention.”

Suddenly becoming painfully aware of every inch of his skin, every movement of his muscles and every twitch in his face, Draco pushed back his shoulders, lifted his chin and set his face in stone.

“Yes, father.”

Draco agreed with him, he did crave attention. It was a nasty habit he hadn’t been able to shake just yet. He knew his place, his power, his position. He had many admirers and many more people who feared him, that was good. It was the people who seemed disinterested in him that made him want to scream until there was not a single witch or wizard who didn’t know who he was.

Potter and his little gaggle of Gryffindors particularly set off this little adverse reaction. He figured if he couldn’t get Potter’s respect or his fear; he would keep pushing until he hated him so much that just the sound of the name ‘Draco’ had Potter’s blood boiling.

Nasty little habit.

“Do better, we’re in public.”

“Yes father.”

The Quidditch match had started and the stadium pulsated with life. Loud music, louder chants, fireworks and light shows, flags, novelty hats, banners, it was all so festive, bursting at the seams with excitement and thrill.

Well, outside it was, inside the Ministers box it was rather dull. There was a certain etiquette with those types Draco was learning. Standing up to cheer had earned him a smack on the knee with the snake head of his father’s cane. He was to sit straight and clap politely, just like if he were anywhere else.

He was feeling awfully left out of the festivities.

But that was a good thing, Draco reasoned. He wasn’t on par with the people here anyway, he was above them all, he was in the Minister's box for heaven's sake. If he felt left out, he was doing the right thing. He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Even if it was boring.

A particularly loud cry rang in Draco’s ear, and a glance up to find the source told him that Potter and the Weasleys were within his view. He saw them all standing, painted faces; leaning as far over the gate as they could without falling 100 feet onto the turf. They looked thrilled to be there, each one clapping and cheering, huge smiles on each of their rotten faces.

There it was again, the burning desire to tell them all that they may be having fun but he was in the Minister’s box, and his suit probably cost more than all their clothes put together, and that Ronald’s hair was dumb, and…

A nudge in his side brought Draco’s attention back to his father seated next to him.

“Don’t even give those people a second glance.”

Draco settled back in his seat, looking forward with an expressionless face,

“Of course father”.

Hogwarts was buzzing with an energy Draco hadn’t seen at the school before. A mixture of the visitation from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, the Tri-Wizard tournament and yet another Potter scandal left the school feeling unsettled yet so lively.

Unfortunately, the Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs didn’t know of the social order at Hogwarts, and the other students had seemed to have forgotten their place. And while Draco felt order needed to be restored to the school, he wasn’t near stupid enough to try and square up to a Durmstrang, no matter how much sawdust filled their skulls.

So of course, Draco made the very mature and politically sound move to mass produce “Harry Potter Stinks” badges. Because if there was ever a person he could rely on to brighten his day with his delightful sensitivity to Draco’s bullying, it was Potter. The badges actually sold a lot better than he expected, perhaps he did think too highly of the boy.

He could hear his father’s voice in the back of his head, berating him for his attention seeking and crude attack on his enemies. The art of subtlety was something Lucius Malfoy had perfected to climb the social ladder, while Draco still favoured petty pranks and mean jabs wherever he could.

His father’s voice was a little easier to ignore when he was in Hogwarts.

“I don’t give a damn what your father thinks, Malfoy!”

Potter was riled up and heading straight towards Draco. His teasing had stung Potter better than he ever could have hoped, and Draco loved it. He even threw a blow to Draco’s shoulder; which was new and unexpected although not entirely unwelcome. Draco had never been able to break his little resolve with such a mild insult before, although he supposes a life threatening tournament you’re not even supposed to be allowed in will do that to a person.

“He’s vile, and cruel. And you’re just pathetic.”

Well, Draco can’t really fault him for the truth. His father is vile and cruel, no one; not even Lucius himself would deny that. And Draco was acting pretty pathetic, trying to get his attention fix by poking Potter with a stick until he explodes.

Didn’t stop him reaching for his wand though, the fun with Harry wasn’t over yet.

Until it was, and he was pulling ferret hair from his teeth for a week.

Draco was surprised by how much fun he had at the Yule Ball. He expected it to be much like the many, many galas he had been forced to attend at the manor, although thinking back it was a pretty stupid assumption to make. The Malfoy galas were always filled with rich old people that his parents were always trying to impress. So they mainly consisted of Draco spending the majority of the time plastering a smile on his face as he stood bored out of his mind listening to these people drone on and on.

The night of the Yule Ball was already more thrilling than Malfoy galas when Draco got to watch Potter make an utter fool of himself with his laughable skills in dance, throwing that poor Patil girl around like a rag doll.

Draco had a significantly more successful dance with the beautiful Beauxbaton girl who he had brought as his date. Well, technically he was her date, since she asked him. Draco had planned to ask Pansy, since they were friends and he refused to show up without a date, but when the Beauxbaton asked him he wasn’t about to say no to such a beautiful girl, Malfoy or not.

She had cool, black skin which she had beautifully highlighted silver with a dusting of glitter over her high cheekbones and prominent collarbone to match the shimmering floor-length gown she wore. Twinkling gems and beads twisted through her hair which was pinned back to reveal her intense stare.

Admittedly, she left Draco momentarily breathless.

She could dance very well, they both could. He had been forced to learn from a young age so he could impress possible suitors as well as business partners and other pureblood families. They gracefully glided across the dance floor into the waltz Professor McGonagall had taught them with ease, brushing past the more awkward couples and weaving collaboratively between the couples that actually could dance.

There was plenty of attention on him, as he always preferred; but there was another element to the night, something he didn’t often feel.

After the orchestral music had ended and the band began to play, Draco moved to step off the dance floor and maybe stand in the corner looking intimidating for a while, but before he could leave his date grabbed his hand and insisted he dance a little longer. He wasn’t going to do it until she asked him if he was “too chicken to let your hair down once in a while”; he wasn’t one to be so easily manipulated but the girl had a way of challenging him with her eyes; and he was never one to back down from a challenge.

It had taken a moment, as casual dancing was definitely not something his dance teacher had taught him, but eventually he allowed his body to move with the music in an unrehearsed yet hopefully graceful manner. It came with ease to the Beauxbaton girl, who’s lithe frame moved with ease, as if she was one with the music.

He began to take less and less notice of the people who were staring at him; (as to be expected, he had a beautiful date and he looked rather dashing in the heart-wrenchingly expensive dress robes he wore), but instead focused only on the high he was getting from dancing so freely, so impulsive and sporadic, none of it rehearsed or practiced. It was an odd but addictive feeling, dancing for the fun of it, with no personal gain in mind but to enjoy the music and to feel your partner's energy fuel your own.

When the night came to an end, Draco felt an unexpected sadness to realise he had never gotten the girls name, and he’s pretty sure he never gave her his. Now that really was unexpected, for just one night, Draco had forgotten he was a Malfoy. And he didn’t feel too awful about it either.

The second task of the Tri-Wizard tournament was much more eerie and much less enjoyable than the first task. With the dragons, the audience could see everything unfold, witness everything that happened to the champions and stay on top of the action. With this task they just had to watch them be submerged by the black water of the lake and wait an hour to see if they come back up again. And it was cold. And there were no seats.

The other contestants came back up well within the time they were expected to, and Draco teased that of course Potter would be the one dawdling. Ever the Slytherin he mentioned to Crabbe how he hopes Potter doesn’t ever resurface, and that he dies down there.

It had begun as his usual snide remark, but as the clock ticked closer to the hour and Weasley and the Delacour girl rose with no Potter in sight his joke started to look more and more like a potential reality.

Draco weighed this outcome over in his mind for a short while, before deciding that isn’t really what he wants, despite his bravado. Potter didn’t deserve to die at the bottom of a lake that stunk of squid, and to be honest, Draco couldn’t quite imagine a life without Potter in it for him to wind up.

He didn’t need to start coming to terms with this future for long though, as the attention seeking git he is he flew out of the water and splattered onto the deck like a fish out of water.

“Bugger, really thought that was the last we would ever see of him” Crabbe muttered next to him.

“Yeah” Draco replied, feeling the weight on his chest lighten a little, before pushing down the hat of a slimy, kissarse first year.

Draco knew something was wrong as soon as Potter’s body slammed to the ground, with a limp Diggory beneath him.

The band played and the crowd cheered, but there was something wrong, seconds had passed and Diggory still didn’t move, and Potter was sprawled desperately over his body.

Draco has never seen a dead body before, but he was sure that was what he was looking at as the music suddenly stopped and a scream echoed throughout the stadium.

Draco had thought many times what a dead body would look like, often having morbid daydreams about seeing the lifeless bodies of his enemies on the floor at his feet. But he knew now those daydreams had been horribly wrong.

He’d always just visualised dead bodies as if they were asleep, eyes closed and lying still. That wasn’t how Cedric looked at all. His eyes were wide open, the soul in them long gone. And he didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like a shell that had been left to rot. Draco cursed the nausea that built in his stomach.

Potter was snatching himself away from any helping hand that tried helping him up, clinging to Cedric’s body as if his life depended on it - which for all they knew, it had. He was screaming something to Dumbledore, but Draco couldn’t make it out amongst all the commotion.

Draco looked at Potter's face, it was so full of anguish, and fear, and defeat. Crumpled in sorrow as he sobbed helplessly into Dumbledore’s hands.

Draco wasn’t sure he liked it as much as he always thought he would.

“Cedric Diggory was murdered… by Lord Voldemort!”

In a way, Draco knew that name was coming. But it didn’t stop how suddenly his blood seemed to run cold.

His parents had been acting strange over Christmas. They were easily agitated, snapping at Draco much more frequently than he was used to. They were much more secretive than usual too, Draco often found them whispering to each other, lowering their voices more when Draco walked into a room. His father in particular had been distant, often lost in thought and especially jumpy if Draco accidentally startled him. On one unfortunate occasion Draco got clocked in the jaw by not announcing himself before coming up behind Lucius. Once he realised what he had done, Lucius apologised profusely and then held Draco close to his chest. Draco found this even stranger than the punch in the face. Violent outbursts were not something Lucius frequently had but Draco found them to be higher on the list of ‘Things Lucius Malfoy would do’ than to apologise and then hug his son.

He hadn’t known why at the time, and didn’t dare ask; but when he saw Cedric Diggory’s stiff, lifeless body on the pitch, well… Draco was smart enough to piece things together.

The mention of the Dark Lord’s name suddenly made the air feel a whole lot heavier. The hall they were in was big but Draco felt no better than if he had been stuffed into a cupboard with no room to breathe.

Much like the rest of the Wizarding world, his name was something that was not allowed to be mentioned in the Malfoy house. Draco had said it only once before, out of ignorance when he was about 10 years old. His father became suddenly very angry and his mother had hurried him away to his room. They fought that night, his parents, Draco could hear them from his room. He never understood why, but as he grew, he learned himself that his father was a Deatheater.

They never told him, but he wasn’t stupid.

And now, the name that left his father violently angry and scared his mother in a way that made her eyes cloud over and her grip to become painfully tight was being spoken in Hogwarts; because he was back, and he had killed someone.

Draco wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel. He was a Slytherin, and he was pureblood. Surely he should be happy he’s back, happy his father doesn’t have to cower away from the name as he grips his always covered forearm.

But, he didn’t feel happy in the slightest. Instead, he felt a suffocating dread push him down, as if willing him to melt into the floor.

And honestly, in this moment Draco doesn’t think he’d mind silently melting into the floor, never to be heard of again.

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swan--writes · 4 years

Text

The Dog Dies in This One

Ficlet

Meant to be platonic Beetlejuice x Reader, but you could take it as romantic or pre-romantic.

This is pretty obviously a self-indulgent fic. I’m going through it, y’all. It didn’t really need to be a reader insert, but I was feeling it. It is sad and personal and not well edited, but please feel free to comment all the same!

Warnings: dog death, lots of crying, abandonment issues, mentions of abuse (if you squint)

You hung up the phone without a word. Without a goodbye or a later or an I understand. It had taken everything you had not to hang up with a fuck you, and once you had smashed the red button, you wondered why you bothered. You threw the phone across the room to compensate, hearing it collide with the wall before dropping to the hardwood. It wasn’t satisfying, perhaps because you didn’t see the impact.

Rather than watch your phone strike the far wall of your living room, you slumped. There was a fluffy blanket draped over the back of the couch, and you barely had the presence of mind to yank it down over yourself. You curled up on your side, facing the back of the couch. In less than a minute your shoulders were trembling. Moments later your back heaved as the tears streamed down your face.

You crooked your index finger at your lips and bit down – there was nothing sadder than the sound of weeping in an empty house. The sound managed to travel around the digit, seeming to bounce off the back of the couch and echo through the cold house with its high ceilings, drafty rooms, and–

A throat cleared behind you. You hiccupped but didn’t turn, instead curling more tightly in on yourself. There was only one person who it could be, and you didn’t want to see him. You didn’t want to see anyone.

For his part, Beetlejuice didn’t know what to do. He stood behind you, clenching and unclenching his fists. You weren’t supposed to be doing this. It was Friday night, you were supposed to be making popcorn, setting up a movie, clearing the room for a blanket fort, dragging the tables through for a game night, anything. Lying on the couch, holding yourself, and sobbing had neither been on the agenda, nor had it been something he had prepared for.

And how could he prepare for something like this? Beetlejuice was a demon, straight from hell. From Juno. No level of acceptance or teasing, no invitation from you to haunt you as much as he liked, no novelty t-shirt or shitty noir horror flick would ever change him. Terrifying, maiming, or otherwise scarring ‘breathers’ for life? He could do that better than anyone or anything else in the Netherworld. Responding to a friend in need?

Any way he could return to the part about maiming?

Still, you didn’t hear Beetlejuice leave. He didn’t say anything for a long time, didn’t move – not that you could hear over your cries. And what cries they were.

You didn’t cry much, but when you did you went all in. Keening sounds rose from the back of your throat. A desperate creak swept air into your lungs when you gasped for breath before diving back in, expelling it almost immediately. You wallowed and shook and clutched at yourself, the cushion beneath you, the pillow before you. But you think it was the shriek that did it. The wholly despaired and anguished shriek that ripped from your throat, shooting from somewhere deeper than you had ever felt before. A place you hadn’t realized you even had in you.

By the time the shriek came out, you were convinced that Beetlejuice had simply disappeared without a sound. But as soon as you made that noise you felt a hand on your shoulder. Without thinking, you shrugged it off. Silence behind you for a few moments, then a quiet shuffle and the blanket was being adjusted at your feet. Once you were fully covered, you felt the hand on your shoulder again, more firmly this time. He was closer too – you could smell the grave dirt on his clothes. Once again, though, you shrugged off his hand.

Between deep, desperate breaths, you managed to speak. “Go away. I know you’re not here for this.” It was true. Beetlejuice knew it as well as you did.

But again, you felt his cool hand on your shoulder. It was cool even through the blanket and your shirt and you hated – you hated – how soothing that coolness felt. Why couldn’t he listen? For once, why couldn’t he see that you needed to be alone? There was so much raw emotion trampling your heart and your lungs and your intestines that you could barely breathe, you didn’t think you could take another person in your space. “C’mon, I can’t just leave you like this,” came his abrasive voice.

“Beetlejuice…” you warned.

“What was it, bad day at school?” Closer, now, his voice came. “Bad date?” You stiffened. “Bad episode of The Bachelorette?”

“Beetlejuice.” In a breath you were sitting upright, whirled halfway around to glare down at him. You knew there were tears covering your face, you knew your eyes were red and puffy, and you knew that neither of these things would be enough to diminish the scowl now towering over him. He had kneeled beside the couch and now stared up at you with wide golden eyes. Beetlejuice’s forehead was smooth and there was a fearful recognition on his face and a blue streak in his hair. You had said his name twice.

“Wait,” he whispered, almost too quietly for you to hear. He sat back on his heels and raised his hands in surrender. “Wait. I’m sorry.” You struggled to regain control over your breathing, grounded by the muted panic in the demon’s expression. “I’ll go. But tell me what’s wrong first.” You gritted your teeth. “I’ve never seen you like this, babes, you look like you’re…” He never finished that sentence, but you knew what he meant. You knew what you were like when you got like this, how frightening it could be for anyone who saw you. How much it looked like you were about to do something stupid.

Eirnin hated seeing you like this. He was your mother’s dog. When you still lived with your mother, the Rottweiler would nose at your forehead and lick your face until you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him away. Even then, he wouldn’t leave you.

“Y/N? Babes?” You almost laughed. Even now, Beetlejuice wouldn’t drop the nickname. Your sobs had renewed, and you slumped forward, drawing your knees to your chest but remaining half upright. Beetlejuice raised his hands and dropped them three times, not knowing what to do. He reveled in the cries of his victims, but yours landed far too heavy on his very dead heart. Finally, awkwardly, he raised himself into a half-crouch and laid an arm gently around your shoulders. Your face turned involuntarily toward his chest and, despite the smell and the lack of real warmth, your head wanted to sink into the softness of his torso. Beetlejuice made a small noise of confusion, but rolled with it.

He took you sliding over as a cue to raise himself stiffly onto the couch. The demon tried not to sit on the blanket covering you, and let you turn beside him. You pressed yourself into his side, the top of your head pushing into the curve of his neck. You tried not to let your lips brush his jacket. The contact grew no less awkward, but his arm tightened around your shoulders, and his other hand pulled your arm across his upper body.

“Why did you throw your phone across the room?”

You forced another deep breath. “My mother called.” He squeezed you like he knew what that meant. Even without details, he knew what it meant. “She’s–she’s putting Eirnin down.”

If you hadn’t had to gasp to stifle another cry, you would have been certain you heard Beetlejuice growl. You felt him make a noise, the vibration almost cradling your arm. “Why?”

“She thinks h–” Your throat tightened painfully, and in clearing it you let a few more sobs out. Your tears were warm when they rolled from your eyes. You wondered if they felt warm to Beetlejuice.

Haltingly, he rubbed the arm he had pulled across himself. “Hey, uh…it’s okay. You don’t have to talk, alright? You don’t have to say anything. I gotcha.”

Slowly, almost timidly, you shifted to practically lay your torso across his yielding but rigid upper body. Sniffling all the way, you gave up and pressed your face into his chest. The top of your head nestled more fully into his neck. “Okay?” Your voice was muffled, but you knew he understood the question.

“…sure.” The vibrations cast by his gravelly voice beat against your face. Oddly comforting though it was, you started to move away, but his arms tightened around you. Beetlejuice didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. You stayed put, only turning your head to the side so you could speak.

“Are there dogs in the Netherworld?” you croaked.

He seemed to think about that for a moment. “I can’t bring him to you.”

“I know, I just want…” There was so much to say. You wanted Eirnin safe. You wanted him loved. You wanted him to know it wasn’t his fault that he was so strong, that his teeth were so sharp, that he had never been trained as well as he deserved. You wanted him to know that you tried, and when you moved away it wasn’t because you gave up, it was because you had to get away from the woman who held his license. You wanted him to know that it didn’t matter to you that he was just a big dumb dog, that you knew he understood.

You wanted Eirnin to know you were sorry.

“I’ll go look for ya once he’s gone,” Beetlejuice said.

You couldn’t help it. You squeezed him around the middle. “Thank you.” More silence. “I’m sorry I almost sent you away.” You weren’t sure if he heard you because you were so close or if it was a perk of being a demon. You had spoken so quietly that you could hardly hear yourself.

“Never make me leave.”

At any other time, you would have taken it as a joke. You would have taken him as a whiny demon, trying to guilt you into giving him something. But now, laid out on your couch with you sprawled over him and crying quietly into his shirt, what did he have to gain from you? Beetlejuice’s voice was just soft enough, just frightened enough, timed just strangely enough that in that moment you didn’t know how to take it except as it was.

When you tried to speak again, your throat wouldn’t let you. You nodded, knowing he could feel it. His arms squeezed around you again and you felt his body relax. You felt your body relax. You felt your eyelids relax. There were still tears leaking onto his shirt when you closed your eyes, but in your exhaustion you hardly felt them anymore.

Buy Me a Coffee?

#beetlejuice #beetlejuice bway #beetlejuice broadway #beetlejuice musical #soft beetlejuice #alex brightman #beetlejuice x reader #beetlejuice x self insert #fanfiction #dog death #tw dog death #angst #comfort #i need this #no context #beetlejuice fanfiction

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lundiivith · 4 years

Text

(i can say i) did it all with love

more reposting stuff i posted months ago to ao3 on tumblr because... unfortunate situations. anyways

here’s a 7.5k words miraak oneshot backstory fic ft vahlok the jailor. read it on ao3 or under the cut!

warning for, uhm... mild/not-very-explicit gore, couple deaths (esp. of family members), eye trauma, fire, a cult, the works. one implication of boarding school-style child ab/use. yeah. not a happy fic

mid-aar; “loyal servant”.

The man held his midsection as tightly as humanly possible. Forced onto his knees by all-too-mortal injury, proud Miraak looked up, defiant in the face of destiny. In that momentf, Midaar was struck by familiarity; but to what, exactly, he didn’t know.

The wind howled as the sun rose. Or fell. Midaar wasn’t sure.

The snow under Miraak was red, as were his clothes. Liquids leaked from his wounds, not all of them blood -- like an ugly, pale acid that left burn-marks on his fingers. The man himself was shaking in agony, and yet, he still raised his shoulders and tried to move. He made a noise and persevered. He’d see this to the bitter end, Midaar knew. It was what his friend always did.

...He was a traitor. He was his friend no more.

(When had he stopped being the man Midaar had known all his life? When had Miraak stopped being the person Midaar had befriended; when had he instead been captured by greed, by an otherworldly spirit’s smoky promises? Had Midaar taken his eyes off him for too long, for just a moment--?)

“You know I expected better of you, Miraak.” Midaar’s voice was icy.

Miraak laughed, a gross wet chortle. “Of course you did.” He tried to laugh as he started coughing, and then he kept coughing. Miraak crawled further, maybe an inch. His free hand held onto the ground, carving the snow as he went; droplets of hot acid smoked as they hit snow. He raised his mask just a little bit and uncovered his mouth; Miraak then stared defiantly upwards, into the slits of Midaar’s mask, and retched blood onto his feet.

Midaar waited for him to finish. Once he did, he knelt and with almost no resistance grabbed the back of Miraak’s head, and he smashed it into the ground once, twice, three times, careful not to let his body shake. Midaar then kept Miraak’s face pressed against the ground, teeth against the cold, and spoke.

“Looking back, it’s obvious. You were always too independent. Too bright, too clever for your own good. You were naïve, Miraak, to think you could best the dragons.”

Miraak grunted something against the snow. He was shivering, burning. Crashing.

“What was that?”

The traitor twisted his head, freeing his lips. “I bested twenty.”

Midaar froze for a moment, horrified, iracund, disgusted, and then replied, “And look where you are now. Dead by the hands of a man.” His chest felt empty. “A man who used to be your friend, Miraak,” he whispered (was he pleading?). “Why did you do this?”

Miraak’s breaths were more and more shallow. He didn’t look at Midaar. “Does it matter?”

“Not to our lords, no.” But you can tell me anyways.

“Then I’ll take it to the grave.” Miraak smiled, wicked and bitter and angry and small. Bloody vomit trailed from his mouth, tears (of pain?) stained by ice and mud. “But I can tell you one name,” he then added. “Kᴀʜᴠᴏᴢᴇɪɴ.”

“...Who?” Midaar blinked, taken aback.

Miraak grinned wider. “Ask the dragons.”

And then Miraak Shouted,

F̬U͍̞̬̰͉̞͖S̜̻ ͙̩̣̱͉̱RO͍ D̪̗̩A͔̙̳̗͍̭̠Ḫ̬̹͈ͅ!̠̺̭͍

The world, for lack of a better world, shook.

A void of ink appeared around Miraak; Midaar only realized he’d fallen once the ringing in his ears began. He could feel a trail of -- blood? -- from his ear. He watched as the ink swallowed Miraak. He thrashed, surprised, and Midaar saw it all, saw him disappear, ( “MIRAAK!” ), saw him gone. He threw out his hand, and Miraak struggled to catch it and failed, his eyes suddenly huge and dark and dark and dark and Midaar’s ears kept ringing --

-- and as Midaar watched, the continent broke.

The wave, the huge dark wave of sea-salt and foam was the last thing the dragon priest saw that day.

The boy waiting on the stairs was pretty excited about joining the ranks of the Dragon Priests, all things considered.

He glanced back at the big door and then decided to wait for the Priest who’d welcomed him to come back. The boy didn’t know how old the ma was, but he was a grown-up and he was a Priest and he’d said his name was Vo-something maybe and that he should wait outside until he came back and the boy’s new name was called and then the door had closed and dawn was coming and he’d been waiting for hours, now, and his legs were getting kind of tired.

He watched the people around Labyrinthian. There were also a few dragons, but the boy didn’t find himself caring about them too much. Oh, sure, they were huge and good and stuff, and they sure seemed to be watching over the people wisely and stuff, but the novelty had worn out hours ago and the boy liked people, anyways. Simple dumb people. He found them funny, and fascinating, going around places doing everyday stuff. There was a Dragon Priest talking to a few workers. One of them was a nervous woman who kept shuffling from one foot to the other. The Dragon priest then said something to the nervous worker, and she jumped in place and stared wide-eyed at the maybe Dragon Priest and then began glowing, like straight-up glowing and smiled real wide and gave the priest a short bow and left really fast. The boy smiled. The priest then talked to the other two a bit more, and the boy looked away.

He kept watching as the sun rose, light bouncing off the snow, and he was definitely not scared when a big dragon walked close enough to the entrance to make the entire stone platform shake with his weight. He remembered something his father had told him once, about big things and dragons maybe, and then he remembered that he wouldn’t see his father for a really long time and he felt a little sad. He didn’t know why, though, because being a Dragon Priest was the best thing you could aspire to be, and you got to talk directly to the dragons and change things about Skyrim if they listened to you, and it was much better than the farm and he wouldn’t have to share everything with five siblings.

His thought process was interrupted when he saw a small child by themself.

“Hi,” he told the younger kid. They were maybe four, so definitely younger than the boy, who was eight and three months and five days. “What’s your name? I’m, uh,” and then he stopped because he realized he’d abandoned his old name and he didn’t have a new one yet.

The kid turned around. Their eyes widened for a second when they found him, but they shook their head and stood up straighter. “Hel-lo,” they said, very serious. Little kids usually were annoying, the boy thought, but maybe this one wouldn’t be as bad.

“What’s your name?” he asked, curious.

“...don’t have one.” They seemed… embarrassed. “Had an old one. It was dumb.”

“Are you here to be a priest?”

“...yeah.”

“Me too.” The boy thought for a moment. “Maybe we’ll get matching names. Since we were in-duc-ted on the same day.”

The kid’s eyes filled with tears, suddenly. “No!” they yelled. The boy leaned backwards, a little surprised. They stomped and then started flailing their arms, angry. They yelled for a bit, before shouting out, “I don’t wanna share my name!!”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up!!” The boy covered his ears as the kid started wailing. He groaned. Nevermind on them not being annoying! He hated little kids sometimes.

He remembered his baby brother Eluf’s screaming when he wasn’t allowed to pet the chickens. Then the boy remembered he wouldn’t see Eluf for a while and felt… sad. He froze for a moment and didn’t realize he’d dropped his hands until the kid had tugged on one of them.

“Why are you sad?” the kid asked, blunt.

“...it’s nothing.” He raised his shoulders, defensive, but the kid just tugged on his arm again. And then again. The boy huffed. “...I miss my little brother.”

“Oh.” The kid thought for a moment. “Was he nice?”

“He was. He liked to hug everyone. Even the chickens, but he scared them, because he hugged them too tight, and he didn’t know he was scaring them.” There was a ton of other stuff to say about Eluf, but the boy right now could only remember his little brother skinning his knee on the dirt path to the coops while chasing a very shy hen, crying like little waterfalls from his eyes.

The kid stared at him for a moment. “How did he not know?”

“He was a little kid. He didn’t know better.”

The kid then started thinking. And they thought loudly, humming out-loud. “Can grown-ups don’t know, too?”

“I don’t know. I guess?”

“Oh.” They paused. “Thank-you.”

“...It’s no problem.”

A little bit afterwards, the doors opened -- and their new lives began.

Midaar awoke slowly, unsure.

The first thing he saw was a high stone ceiling. The second thing Midaar saw after Miraak’s death was a healer.

(Miraak’s death. Miraak’s death. Miraak was gone.)

He blinked slowly, trying to make sense of the blurry shape by his side.

“Sleep, my lord,” they whispered. They touched his forehead for a moment (was he running a fever? He didn’t feel hot) and then, seemingly content, tucked Midaar further into bed.

“What day is it?”

“It’s been three days since your duel with… him,” the healer looked behind themself, alert, then slowly returned their gaze to him. “You were lost for a day. A wave dragged you onto the beach on the second day, my lord Jailor. You were unconscious and had a fever, in addition to multiple bruises and graver wounds.”

“Solstheim. The land…”

“It broke,” the healer interrupted him. “Solstheim is… an island, now. It drifted northeast from the mainland, my lord.”

“...I see.” A blurry thought made its way through Midaar’s mind. “...Why are you calling me your lord?”

“You’ve been made governor of the island for the time being, my lord.” The phrase had been blunt, simple. A punch to the gut. Midaar’s chest went hollow.

“Oh.”

He turned around and fell back asleep.

Years earlier, one late afternoon, Midaar found him staring off into the distance.

His friend looked thoughtful. He hadn’t even noticed him; Midaar had an opening. Nice. He looked at him for a moment, hesitated perhaps? -- and then punched his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

“FUCK!,” was his victim’s first last words, followed by “OW! What is WRONG with you, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ?!”

“Payback, you twerp.” Midaar ruffled his hair and grinned at his scowl. “What are you thinking about, Miraak?”

Miraak huffed, rubbing his wounded shoulder. “...Many things,” he said.

“You can tell me.” Midaar sat down on the cold ground and patted the snow right beside him. He raised a quizzical eyebrow towards Miraak from behind his brand-new mask. Miraak sighed and sat down. He stared away from Midaar, silent, head tilted like the few birds that came to Solstheim in the summer.

“Come on, Miraak. I’m not gonna become a snitch just because I’m a priest now.”

“...it’s not like I think you’ll tell on me,” Miraak began, doubtful. “And it’s not like it’s a bad thing.”

Miraak was silent for a moment.

“One day, I will rule this land.”

“Huh?”

“When I finish my training, I will be part of the High Council of Dragon Priests.”

Miraak always had replaced his want-to’s with will’s. “You’re confident in this, then.” At Miraak’s unimpressed glance, Midaar rolled his eyes. “That’s good, Miraak. You’d be a great councilor.”

“You say that because I’m your friend,” Miraak noted dryly. “But it’s no problem. You will be a councilor, too.”

“What?”

“You’re a great leader, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ, and you excel at worshipping our ᴊᴜɴ. You might even be heard by them, one day.” Was it just him, or were there hints of bitterness in his voice? Of anger? Did he think he wasn’t worthy of being heard by the dragons one day, when he’d already surpassed Midaar in all his studies of the thu’um? No.

“Miraak. Listen to me.” Midaar grabbed him by the shoulders and physically turned Miraak around, and Miraak yelped. Midaar pointed at Miraak’s chest. “You,” he told him, “will be heard by the dragons more Loudly than I ever will, and this is a promise.”

Miraak’s eyes widened as he heard Midaar’s words, but then his face fell. He looked away from Midaar, clearly angry. He glanced once more towards Midaar and then his face softened, maybe in acceptance. Midaar let go of him.

“Thank you,” Miraak said. His voice was empty, his words a mere courtesy. Had he said something wrong?

“You’re welcome,” Midaar replied, and he looked back towards the sunset.

They both stayed like that for a moment, watching the sun go down at the end of a day that had started fast and lasted long, and Midaar thought not of ink-black or mold-green but of red, red, red, like the blood that ran along his veins, if not Miraak’s too.

The dusk was cloudless. No storm came that night, nor the next, nor storm for years to come. But one day it would come, and it would water some interesting seeds.

The next morning after he woke up, when Midaar was well enough to stand, the dragons came.

The Priest was called outside early. He was still recovering from the fight, sleeping far too much and being only woken up for things of extreme importance -- such as this. He’d gone outside in the snow barefoot but masked, wearing the pants and loose shirt he’d slept in and a fur cloak, jaw dropped to the floor at the dov that perched on the roof and ground before him.

Midaar recognised most of them. There were many dragons he’d either seen around or had spoken to a few times; Sahrotaar, Krosulhah, Relonikiv, Kruziikrel. Most surprisingly of all, however, was that they were led by the dragon Paarthurnax, the Dovah-jun Alduin’s lieutenant, who Midaar had only seen once in brief passing. He started… he didn’t know if he was shivering from cold or shaking from awe, but it was likely both. The sky was a light blue, and Paarthurnax, perched on top of the temple, was staring at him.

“Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ Dɪʟᴏɴ,” the gray dragon began. Miraak is dead. It wasn’t a question.

“He has… disappeared. It is likely he is dead,” Midaar explained.

“That is enough. As long as you are ready to kill him again, if he comes back.” Paarthurnax stood perfectly still, his head tilted just slightly to the side, and Midaar realised.

He nodded slowly, thoughtful. “Yes, my lord.”

“But Solstheim is an island, now,” Paarthurnax continued. “And it is too small for ᴅᴏᴠ to reside comfortably in. Nᴜ ᴍᴜ ꜰᴇɴ sᴘᴀᴀɴ ɴɪɪ.” Yet we have to protect it. “So we have decided that that shall be your reward for slaying Mɪʀᴀᴀᴋ.”

Midaar went still under the morning sunlight and broke eye contact, just for a second, to nervously glance away. He looked back at Alduin’s lieutenant. “What shall?”

“You will ʀᴇʟ over Solstheim,” Paarthurnax told him. Reign. “You will ward ꜰɪɴ Lᴇɪɴ from his influence.” The world. “And you will also wield a new name, a new title; one befitting your new position.”

“I am profoundly honored, my lord.” He was. (He wasn’t).

“From now on,” Paarthurnax continued, perched above the Solstheim temple, his face tired and cold and hard, “you will be known as Vᴀʜʟᴏᴋ, and you will guard the island of Solstheim.”

Midaar… Vahlok fell to one knee. “I am so profoundly honored,” he begun, and then he started coughing.

Saltwater and blood fell from his mouth as the dragons watched, impassively, and he felt somehow so incredibly desperate to escape this coughing fit he started worrying this was the proverbial straw and the world’s back was about to be broken. He closed his eyes, hoping against everything the dragons would not see this as weakness.

When he was finally able to open his eyes, he saw the consequences of his actions; disgusted, definitely, all of the dov gathered had flown away, their wings like thunder on the too-far blue horizon. All of the dov but one.

Paarthurnax stood, an undeniable shape the color of envy, before Vahlok.

Vahlok looked up, worshipful but hesitant. “My lord Paarthurnax,” he began. He paused for a moment, to think. Should he heed his last words? He was a traitor, of course, but he was Midaar’s friend. He was clever, and inquisitive, and hungry for knowledge in a way Vahlok had never seen anywhere besides him -- and was yet strangely familiar. He was… He’d been. His friend was dead, he reminded himself, whether or not his heart kept beating. And that helped rationalize his actions, at the moment and perhaps later, because he was honoring his dead friend’s memory, and that was something no one could take away from the mortal.

“...Yes,” Paarthurnax said, clearly confused about the long pause after Vahlok’s words.

“My lord Paarthurnax, I… I wish to ask for something.”

“Have we not given you enough?” Paarthurnax huffed through his nose, clearly annoyed, but his sentence had no bite. Vahlok decided not to question his luck.

“Of course you have, my lord. I just wished to know of a dragon. To… congratulate him, or at least speak to him.” Before Paarthurnax’s watchful eyes, Vahlok shrunk a bit. “Miraak mentioned him with hatred,” Vahlok added, and Paarthurnax snapped to attention.

“Vᴏᴛʜ ɴɪ…?” Paarthurnax stopped there. Midaar waited, to see if he’d continue, and then spoke.

“Yes, my lord. And -- and I just wished to perhaps see him. To see what role he might have played, perhaps… to warn other priests not to fall into the same traps as Miraak did.” He was only half lying; as he spoke, those became his intentions, his ambitions, and while he didn’t forget Miraak’s words, he wanted with all his heart to believe he didn’t care about them.

“...Wᴏ?”

“The dragon Kahvozein, my lord.”

The frills and spikes that dotted Paarthurnax’s face and ran along his spine bristled for a moment. “...Kᴀʜᴠᴏᴢᴇɪɴ,” he stated, thoughtful. “I… have not seen him in a long time.” He shook his head, and the shaking went as a shiver down his back and to the tip of his tail. Paarthurnax then lowered his head, staring right into Vahlok’s eye. “You cannot see him.”

Vahlok took a step back, then another. “My lord,” he said, simply.

“If he has…” Paarthurnax began, and then sighed. “Rᴏ ʟᴀᴀɴ Aʟᴅᴜɪɴ ᴡᴀʜ ᴏꜰᴀɴ ʜɪ ᴀᴀᴢ, ᴀʜʀᴋ ʜɪ ʀᴏ ɴɪ ʟᴀᴀɴ ᴅᴀᴀʀ. Jᴏᴏʀ sᴀʜʟᴏ -- ꜰᴏᴅ-ᴅʀᴇʜ ɴɪ ʟᴀᴀɴ ᴍᴜ...*"

Vahlok looked at the dragon. Slowly, the realization sunk in that he would not be allowed to find answers, that his request would be forever denied. That he would not be able to prevent his greatest failure. That he would not be able to mourn his brother. His face felt foreign all of a sudden, his bones distancing themselves from his nerves. A perfect poker face crept onto his features. Midaar looked away for a moment, then looked back into the dragon’s eyes, hardened by resolve.

“Of course, my lord,” he found his lips saying, independant. “Forget I ever asked.”

Paarthurnax paused for a moment, then looked at Midaar, his face tired and cold and hard, and nodded once before leaving -- with the beat of his wings like a punch to the gut.

Midaar turned around, and remembered, offhandedly, that the healer had told him the next ship towards the mainland would be lifting its anchors tonight. He wondered… he’d been masked for so long. Had the metal blinded his mind, or had it only changed his face?

“On three,” Miraak told him, dead serious. Midaar stared at him in sheer disbelief, but breathed in deeply and prepared for Miraak’s ridiculous request. “One, two…”

“You two, stop immediately.”

Midaar froze.

He slowly, slowly turned his head around, never letting go of Miraak’s shirt’s collar. He lowered his fist, and missed Miraak stealing a glance at how it shook.

At the door’s frame stood the priest Geinmaar, his mask a cruel caricature of a grimace. His shoulders were tense, and his hands were balled up into tight-knuckled fists. Midaar flinched.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing, sir,” he said, at the same time as Miraak replied, “Training, sir.”

“Training?” Geinmaar asked, dryly. He didn’t wait for an answer before oh-so-slowly walking over to the two. Midaar’s hands shook. “What kind of training begins half past midnight?”

“Urgent training, sir,” and Midaar looked at Miraak, eyes wide. What a bold-faced lie.

“I don’t believe you, Miraak.” Geinmaar crossed his arms behind his back and leaned over him. Midaar tried to hold his breath, but it went by far too fast.

“See, sir, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ had slacked earlier today.” Midaar gaped openly at Miraak. The little-- “And I graciously offered to help him. However, he didn’t relate the information until just recently, and we’ll be tested on our hand-to-hand combat abilities soon, so it was urgent.”

“I see.” A wicked gleam shone through the older man’s eye. “But,” he added, “if that is the case -- then why are you offering no resistance?”

“Uh,” Miraak stuttered, his brain visibly trailing off. Midaar glared at him.

“Sir, if I may,” Midaar told Geinmaar, voice trembling as he went, “Miraak had told me he was afraid of being unable to stay conscious after being punched. To the extent of nightmares, sir.”

“...Really,” Geinmaar said. His voice was distorted by his mask’s metallic shape, echoing oddly into something far more threatening than a mere human voice. Midaar hated it.

“Really, sir,” Miraak answered, smoothly continuing his performance.

“...Well. If that is all.” The priest tilted his chin up, disdainful. “But if another noise complaint comes my way, you’ll both be in very serious trouble.”

The dragon priest then turned around and left the room.

Midaar sighed with relief. “By the Lord Alduin,” he whispered, “that was close.” And he shook his head. “Why are you even asking me to punch you?”

“To prove a point to you, obviously, since you don’t trust any pain I may inflict on myself anymore.” Miraak sighed. “Just do it.”

The resounding punch echoed on the stone walls. Midaar made a noise, head flooding with possibilities -- would Geinmaar come back? Would he hit them? Shit.

“Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ,” he heard, and then a single hard shake of the shoulders. He focused. Before him was Miraak, still held by the neck of his shirt, nose bleeding from the hit -- and before Midaar’s very eyes, the blood stopped flowing barely seconds after beginning to gush.

“...Oh,” Midaar said.

Miraak wiped his face. “As I was telling you,” he continued, and then he paused to pull away from Midaar’s grasp. “As I was telling you,” he repeated, “I’m stronger, and heal faster…”

Vahlok’s footsteps on the echoing chamber were nearly silent. The high stone ceilings, fit for a dragon, held for him the same meaning as a night devoid of stars. He hurried up. The cold air felt strange on his face; it had been far too long since he’d been maskless outside of his own chambers.

When he finally finished crossing the grandiose hallway, the last one in a series of tunnels best left unremarked upon, he found himself before an arch. A curtain was draped over said archway, a thick piece of purple cloth Vahlok quickly pushed away. On the other side -- and he remained on this side of the archway, only looking -- on the other side was a room Vahlok had never seen before. Decorated with more of these thick purple curtains -- all hanging from the ceiling, tall as the mountains -- and entirely lit by candlefire -- including a few dangerously close to the cloth --, a stage stood in the middle of a room, and on it a slab of rock like a table. One side of the room had another platform, higher than the one in the middle, and he couldn’t help but note it seemed the right size for a dragon to lay upon.

He was wondering whether to continue or to stay where he was when, suddenly, a few of the curtains were pulled aside. Chatter filled his ears. Dozens of men and women, all in robes and hoods, made their way around the stage. Their footsteps echoed against the stone floor. Vahlok stood still, as silent as he could, and closed the curtain nearly all the way. Only a sliver of an opening remained, mostly so he could see. He held his breath.

A thunderous noise. Vahlok froze in place, unable to move even if he’d wanted to, before the very sight: a gigantic purple dragon, with wings spotted white, had appeared from behind one of the curtains. The dragon settled on top of the taller platform and languidly raised his head. Soon, a hooded mortal scurried across the multitude, holding in their wobbly arms a shaky bronze tray full of what looked like enormous chops of raw meat. They climbed onto the smaller, central platform and placed it upon the larger platform, then bowed deeply and stood in place, shaking. The dragon inspected the tray with one compound eye. The mortal shivered. The dragon then, simple as the act of breathing, stretched forwards just enough to bite onto the mortal, grabbing their body tightly with his teeth, before launching them upwards -- and as gravity forced the body onto a downwards momentum, the dragon opened his maw to rip the body messily in half. Blood rained across the people around them. Vahlok watched, silent, as they cheered the dragon on, screaming in joy as their robes were covered by blood.

After the screaming lulled to an end, one of the curtains was pulled. A dragon priest appeared from behind it, followed by three people. Vahlok didn’t recognize her, at least not at a distance. Out of three people behind her, two were wearing armor and hoods, and were dragging the third across the floor in chains. The multitude parted like an impossible sea as the woman walked up the steps to the central stage, followed by the two ...guards? and their prisoner, the only one not wearing a hood. His head bumped on the steps. Vahlok could gleam from his position that he was a man with longish auburn hair, his face streaked with warpaint, but not much else. The man was led to the stage and then thrown on the table in the middle. He fell unconscious. The Dragon Priest dismissed the guards with a gesture, and they hurried down into the multitude as she began circling the chained prisoner.

There was a gleam of metal. Vahlok watched as the Priest produced a sharp, curved bronze knife, somewhat resembling a dragon’s tooth, from the folds of her clothes. She stopped before the dragon and gave a deep bow, placing the hand that held the dagger behind her back.

“Kahvozein, my lord,” she said. “I bring to you this sacrifice, only just captured -- a rebel against the glorious regime.”

The dragon chuckled, a deep laugh that seemed to shake the very foundations of the chamber. “A traitor, you say?” he said, his teeth bared in an approximation of a smile. “Do you all ʜᴏɴ these words?”

The audience broke into a hellish sort of noise, fueled by pure hatred. Mere inches behind one, Vahlok stifled his breathing, trying his damndest to not be caught. His mind had crawled to a stop at about a thousand miles an hour in mid-flight. The multitude screamed vile words towards the rebel, spit out their darkest curses and cursed him down to his earliest ancestor as the man regained bleary consciousness. The rebel realized what his situation was all of a sudden and began struggling against his bindings. Vahlok watched, mesmerized, as the Dragon Priest walked up to his face and gave him a resounding slap that echoed through the room; the man visibly gave up on freedom as soon as his cheek hit the table. He whimpered.

The Priest placed her hand on the man’s chest. “Well, well, well,” she said, “weren’t you a hunter before you fell? I wonder if you were good with the bow.” She chuckled and lifted the knife, placing it under one of the man’s eyes. He screamed, muffled by a cloth gag, and she just shook her head. “Now, now,” she added.

Before he saw something he wouldn’t be able to unsee, Vahlok violently averted his gaze from the spectacle, instead focusing on the candle closest to a nearby huge curtain. He heard muffled screaming. The candle seemed dangerously close to the curtain. The audience held its breath. He looked into its flame, burning a white smear into his gaze. He didn’t think about the wet, ugly noises he could hear coming from the room, until --

“And now,” the Priest said, “perhaps the other one.”

Perhaps not, Vahlok thought, and he kicked the candle onto the cloth.

The fire spread in huge, sudden bursts, consuming the curtains hungrily. The mortals gathered started screaming. The dragon stood up, glared from side to side as smoke began filling the room, then roared; useless, because Vahlok had hidden behind the archway’s side once again. He heard hundreds of footsteps storming out of the room, hid in the darkness behind the archway as people poured out of the chamber through his very own archway, and then suddenly, on impulse, slipped inside the chamber and ran towards the stage.

Vahlok hurried through the crowd, being bumped around and almost ran over, before he reached the stage. It’d been deserted by the Priest, but the rebel remained bound on the table, sobbing hysterically. Vahlok hurried up and produced a lockpick, thanked Miraak for teaching him how to break locks. Thanked Miraak… oh, he’d have time to thank Miraak for everything when he was back on Solstheim. He clumsily opened the chains’ padlock. The rebel fell into his arms, already coughing up smoke, and Vahlok coughed with him, too. He glanced at the rebel’s empty eye-socket. Fuck. Vahlok managed to get the rebel to stand up, holding onto his shoulder, and began half-carrying him towards the exit, until he heard a voice like thunder.

“ YOU! ”

Vahlok turned around. Face bared to the world, he made eye contact with the dragon Kahvozein, Proud-Reversing-Beyond. His eyes widened, and he turned away as soon as he could, but the damage was done; the dragon, coughing up smoke, was after them.

Vahlok dove to the ground, bringing the rebel down with him, just barely avoiding the dragon’s maw. He coughed and crawled forward, bringing the rebel with him, and pushed himself and the man both off the platform. They fell onto the quickly-emptying chamber’s floor. Vahlok stood up and held the rebel as he ran, as fast as he could, away from the great wyrm’s snapping jaws; finally, he was able to get both of them past the archway, too small for the dragon. He heard Kahvozein Shout furiously, uselessly filling the chamber up with even more fire before leaving in a hurry, and slid to the floor, still holding onto the rebel.

The rebel looked at Vahlok, wide-eyed. He coughed and seemed to notice something, touched his empty… orbit… ah. Yes. The man blinked and then gave up on reality, falling unconscious on Vahlok’s chest.

“...I was wrong,” Vahlok whispered. “I was so, so wrong. All this time.” His shoulders shook, and he began sobbing from shock into the stranger’s auburn hair.

Someone knocked at his door, that fateful day. (A year ago; remorse bit at Vahlok. An eternity).

At the sound, Midaar blearily blinked the last bits of sleep away from his eyes. He slapped his nightstand until he found his mask and stood up, sliding it in place; then he yawned.

“Who is it?” Midaar asked.

“It’s me, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ,” Miraak’s voice replied. There was a tone in his voice, an edge of urgency, that Midaar had rarely seen from him before. It finished waking him up. Midaar grabbed the nearest clothes he could find -- yesterday’s -- and went to the door, which opened with a soft click.

Miraak wasn’t wearing his mask.

Midaar hurried to slide the mask halfway off his face. “Miraak? Is everything alright?” he questioned, suspicious. He had barely seen Miraak’s face in years, since his friend had been made a Priest.

Miraak shushed him, urgent. “I need to talk to you now.”

“What’s wrong?”

Miraak stared at him for a moment. “I… Fuck’s sake, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ.” He let his head drop on Midaar’s chest; Midaar took a step back, surprised at Miraak’s arms around his ribcage. He hugged him back. Miraak breathed in deeply, then continued. “There’s things I need to tell you. Things I didn’t trust you enough to tell you.”

“How important?"

“Very.”

“I thought you knew you could trust me.”

“Not with this, though.” Miraak’s voice was muffled. “But I’m here to right those wrongs.”

Midaar pulled Miraak away from him. “Alright. Tell me then.” His brow furrowed in worry.

Miraak looked away. “Where to begin,” he mused. “Where to even begin.” He shook his head, then looked back at Midaar. “I saw a dragon die, six months ago from today.”

“You -- what?” The dragons were immortal. If one of them was somehow slain, Alduin would claim his soul and resurrect him. No dragon could die, and this was known.

“I saw a dragon die, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ. I had -- sneaked,” Miraak admitted, just a smidge shameful, “sneaked somewhere I never should’ve gone to. Two dragons fought, enraged by clashing… it doesn’t matter. One died. And I… Its soul. I saw it.”

“You -- Lord, Miraak, where did you go?!”

“It doesn’t matter. Not far from here. Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ, I… I need to tell you something I discovered about myself that day, and I need you to know I was scared.”

“What are you talking about? Are you still scared?” Priorities, snarked a voice in Midaar’s head.

“I’ll explain, and no -- I assure you, I’m not scared anymore. I will not be scared anymore, and this is a promise.”

“Then tell me.” Midaar’s grip on Miraak’s shoulder tightened.

“When the dragon died,” Miraak said, slowly, “it glowed. I saw its soul, an orange flame -- an impossible flame, forged through eons of living. And it… went, inside of me.”

Midaar’s mouth opened. It stuttered silently, then closed.

“I know,” Miraak replied. “This was the answer, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ. When we were children -- I was stronger, more powerful. Healed faster. I’ve always had the ᴛʜᴜ'ᴜᴍ on the tip of my tongue. And I found my answer. I absorbed the soul, do you understand what it means? Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ, my soul is that of a dragon’s.”

“I…” Midaar just stared at his friend.

(That was the pivotal moment. Vahlok, in but a few months, would rewind the entire conversation a thousand times in his head, thinking over and over what he could’ve done better, how he could’ve helped his brother. And it always, to him, revolved around that moment -- the moment Miraak’s face fell for the first time in ten years, since that talk under the sunset. The last in a string of times Midaar wilfully had let himself be left behind).

Midaar’s first words after the pivotal second had been, “This cannot be.”

Miraak’s eyes widened, and his face hardened. “It can. I’ve ached for power just like one of them from day one, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ, and you know this.”

“You -- dragons don’t own the spirit of conquest. I can’t… Lord Alduin, is this why you…?” He trailed off, shaking his head. This was a nightmare, a bad dream. It would soon pass.

“There is a spirit, a god of wisdom, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ. He knows everything. He could grant me the wisdom to rule -- grant us the wisdom to rule, my brother. I did what I had to do for the best of this land, and I beg of you to join us.”

“Us.”

“Yes. You think I am alone in this rebellion? No. Others have seen the truth too, Mɪᴅᴀᴀʀ. Please, listen to me. He could be so much more to us than a dragon who does naught but allow his fellows to toy with our kind.”

Midaar stared, wide-eyed, at his brother. There was a look in his brown eyes that made him hesitate for a moment, but then blinked and looked away.

“A spirit,” Midaar said. Empty. “Miraak, you cannot trust him.” He looked back at Miraak, put a hand on his shoulder. “Please. It’s not too soon, Miraak, I beg of you to desist. This is not--” Not how we were raised. Not how we lived. (Unlike anything we ever knew).

“No, you don’t understand -- they were wrong!”

“I can’t! This is how it’s been our entire lives, Miraak. You-- This isn’t right! The dragons will kill you, and the spirit -- what says he’s trustworthy?! And you’d make a shit ruler!”

“What was that?!”

“You don’t care about people! You just care about power! And you’re so fucking rebellious, you refuse to listen to anybody! You’d end up a tyrant!”

The fire in Miraak’s eyes flickered and died. “...Fine,” he said. He smacked Midaar’s hand away from his shoulder, stepped back. Rage built up in his shoulders, built up his shoulders. He made as if to turn around, only to abort the movement.

“Go fucking die, then, with your precious tyrannical regime,” Miraak told him, disdainful, cold -- and he punched Midaar’s face.

It caught his mouth, the side of his cheek. Midaar’s head was slung backwards and he bent over, spitting out blood. More than blood; one of his canines appeared on his hand, and his tongue immediately went to poke in its place -- empty. Shit. Shit!

“Miraak,” he muttered, just slightly sibilant. “Miraak! What the fuck?!” His head whipped upwards -- but Miraak was already gone.

A year and a day after Miraak’s defeat, Vahlok watched silently as the dragons landed upon the island of Solstheim, and Paarthurnax watched him back, equally silent. Blood dripped from the arrow wound over one of his eyes, but Paarthurnax ignored the warmth on his temple as the last of the other dragons settled.

Vahlok stared from behind his mask, hands clasped behind his back, regal.

“...And so, the dragons have come to Solstheim,” he began, simply.

“And so we have,” Paarthurnax echoed. “To one of the last bastions of our rule, we come, so that the revolution might not have spread here.”

Vahlok did not move. That should’ve been the first clue, in retrospect; Vahlok did not bow, did not take a knee, did not seem particularly worshipful at all of the dragons. He simply stared, his head swiveling left and right, and behind his mask his eyes jumping from dragon to dragon. Counting them.

“I am afraid,” he said, “I cannot afford you safety.”

Paarthurnax tilted his head. “...How so?”

Vahlok’s eyes snapped to him, and he took a moment to reply. “This island is too small, its harvest too poor,” he blatantly lied. “We do not have enough room to afford even thinking about it.”

“These sound like excuses, Vᴀʜʟᴏᴋ,” Paarthurnax replied. “We can clearly fit, seeing as we already do so.”

“Oh, but there are no buildings designed for dragons on this island anymore,” Vahlok replied. “No grand stone arches, no purple curtains.”

“...Purple curtains. A strange choice of words.” Paarthurnax didn’t notice Vahlok’s shoulders stiffening. “I admit I have seen them. Nonetheless -- a ᴅᴏᴠᴀʜ does not need ᴊᴏᴏʀ’s buildings.”

“No, you don’t.”

“And you can feed us. Even if you couldn't, we do not strictly need food. This we know, and so do you. So why lie, then?”

Vahlok stood for a moment, arms straightened, quiet. He slowly bowed his head. Paarthurnax did not expect the next thing he heard from the mortal’s lips to be a chortle -- a small, choked-down laugh, escalating into a giggle and from there onto an open laugh.

Vahlok bent down the middle, consumed by laughter. The dragons’ wings rustled. His laughs echoed in the empty morning, bouncing off the gently-falling snow like sunlight would’ve done otherwise.

“Ah, hah hah!”, he wheezed, holding a hand to his stomach. “Oh, you’ve caught me, my lord.” He sighed. “I’ll miss this land.”

The dragons looked at each other, uncomfortable. “What are you talking about?”, one spoke up.

Vahlok huffed, the last of his laughter left behind, and straightened up, chest puffed forwards. “I reject the charge of governor of Solstheim,” he said, his words muffled from behind his mask. “I reject the charge of the guardian of Solstheim. I reject the charge of jailor of Miraak.”

As he spoke, he dug his hands into his hood, untying something; he pulled down his hood and his mask fell onto the ground. Big, dark eyes on a pale face, copper wisps of hair flicking against his face in the wind.

“And... I reject the charge of sonaak,” he finished.

“You-- you cannot do that!”, shouted another dragon.

“Oh, I can,” Vahlok replied. “I quit. I desert. I am finished with your horrible little charade of a religion.”

Angry roars and affronted whispers sprouted in the crowd of dragons. Paarthurnax silenced his entourage with a look, then looked back into Vahlok’s eyes; the mortal did not flinch.

“You are bound to us until death,” Paarthurnax said.

“I am bound no longer,” Vahlok replied. “As are the innocents and guilty alike you’ve captured, careless, to be sacrificed as entertainment. As are the multitudes dead in mismanaged famines. As was my brother, Miraak -- the priest named, as I once was, for loyalty.”

The dragons seemed about ready to jump on Vahlok, but Paarthurnax taking a step forward embarrassed them, cowed them into watching what would be a fun spectacle.

Paarthurnax looked down at Vahlok, just a tiny speck of grey and brown some distance below his field of view. Vahlok stared up at him, his hair whipping in the wind -- definitely longer than a sᴏɴᴀᴀᴋ’s should be.

“And this is where you truly wish to stand, then? Nᴀᴜʀ ᴅᴀᴀʀ ᴋᴏʟ, ʜɪɴᴅ-ᴅɪʀ?”

“Yes,” was Vahlok’s succinct response. “Miraak was right.”

“...You have planned this,” Paarthurnax realized. “For some distance.”

Vahlok frowned, confused. “You could say that, yes.”

Paarthurnax huffed a passable sigh. “If you will not give us your servitude unto death,” he said, slowly, “we will take it.”

Vahlok blinked back tears and smiled. “Take it,” he said. He faced the sky. “I have loved Skyrim for thirty-one years,” he said. “If you loved her as much as I did, as much as men did, as much as Miraak did… things would be different.” He closed his eyes.

Yᴏʟ Tᴏᴏʀ Sʜᴜʟ!

Paarthurnax’s voice was the last thing the dragon priest heard.

mir-aak; "allegiance guide".

* (non-literally) “[I] fairly requested of Alduin to give you mercy, and you unfairly/harshly ask of me this. Mortals [are] weak, should not request [of] us…”

if you liked the fic, feel free to give it kudos on ao3! and stay safe!!

#words #skyrim #the elder scrolls #the elder scrolls skyrim #miraak #vahlok the jailor #skyrim fanfic #vahlok

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snowflake-of-destruction · 4 years

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would you ever uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh write uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh monster scarf

Take what I wrote before getting distracted by something shiny. I’m not going to proofread it or attempt to remember how this came to be. Read more because 1) length 2) suggestive themes in one part. Warning: It’s dumb, but, I mean the whole premise is crack

It was all because of Roxas.

Those words were a perpetual reoccurrence in Axel's second life. The reasoning behind countless life decisions, good and bad, but predominantly the former since he couldn't bring himself to consider even the ones with heavy consequences if they involved the man that had breathed life and love back into his existence. In particularly romantic times, the fiery keyblade wielder would claim that it was because of Roxas that his lungs filled and emptied and he continued to exist, every exhale a tribute and whisper of the blonde's name. Such claims though were usually met with rolled eyes and uneven blotches of red that looked more like hives or fever than blushing and were all the more endearing for it, paired with a grumble that he shut up and stop being so cheesy from the object of his affection himself.

They were also paired with less life and death actions. It was all because of Roxas Axel got his head stuck in between the slots of the banister in Elsa's ice palace and had to be carved free and then wait for the remains to melt off him. It was all because of Roxas he had to keep buying new clothes, and not just because of tears and popped buttons that were casualties of overeager fingers but because ice cream once a day and sometimes more, replacing meals, was not something he could sustain and remain a rail now that he was fully human without the magic metabolism of a Nobody perpetually in his ideal state (Roxas had crowed that Axel may one day even have an actual ass to speak of, and after the redhead's subsequent, calculated pouting had been forced to show him how he appreciated what ass Axel did have now). It was all because of Roxas and his insistence on buying what was on sale, and that he knew best and paint always ended up more faded when applied to large areas than on paint chips that the walls of their apartment were such a very bright green that it scared Xion's dog, Dinah. Though it was Axel's fault partially for not questioning Roxas's knowledge when he knew full well that he'd once had to teach Roxas and Xion what paint was.

This time, it was all Roxas's fault that the scarf collection began.

What was Axel supposed to do but add a new ever present accessory to his wardrobe when Roxas ran over to a stall in the Agrabah market without even being summoned by the ever present yelling of one of the vendors trying to entice passersby and only managing to produce an intimidating cacophony of conflicting overzealous squawking that tended to repel Axel for one ( though he supposed it had to work on some people if they kept doing it) and ran back with a stretch of silken material in brilliant emerald interspersed with gold swoops and coils and clutches of blue and red flowers in busy bunches trailing through the air behind him like a banner?

"It's the color of your eyes!" Roxas had exclaimed in explanation, throwing the prize around Axel's neck, smiling brighter than the glaring sun, intensity enough to cast away every bit of grating sand and even more grating annoyance that Yensid had sent them to the desert world for the fourth time that month when he knew for a fact Sora and Kairi were both available but kept getting assigned new worlds, and keeping his hands twisted in the ends so he could use the scarf as a yoke to pull Axel's head down in order to kiss him without the need to stretch or press himself close enough enough that a simple kiss would lead to distracting thoughts and temptations not fit for a public marketplace.

Warmth settled in Axel's chest beyond even the usual warmed caramel slow melt that Roxas tended to inspire as the redhead reached up and pinched the water soft material of the scarf between two fingers and slid the calloused pads of his fingers along its coolness. "Thank you, I love it. I used to wear scarves a lot back in Radiant Garden before...." his smile turned sheepish and slightly pained in the way it still too often did when speaking even of happy memories from his first life as Lea. "Well, before." When Roxas let go, he looped the scarf a few more times around his neck, pulled to make the loops loose, and tucked the ends under. "Looks good," he said with far too much confidence for someone without a mirror and wearing a yellow and orange kurta and pants to blend in with the locals that didn't as much compliment the colors of the material circling his neck as directly contest them.

"You don't match," Roxas had done his part to inform him. The scarf would bring a pop of color to Axel's usual wardrobe of mostly black.

"I know," Axel seemed to relish the words, a smile crinkling the corners of eyes that lit in a way that Roxas could only compare to the times Axel greeted friends after long absences.

It became a self-perpetuating cycle. Axel would wear scarves because Roxas would buy them and look so immensely pleased with himself that his partner was surprised he didn't start humming. Roxas continued buying them because Axel looked at each one like it completed him.

Then it carried beyond that. Far beyond.

Roxas slacked to just taking pictures of interesting scarves he saw and sending them to Axel's gummi phone. Twilight Town hardly ever dipped below temperate, and even though many of the scarves Axel now owned were pure fashion statements, most were thicker and several of the infinity scarves were now part of woven together, braided scarf trios that increased their thickness as well as their propensity to clash hideously with whatever Axel wore, something he seemed to consider a bonus instead of a deterrent, ever the enigma, the man who considered walking outside without making sure his winged eyeliner was perfectly even a crime and was occasionally known to vainly fuss over his hair as if tending a firstborn child, but now took glee in mixing stripes with checks. Besides, Axel now owned scarves in the double digits. Roxas felt silly carrying on with impulse buying. They could be a fun fallback birthday or holiday gift now, but how many scarves did Axel really need?

The answer to the question Roxas luckily hadn't asked aloud was answered after he came home one night to see Axel cooking dinner with a scarf knitted to look like a giant strip of bacon that he hadn't seen before.

"New present from Namine?" After the artist had spent a month with Rapunzel, Eugene, and Cassandra (an event that caused the Guardians of Light to start taking bets on whether the handmaiden had influenced the length of her stay until Namine had upset all assumptions by announcing she was moving to Todayland and then proceeded to spam Kingstagram with pictures of her with Wilbur Robinson) she'd come back with several new talents she now was very likely to send examples to her friends. They'd already been sent matching knitted beanies in sea salt blue and a set of looped potholders.

"No, I've had this for a bit," Axel had answered vaguely, and Roxas had accepted it, easily distracted by the fact that the bacon scarf and a novelty apron with a racing ketchup and mustard bottle and the caption "I relish the fact that you mustard up the will to ketchup with me" was all Axel was wearing to cook dinner.

"Xion isn't home?" he asked unnecessarily.

One burnt dinner later, Roxas found himself with his wrists tied together with the bacon scarf, whining in protest as Axel pulled away and left him lying alone and terribly neglected on the bed, muttering under his breath about blindfolds as he searched through his top dresser drawer.

"Your scarves are hanging up in the closet. Remember? I got you that scarf rack to hang them all off of." It technically had been advertised as a hanging tie rack but a tie rack wasn't something they needed.

"Those are only some of the ones from you, a few everyday ones and ones I want to display," Axel tossed out casually like the sentence was perfectly normal as he slid open the second dresser drawer down--the one Roxas knew to skip over when he was putting away clothes after his turn doing laundry because Axel had started using it for overflow from the memory boxes of old papers, WINNER popsicle sticks, and the like he kept on the top shelf of the closet--only to have it explode with multicolored material that had apparently been shoved into every nook the dresser drawer had to offer, compressed until it became spring loaded. Axel did not appear to be bothered by the comical display. "My less important scarves are in here. Might need another drawer soon." It's said absently, the blissful unawareness of the hoarder who doesn't see a problem.

Roxas constricted the muscles of his stomach in an attempt to sit up without use of his arms or hands and turned toward his boyfriend, amused. "You have been hiding scarves?"

"Not hiding," a slip of defensiveness entered Axel's voice. "The box in the guest room is just because I haven't gotten a chance to unpack the ones Isa sent from Radiant Garden yet."

"Your old scarves?" That changed things in Roxas's eyes. He wouldn't make fun of any attempt of Axel's to regain and reclaim a happier past.

"No, the Restoration Committee had a town garage sale as a community event. I told Isa to buy me any interesting pieces and send them with the next gummi ship. I think he threw in a couple he bought too." Axel faced the bed with a bright red woolen scarf with white reindeer and snowflakes in one hand and a flimsy thing with cherry blossoms that had probably started its life as a woman's shawl in the other. "Is the mood still on or do you want me to help you out of that knot?" He gestured toward Roxas's tied hands with a flick of the hand that sent a waterfall ripple down the cherry blossom scarf.

"Mood's a little off," Roxas wriggled his wrists to keep feeling in his hands. "But nothing that can't be reclaimed. One question first though. There's a whole box in the guest room....besides the drawer and the scarf rack?"

Axel shoved scarves back into the drawer by the handful, only keeping out a thin black and blue striped fuzzy cashmere. "Nobody's using the third bedroom since you moved into mine. I don't see a problem. I'll move the box in here."

"The problem isn't cluttering the bedroom," Roxas trailed off as Axel approached the bed.

"Then what's the problem? They make me happy."

"...Then I guess I'm happy."

The decision that there was no problem just added to it. Scarves no longer confined to hiding spots were now found draped over lamps like decoration, hanging from fan blades like streamers, discarded on chairs when ones that were worn were taken off under the excuse they were just forgotten when the truth, that space to put them away neatly was limited, was apparent. They multiplied as if breeding. Roxas feared he'd have to host an intervention. Xion, for her part, was ready to co-host, insisting that Axel's collection wasn't normal. "I have a seashell collection. It doesn't take over our whole apartment!"

Intervention proved not to be necessary though. Axel got the situation under control on his own, after a fashion at least. It started with losing control entirely, and before that, a trip to Monstropolis.

[And then Axel buys a scarf that turns out to be alive and have a mind of its own. Whoops. It plays nice and docile for awhile but then starts strangling him or jumps off his neck to strangle someone else when it becomes enraged seeing so many of its fellows lying “”dead”” around the Sea Salt Trio’s apartment. They would make quick work of the scarf but it has many, many places to hide in camouflage and proves able to swap its pattern with another scarf if it touches it. Thus the hunt begins. But who is hunting who? ]

#borndeaddd

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