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witchthewriter · 1 year

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𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟-𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

Warnings: mentions of self-harm & self-harm scars, how reader got self harm scars, gets dark at some points, I do go into detail about self harm (kinda). Please don’t read if it will upset you xx

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ

𝐉𝐨𝐧

・Stiffened when you showed him.

・He thought they were battle scars

・Jon wasn’t very good at talking about the aftermath of traumatic events - only good at surviving them

・But he knew you were opening up; being vulnerable. And that’s never easy. So he thought you were being really brave -

・He came and sat beside you on the bed, slipping his hands into yours.

・You rested your head against his shoulder and he rested his head against yours

“Whenever you want to talk ... about it. You, we, can.”

・You huffed out a laugh and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back. and ran a thumb over the back of your hand.

・The fire burned bright in the fireplace, sparks popping here and there

・And even in the silence, you felt comfortable. You knew Jon meant it. He didn’t want you to tell him if you weren’t ready. Because he knew he was spending the rest of his life with you.

・So there was no rush. No need to feel pressured.

・When you were ready, you would tell him, but for right now. You just needed to take it slow.

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐲

・Sympathetic

・Wanted to touch and trace every part of your injuries

・Asked questions but then apologised if she was being too forward

“You can tell me whenever you’re ready, I’m sorry if I’m bringing up old memories-”

“No, no, it’s okay. I knew you would be curious, it’s fair for you to have questions.”

・She led you over to the bench in her room that was infront of a large window. The sun was setting and although the view was breathtaking, Dany couldn’t keep her eyes off of you

・She hadn’t heard of self-harm; not in this sense. She knew people took risky behaviours, drank, took poppy of the fields to feel numb. But she didn’t know of this.

・Dany had judged when she was younger, but now ... she understood that the world was brutal, and unforgiving.

・Her legs wrapped around your waist as yours did the same to hers.

・You showed her every injury and at first she wanted to know how you did it, but after a while ... it was like she couldn’t stomach it

・Not you. She had seen horrors, unimaginable horrors, but you... not you.

“I will do everything in my power to make sure you never feel like that again.”

・Her words hit hard, and you let your tears slip freely

・She held out her hand and you lent your cheek against it

“I love you, ñuha prūmia,” (I love you, my heart in High Valyrian)

𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫

・Not much for words

・He thought they were scars someone had given you

・And you thought, ‘fuck it, he’ll have to find out one day.’

・So you explained it to him, trying your best to keep your tone light.

“...I did it to myself.”

・Sandor didn’t really react... he didn’t shake his head, or yell, or berate you.

・It took him a few minutes to process it, but he actually ... understood. On some level, he identified with that type of pai.

・ Not that you could see it on his face though. He looked, well, very dazed, but sad

・You were about to explain more about it, when his next actions shocked you.

・Sandor, the Hound, the man who killed, maimed and slaughtered. Got up, walked over to you and took your head in his hands

・He didn’t say anything, just looked into your eyes.

・And ever so slowly, he moved his forehead to rest to yours. His nose brushed your own, and then he leant down to wrap his arms around you and shifted his head to your neck.

・He held you, in this sort of protective cocoon.

・Like he was saying the world can’t get to you now

・That pain will never be felt again

・And you wrapped your arms around his middle and pushed yourself against him. Wanting to melt into his arms.

𝐀𝐫𝐲𝐚

・Blinked. Once, twice, three times.

・And then her eyes softened and her head moved to one side

“The world is cruel, but I wish it had spared you.”

・You couldn’t meet her eyes, because they had teared up and you couldn’t stop them from falling

・Shaking your head softly, you slumped to the ground and leaned against the cold wall.

Whispering, you said, “It didn’t spare me.”

・And you started to sob

・With light footsteps, she ran over to you and sank to her knees

・Looking around she found something you could use to blow your nose and wipe your eyes

・Then she stayed with you, unmoving, until you were ready to talk

“I want to know everything. When you’re ready.”

・You shifted so your head was in her lap and she stroked the hair out of your face.

・Although she wasn’t the best with physical affection, she remembered what her mother did to her when she was young. She also remembered how safe, and how loved she felt.

・So she stroked your hair and gently ran her fingertips over your features.

・Even if this was how you fell asleep, she would stay in this position until you woke

𝐉𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞

・Perplexed and had a lot of questions about your scars, but was still supportive.

“You never sought any help from the maesters?”

You scoffed, “and what good could a bunch of old men do? They would ask questions and my mind wasn’t ... it couldn’t handle any questions.”

・He nodded and sat on the chair, facing opposite you.

“I guess we all do some self-damage in one way or another.”

・You were a bit embarrassed in bringing it up. Like you had a secret that could ruin how Jaime saw you

“I think your way is probably the healthiest...” He said and walked up to you

・Jaime gave you the lightest, most tender kiss, then closed his eyes and lent his head against yours.

・Wrapping his arms around you, he swayed from side to side (knowing that movement calmed you down)

“Safe. You’re safe with me. Now and forever.”

・You nuzzled into his neck and took a deep breath in.

・He rubbed up and down your spine, while planting a kiss on your cheek

・You knew Jaime brought this warm light with him, wherever he went. Especially when he was with you.

𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐚

・Is the most understanding, because during the times in King’s Landing then being sent to the Bolton’s... she did indulge in self harm

・It was in places that no one would see

・So when you opened up about your own self-harm, she immediately went to you, and held you in her arms.

“I understand, I understand,” she said over and over, stroking your hair and holding you to her chest

・You could feel her heartbeat; steady and strong.

・You didn’t notice when the tears started to fall, but they did - and didn’t stop until someone knocked on her door, asking if you wanted dinner

・She had looked to you and you had shaken your head

“No thank you,” Sansa called out and you heard the shuffle of feet leaving the corridoor

・That night Sansa had opened up about her own experiences and you both cried in each other’s arms

・You stroked each other’s faces and cried about the hurt that you both endured. Even at times you held the other as they screamed into a pillow (it’s liberating trust me)

𝐏𝐨𝐝

・He was so sad

・But tried his best not to show it, but you caught a glimpse of it.

・So SO SO SUPPORTIVE

“Are you still doing it now? Have you got a way to stop doing it? Should we make some sort of ... plan?”

・Knows exacty how you’re feeling just by looking at you - even when you’re trying to conceal you’re true feelings. He just ... knows.

・Has a plan for you, even if you can’t think of one

・There’s herbal remedies if you can’t sleep, bandages and salves in case you do self-harm again

・He even learned how to stitch in case ... well ... you know

・Absolutely no judgement when you told him about the self-harm. He had tears in his eyes, and knelt beside you as you told him everything

・Didn’t interrupt you, or make you feel as though it was burdening him

“I want to know everything about you. You mean the world to me.”

・Is more upset that you had to go through certain experiences / feelings. Wish he could have been there to support you during those times

・Only asks questions when he gets your consent to do so

・Is so steady with the questions as well

・Holds you tight every night after that, and when he’s away, he’ll write little reminders and notes so he doesn’t feel so far away

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐞𝐫𝐲

・Didn’t fully understand what you meant, because self harm was a foreign thought to her.

・She always had a plan, or her thoughts were always certain. Her grandmother helped with that, because of how grounded and honest she was with/for Margaery

・It was a bit intimidating telling her but you knew you had to at some point. And in your mind, you thought this would make or break your relationship

・You were honest and told Margaery exactly that - and she was shocked

“My dear, my absolute love,” she held your hands in hers and put them to her lips, “I love you. And this is not ... there is nothing wrong with how you expressed yourself. You did what you had to, to survive.”

・Tears sprung in your eyes when she said that

・Because that’s exactly what these scars were - memories of a time when all you could control was your self harm.

・Asked when was the last time you did it and if you were still doing it. If you were still, then she would ask to see - in case of infection or if the maester needed to get involved

・Then she promised you that you would never need to self-harm again

𝐎𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐧

・Kissed you, every part of you

“I am so sorry you felt so ... low, that you felt like you had to do this to yourself.”

・Led you to the bed and brought over the wash bowl, wash cloth, called for food and wine

“You will never feel like that again, I promise.”

・He kissed the inside of your palms and held them to his face, where he looked you in the eyes and smiled sadly

・Washed you from head to toe, (every part of you), wiped your face and helped you move into bed

・He held you close, bringing you the cup of wine and making you a plate of food so you didn’t have to get up

“Tell me whatever you wish to.”

・He was so tender and caring

・Oberyn truly loved you, every part of you, and not just superficially. But the whole of you. Your personality, your thoughts, memories and experiences. Everything that made you, you.

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theresattrpgforthat · 9 months

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Been on a werewolf kick recently. Any recommendations to scratch that itch? Love the blog btw

THEME: Werewolves

Thank you so much! Heck, have I got some werewolves for you!

Wolf Hounds, by Devin Fortman.

Wolf Hounds is a historical fantasy roleplaying game about the Benandanti, a society of werewolves dedicated to protecting their communities from supernatural threats. Uses a lightweight Apocalypse system based on John Harper's World of Dungeons: Turbo.

If you want a more action-based game about werewolves, then I definitely recommend Wolf Hounds. As members of the Benandanti, you play shapeshifters and magic users fleeing the Inquisition while also protecting your local communities from vampires and other supernatural threats. The game feels very similar to Powered by the Apocalypse games, but in specific circumstances, allows you to roll with advantage, or disadvantage, represented by a third dice. You then take the two best or worst results, depending if the situation was advantageous or detrimental.

The creator for this game has also created a campaign sourcebook, called Let Us Prey. There are some very interesting campaign hooks in there, including one in which a young monk has just discovered he is a werewolf - and is being framed for a recent murder. I absolutely recommend that you check it out!

Bite Marks, by Becky Annison / Black Armada.

The Pack is a deeply intimate and close family; like a family, sometimes it is full of love and happiness and sometimes it is brutal and dysfunctional. But love it or hate it, you can’t ignore it – it will shape you. Fearless Alpha, dedicated foot soldier, pacifist scholar or rebellious cub – your relationship with the Pack is the cornerstone of who and what you are.

In Bite Marks you’ll uncover the story of the Pack, exploring the relationships between Packmates, drawing out their loves, rivalries and betrayals. What are the cracks that could shatter the Pack and drown you in hate, and how much stress can those pressure points take before they explode?

PbtA games excel at examining relationships and the relationship of a werewolf pack can be used to explore a number of different kinds of familial relationships. Bite Marks will push your characters together and pull them apart, challenging them to honour or chafe against the role of a pack alpha. If you want gritty interpersonal conflict and collaborative storytelling, this is the game for you.

Howl at the Moon with Friends, by Litza Brown.

This is a TTRPG about catharsis. This game is a power fantasy. It's about running wild and free and facing no consequences and knowing that no roll is a bad roll.

If you want a game full of intimacy and wildness and freedom, this is probably worth checking out. Yet another PbtA game, you are saddled with only two stats, and given full license to go wild and break stuff. Your characters are encouraged to transform, to go berserk, to lash out, and to be really fucking cool. Litza Brownyn has a number of evocative and interesting games in her repertoire, so when I saw her name on this game, I definitely got excited.

Women are Werewolves, by 9th Level Games.

Women are Werewolves is an ENNIE-nominated card-based story game where players portray nonbinary characters in a family where only the women transform into werewolves. Using a beautiful deck of tarot-sized cards containing roleplaying prompts, players explore their relationships to gendered spaces, family customs, and queer and non-queer family members.

As a GM-less game, Women are Werewolves relies on a deck of carts to give your characters prompts. As a group, you’ll decide the setting as well as the level of bigotry you’re willing to explore in play. This is specifically a story about gender and what it means to be non-binary through a werewolf metaphor, so expect more stories about family relationships and less about dramatic transformations. The structure to the game gives you a lot to work with if you’re unfamiliar with this kind of game or these kinds of themes, and I really appreciate that.

Wolfspell, by Dig A Thousand Holes Publishing.

A prophecy told in your youth dictates that only fang and claw will rend your destiny, so you must be reborn as beast. You gather with friends and transmogrify yourselves into wolves and place your destiny in the hands of the dice of Wolf and Blood!

Wolfspell looks like a game of deep emotions and grand action. You are young people burdened with a heavy prophecy, requiring you to take on wolf flesh to fulfill it. How exactly you became a wolf is up to each player. The storytelling is meant to be very collaborative, so I’d recommend picking this game up with folks who don’t mind providing a bit of their own narration as they play. The rules system is, along with a number of other games on this list, PbtA. This means that your characters will be faced with hard choices and mixed results as part of the process of play.

Games I've Recommended In the Past

Lesbian Werewolves on a Beach, by WhatNames

Silversworn, by fret.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #dnd #game recommendations #asks #werewolves

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blackwolfstabs · 7 months

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30 Day Writing Challenge: Day 7

PATCHING EACH OTHER UP

Bruised and bloody, Sam comes home and catches the attention of someone who promises companionship in loneliness.

takes place in June 2023 (almost 4 months before Scream VI)

Sam stumbled into the apartment complex’s foyer, the blood running from her head dripping onto her eyelashes to distort her vision. Her busted lip throbbed, while her ribs stayed at the steady intensity of pain they had been in the whole trek there. She wasn’t knocked unconscious, which was something to be happy about, but the pain and bruises keeping her awake were starting to make her wish she had passed out just for a few moments.

Rumor after rumor, blame after blame. Because word got out about her being Billy Loomis’s daughter, everyone who recognized her hated her. Even all the way in New York. This was the second time this week that she was jumped by a group of ignorant strangers on the streets that she was still trying to figure out. The first attack hadn’t been as brutal, but fighting back had its consequences. To them, she was nothing more than an unruly animal that needed to be put-down, because of their destruction to the humans it lived among. Social media had her groomed to be a devil in disguise, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a liar, and a killer. And therefore, she was ambushed that night, and they beat the hell out of her.

She tried to keep it all to herself, but she couldn’t hide the fresh and dried blood, nor the bruises that would begin to form within the next couple of hours. It was a stroke of luck that today happened to be the day that Tara had her night class, so she wouldn’t be home until later. However, their new roommate, Quinn Bailey, was there, and she would hound her with questions for sure.

Samantha gripped the railing to the small staircase leading from the foyer to an upper level, her already-beat-up knuckles turning white with the intensity of her hold. A pained hiss left her as she wrapped her arm around her torso, pausing on the first step. Even the softest touch of her hand holding her ribcage made it pulse with agony. But she pulled herself along, forcing herself up the remaining stairs to make it to the elevated area, but not without nearly tripping on the last one.

Thankfully, no one was around, allowing her to collapse at the bottom of the first flight of stairs, when she made it there. She shifted with a grunt, situating herself to lean against the wall and closing her eyes to take a moment to breathe. Staying still wasn’t miserable after a while. Being lonely wasn’t miserable after a while, either. She had grown used to both of these: pain and loneliness, especially since the rumors of her being the mastermind of the 2022 Woodsboro murders had run wild. She knew what it felt like to be a mistake, a disappointment, and a sad excuse, but being hated… that was something of a different realm.

She’d keep all of her bruises, cuts, and injuries hidden from Tara, Chad, and Mindy. They were just getting into the swing of their first college semester, so the last thing she would do would be to distract them from their education. They didn’t need that, and it wasn’t of their concern anyway. This was her problem.

Her head pounded. Her skin burned. Her stomach was tender. Overall, she felt weak, and for a second, she thought about staying down there for the rest of the night. Climbing the stairs was a job in itself without being injured, so to spare what energy she had left, avoiding it didn’t sound like a bad idea.

The longer she sat there, the more tranquil her surroundings became. The pain was still there, but the part of her brain linked to it was shutting down with the longing for rest. Everything slowly started to fade, but it was quick enough to have her not recall when she stopped engaging with the sounds of the apartment building. In fact, she hadn’t even realized that she was starting to drift into unconsciousness until a hand touched her shoulder. She jumped, eyes snapping open and immediately sitting up properly to lay eyes on who had touched her.

Blue eyes met her dark ones, and she froze.

“Easy,” the newcomer soothed, drawing his hand away from her and taking a step back to prove his amicability. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

It was the guy from across the hall to her apartment, the one that had caught her attention like a dog to a squirrel. She didn’t know his name, nor did she know his heart, but something about him clipped a leash to her once-collarless perspective. She swore that she would never love again after Richie, but because of the transition from Woodsboro to New York and then spending most days and nights on her own because of the twins and Tara having college classes, she began to feel lonely. Her posture relaxed a little. “It’s fine,” she rasped as she prepared herself to stand up. “I… shouldn’t be down here anyway.” She winced when she tried to twist her spine, her bruised ribs stealing some of the air from her lungs.

The other could clearly see that she was in need of some medical assistance—not the hospital kind, per se, but some basic first aid. “You’re hurt.” He watched the way her fist gripped the railing on the stairs as if letting go would promise a long and painful drop. “What happened?” He wanted to help her stand, but someone who reacted the way she did to his touch and trying to dismiss herself from another’s company told him that she wasn’t the most promising with trust at the first helping hand.

“Something stupid,” she answered coldly, then pulled herself up to lean against the stairs. She bit back a cry as a stabbing pain shot through her head, making her bring a hand up to it.

However, he didn’t miss the quiet groan that came from her throat, which led him to offer, “Can I help you to your apartment? I don’t think it’s safe for you to be alone, you might have a concussion.” He moved closer to her, but she shook her head.

“I don’t,” she retorted, not looking up. Whenever she looked up, the pain in her head got worse, and it didn’t help when she lowered her hand to see it covered in blood. “I’m fine…” She was an expert at lying by now, go figure. “But thank you.”

The stranger was quiet for a moment, nodding as he stepped back again, but that only lasted a few seconds, for watching her drag herself up the stairs wasn’t going to settle for him. “Okay, I was trying to be respectful, but…”

She stopped, turning her dipped head over her shoulder.

“I’m not gonna let you go up those stairs by yourself. You’re bleeding, and bruised, and from the looks of it, you hit your head pretty hard, or someone hit it,” he told her. She just stared at him in silence, so he went on, “Would you please let me help you?”

Sam blinked at him. He didn’t feel like a threat, but her ability to trust anyone was extremely low at this point. Granted, she was exhausted, and her entire body felt like it was strapped in a harness and dragging the weight of the world behind her like some wounded horse on a battlefield. Fuck it. What did she have to lose? “Okay.”

He then proceeded around to her left side, ducking to guide her arm around his neck. She didn’t say anything as they started taking steps, just winced with a soft grunt that had more crack than voice. He didn’t make it noticeable that he was watching her, for he just glanced out of the corner of his eye when checking in. “Let me know, if you need to stop and rest for a minute,” he told her, and he caught the subtle nod she gave. “My name’s Danny, by the way. Should’ve told you that first.”

Sam didn’t pay it too much mind as she replied, “Sam.” Her voice was strained, the pressure in her head building the more she moved. She wouldn’t admit it for the sake of being a loner, but she appreciated the support he gave. Otherwise, she was sure it’d take her an hour to get up all of the flights necessary.

“Is that short for Samantha?”

She couldn’t move her head, but her brow hardened as she glanced out of the corner of her eye while giving a short nod.

Danny could feel the change in her demeanor after he asked that. It wasn’t hard to figure out why. “Lucky guess,” he assured her. The feeling of her nails clutching his shirt’s neckline occurred often, usually accompanied by a failed-to-hold-back groan or a strained grunt that was part hiss. She’d nearly trip on some steps too, making him move his supporting arm away from her upper back and gently sliding it around her waist. “Can I do this?” His hand found her hip.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t sure about it. Being that close was better than tripping or collapsing, where she’d likely end up in the hospital or at a doctor’s office without the ability to dictate who could touch her where. Then, she felt his hand softly squeeze her hip as she made it to another flight. Her heart started gunning, and a subtle heat came to her face.

He didn’t seem to notice; however, he did notice how the longer they walked, the more tired she became. “I’m not sure if I can ask this, but I’m gonna do it anyway,” he began, “I don’t think you should bandage yourself up alone, so would you consider letting me take you to my apartment and helping you?” She gave him a look, which made him go on to explain, “Your sister and friends are out, aren’t they? You’d be by yourself—”

“Have you been watching me or something?” she challenged, halting in their climb to wait for an answer.

“No, I just notice a lot,” he replied with a light shrug. “I notice who comes in and out the most. I notice when people move in and move out, and who they did either with. I notice you looking at me from time-to-time through the window.”

Samantha went hot. Very hot. Not with anger, but with embarrassment. She couldn’t even say anything, all the things she could say silenced by her own exposure. She walked on.

Apparently, Danny could sense that speechlessness coming from her, and it made him chuckle, “Don’t worry, it’s alright. I don’t mind. And if we’re being honest, I’ve looked at you from time-to-time, too.”

She refused to look up or over at him. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

She scoffed.

“But in all seriousness, I really do think it’d be better for someone to help you get cleaned up,” he redirected back to his question. “I mean, no offense, but you look terrible.”

“None taken.”

“You’re already having a hard time standing up straight. I’ve got what you’d need, if you’d just give me a little more of your time,” he offered. “You can leave right after, no strings attached.”

Sam sighed. He seemed genuine, but it all went back with her having to trust him. Furthermore, the idea of being alone with him in his apartment—his territory—intimidated her. She didn’t know why, but it gave her a weird feeling in her stomach as if her body couldn’t decide if she was in distress or eustress. But he made a good point… with her current state, if she were to try to patch herself up, chances were high that she wouldn’t do as good a job as someone else who possessed a clear and steady mind would. “Alright, fine,” she surrendered, “but I need to leave before my sister gets back.”

“Sure,” he nodded, “Like I said, I’m just helping you out. Not gonna hold you hostage.”

When they got to his apartment, he guided her to the kitchen, where he released his hold on her to go get the proper medication and bandages she would need.

She didn’t say much, just leaned the small of her back against the counter and held her aching ribs. She hung her head, pressing more of her weight against the edge. She hadn’t noticed he’d come back until he spoke.

“Would you mind sitting up on the counter for me?”

She lifted her face to meet him, a weary glaze heavy in her eyes. It took her a brief moment to process what he was asking, but eventually, she caught on and nodded.

Danny set the small basket of basic first aid he’d retrieved from the bathroom on the counter. He watched her move carefully as she prepared herself to move up onto where he asked. He noticed the way her biceps toned generously, showing that she was centering her leverage with the strength she held in her arms, and from what he had observed, it wasn’t hard to guess why. She seemed to struggle a little when having to use her core to elevate herself enough, which made him secure her on either side of her chest to help her the rest of the way. He did this instinctively, not noticing he actually did it until he drew away to find her giving him a dark look. “Sorry. You looked like you needed some assistance…”

Samantha grunted as the outward curve of her spine pressed on the bruise she was sure was covering most of her left rib cage. It made her straighten up as much as she could. “Why are you doing this?” she ignored his explanation as he gently placed an ice pack to her head.

“Hold that on there,” he ordered, then moved to get a washcloth when she obeyed. “Why not?” He answered her question and went to the sink to dampen it, “I saw you hurt and got involved.” Then, he came back. “What, did you think I was just gonna leave you nearly passed out in the lobby?” He brushed her hair aside to begin wiping the blood off her forehead.

The injured flinched a little, “Yeah, I did.” She pressed the ice pack further against her head. “Especially because I said I was fine…”

“You don’t look it,” he retorted. “You’ve got trust issues?”

She closed one eye as the washcloth came close to it, “Another lucky guess?”

He smirked and nodded, taking away the towelette now that the majority of the crimson liquid was off her face. He then took a cotton square and saturated it with antiseptic. “Remove the ice real quick.”

And she did, watching him closely. Her eyes followed his hand as he held it up to her.

“This is gonna sting a little,” he warned.

She didn’t move until the solution soaked into the gash near her hairline. She flinched with a small noise, her nails gripping the overhang of the counter.

“I know,” the other tried to soothe as he continued to dap around the area. He glanced down to find her dark chocolate eyes staring into his.

“Are you a doctor or something?” she started a new conversation, her shoulders bracing to keep herself from pulling away.

He shook his head. “Nah. Just something I’ve picked up over the years, you know?”

Fair enough.

“And what about you?” He turned it around. “What brought you to New York? You and the three others moved in about 2 months ago, right?” He gave her a small glance as he traded the cotton square for a bandage.

Sam shrugged, “It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time.”

“Maybe another day.” She bowed her head a little so he could place it accordingly.

Danny nodded, “Okay.” He applied some ointment to her bottom lip, then went quiet for a moment, figuring out what he should access next. He noticed her holding her ribs a lot, which gave way to her awkward posture when she’d walk or even how she’d sit. He guessed that was it. “Now that we’re here, are you gonna tell me who did this to you? Or is that on a need-to-know basis, too?”

She stared at him. Those ocean eyes just struck her in a weird way… a different way. One that she couldn’t figure out was good or bad. And because of that, she was tempted to explain everything, but that meant he would find out who she really was. Who in their right mind would stick around with someone who held a thrill for killing in their blood? So, she chose to keep it to herself. “Need-to-know is good, right now,” she replied. She had only just met him officially within the last hour.

“I respect that.” He crossed in front of her to retrieve another ice pack from the freezer. “I’m always down for a mystery.” He then passed her a playful smirk, “I find those to be the best kind of secrets.” Once again, she just blinked at him, stoic and reserved, but he didn’t take it personal as he came back to her. “You don’t smile very much, do you?”

She shifted uncomfortably, breaking her eye-contact. “Not since I was 13…”

He nodded. “Mm. And how old are you now?”

“26.”

“Over 10 years… that’s a long time.”

“Doesn’t feel as long as it sounds.”

Danny broke the conversation, gesturing to the hand that was guarding her torso. “May I check out what’s going on there?” He sensed a stronger sense of protection by the way she didn’t move her hand away to give him consent. “You don’t have to take the shirt off or anything, just lift it up,” he promised.

Sam hesitated for a moment but conceded anyway and went to grab the hem of her shirt with the hand that wasn’t holding the ice pack to her head. She pulled it up to have cool air engulf her hot skin, the chill against her skull having her fight back a spontaneous shiver.

She could only lift her top up at an awkward diagonal using one hand, so her caregiver took care of the side she didn’t get, careful to not cause any pain for he could already see the dark purple hue drifting from her ribs. Easing the bunched cloth up to the end of her bra, he allowed her to take a proper hold of both sides. “Just hold that up there for me,” he told her in a gentle manner.

She did, even though the heat coming from her body being regulated by the coverage of her abdomen felt better than the fresh air did.

“So, out of everything in this world, achievable or not right now,” he continued the smiling topic from earlier, “What makes you smile?”

That was a question. A question that she’d never had to answer before. It almost felt awkward to think about, but at the end of the day, her happiness came from one reason alone. “My sister,” she answered.

“You two must be close, huh?”

“You could say that. We were really close when we were little, and then I made a mistake, and… it was never the same after that.”

“Was it really a mistake though?”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe it was an accident, not a mistake,” he explained. “I’m not saying I know what happened, but in my opinion, children are innocent. That’s how they learn. I don’t see children making mistakes, but rather, they do something by accident, because they don’t know everything that’s expected of them.” He looked up from wrapping the 2nd ice pack in a paper towel. “You know what I mean?”

This took Samantha by surprise, even if her expression didn’t show it. “Yeah… I never thought of it that way.”

He just shrugged, moving back to stand in front of her. “Okay, I’m gonna try to be as gentle as possible, but I’m gonna have to feel if you have any broken ribs,” he changed the subject. When she nodded, he added, “Let me know if it gets to be too much, okay?”

“Okay.” She tugged on her gathered shirt a little more and clutched it in a tight fist. She knew this was going to hurt, but he made a good point.

Danny then put his hands on either side of her ribcage. Her skin was like fire compared to his icy fingers, and he felt her jump in response, catching her stomach instinctively convulsing inward to pull away. “Easy,” he reminded her, “I know my hands are cold, but try not to move too much.”

“Try freezing,” she growled, sounding more pained than irritated. She bit her tongue as he began to apply slight pressure to the injured bones. It was like she became hypersensitive, flexing her throat to prevent a grunt or whimper coming out, but tensing just made it hurt more.

He noticed this. “Keep breathing, Sam,” he encouraged as he slid his hands around to her back, pressing on her ribs and then in between them. Luckily, she didn’t show much of a painful reaction, which led him to repeat the same thing on her cages’ flanks.

Agony was quick but heavy in response to the blood clotting currently taking place. Sam shut her eyes and nearly broke her teeth with how bad she clenched them. Fuck, did it hurt. However, when his fingers sank in between the bones, she couldn’t hold back. A breathless gasp forced past her defense, mindlessly dropping the ice she held against her head to push his closest wrist away, barking, “Okay, that’s enough!”

And he listened, retreating from her. “Alright, alright. I’m done,” he reassured. “I don’t think you have any broken ribs, so that’s good.” He turned away to find something else in the first aid basket.

His patient shifted uncomfortably, swallowing back the pitched desperation she didn’t notice her voice held until after she had called him off.

“Here,” he started again, “I’m gonna give you an ice pack for your left side—because it seems to be worse over there—and wrap it so it stays in place without you having to hold it.” He glanced up to acknowledge her, “I’ll let you keep it, so you can get out of here, after I do this. Is that okay with you?”

Oh, God, putting ice over that area was sure to be excruciating. She could barely stand the opposing temperature of his hands. However, at least it’d numb the pain, so she nodded. “Yeah, that’s fine.” She was still trying to figure out what a guy like him had any business trying to help someone like her. They were basically strangers, and yet, he was treating her with the kind of generosity and respect that no other stranger had before. “Thank you.” Even the way he looked at her was different—felt different.

And she didn’t mind it.

“You’re welcome,” he answered, then resumed his position before her to carry out the last part of his treatment. “Okay…” His blue eyes raised to meet hers. “You ready?”

She nodded, straightening a little and using both hands to keep her shirt raised for his accuracy. Well… for his accuracy and the violent urge she’d have when that ice met her skin, even when protected by the paper towel he had wrapped it in.

The other then placed the ice pack accordingly over the purple splotch staining her normally-tan skin. He kept it easy, applying only enough pressure to keep it in place, while he handled the wrapping he would use to hold it in place.

She kept her spine straight, trying to focus on that rather than the cold seeping into her wound. But she went back to holding her shirt with one hand while the other took over his on her ribs. “I got it, just take care of the bandage,” she told him, her voice much quieter and calmer than it was a few minutes ago.

“Thanks.” Danny ripped a strip of medical tape and set it on the edge of the counter, while he orchestrated the gauze wrapping he’d use first.

Sam focused on breathing with her chest, overlooking him to focus on anything else but the urge to rip the ice pack from her ribcage. She felt the soft touch of the gauze corral her back, before it was brought around to encircle her torso at least three times. Then, he held the bandaging in place with one hand, while the other retrieved the spare tape. Again, he strived to be as delicate as possible when securing the tape where it needed to be, which she appreciated. But when his hand left the wrapping to accidentally stroke her bare stomach, a ticklish sensation had her flinching and snapping her attention back to him.

He noticed this and immediately found her eyes, thinking he had hurt her. “You’re good, I’m not gonna touch you anymore,” he promised, then gave her a small smile, “But I’ve appreciated your patience.” Now, both of his hands were on the counter, straddling her in between as she tugged her shirt back to normal.

There was a softness in his eyes that kept her from looking away. He said that was the last thing he would do before he let her go home, but for a moment, they seemed to be locked in some sort of trance, as if, behind their eyes, a reality that wasn’t reality captivated them. It was confusing, because there really wasn’t a word to put on what was happening. Maybe it was a few words? Maybe a little more? Maybe…

Love at first sight?

Whatever it was, Sam broke it, knowing that Tara would be home soon. She couldn’t say she was in as much of a rush to leave as she was when she first got there, though. “I– I’m sorry, I don’t have anything to thank you with,” she spoke, glancing down in a bashful way.

But Danny shook his head. “Ah, don’t worry about it. No compensation needed. I’d say we’re even.”

She looked up again, confused. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we patched each other up tonight,” he shrugged.

“How so?” she blinked with a slightly hardened brow. “I mean, it’s obvious for me but…”

He glanced off for a minute, like he was trying to find the right words even though he already had them. “Thanks to you, I wasn’t lonely tonight,” he confessed. “That’s enough for me.”

There was honesty in the warm smile he gave her that made her heartbeat pick up and butterflies swirl in her stomach. The pain she felt dissolved into a subtle heat that flooded through her, showing most prominently in the flush on her cheeks. She hadn’t felt that in years, if not ever before.

“There’s that smile,” he teased. “See, now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

She hadn’t even realized she was smiling until he pointed it out, making her look away in slight embarrassment. “I never said it was hard…”

“But you did it without your sister,” he countered, “That’s impressive.”

She rolled her eyes, giving him the win. “Congratulations.”

This just made him chuckle, before coming on with a more sincere tone. “You should do it more often. It really is beautiful.” He caught her eyes again.

Her blush deepened, and she could feel it, which led her to give in. “Thank you…” But she figured she really did need to get home, so she gestured to the basket to her right, “And thank you for all this… I didn’t realize how much I needed it, until…”

“It’s my pleasure,” Danny answered, pushing himself away from the counter to allow her to get down. “Get some rest tonight, okay? And if you need anything, you know where to find me, now.”

Sam nodded and slid off the counter carefully, bringing a hand up to her bandaged ribs as she did so to keep them steady. “You too,” she replied.

He returned the nod and led her to the door. “You think I’ll be able to see you again?” he asked as he opened it for her, “You know, under better circumstances?”

Now in the hallway, she turned halfway. “Yeah,” she nodded, “I think so.” And for his pleasure, she granted him another smile.

He smiled back and dismissed her on that note. “Goodnight, Samantha.”

Normally, she despised when anyone called her by her full first name, but when it came from him, it seemed to miss that nerve.

“Goodnight, Danny.”

My apologies for the delayed post! I had to check with another writer before posting, because this idea sounded similar to something they wrote. But they were so sweet and supportive about it!

All my best to you ♡ - parker

#scream #scream v #scream vi #sam carpenter #danny brackett #carpenter sisters #30 day writing challenge #patching each other up #AU: The Way I Am

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mylordshesacactus · 5 months

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Suncrest Epilogue: Worldstate

Hey, I got around to this post eventually, right? Surely that's what matters.

So, as established in this post: Working together and with the help of some allies, the party managed to ensure Max the bard held concentration on a Wish spell to save the world for ten-plus-one full rounds.

In doing so, all hostile fae were banished back to the Faewild. Friendly forces from the Wild Court of Summer were also banished--Shasta, nearly an archfae in her own right, could have resisted but chose not to, exchanging a respectful nod with the party before closing her eyes and allowing the Wish to send her back to her wife and kingdom. While fae-touched, the remaining friendly werewolves and warlocks of the Feathered Serpent were spared from Max's world-healing wave--that was an exception that the party had to earn, and was in fact their reward for reaching the top of Round Seven.

Interestingly, the unicorns--the party's friend Albion, and his sister Cambria whom they rescued from a Dominate Creature spell in the Summer Palace--were not affected. Unicorns are as much celestial as fae, always; and unlike the other Wild Court reinforcements, they were drawn through their own portals in accordance with their own nature. They can always find a path to that which they exist to protect.

Albion, ultimately, stays only long enough to reunite with his sister and say his farewells. He's done good here--but he only crossed over in the first place in pursuit of the Silverlight Hound, the original true-fae werewolf that he'd been battling in his home forest. He stayed to protect that werewolf's victims--as his failure to defend his home forest had caused their pain, they were now his responsibility as well, and he could hardly abandon them in the face of a full-scale invasion. But that danger is past now--and his own home is without protection while he remains here.

He goes home--but Cambria stays. Her charge was the rabbitfolk village of Little Ivywood and its surroundings...the village that the party found brutally slaughtered, killed without mercy. No one escaped that massacre. The only survivor of Little Ivywood is Splinter, the rabbitfolk that the party rescued from the Summer Queen's harem (along with a rapidly-triaged group consisting of those in a condition to run once freed....and also those for whom death, once they broke the stasis magic, would be a mercy centuries in coming.)

Splinter is...exhausted, and traumatized, and fae. The city of Suncrest is misery to her. Instead, the Ranger sends her to his own home village of Thistledale--a small, quiet farming village very similar to her own, deep in thickly-wooded mountains. Cambria stays with her, and Thistledale becomes her new protectorate.

But that Wish spell didn't stop at just ending the invasion. That was all the power of the universe, channeled with grim determination into pure, uncorrupted love for the city of Suncrest, and her people, and everything the party had endured in order to get this far. That kind of power soaks into the earth, pools in the city's foundations. For the next decade, Suncrest--which has always had a reputation as a rugged but honest city, clear-headed and independent but tight-knit, fiercely protective of their own, proud but not arrogant--becomes the truest sanctuary in the Spellbound Dominion.

Fae cannot enter the city by any means--and they also can't remotely charm anyone in the city. In fact, all charm, domination, possession, and other mind-control effects shatter on contact with the city. Anyone whose free will has been taken from them, once they enter the gates, finds it returned. Magical fear effects die against her walls; no one within the city can be magically Frightened against their will.

Of course that kind of power fades eventually--an unstructured echo of simgle spell that was more plea than command, it could never have maintained itself forever. But something does remain.

That final battle took place in what was once the working-class market square--not the center of the city, it's actually distinctly the eastern third of the map--but very much the heart of the campaign. It was where the Firelight Festival was held, it's where most of the party's conversations with Olassa happened when she wasn't in her office at the guardhouse, they crossed that part of the map a million times while in the city. Under the corrupting half-annexation of Suncrest, as it was being forcibly merged with the Faewild...the city became unrecognizable.

It was, at the time, a gutpunch--this massive, gnarled, twisted fae-touched monster tree, filling the market square and making it unusable. It made the whole area into difficult terrain, it burned when exposed to fire, the roots ripped up the cobblestones--it was the ultimate sign of how bad the situation had become.

When the Wish takes effect, all of those choking, invasive fae plants retreat, magically repairing the damage they'd caused in the process. But that great oak, an absolute behemoth of a tree--the diameter of the trunk is best measured in hundreds of feet, and it towers over the skyline, its branches covering at least two-thirds of the city--remains. And for a decade, it's fed on that echo--that last-chance Hallow spell that's defended the city of Suncrest, and everything it means.

The great tree's magic is more subtle, but also more stable. Even though most of the city is in its shade the shadow is warm as sunlight in the winter, and cool in the summer. As the Hallow effect fades, people no longer snap back to themselves dramatically the moment they step foot within the city--curses no longer break on contact, fae charms don't run into a wall of solid silver the moment they try to reach out to a dreaming mind in Suncrest. But...those spells are less effective. People fight them off more easily. Things that once made you freeze in terror now seem possible to fight. "Mechanically", the tree grants permanent advantage on saving throws against mind-control effects. But from a Watsonian perspective...

So long as that tree remains--and it will remain for hundreds if not thousands of years, unless some calamity befalls it--anyone within sight of it, or within the reach of its massively sprawling root system, will find it just a little easier to be free.

Its leaves, no matter the time of year, are always a gorgeous tapestry of red and gold--an impossibly massive oak tree in perpetual autumn, forever heralding the end of Summer.

#listen I've been busy #I was in Ohio a week ago cut me some slack #d&d #suncrest #I'll do character epilogues later in their own post!

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smiletimeisrunningout · 1 year

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starter for @honorhearted

Emma had taken off after the sounds like a hound running to a prey, chasing the voices brought closer by the wind, what had to be a woman about to be attacked - no, robbed, she learned as she came closer to what turned out to be three men fighting her over a chest she had been carrying. Her order to 'run home!' towards the victim had been followed by her fist colliding with one of the men's face, at a speed that had immediately knocked him out. That gave her the chance to focus on fighting the second one, who clearly hadn't expected such a brutal attack and hadn't even managed to fight back before hitting the ground, while the third and last man saw how things were turning out and ran off. Fast. She started chasing him but on a second thought, seeing as they were 'only' trying to steal from the woman, she gave up and walked back to the two left, one unconscious and one nearly so. And that was when the Major Tallmadge arrived. Right. She probably wasn’t supposed to just drop everything and go after something without warning.

"Now, I can explain," she started, temporarily putting her hands up in surrender, with the tone and look of someone who had uttered those words many, many times in the past and wasn't terribly ashamed of it, but was certainly trying to sound apologetic. She kept going a bit faster: "I heard a woman in danger, one against a bunch of men, I didn't even know how many or what they wanted to do to her, so I couldn't very well waste time doing anything but coming to her aid, could I? Turns out they were just trying to rob her and had to be taught not to manhandle ladies-" the last part was a more aggressive scolding towards the groaning one on the ground, a hand going to her hip as she glared at him before returning her eyes to the Major, "But it took me barely a minute and it's all done now. Actually I'd say I probably didn't even have a choice in the matter, it was my duty. As a citizen. Of another country, but still. And I was coming right back, no harm done." Surely he’d agree with that.

#PLEASE do not feel like you have to match this it's okay if you just write two lines #because I had to explain what happened and she had to explain herself (just missing the -it's not what it looks like- lol)#honorhearted #I can explain #keeping it as the title of the thread too

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the-kingshound · 1 year

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So I gotta ask, will the Hound be able to remain sympathetic to the Irish side of things even as they become drawn into Arthur's vision. Because from the Irish POV he's basically coming in and saying they should be content to remain conquered and that he ultimately knows what's best for everyone, including a land he seems to have only ever visited for the purposes of crushing a rebellion.

So, yeah. This is something I will have to deal with eventually. It is a complicated issue in the way every struggle of an invaded country against the conqueror is, especially when the identity of the invaded country has many differences and is, in a way, threatened.

To be completely, brutally honest, I am at fault for not thinking this through when I first made up MC's origins. As you might or might not know, I made the intro post of the game within a day and many details were either born there or added as time went on. This is to say that I am now in quite a complicated spot regarding Ireland, their identity, their rebellion, MC's identity and MC's loyalty.

Arthur's vision is to live in a world where conflict can be avoided. But you can see already from the beginning of the game how difficult that is going to be. Also, while he is a good person, Arthur has definitely his shortcomings and his view of things can sometimes clash against MC's because of their different background, origin and education.

When the rebellion started - a very violent one from the very start - Arthur didn't think about the issue with Ireland's independence. They had to deal with it as soon as possible, because that is what a King should do, and from the first fight the war was a bloodbath. Arthur has often to stay balanced between their own desires, their own softness, and the need to appease the nobles or the populace, because while he is a loved King, it doesn't mean that couldn't abruptly change.

On the other hand, the Venegard parents' obsessive aim to regain independence for the Houses is very easy to comprehend and share. They just want independence after being completely submitted by Uther. Their means to achieve that have always been very violent, however. They never considered negotiating, the strongest will prevail and they need to come out on top - by every mean possible.

So... overall, a complicated situation to manage. Especially when MC is quite literally destined to be Arthur's most loyal weapon.

I don't know what I will do yet. I have some ideas but... we'll see. It is one of the main themes of the game and MC's character developement, however, so you'll see it dealt with one way or another.

#ask

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historia-vitae-magistras · 7 months

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do you have any thoughts on prussia and Canada non romantically? I think they could have an interesting dynamic that’s way overshadowed by all the shipping in the fandom, like they were enemies at one point and i think Prussia would fear Canada bc Canadians had a reputation of being really strong on the battlefield in both world wars. I think they’re def chill w/ each other modern day though.

I understand if this just isn’t ur thing, just those two are making me think thoughts and I cannot find any non romantic content of them

this was all sparked by your fic where Matt and jack are captured by Gilbert and Ludwig btw, I really liked how you wrote the dialogue there. Also you mentioned they had interacted before, care to elaborate? 👀

Oh, man yeah. Idk what precisely about prucan makes me want to jump in a lake, but in my universe, Matt literally took or nearly took Gilbert's head off with an axe in 1918 to slow the German spring offensive so lol yeah. That was his little side quest during the whole 'Alfred was mad Jack and Zee moved back behind the lines without Matt' fic from a while back. A solid quarter of Matt's war crimes were directly against Gilbert and Ludwig personally.

With the whole invisible meme and how practically every man, woman and child in Quebec participated in extremely severe brutality against the Americans and British in the 17th and 18th centuries and then threw our war crimes record on top, it's just too perfect not to write him as a trench wraith. Other nations have limits. Europe may stay their hands personally often because they never know when they might need that ally later. But Matt's never held back in his life. He couldn't afford to when he was small, and crawling on his belly through no man's land was easy for him. Ghosting his way behind enemy lines, spitting skulls and slitting throats is nothing new for him. He did that as a child, the wee freak.

And Gilbert did, too. Knight, crusader, zealot whose hand was certainly not stayed. Mutual recognition of being so fucked up they can't spend much time with the other without being reminded of some USDA Grade-A beef. I fully adhere to the headcanons that Matt's a walking flashback for Gilbert in some circumstances. But they get along fine. It's incredibly funny to picture a 1,200-year-old war machine chatting with Alfred or Arthur and then absolutely jumping out of his skin because Matt appears out of nowhere wanting affection or is just interested in the conversation. The whole anglophone world has swallowed Alfred's or even Arthur's perspective about Matt being the milder, sweeter version of Alfred, but Gilbert's specific situational PTSD just sweating bullets gives me life. It's a kind of cruel, but Matt takes utterly too much pleasure in it.

As for before that point, the long 19th century of Anglo-German fuckery as Anglo-Saxonism and a largely German monarchy drew Britain into closer cultural ties among the elite of Germany and Prussia; Gilbert often found himself in Arthur's company. They fucked a lot, mutually griping about their children. Gilbert and Matthew met and saw each other, and I want to rewrite that ficlet where Gilbert isn't exactly clocking him when he really should be in my current timeline lol. The part from canon about how everyone sees Matt in his early life as being a menacing figure at Arthur's shoulder greatly appeals to me. The guard dog with the loyalty and obedience of the best of Arthur's hounds.

Like at least once in a group drinking setting, Francois' arse has caught and kept Arthur's attention and Matt and Gilbert find themselves at a table having a conversation and swapping stories that would have them both before the Hague if they were more recent. And they just vibe. Both men depend utterly on the goodwill of often testy and impatient brothers. There is a loneliness of having one neighbour that matches fairly well with having mostly neighbours who probably hate Gil's guts on some level and loving women who could kill them. This absolute canyon of difference in how Gilbert is relegated to the museum display case, and Matt is an active, dynamic part of the world political system that keeps them apart.

#the ask box || probis pateo #Gilbert || from this baltic cannonball #matthew || my country is winter

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stevewhoreington · 1 year

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give it right back to you (twice as hard)

[nsfw] an oldie i originally posted on ao3

Billy crashes into Hawkins like thunder and lightning rolled into one. Rattles the bones of the town's high school and shakes the dust off. He's new and he's shiny, and if there's one thing that can be said about Hawkins, it's that the place is so grey, so drab, that Billy's dirty-blonde curls shine like golden thread against its backdrop. His tanned skin is lustrous and his jeans are tight, and people flit towards him just for a taste of the sun. In those first few weeks, he downs a load of beer, a load of girls, and plucks the crown off the pretty head of Hawkins' finest.

This small-town shit is a blast. Feels like fucking worship, but. Billy knows, better than most, that good things never last, because that's the thing about small-town folk: they're suspicious of what they don't know, and loyal to what they do know. Princess breaks Harrington's heart and Tommy and Carol flock right back to him to kneel and pick up the pieces. Might as well suck his cock, too, while they're down there.

Thing is, they don't just drop Billy on his ass - they drag him along with them. Keeping him, probably, for the next time King Steve betrays them. There's a sudden shift, and Billy knows his place. There's nothing dignified in being Harrington's fourth-in-command, but there's nothing worse than being a fucking has-been, so. Billy has no other option but to float along with them and try to keep his head above the water. He's still entitled to privileges, this way. Still has invites to the better parties; still handed the better weed; still sought after by the better chicks. It's just the way things fall. It's the natural order of things. The food chain. It's fucking brutal, but Billy would rather kick his feet up somewhere towards the top of the pyramid than drop to his knees, bow, and hold the back-breaking weight of it.

He still has privileges. It just means dealing with Harrington, which, truthfully, is not as difficult as it could be. They seem to have signed some silent pact to ignore each other as much as possible. They'll be in the same room, participating in the same conversation and sharing the same joint, but it doesn't mean that they actually have to interact. And, so what if he feels like he's sitting on the side-lines every time the four of them are together? Harrington, Hagan and Carol have history. Billy's just been dumped in the middle of their circle. Knows that his association with Hawkins' royalty is tenuous, fickle, and so he watches and listens respectfully. Joins in, sometimes, but only when prompted, and he never looks at Harrington for too long.

It's about showing respect. That's what he does. Gives Harrington the bare minimum: doesn't hound or harass him during practice; doesn't taunt him about Nancy Wheeler in the locker room; doesn't stand too close when they're showering. Doesn't lay a fucking hand on him. Billy gives Harrington all of that. The bare minimum. It's basic respect - without licking the guy's ass.

The respect isn't exactly mutual, because Harrington has the audacity to stare at Billy whenever he pleases. Does it a lot, actually. Is doing it right now. Billy's sat at the edge of the pool, jeans rolled up, boots off and feet in the water. He lights up another cigarette and ignores Harrington's blatant staring. He inhales nice and deep, tastes toxic smoke on his tongue, heating up the back of his throat, and he watches the gentle ripples of the water. It's dark out, but by the pool, everything is blue.

"Chain-smoking tonight, Hargrove?"

It's the first time that Harrington's addressed Billy directly since arriving here with Hagan and Carol several hours ago. He's breaking their pact, just by asking that dumb question. Billy's teeth nick the filter. "Guess so."

"Could at least share."

"Didn't think this was your brand."

"I'm not fussy," Harrington lies, because of course he is. Billy knows he is. The first time he'd brought beer over, Harrington had mumbled his disapproval to Hagan.

Not drinking this shit. I'd rather drink the pool water.

Billy still doesn't know if Harrington had wanted him to hear, or if he's just no good at whispering. He'd soothed the burn by silently playing out a delightful scenario in his head - something that involved knocking Harrington into the pool, holding his head under and telling him, drink up. Stuck it on repeat until he was too drunk to remember why he was pissed off in the first place.

"If you want one," Billy says, "come get one." It isn't a challenge, nor is it a request. It just is what it is.

"Hey, Tommy. Could you -" Harrington starts, shifting in his seat.

Billy's eyes snap up because he can't quite believe it. Can't believe it, either, when Hagan actually fucking obliges and saunters over, fingers open and waiting. Billy doesn't say anything; doesn't pull Harrington up on his high-and-mighty bullshit, purely because nobody else does. Instead, he just wiggles a stick from the packet and slots it between Hagan's expectant fingers. Watches as Hagan trails back to Harrington and delivers the fucking thing. Billy's amazed that it isn't brought to him on a shiny, silver platter; that Hagan isn't hiding one up his ass, ready to be yanked out on demand.

From where he sits, Billy hears the snick of Harrington's lighter; the fizz of the cherry as he inhales, and the slow, steady exhale that follows. He risks a look over his shoulder because there's a filthy, grey cloud around Harrington, and it isn't really looking if Billy can't make out the dark honey of his eyes, the sharp edge of his jaw, or the plush, pink bow of his lips.

It isn't really looking if Harrington doesn't catch him looking.

"Not bad," Harrington comments, but the smoke has cleared and Billy's no longer watching.

It's Friday night.

Billy's late, but time is relative.

It's better, he thinks, to show up after the others. To arrive when Harrington's already high and Hagan's already wasted and Carol's a bit of both. It means eliminating the small talk, and getting to business. Getting to the good shit; to the reason why he ever shows up in the first place.

The front door is open when Billy slides out from behind the steering wheel. The walk towards the house is made more awkward - made longer - because Harrington has settled himself in the doorway and is watching him approach. This isn't how it usually goes. Harrington's breaking their pact.

"Heard your engine," he explains, words falling slowly out of his mouth and Billy would bet his left nut that Harrington's breath already smells like his dad's whiskey.

"And you decided to come to the door," Billy states. "This the royal treatment?"

Harrington shrugs. "Nobody else around to open it for you."

Billy freezes. Remembers who he is and where he is, and who he's standing in front of, and picks his feet up again. Walks until he's by the door, but keeps himself at an appropriate distance. "Hagan didn't show?"

"Nope." Harrington pops the 'p'. Doesn't bother to offer any kind of explanation. Asshole.

It feels like giving Harrington what he wants when Billy asks, "Why not?"

"Date night." Harrington seals the two words with a smirk. Looks vaguely amused.

"Date night?" Billy repeats, outraged.

"Uh-huh. Tommy told me at school. Carol's pissed because he hasn't taken her out in a while." Slowly, his smirk stretches into a grin. "Threatened to dump his ass."

Billy scoffs. "Thought that was, like, something she does on the daily?"

"Uh-huh."

Harrington's watching him, eyes steady, like he's never put invisible-pen to invisible-paper and signed their invisible-contract. Billy, at least, holds up his end of the bargain, and keeps his eyes on anything but Harrington.

When it becomes clear that Harrington has nothing more to say, Billy reluctantly opens his mouth and asks, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"That Hagan isn't coming."

"Huh," Harrington says, somehow throwing amusement, sarcasm and condescension into the one fucking syllable. "Can't smoke a joint without holding Tommy's hand, Hargrove?"

"Fuck you," Billy shoots back. It rolls off his tongue, no hesitation. When he chances a glance at Harrington, he's looking back. Looking back and smiling, teeth glinting in the moonlight.

The smile is still on his face when he says, more sincerely, "Nah. We had plans, so. Figured we didn't have to ditch them just because Tommy and Carol decided to."

Billy thinks, oh. Thinks, shit. And Harrington just goes on, asks him, "Wanna come in?", and Billy has no good excuse to turn around and drive away.

"Yeah, sure. Whatever."

"Cool. Bring any beer?"

"No."

"Shame."

Billy's on his second beer and his feet are in the pool. Harrington, as usual, has taken one of the loungers off to the side. Too good, even for his own pool water.

He doesn't miss Hagan, doesn't miss Carol, but he does miss the noise. It's quiet without them. For some reason, Harrington's now deciding to follow their rules; isn't speaking. Isn't offering anything besides the cold beer from his refrigerator. It's more expensive than the shit Billy buys, but it isn't as strong. Isn't getting Billy where he wants to be as quickly as he'd like, but. He's still fuzzy around the edges.

Just not fuzzy enough to shrug off the silence that sits with them around the swimming pool like an unwanted guest.

"This is kinda dumb," Harrington says, abruptly cutting into the quiet as though he's just read Billy's mind.

"What is?"

"Getting drunk next to the pool."

Billy huffs. "We always get drunk next to the pool."

"Yeah," Harrington mumbles from somewhere behind him, "but it's still dumb. And there's only two of us."

"And?"

"And, Hargrove. Two is less than four."

"Really, Isaac Newton? How'd you figure that one out?"

Harrington's probably flipping him off behind his back. He scoffs. "More risky with just the two of us."

Billy hums and chugs on his beer. Couldn't give a shit, really, about what's risky or what's safe. He's a good swimmer, and he's not wasted. He doesn't bother saying so.

"Let's go inside," Harrington says, and there's a tell-tale scrape of plastic against concrete, and Billy knows that he's dragged himself up and off the lounger without even having to turn around.

"I'll follow in a minute." Billy would rather sit out here, watching the blue pool in the dark, feet warmed by the heated water. Fancy fuckers.

"Now, Hargrove."

Billy nearly chokes on his beer. It slips down his throat, fast, and he shoots a glare at Harrington - no longer caring about some bullshit pact that tells him where to put his eyes.

But. Harrington isn't looking back at him. His eyes are pointed towards the tree line beyond his yard. He's distracted. Looks oblivious to the fact that Billy's offended by his bossy-bitch attitude.

"Fine." Billy downs the rest of his beer, crushes the can, and - just to be an asshole - tosses it into the pool. Harrington only tuts, but it's satisfying enough.

His feet are wet. They squelch on the carpet. He's got his boots in his hand, like some drunk chick who's stumbling home and can't handle her heels.

Harrington is walking ahead, locking doors and closing windows as though he's calling it a night. Maybe he is. Maybe this is Billy's hint. Except.

Except, Harrington turns around and says, "Let's take this party upstairs."

"Not the best party you've hosted, Harrington." Billy replies, tone dry. Making a point of sounding bored.

"There's time yet." Harrington's retort is delivered smoothly and with the kind of smile that holds a lot of promise. The beer's suddenly kicking in, turning Billy's legs weak. "Grab you a towel for your feet while we're up there."

He isn't drunk - knows he isn't - but he feels tipsy as he follows Harrington up the stairs. It's one of those fancy staircases with the gaps between each step, and Billy has to focus on where he's putting his feet to avoid losing a leg down one of the holes. He isn't drunk. He's only had two fucking cans and he can hold his damn drink. Probably, it's just tiredness, or something.

Billy's feet are dry by the time they're upstairs, and nobody mentions a towel. Pact thoroughly fucking out of the window, he's invited into Harrington's bedroom, and he accepts. Walks right in, boots still in the one hand, bare feet on Harrington's plush carpet. He whistles as he looks around. "Take it you don't like plaid?"

"Screw off." Harrington's drawing the curtains. Two lamps light the room.

"Preppy," Billy comments, taking in the wallpaper and the curtains and how they very nearly - but don't quite - match. Holy shit. "Don't you get a headache being in here?"

"Usually have better things to focus on when I'm in here."

Billy scoffs. "Like you can get anybody in here."

"You're in here," Harrington points out, and when Billy shoots him a look, he's wearing a smug fucking smirk and eyes that say, gotcha.

Billy frowns and looks away.

"You know what's funny?" Harrington asks.

There are several responses on the tip of Billy's tongue - all fucking golden, and sharp, and hilarious. But he doesn't say a single word.

Harrington sits on his bed. Billy only knows because he can hear the familiar creak of bedsprings.

He waits for a handful of seconds, before figuring that Billy has nothing smart to give back. Says, "You never look at me. You used to always hang around my neck, and now you don't look at me." Harrington sounds almost disappointed. "What's with that?"

Billy isn't prepared for a question like that. He's by Harrington's desk, staring down at unfinished school papers and blotchy, blue ink stains, and he falters. Freezes right up, shoulders rigid. What kind of question is that? Billy isn't sure he has an answer for it. Wouldn't have an answer, even if he could pause time, bring everything to a standstill, and have a good think about it.

He doesn't have an answer, but he has to say something, because Harrington isn't helping him out. He's letting the silence stretch on; letting his question remain unanswered. Seems like he won't be changing the subject any time soon.

His mouth is dry when he finally speaks. "I didn't hang around your neck."

Harrington scoffs. "Don't give me that shit. The parties. The locker room. On the fucking court?"

Billy mirrors his scoff. Puts more enthusiasm into it. "Was only giving you shit. Teasing you. Thought it got your panties in a bunch, anyway."

"Giving me shit," Harrington repeats, pushing each word out slowly. "That's what that was?"

"That's what I said." Billy's over this conversation. Utterly fucking done with it.

"I thought it was something else," Harrington tells him, and there's another creak from the bed. Harrington's standing. Billy knows without looking. "Even now," he goes on, "you're not looking at me, man."

The clever part of Billy knows he needs to spin around, stare Harrington down, just to prove a point. Tell him, only because you're fucking ugly, and make a joke out of it. Needs to find his balls and lift his fucking head up before Harrington can spin this web. But. But. The dumb part of Billy is reigning; is keeping him speechless, making him stall. Making him forget how to locate his damn balls. There's a shift in atmosphere - that's why - and Billy's swiftly losing his footing.

Loses it completely, in fact, by the time Harrington's standing behind him, breath tickling the back of his neck when he says, "Look at me."

There's no way he can't, now. He has to, so he does.

Billy turns, and Harrington's close. Ridiculously close. Close enough that Billy's staring at the tiny moles dotted across his cheek and down his neck. Close enough that Harrington's whiskey breath might just give him a second-hand buzz.

"There," Harrington whispers.

Billy's going to die. Harrington's molten-honey eyes are setting him on fire. Mouth dry, Billy's speechless. Couldn't say shit, anyway, because his tongue is suddenly too big for his mouth; feels like some kind of intruder. Something that doesn't belong to him. Something that's fighting against him instead of working with him.

"See," Harrington begins, still watching, "I don't think you were just giving me shit. I think you were flirting."

Billy laughs.

Or.

He's supposed to.

It's more of a choked-out noise. Something unintelligible and pathetic.

Harrington smiles. "Bet you didn't think I'd call you out on that, huh?" His gaze dips to Billy's mouth. Back up again, to his eyes. "Or did you just think I was too dumb to know what you were really doing?"

The initial panic is very much there still, but Billy's also growing agitated. Pissed because he feels hot all over. "You're way off, Harrington. What's in your dad's whiskey, anyway?"

Harrington continues to smile, and Billy thinks about knocking that dizzy look off his face. ”Way off? Really?”

Billy matches Harrington's smile, but there's something mean to it. Sardonic. "Did you really drag me up here just so I can beat your face in?"

He laughs. Harrington fucking laughs like Billy's told him the funniest joke of the year. "No. That's not why I brought you up here."

The smile on Billy's face twists into something more frustrated. Impatient. "Then enlighten me, asshole."

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Harrington's stepping in, sneaker closing over Billy's boot and making him wince. Billy's dazed. There's an abrupt sting and it isn't a result of his trodden-on toes. It's something else. Something that only clicks once he's tasting whiskey.

Harrington's fingertips are digging into Billy's jaw. He's cupping Billy's face, a hand on each side of his jaw, and he's giving Billy a taste of his dad's whiskey. Harrington's mouth is on his, tongue slipping between Billy's lips easily because he's pliant and stunned and his brain isn't working fast enough to tell his body what to do. Before Billy can react, Harrington's curling his tongue behind his teeth and they're swapping spit.

This isn't what Billy does. It shouldn't be what Harrington does. It's not what they do. But. But.

A fire is being stoked in Billy's belly, shooting heat up the length of his spine and into his brain and that's probably why it short-circuits. Probably the reason why Billy closes his eyes and lets Harrington kiss him; invites his tongue into his mouth and it's funny, really, because this is the most their tongues have ever interacted. He doesn't have the time to question what he's doing. There's no room for thoughts when Harrington's tongue is halfway down his throat.

They're breathless. Harrington draws back first, and Billy pulls in lungful after lungful of sweet oxygen. It feels like drowning; feels like a reminder not to take air for fucking granted. Harrington's catching his breath too, but he's cool about it - is taking his time sipping down air. Drinking it down slower than he drinks Mr Harrington's expensive liquor. Taking his time, like it isn't essential to his existence. He smiles with teeth, and his lips are wet, coated with a shine as glossy as chap-stick. Harrington's pretty and this is why Billy has a million and one problems with the guy.

"Knew it," Harrington says. He looks satisfied, smug. Like he's managed to prove a point.

Billy's heart drops to his stomach. He wants to plunge his fist into Harrington's pretty face, but not nearly as much as he wants to turn his fist around on himself. "Fuck you," he spits, and he's never been good at hiding his feelings. His fingers flex by his sides, wanting to curl into his palms, but one hand's taken up by the burden of his boots anyway, and there's just no point. That stupid smile would probably stick to Harrington's mouth no matter how hard Billy hit him.

There's no point. Billy's fingers dig into his boots, and he can actually feel how flushed his goddamn face is. The fire's still burning. Humiliated, he turns to stalk out of the room, defeated, because Harrington is King Steve again and he's at the top of the food chain and Billy suddenly feels like he's dropped right down, like he's kicking around with the plants, except he's dried up and too small, too hidden, to get a lick of sunlight.

He doesn't get far before Harrington's wrapping a firm hand around his wrist, tugging. "What? Wait," he says, and Billy isn't looking at him but it sounds like that complacent smile is thoroughly gone. "Where are you going?"

Harrington sounds genuinely confused. That's the only reason Billy turns around. He's just as confused, though. Bites out, "What?"

"Where are you going?" Harrington asks, voice softening right up in a way that Billy's never heard before. His grip around Billy's wrist loosens, but he makes up for it by stepping in. "I didn't say you have to go." Harrington's eyes are wide. "Do you want to go?"

"The fuck do you think?"

"I don't think you do. I think you wanna stay," Harrington tells him, simple as that. "I want you to stay."

Harrington's hand comes up to brush Billy's hair out of his face. It's an oddly tender gesture, and Billy gapes, staring at Harrington like he's just been handed a single-coloured Rubik's Cube. "What?"

"I want you to stay." Harrington presses in until their hips are meeting and there's no such thing as personal space. He reaches out, pries Billy's boots out of his grip until he can knock them to the floor. They land with a dull thud. "Stay," Steve says. Billy thinks it's supposed to be a question, but it sounds more like a statement.

"Why?"

"Because I think we both liked that kiss, and I think you've been trying to get in my pants since the night we first met." Harrington's smiling again, but it's less obnoxious, more fond. He brings his palms to Billy's hips, keeping him close, and he's hard. Billy thinks he is, at least. Everybody knows King Steve's well-endowed, but the solid pressure, the heat, is unmistakable. Harrington's hard and Billy's still humiliated but less so, because it doesn't necessarily feel like a trick anymore - not when Harrington's rocking into him unashamedly, wanting him to know just how worked up sticking his tongue in Billy's mouth has gotten him.

Billy sighs. Licks his lips. Lets his shoulders droop. Harrington takes it for what it is - a surrender.

"Good," Harrington mutters. "Glad you're staying." He bows his head and sets his mouth against the side of Billy's neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses. Murmurs there, "What do you want, huh? Because I know you've been wanting something from me." He drops a kiss to the hinge of Billy's jaw before shifting to speak into his ear. "You wanna get your hands on me, Hargrove? Want my hands on you? What do you want?"

The voice in Billy's ear awakens goosebumps on his skin. He shivers. "I don't know." He sounds faraway, lost. He supposes he is.

"Bet you wanna taste me," Harrington says next, finding the dangerous red button inside Billy's body and pressing. The universe crumbles. Billy makes a low noise. "Oh. Is that it? You wanna taste me?" He's grinning against Billy's ear. "Got such pretty lips, Hargrove, I'd let you put them anywhere." He straightens up and Billy slumps. He tells him, "Come on. Come here." Takes Billy by the hand and walks him towards the bed.

It's all a blur. Billy isn't sure how he's commanding his feet to move. He thinks Harrington might be dragging him. He just doesn't know. It's a small, unimportant detail, and one which quickly loses his attention because Harrington's sinking down on the edge of the mattress, feet on the carpet. He's holding Billy's fingers in one hand and stretching out to snag a pillow from the bed with the other. He throws it down to the floor; to the space between his sneakers. It's a hint, or a demand, or a kind gesture, or maybe all three, but Harrington still needs to tell Billy, "Get down, baby?" He frames it as a suggestion, but he's already waiting, wearing an explicitly expectant expression.

"Don't call me that," Billy shoots back, but he's dropping to his knees like he's easy. Like he's some easy-to-fucking-please prom date who'll put out at the gentle coaxing of soft words and sugar-coated pet names.

Baby.

"You don't like that?" Harrington asks, and there's an edge to his voice that tells Billy he knows that he does. "Sweetheart? Sugar? Honey?"

"None. I'm not your fucking wife, Harrington."

Harrington stares down at him, pleased, before changing the subject entirely and asking Billy, "You done this before?"

It's such a startling contrast to the bullshit they've just been discussing. Billy blinks. "No?"

"Really?" Harrington actually sounds surprised. Billy shoots him a warning look. "But you've had your cock sucked before, right?"

"Duh."

"Then I'm sure you can improvise."

Unsurprisingly, there's a huge difference between being blown and blowing. Harrington's jeans and underwear come down to his knees, giving him just enough leeway to keep his thighs properly parted. He's already stiff, like just the anticipation of getting Billy's mouth around him has sent all of his blood rushing south. It'd be flattering if this was anything else, but this is Billy, on his knees, wrapping a fist around Steve Harrington's cock, pretending that he knows what he's doing. It isn't anything to be proud of.

He can't stroke Harrington's cock forever. They both want more before he fucking loses it - even if Billy doesn't know where to start. His mouth is too dry and Harrington's dick is too big.

He's hesitating, and Harrington knows it.

"You good?" He asks, voice not quite as put together as it had been. He reaches out and threads his fingers through Billy's hair.

Billy nods. He's fine. It's just a dick. It's just a blowjob. If Nancy fucking Wheeler could get her mouth around this, then Billy will have no problem. "Yeah," he says, wetting his lips with his tongue.

"Come on, baby," Harrington coaxes, tone gentle and fingers even gentler where they're tucked into Billy's curls. "You've thought about doing this, right?"

He has. He actually, genuinely has. But fantasy and reality are very different, and in his fantasies, Billy's good at everything and it's Harrington who's at a loss for fucking words. "Guess so," he lies, just to be difficult because he can't be completely easy.

Harrington ignores Billy's attitude, and just tells him, "It's okay. Doesn't have to perfect. Come here. Just do what you wanna do." His fingers flex in Billy's hair, gently tugging. "Do what feels right."

Billy rolls his eyes. Makes a good show of it. Nothing about this feels right, but he doesn't point that out. He shouldn't have to. It isn't right, and that's a renowned fact; as certain as the pain in Billy's knees and as certain as the whiskey on Harrington's breath. Even so, he follows the guidance of Harrington's persistent fingers and starts by licking a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock; from base to just below the head. It earns Billy a long, slow groan in response, starting from the second his tongue meets hot, sweet skin, to the moment it breaks contact.

"Baby," Harrington breathes, "That's good." He pets his fingers through Billy's hair, making knots. "Keep going."

Harrington's praise doesn't mean shit. It's whatever. But Billy bows his head again, anyway. Brings his tongue out to lap at the tip of Harrington's cock. Spits on his hand and starts to jerk him off at the same time.

Billy can taste salt on his tongue. Harrington's leaking already, and his own cock is rubbing uncomfortably against too-tight denim. He wants to dip a hand beneath the waistband of his jeans, but blowing Harrington requires all of his focus because he has no fucking idea what he's doing. He's overwhelmed, and working at his own hard-on will only make the job more difficult. He figures his own needs are secondary in this arrangement, and - what was he saying about not being Harrington's fucking wife?

"Hey, hey," Harrington coos out of nowhere, and Billy tips his eyes up to look at him, trying to gauge what it is he wants. He doesn't need to, because Harrington goes on, mumbling softly, fingers fully lost in Billy's curls now. He says, "Put your mouth around me, Billy."

Billy's hand pauses mid-stroke, fist curled around Harrington's cock. He blinks, tears his gaze away from Harrington's blissed-out face and he thinks it might be the first time Harrington's used his name like that. Like, really used his name. It's distracting, and it's heavy, and it sort of feels like Harrington's found that red button again, hit it, and pieced the universe back together. Billy closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and wraps his lips around the swollen head. It's - strange. He has barely taken Harrington in, but it's one hell of an intrusive sensation. Harrington's heavy on his tongue; he's thick. It's nothing like how Billy had imagined. It's exactly like how Billy had imagined.

"Fuck," Harrington moans, and when Billy forces his eyes open, he glances up and the guy has his head tipped back, throat exposed. Pretty boy. "Good. Like that."

He'd never admit it, but it's encouraging; has him thinking that he isn't completely fucking this whole thing up, but. At the same time, it's just getting somebody off, and how hard is that? Clearly, he's put too much thought into whether he'd be able to do it or not. He knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of a blowjob. Only needs a few hard sucks and vivid imagery that plays on-loop behind his eyelids, and he's done for. No big deal.

That's what he thinks, until he's trying to suck Harrington down and it proves a mammoth fucking task. Harrington's doing all he can to keep Billy encouraged. He massages Billy's scalp with blunt fingernails and tells him, "Take it slow, baby. You're doing good."

Good is probably an overstatement, but he must be doing something right because Harrington's thighs are trembling, knees twitching, like it's taking effort to keep still.

Billy works at Harrington's cock slowly, just like Harrington had suggested. He takes it slow; tries to relax his throat as he takes Harrington deeper, weight heavier on his tongue, senses utterly invaded. Taste, touch, smell. Everything is just Steve Harrington. From a mutual pact of silence, to this. From nothing, to everything. Billy's drowning. Can't breathe. Can't swallow without feeling like he's going to gag. Everything comes to a stand-still with Harrington stuffed in his mouth.

The choked-out noise Billy makes is, thankfully, lost beneath the sounds that are erupting from Harrington. He's fucking noisy, is the thing. It's something he shouldn't know about King Steve, but he does now, and he adds it to the very long list of things that he shouldn't know about a boy who shouldn't be as pretty as he is; a boy who shouldn't command Billy's attention the way that he does, or soften him up enough that he drops to his knees when he hears that word - baby.

He holds Harrington on his tongue, cheeks hollowed out, and he tries to swallow past the building saliva and the salty precum that's sliding towards the back of his throat. Billy's hand is busy massaging Harrington's balls, and he isn't sure why he's giving the guy the full fucking treatment. It should be half-hearted, at best. Billy just convinces himself that this particular technique will have Harrington spilling his load much faster, and that means this whole thing will be over with; he can get to his feet, rub his aching knees and bolt, so. Yeah. That's probably why.

He's building a rhythm, here. Starting to feel more comfortable and more confident, even though he knows that Harrington's eyes are glued to him. Billy likes the spotlight - loves it - but this is a new kind of performance he's giving, and he's still just an amateur. But, he's falling into something steady and easy, throat relaxing and becoming more pliant, making room for Harrington's cock as he bobs his head and sucks him off.

He has a slice of control until Harrington takes it away from him.

Harrington's fingers are still caught up in Billy's hair and he uses the grip, now, to pick up the pace, speed things up. He tells Billy, "Shit. That's fucking good. Keep sucking, baby." Tells Billy, breathlessly, "Gonna make me come like this."

That's good for him, but Billy's eyes are watering, tears threatening to form and spill, and his throat is closing back up because Harrington's thrusting into his mouth like Billy's some kind of porn star. He chokes, gags, and then he's drawing back, pushing back against the surprising strength of Harrington's palm until his cock falls out of Billy's mouth with a slick pop. "Jesus fuck," he growls, throat sounding banged up. "You do this to the girls you screw around with?"

Harrington huffs out a laugh. His face is pink and his eyes are dark. "No." He loosens his grip in Billy's hair, strokes the area with restless fingers. "Are you a girl?"

Billy slips his hand from under Harrington's balls just to flip him off. It earns him another breathy laugh, but Billy's half-distracted, wondering if Harrington does this shit often. Does it with guys. He's knocked out of those thoughts by Harrington's voice, low and steady and edging on impatient, when he says, "I'm close, Billy. Are you gonna finish me off?"

Billy nods.

Harrington says, "Thought so. So good for me."

Something clicks inside of Billy. It's divine and it's nice and it hurts. He brings his hands and his mouth back to Harrington, and lets the grip in his hair show him how to move. How fast to go; how slow. It's Harrington who's controlling it, and Billy's just the puppet. He swallows around a particularly rough thrust, eyes squeezing shut, tears spilling. He thinks he doesn't mind the strings.

Harrington's knee jerks, fingers growing tight in Billy's curls. "Baby," he groans out. "Baby, I'm gonna -"

It's Billy's warning, but it comes as Harrington's already spilling.

It's fast. Happens in a flash. Hot come shooting out onto his tongue and slipping, easily, down his throat. He has to swallow, and swallow, and swallow, just to keep from choking on the stuff. He tips his wet eyes up at Harrington, and he's already watching; looking down at Billy, eyes heavy, mouth parted around a low, breathless moan. That pact of theirs has been screwed up and tossed out of the window. Has been shredded into thousands of tiny pieces and then burned on a huge fucking bonfire. It's dust.

Billy isn't sure how it all happens next, but it's fast.

Harrington's on his knees next to him. Billy's dazed, salt on his tongue and throat on fire, and Harrington's guiding him back. He's being tipped until he's on his back, and Harrington's stuffing the pillow beneath his head. A fucking gentleman. He's peppering Billy's face and throat with fast, chaste kisses that only serve to make his head spin. It's a good job that he's lying down.

There's an easing of pressure and it's Harrington's hands unzipping his jeans and tugging them down to his thighs, underwear not far behind. He doesn't even ask, but he doesn't have to. In fact, it's a surprise that he's bothering at all, because there's no obligation. This isn't part of any kind of fair agreement. Harrington's known all along what Billy's been wanting, and it's true - Billy has been wanting to taste Harrington on his tongue. Has been wanting to get his mouth around him and be played like a puppet. Used. It doesn't mean that Harrington needs to give back.

But he does.

He spits into his palm and takes Billy into his hand and strokes until Billy's seeing stars. Tells him, "Relax, baby." Tells him, "Did so good, Billy." Stupid, silly words of praise and encouragement that shouldn't mean shit but absolutely do. That only serve to stoke the fire in Billy's belly and strengthen the strings that are attaching him to Harrington's wrists.

Billy comes under a shower of praise and Harrington doesn't stop stroking until he gets every last drop - like it's for him. Like it's all his. Earned it, owns it. He strokes until Billy's spent, breath knocked out of his lungs. Harrington's panting, sweat beading at his temples and when he falls to the ground beside Billy, he lands close.

Billy stares up at the ceiling, suddenly stripped of an old agreement and left to navigate a new world. Harrington closes his eyes and reaches for Billy's hand. It's the drawing up of a new pact. Billy laces their fingers together, and it feels like inking their names - sealing the deal.

#harringrove #billy x steve #my writing

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iftheshoef1tz · 1 year

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ACOTAR One-Shots

A Court of Hounds and Shadows: They circle each other like hawks, unable to stay away from each other for long. Or: A Very Azris Solstice. NSFW. (Azriel/Eris)

Auld Lang Syne: Elain and Lucien are getting married on New Year's Eve, and there are some memories that won't stay in Nesta's past. [modern musician AU] NSFW. Written for 2022 ACOTAR Secret Santa Exchange. (Nesta/Eris, Nesta/Cassian, Eris/Azriel, some Elain/Lucien.)

your greedy eyes upon me: Four times Azriel and Eris kissed someone else, and one time they kissed each other. For Azris Week 2023 Day 2. (Azriel/Eris)

my heartbeat and its racing: Set in the universe for Auld Lang Syne. Prompted by Krem, misremembered by Fitz: “azris first kiss, in the rain.” (Azriel/Eris)

I Come With Knives: A party on the continent, hosted by one of Koschei’s lackeys, goes awry. Nearly magicless, Azriel and Eris must survive on the continent together or die trying. Inspired by The Nutcracker, with a helping of Polish folk tales. Written for the 2023 ACOTAR Secret Santa Exchange. NSFW. (Azriel/Eris)

Crescent City One-Shots

High For This: Bars are for forgetting, and Ithan just wants to forget, even for a little while. (Takes place between chapters 7 and 8 of HOEAB.) NSFW. (Ithan/Tharion)

If you’d like to be added to my tag list, let me know!

#fanfiction #acotar #crescent city #pinned post

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buff-borf-bork · 9 months

Text

just a short bit in the actors au!

Cheese and Pico. Pomeranian's, beloved by the cast, soft, cute, endlessly sweet. Vicious demons sent from the depth of hell itself to end Nick. It becomes a group effort to help him bond with the cuties, but can they do it in time to make filming not be it's own personal hell for him? an unused idea for the @swwsdjfanzine That's A Wrap!

Creamy brown tufts, big sparkling eyes, the picture of blissful peace. Little angels. The two Pomeranian's lounge around the cast, Pico resting in Jack's lap, Cheese turning in circles between Shaun and Ian for pets they’re both happy to supply. Moonpie gives a chirp from her spot on the dresser.

Shaun leans against the bed, crossing his arms behind his head, “man, this bedroom set is cozy .”

Nick taps away at his phone, following where Ian tells him to meet them, sending a cat meme on his way. He turns the corner of the false wall to the bedroom set and--

Snap. A force of gnashing teeth and primal hatred.

Jack holds the growling, twisting pom, stopping him an inch away from Nick's face. A strangled sigh escapes Nick as Shaun holds Pico back by his collar, the dog struggling against him, blood lust of a fighting hound compressed into its tiny form.

As Nick supports himself against a wall to recover from his mini heart attack, Shaun stares dumb founded, “What did you do to these guys?”

“Nothing, they just despise me!”

”Isn't there some old myth that animals can sense your true nature or aura or something?“

Shaun snorts, ”Wow Ian, maybe your character's betrayal angle suits you better than we thought! That was brutal.“

“Ah, no, I didn't mean anything by it, you just reminded me of it, really!”

”I remind you of people who are so awful they have bad 'auras'?“

”That’s not what I meant and you know it!“

Picking up Pico, Shaun brings the pom over to Nick, “You just need to bond with 'em a bit, feed them a treat or something.” Bringing the dog closer to Nick does not quell its mission of destruction towards the man.

Jack soothes Cheese by blocking his view of Nick with his body, the dog relaxing a bit instantly. Jack suggests, “Well, Cheese is named Cheese, so maybe?”

Digging into his bag, Ian pulls out a stick of cheese, “Here.”

Nick accepts it with a concerned look, ”why do you have sticks of cheese in your bag?“

”It came with pepperoni.”

“It wasn't wrapped?”

Ian huffs, “just try to give him the cheese.”

Cheese snarls at the peace offering, but as his nose picks up the smell Cheese’s yips turn into malicious snuffling. The bites start vicious but quickly calm down as Cheese's body relaxes and he eagerly eats the stick from Nick’s hand. Mirroring the pom, Nick's own posture relaxes until he gets the nerve to try petting Cheese.

Cheese allows this.

Nick attempts the same process with Pico who, once lost in dairy bliss, loafs to enjoy his meal.

For one pure moment, Nick is at peace with his furry costars, basking in their plush comfort.

“What do you mean you gave them cheese?”

“It’s name is Cheese, I thought he could eat cheese!”

The dogs handler looks at him incredulously, “You meet a dog named chocolate, are you gonna feed it chocolate?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to bond with them.”

Pico lays on his side in the soft bed, twitching with his tongue lolling as he pants. The vet brings Cheese out, whining in their arms. Noticing Nick, Cheese growls as best as he can through his pained whines. The guilt in Nick is edged into anxiety as the look in Cheese’s eyes is that of utter loathing, curbed only but the creature's dairy induced suffering.

Across the room Jack pulls his head out of a trash can filled mostly with sticky Popove’s Yogurtopia cups. He gasps for breath while watching the poor pups rest in their fluffy beds, being carefully groomed by their handler. A set assistant gets his attention, telling him where he needs to be next. He musters up the most polite smile he can for them and and watches the dogs again. He sighs, “oh, to be a lactose intolerant dog.”

“Yeah… Sure.” The assistant does not sound sure, they do however sound like they have somewhere to be as they tap their toes.

He chuckles to himself, “I’d be a jack russell.”

He breaks into a bigger fit of giggles, both at his own poor pun and knowing from the look on their face, he’s making the assistant suffer with him.

Still, he steals a longing glance to the sweet comfort the dogs get for their illness before squaring his shoulders and plastering on a smile. A little yogurt hasn’t killed him yet.

“Aw, who’s an itty bitty little bloodthirsty mosnter sent from hell to torture me? You are!”

“Guess I did tell you what you said didn’t matter as much as the tone…”

Nick continues to babble to Pico with Ian’s supervision. Between the two dogs, Pico will at least take his time before lunging at Nick. Seeing no sign of aggression, Nick slowly gets closer to Pico with his palm up. Pico seems relaxed to Nick’s eyes, watching him approach, licking his lips and yawning.

Nick stops talking in anticipation as his hand inches ever closer to Pico. Ian looks up from his script to check in on the sudden silence, jumping at the sight, “wait, don’t, those are signs—”

Nick doesn’t scream as Pico’s teeth latch into his hand. Just a short, choked gasp.

“Of aggression in dogs.”

The parking lot is empty, perfect for plan S.

Before Nick stands Shaun. In his hand he swirls a spray bottle as he sports a devious look on his face. The bottle is whirl-pooling with a mix of water and coffee coloured dog fur.

“Just stand still Nick, after this the dogs'll love you.”

Behind him, Jack with a practiced friendly smile that says he just wants to help you, Nick. Ignore the sinister energy coursing just beneath the surface, like the clouded spray bottle of his own. His recipe, water mixed with high quality dog food, stolen from the handlers trailer.

“This is for the best Nick, just let us help you.”

Nick glares at Jack over his shoulder, “did you just use your Sunny Day voice at me?”

He chuckles sheepishly, “maybe?”

Shaun takes the opening and spritzes him with the homemade odour. As Nick turns in shock and disgust, Jack does the same, the duo quickly coating Nick in the stench stew. He drips onto the concrete, wrinkling his nose with no escape from the scent. He glares at the duo only pretending to try and hide their laughter.

“It’s perfect, this bodes smell for you.”

“I know the situation stinks, but you’ve got this.”

“You can speak their language now, I’m pretty sure their dog breed is Stench.”

Shaun wheezes, “that, that one was bad Jack, stench?”

“It’s supposed to be a pun on French, like–”

“Shut up. Sorry, but shut up,” Nick interrupts, holding up a finger to silence them while he listens closely. “Are you guys hearing that?”

They all strain their ears. In the distance, barking.

Shaun tilts his head, “sheesh, sounds like the production next door’s recording for a rabies attack.”

Jack looks at him, raising an eyebrow, “next door? They sound further than… Are they getting closer?”

Nick’s blood runs cold, “you don’t think?”

“No way, their trailer’s on the other side of the building”

The yips and growls grow closer, they can make out more and more of all the vicious intent behind the beast's voices.

Across the parking lot two silhouettes back-lit by the horizon jerk into view. The figures almost writhe in vitriol as they approach. Nick’s eyes widen as the caramel tufts become visible, giving him a warning to run. He can only hope that being able to make out the fur and snarled faces doesn’t mean it’s already too late.

Nick runs circles around the parking lot, weaving between cars with the prayer that they’re not small enough to just dart under the vehicles. He finds his car and wrenches on the door, but of course it’s locked. He manages to hop on top of it, Pico and Cheese nipping at his heels. Luckily too short to hop up with him.

“Hey, the trainer could use you to train their jumping height!”

Nick shoots Shaun a glare as he unlocks his car and begins the ordeal of trying to get in from the top without the dogs getting him. Jack and Shaun watch from the sidelines, too busy recording to be of any help.

He manages to hook the toe of his shoe under the door handle enough to open it. The dogs hop and snap, incidentally tumbling into the car. It’s a golden opportunity. With the dogs safely away from the door, he slams it shut, trapping the poms inside. He hops down, throwing his hands in the air victoriously.

Shaun and Jack run up, peeking through the windows. Shaun looks between Nick and the car worriedly, “I don’t think you can do that man. Can’t just leave dogs in a car.”

“No worries, I’ll get somewhere safe and call their handler to come pick them up. I’m not a monster.”

Jack cups his hands on the window to get a better look inside. Sweat drips down his neck. “Nick? I don’t think you thought this through.”

“Huh?” Nick looks through for himself and it’s carnage. The poms leave nothing untouched in the car as they tear his things apart, the glove box open with its contents splayed about, the seats torn, teeth marks on the wheel. Nick whimpers a cry as he slides heartbroken against the car to his knees. Shaun pats his shoulder as Jack runs to get the handler.

Nick listens to the crew and directors talk about the possibility of just Photoshop masking the dogs in, or green balls on sticks. He sighs, leaning back in the chair, draping an arm over the back of it. His eyes closed, he feels something land in his lap. Taking a peek, it’s Moonpie curled up on him, purring away. She brings a small smile to his face as he gently pets her. The dogs may have put him in the cat house, but with Moonpie, it’s alright here.

#i hope its funny anyways #i may not be the queen of comedy but hope people at least get a giggle or like a nose puff💀#sdj #swwsdj #sunnydayjack #nick herraras #posted this months ago #but forgor to link this post to the actual fanzine 💀 like i did in ao3

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thesistersarcheron · 2 years

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Casslain prompt: Cassian trying to find the perfect Solstice gift for Elain?

Pairing: Cassian x Elain (pre-relationship, ACOFAS AU) Rating: Gen Note: I took this and ran with it, anon! Let's dive into an AU where Cassian and Nesta are merely enemies-to-allies-to-friends, and there's just something about Elain that Cass hasn't yet put his finger on...

Winter

"And this one is for... Elain?" Feyre gaped at the tag on the massive box in front of her.

Cassian tried not to be too obvious about his nerves as Rhys hauled the largest gift in the pile across the parlor and set it at Elain's feet. Still, his wings rustled as he shook out the excess energy jumping along his limbs, and he knew Azriel and Mor both marked it.

He would never live this down.

But... he didn't want to live this down, either.

This wasn’t any gift. This was a gift for Elain. Sweet, gentle, cultured Elain Archeron, the utter opposite of the brutish, brutal Lord of Bloodshed, but... There was just something about her that made this important to him.

Perhaps because Elain didn't have five hundred years of Solstice presents—some brilliant, shining trinkets to spoil her, others rushed, last-minute gags—stored in a trunk where she could shove this one and forget about it like most of the other people in this room who were watching them now.

And this was his first gift to her. It was important. It would set the standard for what he privately hoped would be many years to come of holidays just like this.

Well... it was his first gift if he discounted the little blown glass flowers and animals, the woven bracelets and minuscule tapestries, and the geodes no larger than his thumbnail that he’d been daring enough to sneak past Nesta during those early days when Feyre's sisters still haunted the House of Wind.

Those were mere trinkets he found pacing the Rainbow while he practiced keeping his newly-healed wings aloft after they'd been shredded and tried to expel the itching call to battle in his limbs as he prepared for a war.

But the first the little lamb he had placed in Elain's palm when Nesta disappeared to gather their lunch had gotten a promising glimmer of reaction from the ghostly, catatonic young female in her seat by the window, and her lips had almost twitched into a smile when he knelt before her and whispered about the foothills just south of the Steppes where its crystal eyes were mined, so he’d kept bringing her the silly little bits and bobs he bought on his walks for a handful of coppers each.

But that gift-giving spree had backfired. Not just in the way his heart started thundering every time those pale fingers started taking the initiative to pluck the gifts from his hand before he could place them in her hand or gallop the little glass horses and dogs over her knee, but in the way it left him utterly stumped when the air grew cold and Solstice drew nearer and nearer. To replicate those gifts would be lazy.

So he'd had to think.

He’d already replaced Rhys’s rusty old gardening set with a new one of Illyrian steel months ago. It had been expensive, and he had only been able to convince a defected Illyrian blacksmith to take his money and the commission. Anyone else might have thought it an insult to make tools instead of weapons, but he was lucky the old male thought it an interesting challenge.

He couldn’t get her a painting, either. Every single still life Feyre finished ended up propped against the wall outside of Elain’s room in the increasingly cramped townhouse, waiting for her to choose her favorites and hang them.

A book was out of the question; he already bought her elder sister another silly little trinket in the form of a miniature, illuminated book, hoping the same tactic that amused Elain would help draw withdrawn, sullen Nesta out of her shell.

Nuala and Cerridwen hounded Rhys for the newest kitchen gadgets often enough that they were sure to have better tools than anything Cassian could imagine if he knew anything at all about baking. His knowledge of cooking extended to dumping meat and vegetables into a pot, hoping for stew, and scrubbing dishes when it didn't turn out.

But Elain. What could she possibly want? Nuala, Cerridwen, and Mor saw to it that she had plenty of dresses and perfumes, and Rhys had opened the Night Court's trove of jewels to her months ago when she and Feyre started easing into their new roles as members of the royal family. She had seeds aplenty, just waiting for spring in the little shed in the garden.

But... there. There was one thing Elain didn’t have this time of year now that her garden was shrouded from the cold, and knowing the Night Court as Cassian did, it was bound to he a long, brutal winter even in shining Velaris. Something inside him had withered on her behalf when he arrived at the townhouse a week ago and saw the rose bushes hidden away beneath all that burlap.

But now he had one thing, just as small in scale as the little figurines in comparison to that magnificent garden, that might be something she wanted.

“Oh," Elain gasped she pulled the wrapping back on the box.

Feyre was peering around Rhys's legs, but it was Mor, eyebrows high in recognition at the sight of Cassian's familiar wrapping paper on that box, who asked, "What is it?"

"It's a terrarium.” Elain's voice was hushed with awe. Her heartbeat started pounding so loudly and so quickly it echoed in his mind.

She leaned forward, as if to lift it from the box herself, and Cassian stepped in. He hefted the brass and glass contraption from the box, entirely deaf to Mor's quiet "gods-damn," as he did so. It was heavier than it looked, even with Fae strength. He set it carefully in Elain's lap—the thing was easily twice as wide as she was, built like a small house, and he already knew it would dominate the window seat in her bedroom—and watched through the glass as Elain examined it with wide eyes. Anticipation thrummed along the fibers of every muscle in his body.

He had been nervous the entire time he stood in the shop where he bought it, like one wrong twitch of his wings would send shelf after shelf of glass crashing to the ground... And handing the massive, obvious gift over to Rhys, with his eyebrows raised nearly to his hairline, earlier in the week hadn't been any easier, but the way her sweet, rosy lips had parted made the entire endeavor worth it.

“You can have enchantments placed on it, if you'd like," he explained, trying to sound more reassuring than anxious. Doe-brown eyes flickered to his, just slightly distorted by the glass, and he saw them beginning to fill with tears that tugged at his heartstrings. "To prevent wilting or reduce the amount of sunlight and water the plants inside need, and so on... But I figured you might want to try it the natural way first. You just need to set this up by a window, and you'll have a little garden all winter long."

Elain’s lip wobbled, and the scent of salt assaulted him, made his ribs squeeze and constrict his breathing, but she only said, “Oh, thank you, Cassian.”

She reached forward, curling her little, calloused fingers around his own, utterly unaware of what that small, innocent touch did to him, and squeezed.

-----

Hope this was to your liking, anon! Thank you for such a fun prompt! 💕

#cassian #elain archeron #casslain #cassian x elain archeron #elain #a court of thorns and roses #my fics #a court of thorns and roses fic #a court of frost and starlight #unedited and kind of rambly but i had fun <3 #cassian x elain

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