mostly smut, some of them are quite kinky-ish, just check the individual chapter warnings. the first ones are probably bad, they're older.
more on my Tumblr @goblinontour
warnings: feelings, self-hatred, suggestiveness, not much happening but it's implied, kinda sub!alex
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He's been made aware — against his will, of course — that he tends to have a subtle preference for suffering his way through life. The awareness came unbidden, unasked for, like an unflattering photograph slipped under his door, exposing him in some hideous angle he could no longer ignore. He didn't want to know. He didn't need it laid bare like that, spelled out in a clarity that burned, leaving him more self-conscious than he cares to admit. The kind of self-consciousness that makes him wonder if he's always looked like this to the world — a man feigning detachment while secretly clutching his anguish like a talisman.
Because that's exactly what he's doing. He knows it, though he hates knowing it. Hates the way it turned him into a caricature of himself, a pretentious man who regarded suffering not as an affliction, but as some sacred currency, something that might bring him closer to truth. To beauty. To transcendence.
And so he sits in his car, drowning in the low hum of the engine, or now, in front of a flickering television screen — despite his loftiest resolutions to abstain from such vulgarities. Television? For him? A man so far above the common delights of cars running circles or balls being kicked. And yet there he is, his gaze locked on the screen, letting himself be lulled by the banal rhythm of it all. The predictable rise and fall of action, the simulated drama, this boredom. He despises it.
But not nearly as much as he despises himself.
Him. This contemptible creature. A tyrant in his own mind, dictating his own rules of existence. A pendant, draped heavy with the weight of his self-assigned meanings. A crackpot, circling the same tired theories about pain and art and brilliance and decay. And a snob — God, the worst kind. The kind that looks down on everything but can never look away.
It was this awareness that ruined him most. Not the suffering itself, but the way he had dressed it up, paraded it around as though it were something noble. As though it could save him.
"Are you watching reruns again?"
Your voice breaks through the thick, stagnant air, and it feels like a needle sliding under his skin. First, the sound of it. Then, the sharp punctuation of your presence: one leg, then the other, until you're fully in his field of vision. And then — just like that — you're in the way.
Between him and the screen. Between him and whatever dull, flickering narrative he had convinced himself was enough to fill the silence.
A shiver runs through him, involuntary, and he blames it on the draft from the open window brushing against his bare calves. His robe had fallen loose around him, the terry cloth pooling limply on the bed like a flag of surrender. He convinces himself it's the cold. Not you. Not the abrupt severance of the line of static connecting him to the screen.
