#5+1 starker

[heirithh]

Starker/IronSpider ⎊🕸️ meet-cute, pre-slash, 5+1 things, crack treated seriously

This is the last of my multidimensional!starker au! But if there's enough demand for an interaction between the diff starkers of the diff universe, then I might just do a dialogue-heavy fic on that 😊

[vampyrial]

A World For Her Alone | Sisyphus

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

cw (chapter specific): child neglect, very vaguely implied forced prostitution, death, abuse, poisoning, suicide, mentions of pregnancy and childbirth, arranged marriage, infidelity

pairing: claude x fem!reader

summary: we take a brief intermission from claude's suffering to examine what the fuck is wrong with reader's family

author's note: me and my husband we're sticking together🎵

Claude lingered around your parents’ manor like a ghost after you died. In the middle of the night, every night, he found his way to your bedroom, standing at the foot of the bed you’d died in, remembering the shape your body formed in the sheets. The room still smelled of your blood and sweat, though the room had been cleaned up by the maids as soon as your body was taken out of the room. Your absence was starker than your presence. After the funeral, Diana expressed that she wanted to go home, heavily implying she would leave if he came with her but Claude was no longer beholden to her wants. He had no reason to care whether she came or went.

He was wielding grief as the knife he held up to cut deeper into himself in hope that if he only suffered enough, his hands would wash clean of your blood. But in the end, he had already decided to live, if only because he could do nothing else. Morbid thoughts plagued him, swirling around his head like unquiet spirits begging him to give in. He thought perhaps he should cause his own ruination and this time, live with it. He thought he should make for certain that both of your houses are set aflame and collapsing on top of the lot of you, to bury and burn your sycophant parents, his helplessly selfish wife and even his own child. He thought that nothing should be spared from complicity. He knew not anymore if he truly believed that it would save you, or if this was what some divine terror was willing him to do even still, but he began to long for punishment. It became catharsis, the thought of being punished.

He roamed through the house you grew up in, searching for any trace of you that survived, as if some inkling of you would help him to save what had already been lost too many times. Even so, it was automatic for him at this point, no longer even really a choice. He had no direction, only frantic need pulling him toward the doomed task. He was trying to get to the dregs of a goblet of wine which never ran dry, he kept drinking until he was sick but never satisfied, never finished.

Your parents’ manor was an eerie place, he’d always thought. Wind blew in from an opened window in the hall and the house seemed to breathe, and its hollow bones creaked softly. Despite her gentle ultimatum, Diana could not actually follow up on it, she must have known that but she believed better of him at the time and thought that everywhere she went, he would follow her like a lovestruck teenager again. There were things to be done at manor that she could not neglect as its lady even if he chose to neglect his own duties. She had come into her own as a marchioness, no longer the shy and unassuming lady that lay in bed sick day in and day out. She would not leave the territory without management though he knew she desperately wanted him to come back home. She seemed dazed to return home without her husband for that purpose, for the lament of a sister she had infinitely more right to grieve so egregiously. Even after all those years, the silly girl was only just beginning to grow aware of the disparity of marriage.

Somehow he felt it was hard for her to reconcile that she wasn’t a precious young lady anymore. Even as he was mired in a pool of half catatonic grief, she dared ask him to leave with her because she truly expected he would do so if she did. Had she not grown out of the habit of expecting to be near worshiped no matter what that her parents instilled her? He remembered how she was after your funeral, when he was sitting in the dark of a guest room. She had come to him, tried to hold him, to kiss him; believing all this would be a comfort and not a further indignity. She’d had arrogance enough to look hurt as he pulled her from him and recoiled from her touch. She must have still believed she was the cure to all ills because she was once more in a house where she was always treated as though she truly were.

He found his way to the library where you’d spent much of your life, if Felix’s word was truth. He brushed his fingers along the spines of the books, looking for the one that he left his missive in, the one Diana read and did not want understand. He searched through the categories of books that contained subjects you three would have studied together as he could not remember which particular book it was, but even after pulling all the books and flipping through the pages, he couldn't find the letter. He wondered if you had ever even set eyes on it once before Diana got to. Had it been your catalyst to run away? Had you read the note and understood that the effort of trying to be happy at his side was a fool’s errand? Was he again the cause of your downfall?

As he gave himself to thought of you, he continued looking through your family’s collection of books. It was all fairly standard and even a bit utilitarian, lacking any of the fanciful novels so beloved by many young nobles. He assumed if there were any, they’d be in Diana’s room because they’d be bought for and read by her alone. But there was something that struck him as he roamed around the shelves, his eyes scanning aimlessly for a book that looked as if it had been perhaps been misshelved. It was subtly tucked into the highest shelf but it still stood out to him eventually among droll guides, needlework books and encyclopedias emblazon with gold lettering. It was hastily bound looking more like a journal and it was worn, unlike the rich and well maintained leather of the other books and it was small, leaving a wide gap between the top of the shelf and the top of the book. Its spine did not read a title.

When he pulled the book, he understood what it was. Its title read “The Princess and The Knight,” signifying it was some common, tawdry romance novella. Still, he began to read it, the absurdity of its place in a house so heavy and serious intriguing him. Could this book have belonged to you? Could it have been an escape for you who was locked firmly out of girlhood when you were only just betrothed? When he’d read the title, his mind flashed with the memory of your face as Felix’s body fell into the dirt in front of you. He remembered how fiercely Felix had protected you even in this life. The rage and grief in his voice when he came for retribution. Though he knew you were ever dutiful and if there was love between you and Felix, it was never more than courtly, maybe you had seen this book and it had reminded you of some place where it could be more.

The story revolved around the love affair of a princess from a bloodline with an affinity for magic fleeing her country at wartime and being assigned a knight from the neighboring kingdom she sought refuge in. The two began a passionate and sanguine love affair in secret, all while living under of the tension of war and the threat of both of them losing everything to their love. But when the war was won, thanks in part to the wits of the two characters, and peace spread over the kingdom, she and her knight were able to be wed and live happily ever after. He had been searching for you in the pages, interpreting the knight and the princess, looking for traces of a love you might have had once. He had been looking for you so closely in every word that he hadn’t realized the grander scale of things until the end; when he flipped over the last page to read the epilogue, on the blank side of the page he saw a sketch. 

The drawing was finely, intricately done in ink and resembled…Diana. The owner of this book had drawn Diana so vividly, yet there were a few differences in the likenesses of the two. This woman had long spools of curly hair spilling over her shoulders and a��mole near her gently smiling lips. She was older than Diana must have been when the book was written. She looked like the heroine that had been described in the novel. For some reason, he found himself fixated not in awe or admiration but in mind numbing shock. He could feel the love that went into each stroke of the pen and a knot formed in his stomach the longer he stared. It was uncanny in a house like this, to find anything that should mark vulnerability or simple folly. He recalled an occasion where your father had gifted her a portrait he’d made of her and their daughter. Though two different mediums, the style looked so similar. From what Claude saw, it seemed that your father seldom made art of anyone but Diana. Your father surely had not been so passionate about a throwaway romance that he had ignored his bias and poured so much love into an image of the heroine.

The only one who could be so brazen as to have a romance novel among his books wherein which they lovingly drew an almost intimate image of a woman, worn with the spine slightly bent from being handled so many times— not even properly hidden away, would be your father. Your father who paraded his illegitimate child, born from a mistress. The revelation gave him pause. What did Claude truly know about Diana? He couldn’t remember having ever asked her if she’d known her mother because she so resolutely accepted the countess as her only mother. But this woman sketched onto the page of a well loved romance, was this her mother? She looked as if she could be. Portraits of Diana hung in exposed parts of the house, he did not seem to care that the custom of having an illegitimate child was to have them separate from one’s “official” family, to not love a child born of one’s own lust so openly. Even if one had a particular love of their mistress and child, he would simply put them up in a nice mansion close enough for him to come and go but your father had your mother raising his illegitimate child. He celebrated her birthdays lavishly and even allowed her to go to the academy. He absolutely refused to hide her, to show shame in her. So why was this woman Claude presumed to be Diana’s mother who was clearly beloved by him even now, shut up in the back of a romance novella?

A thought occurred to him then, that perhaps the otherworldly force pulling him into Diana, entangling him in her was not otherworldly at all. Perhaps it had not originated in him alone as some primordial curse formed around him before there even was a him. He thought of just how besotted he was with Diana the first time he met her in each life, how the greater part of him felt foreign. He thought of your mother’s unusually devoted love for a child that wasn’t her’s, a product of her husband’s disloyalty. Something inside him thought that the answer lay at Diana’s feet. In her very blood, he was convinced, was the answer. 

Such a tenderly written romance, signed with a carefully drawn illustration of the woman who could be Diana’s mother. The part of “The Princess and The Knight” which struck him so was the bit about the princess possessing capacity for magic. It was not mentioned much nor utilized greatly in the plot but it made an impression. Magic users had decreased over the years, their powers waning until they were unheard of entirely. To anyone else who read the novella, it must have given the story to a bit of fantasy but to Claude, it was almost uncanny. He could not take it for an unassuming romance. To him, the story hid some truth under its veneer, for it was no coincidence that the princess resembled Diana so and that it ended up under the same roof as her, worn with years of eager hands flipping back over the pages. The princess’ power was never described in detail but if she were based on a real woman, then perhaps she had something to do with his situation.

He might’ve gone to Diana right then for answers but he feared his body might be taken over again at any time. He did not want to see her, did not want to feel the familiar paralysis of affection reaching up through his body. He did not want to see himself bed her again while the memory stood frozen in his eyes. Each time he saw her after he’d been set free, he’d worried that it would happen again. That his body would betray his mind and he’d never find anything of substance to end the cycle of misery the two of you shared. And he was committed to the task of trying, even if he could never succeed. He was ready to succumb to the greater sense of careworn madness he found in you.

He decided to explore the unattended corners of your home further, thinking there would be— must be more. If ever Diana’s mother had lived here, someone left a trace that he intended to find. He might’ve asked your father directly but as much as he was a lickspittle, something told him that your father would be afflicted by the same paralysis of mind that he had when he belonged to Diana. Unable to share the love he held for her but unable to hide it either, culminating in a pathetic sort of half-baked defensiveness. He wasn’t likely to get anything out of that, even you hadn’t been able to get anything out of him when he was like that. Worse still, he might try to cover up all that he kept that ever indicated Diana’s mother had lived there once, that she had a name and a face. And then what?

No, it was better this way. Better to find it all before he got the chance to hide any of it.

Your parents were still in the house, seemingly without intention of asking him when he was going to leave but there was still a bit of anxiety in the air when they entered the room. He could tell that they very much wished for him to return to their daughter and make her happy again as she was destined to be. It was awkward that their son-in-law had a longer bereavement than your sister did. But still being the cowardly sycophants they were, they could not ask him to leave for her sake—only “encourage” him by tossing out little updates on Diana. “Diana and our grandchild miss you very much,” “Diana takes ill so easily when she works so hard, we should hope you’ll be well enough to go back to her soon,” “Diana sends her love and wants you to know she’s there for your sake.”

Claude wouldn’t care if Diana’s life hung by a thread and he was all that could spare her, frankly and he brushed off all responsibility in favor of giving himself to his task. It was shameless, he knew, but he’d given up everything inside of the barren, hollow shell of his self to save you. It was a task that had already and would yet again supersede death, birth and the enveloping void he fell backward into each time his life was ended. He waited until they inevitably visited Diana, likely to calm her worries with lukewarm supplications about his grief, to go searching in the other parts of the house uninhibited. For, even if the servants were to tell their lord and lady, he’d already have looked through every corner he intended before they’d have a chance to move things around to better hide them.

He started with Diana’s old room. When he walked in, he was surprised to find it was left exactly as childish as it had been when she was only a young miss. Just the scent of the air turned his stomach, heavy and cloying with a pungent smell of medicine that was still sitting on her night stand in a small white bottle. He frowned as something fell clumsily into place. It hit him like the stray sour note of a violin. He recognized the bottle. Where did he last see this bottle?

For how preoccupied he was with the revelation taking slow form, he did not realize that Felix had entered the room until he heard the distinctive sound of a sword unsheathed. He did not turn.

“Felix.”

“Lord Claude,” Felix acknowledged, his voice struggling to keep its softness. “I might’ve known you’d be here. You truly cannot help yourself, it’s like a sickness.”

“Yes, it is very much like that,” Claude agreed easily. “But I’m not here for what you imagine I am.”

“I’m not so sure it matters, my lord.” Felix’s voice was flat.

“Nor am I. But I need you to let me live just as long as it takes for me to make sense of this.”

Felix went quiet for a moment but nothing about the situation made Claude think it was because the knight was going to hesitate. On the contrary, he was sure that his sword would swing just as neatly. “Do you know where I found my lady chained up, my lord? There are places, you know, that they bring women who had no other place to turn. You must know. You were at her side every night when we brought her back, you saw what toll it took. You saw what had been done.” Felix took a shallow breath. “You’re asking me to spare you so that you can make sense of whatever it is your farce of a marriage is built on? When my lady was given no such pardon? I know you’re the head of your house now, honored knight of the crown and you must think yourself above your treatment of others but I assure you, this will be the last time you ever assume so.”

Claude held still, his voice firm even as fear raged through his body. It was not fear for his life or of Felix’s wrath, it was the fear of failing, yet again, to make any movement in saving you. “I know how you think of me, Felix. I know that I have failed my wife. I know that I deserve to die here and now but even so, I can’t.”

“That is no problem, I’ll do it for you.”

Claude smiled joylessly to himself at the devout knight’s words. How could you have been judged so harshly in that life for wanting to run away with him when he so clearly had a loyalty akin to love for you? “You don’t understand. You cannot possibly. But answer me this, do you know who Diana’s mother is?”

The question puzzled Felix but he stood resolutely, ready at any moment to fell Claude’s head. “Everyone else in this household has care for Lady Diana. My duty was to serve my lady, I was the only one and I did not ever lapse. You’re asking the wrong person.”

“Felix, I do not ask for my wife’s sake. I know how this will sound but I’m trying to find out just what exactly it is that Diana holds over me and everyone else. I’m trying to figure out what exactly she is. You have seen it, haven’t you? The disparity between how people treat my wife and how they treat your lady. Do you think it natural to love a daughter born from an affair more than one’s own?”

He heard Felix laugh bitterly. “You believe her to be a succubus? Is that your excuse?”

“No. I believe her to be something worse.” Claude laughed as well, though his was more hysterical than anything. “She rules everything, Felix. Even in death. No, especially so in death. I have lived this life many times. I have died and returned back to the day that I first met her at the tea party. And when I do, I am taken over by her. It feels like love at first, it really does. But then intrusion. And then a curse. It is a cycle of death and resurrection, for myself and for the lady.”

Felix was silent and Claude continued on. “In one such life, she ran away with you, you know. It was raining the night we found you two. You were holed up in some abandoned cottage out there in the countryside, the one with the patches of white clover in the yard and a missing shingle on the roof.”

“What are you saying?” Felix’s voice wavered with near disbelief at the picture he painted but he held firm.

“My knights killed you where you stood and took the lady back to my manor. Your betrothed visited her. She had asked to speak to the woman who had been responsible for your death. She told me you two had planned to get married once the lady and I were finally married and settled in. She could not even mourn you properly because you were compelled to run away with the lady and killed.”

It is clear that Felix still thought Claude had lost his mind but what shocked him was the truth seeded into his madness. How could he have known the intimate arrangements of their betrothal and marriage when even their families had not known the cause for delay? This was not knowledge he could send an errand boy to fetch him nor an illusion he couldn’t hope to keep up, this was lived. It was memory.

“What does that have to do with Diana?” Diana was more likely a seductress than a sorceress in Felix’s opinion. Such a thing as a time loop, how could a girl so weak and childish create something like it?

Claude turned slightly, slowly toward him. “I don’t know yet myself. That is what I seek to find out. So that I can perhaps end it, for the lady at least. I don’t need anything Felix, not Diana, not my child, not my house. All I need and want is for the lady to stop suffering. I only beg you not to hinder me. When the time comes, I swear I will die on my own.”

Felix had no idea what to make of it all. Much of what Claude said seemed stilted, frantic and half thought. Yet he could not help but feel there was a certain sincerity to be had even in the worthlessness of Claude’s promise. And in any case, he was not entirely unfamiliar with the concept that Claude explained but all that it implied, he was not ready to believe. He sheathed his sword again finally and Claude turned to face him with the medicine bottle in hand. “Have you any idea why this would be in Diana’s room? It’s medicine that the lady took before.”

Felix’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “It’s used to treat severe infection. It’s not supposed to be used by just anyone who gets ill. Lady Diana should not have needed that medicine, it would take effect like poison if not administered to someone battling a harsh infection. The doctor sent one of the servants to fetch it in town.”

“Yes, but this bottle is dusty, it’s mostly emptied out and the liquid inside it has congealed. It’s been sitting here for years. The medicine inside is aromatic. It has a distinct smell, doesn’t it? The lady’s room still reeks of it even with the windows opened up. Every time I went into Diana’s room when we were young, I smelled it, I tasted it. That means she was not only taking medicine she did not need but taking it regularly.” Claude said aloud, more to himself than to Felix who had bristled at the way he implied he and Diana were. “Was she…ever even sick?”

“Of course she was. Perhaps madame gave her the wrong medicine. She would not have poisoned herself, far be it from me to defend her but she did not desire to be sick. She seemed to envy the lady for her health, as she saw it.”

“…it was the lady’s mother who administered this medicine?” Claude questioned as new pieces fell together in his mind.

“I only know that the madame came to Lady Diana before bed to give her medicine. I do not know that it was that medicine, I did not see it.” Felix paused. “What is the significance, my lord?” He asked, annoyance creeping into his tone at the extensive talk of Diana.

“I intend to find out.”

He had wished to creep into the madame’s bedroom quickly and easily but the door was locked so they’d needed to fetch the key. Claude was shocked at the amount of sway he had over the servants of a house he was not a part of for the head maid simply handed over the key when he asked for it, albeit hesitantly as though she thought she might be scolded for doing so. When he took in the room, it was tidy and rather plain by aristocracy standards. The room seemed to have a chill about it, there was a draft somewhere that made it feel colder than the other rooms.

He began to pick carefully through her things, looking in every corner of the room for anything hidden. It was all mundane, droll and typical until he reached the last drawer of a dresser that was locked. Sure enough, nine bottles of unopened medicine neatly lined into rows of three. When he tried to pull the drawer out all the way and see what more he could find, it was caught on something that had been pressed against the top. Claude reached in to feel for it and pulled down what looked to be a simple leather bound, worn and yellowing journal.

Immediately he began to read. He was a bit startled at himself when he realized that he was eager to read the contents of his mother-in-law’s mind. He wanted to know how she saw you. How she justified treating you the way she did to uplift a child that was not her’s. A pitiful part of him just wanted there to be reason. He wanted cause for the rift in the relationship. He needed to believe there was a because to your suffering.

But what he read was not as he suspected. In neat, small lettering on the first page, it chronicled her life back to when she had been perhaps 19 years old but it was dated some ten years later. A reflection on her younger self written seemingly less as a journal and more a memoir.

“The princess had always been so gracious a mistress that even her tasks sounded like gifts.

When it was her time to return to her duties in her own kingdom, she resigned to it with great grace. However, she understood that the opposite would be true of her beloved knight. This fragile man only smiled in her company, protected her with wild fervor and once told her that he felt divinely guided to her. That to him, she was the symbol of god’s forgiveness and in serving her, loving her, he saw his life’s purpose. Oh, the princess lamented to me how dark a life her knight had lived, how the blood he shed as a knight haunted him with guilt. How his father had been of a violent sort in his efforts to transform his only living child into a knight of some worth to bring more prestige to their house and in his efforts to vent his own turmoil over his wife taking up with men of far more money, status and legacy than he. Her knight resembled his mother and so became the target of the ire he could not give his wife for the great protection being a mistress to such men afforded her. His mother knew what his father did, she did not care so long as it were not her. My heart came to soften for him too, the more she told me.

He had been a quiet man, shy and quite unknowingly sweet for his reputation as a ruthlessly skilled knight. He opened up to my princess like a flower toward the sun. He loved her so madly that she knew even though it was inevitable, he never intended to be where he could not protect her and stand at her side. The princess feared that their duties as princess and heir to a county respectively would give way to the knight’s devotion. She feared he’d kill himself trying to reunite with her or simply deteriorate under the burden of his own isolation but her own life was dedicated to more than just one person. It was her nation, her home of people waiting to see her return that she could not abandon. So in her stead, she asked me to stay in the kingdom and marry him. To give him a countess and to keep watch of him for anything he might do to interfere in both their duties.

It was a great honor she had given me entrusting someone so precious to me and given me a title higher than that I had been born with, I still feel that way now but I was foolish then and I did not understand the nature of what I was being asked to do. Nor would I until after it was already done.

You see (and it does, still pain me to even write such a silly thing), I did, at the time believe that I would become close to my husband. I viewed it as a matter of course, for I was far from a home I could never return to and he had no one. We were, for each other, the last traces of the princess. Though I could never think to hope for the kind of love that he gave to the princess, I believed that commonality could be nurtured into love or kinship. I wished for someone to turn to as my heart was sinking faster than a stone the longer I spent from my home. I believed it would happen. I believed he would become someone to lean on.

Though the first months of our marriage were cold, I managed to coax him into trying to have children as was our duty. I saw this as progress both in the way of our relationship as well as keeping him from the princess. I viewed even our coldness then as a sign of something beginning. It was only once, afterward, I think he worked very hard so that I would not ask him to do it again. But even so, I found that I was with child soon. I was a stupid girl then, I believed a child was what we needed to grow closer. I brought this news to him with a smile, I must have looked like an idiot.

My husband’s expression, I can never forget it. He was horrified at this revelation. He looked at me as though I’d announced a death. He looked at me as though I had wounded him. Then his beautiful eyes sparkled with unshed tears and his expression reverted to a weak, helpless smile as he said all the right things in his wavering voice.

It was then that I realized he would never love me. He was horrified at having a child with me, it was sheer terror and dread on his face when I told him. Perhaps he thought that I would not become pregnant at all, he would have preferred it that way. I hadn’t the relationship with him to truly comfort him, to know intimately what he feared about my child. I was useless in that way.

Through the following months, my apprehension was near unbearable. I kept feeling my stomach sink in dread, I kept waking up thinking that I would be home. I kept thinking that I had done something irreparable but I could think of nothing which was actually within my control. Therefore, when I finally gave birth, my relief that it was done with was greater than my joy. But that was alright with me because I had intended to deal with things in my own way."

From there, she went on to describe her rigid attention to being a diligent countess for a few droll pages. But at last, Claude came to another thing of significance. Your father had been summoned to court for political matters regarding the civil unrest which had not been quelled with the end of the war. Your mother could not follow him and leave a newborn alone so she had no choice but to simply trust in your father. She would come to regret that.

"My princess appeared like a bolt out of the blue months later. She was dressed as a peasant and had a somewhat bashful smile on her lips. Although I had missed her, all that I could think in seeing her was, "She should not be here."

But we brought her to the study so that presumably, she would tell us why she had returned when she had surely sworn that she could not. She took off her cloak and then I understood without her needing to tell me. I saw a little bump on her otherwise thin body and I was overcome. When my husband had returned to court, he had not been officially permitted to see my princess but they had met anyway and she was now with child. She had waited until she was just about to start beginning to show in order to take leave from court on the pretense of recovering from illness at her villa in the countryside.

I had been given the task of minding him but I had clearly failed. I should have gone with him no matter what. I should have taken the chance and left my child so that I could have prevented this. But my princess looked at me as faultless and took my hands in hers to assure me that she regretted nothing. She comforted my husband who apparently also knew nothing about this pregnancy until then. She knew his fears like the back of her hand, she knew exactly how to soothe them as I hadn't. He did not even have to speak. She simply knew.

Until then, I had not known that my husband dreaded having children for fear they would be cursed and afflicted with the same moral decay that his own parents had; and because he feared that having a child would bring the same thing out of him. Even if I had known, the princess was the perfect one to comfort him. She asked him if he believed a child born of her could be wicked and of course, he said no. She spun such sugary images of their child together for him with her eyes shining with joy. She told him that their child was special, that she did not fear him becoming a parent like his own because their child would change everything about being a father for him. It surely helped that my princess was glowing as she said such things, that the excitement radiating off of her grew stronger with each passing moment. He could not deny her, could not bring himself to contradict her words because he would always believe in her even if he did not believe in himself.

It went unsaid that the princess would be entrusting the child to the both of us. I had much apprehension about taking care of two babies rather than one and the secrets to be kept piling up above me but I could not complain, it had been my job for years to make everything work. I could not stop then when my princess needed me most. In any case, her presence in the manor brought life to a place that had become so eerie to me. She was the only flame in the dark and we were huddled around her, trying to preserve an ounce of warmth within ourselves. She was joyful through her pregnancy, she could not stop talking about the baby she was to have. The more she chattered, the more excited I became too as though I had any right to be. This was true of my husband too, who tentatively felt the kicks of his child and smiled, genuinely smiled as the princess did. I could see that he loved that child.

She slept in the master bedroom with him, after he left each day, I went in to help her get ready for the day. It was though I was still her maid and I suppose I wanted to be, would rather be that than a wife. But I could not bring myself to complain. I was not unlike my husband, I viewed my duties to the princess as somewhat sacred. I was as honored as I was anxious to raise the child.

On the day Diana was born, my husband was at my princess' side the entire time, as though he could protect her as her knight again. I could only marvel at him. When I had given birth, he stood at the foot of the bed stiffly and asked me what I intended to name our daughter, if I was alright and then told me that if I needed anything to have the butler prepare it at once. After Diana was born, my princess was still beautiful, perhaps even more so in her vulnerability. She held the most beautiful baby I had ever seen, close to her chest as my husband looked down at the both of them with sheer joy. It was as though all the happiness in the world existed between those three. My Diana had been born out of love and so it was easy to love her.

I left my own daughter to the maids in favor of caring for Diana when the princess rested. Her little ruby eyes and her head of soft blonde hair captivated me. Each coo or cry had my focus in a fraction of a second.

I had not yet considered the greater implications of her birth until my princess brought it to me. Diana had been born with an inordinate affinity for magic. The princess, as a member of the royal family had the capacity of a mage, it was kept secret through the death of magic that through her bloodline were those capable of miracles. I only knew after years of my proximity to the princess. This child, born in the time of civil unrest, when the queen had not yet been blessed with a child and the civil war had still bitterly divided the houses, was capable of being seen as a potential figurehead that could be used as a pawn in a new round of rebellion.

It was for me and my husband to put her above all things. Above even our own child. That, to me, went without saying for I did love Diana as my own daughter. But the princess knew that anything could happen and she used all of the strength of her magic to cast a spell over her that would be held with Diana's own great magic. My princess nearly expended all her energy to do so. Magic, she had once told me, was seen as a weak form of power because it relied so greatly upon emotion. It was the transformation of want into will. I knew not the details of the spell which bound my mistress' daughter. All my princess said was that her precious Diana would live happily, that for all the odds against her, she still had odds in her favor."

Claude felt numb as he turned the pages. He was in shock, suddenly the environment of the room felt too harsh and stimulating but he was glued to the journal. He could not dare stop reading it no matter what truths arose. So he flipped the page and read every single entry even as his hands trembled.

From then on, it was Diana, Diana, Diana. With each entry, she recorded a measurement which he assumed was the amount of medicine administered and her symptoms. She fretted over whether it was right to give her more or to give her less. She wrote about denying Diana's requests to go outside, to go to the theatre, to do much of anything besides stay in bed. It chilled him to the bone but more than that, perplexed him. He was staring at a page where your mother had seemed to write sloppily, hurried and anxious when he heard a voice.

"Lord Claude?" It was your mother, standing in the doorway.

He looked slowly up at her, at a loss for words and unable to reconcile the cold mother she was to you with her joy at being Diana's proxy mother. Unable, still, to understand why she was poisoning the daughter she loved so much.

"My lord, you should not be in here," she said softly but in her blank expression, it was apparent that she knew what he was there for. "It will look strange to others, for you to do something like this."

"You poisoned Diana," He was keenly aware of how delicately she was trying to dance around this subject but he was unwilling to indulge her.

Your mother did not even blink. "You must understand me, Lord Claude. Please understand."

"What is there to understand? You neglect your own daughter and fawn over your husband's illegitimate daughter only to poison her."

Your mother shook her head slowly as if she could not believe what he was implying. "I love that girl," she said, moving deeper into the room and shutting the door behind her. "Diana is my little princess. She is my only daughter."

A rush of rage ran up his body, carrying an unbearable desire to hurt her. "She's not your daughter at all. She's the daughter of a woman far more beloved than you."

But your mother could only smile helplessly. "Yes, but even so, she is my daughter in heart. You must trust me when I say that Diana was hopeless before."

"Hopeless?" His brow furrowed and a cold feeling creeped up his back, extinguishing his fury and replacing it with a kind of fear for the woman in front of him. "She wasn't hopeless, she was able to wed me, to live happily." He said it not as a defense of her but as an accusation.

"That poor girl. In the first place, she already had a weak constitution, because her magic was stronger than her body but it was the perfect excuse to keep inside and away from the eyes of those who would want to hurt her. But it was my eldest daughter who kept planting false hope in her. She even sent Diana before my husband to beg him to let her go to the academy because she knew very well he could not say no to her." There was venom in her voice, a sneer on her face. Claude rose to stand slowly, not knowing what he was going to do.

"He cannot say no to Diana because he loves her so, no, he loves her mother so," she sighed. "All the other one did was cause troubles. Diana had already given up but she roused such hope in the girl, false hope, cruel hope. If she had not been able to marry you...I do not know how we would have protected her. If my daughter was still alive, everything would be ruined. It was you who saved her, my lord. That is why I beg of you, don't judge me. You know that Diana is special. You must know."

"I did not want to save her, she did not need to be saved."

She remained with that pitiful smile on her face. "My husband is weak to her. He will...he will never forgive what I've done to our- his little princess. He won't understand. He will think that I have killed my princess. You know, he almost sees them as one in the same." She reached onto her desk, picking up a letter opener. "Diana will be hurt if she knows. I ask that you let the girl live her life believing as I told her. She deserves that much. I let her believe what I did because it was in her best interest. Please take care of her."

Before he could react, your mother plunged the sharp end of the letter opener into her throat.

Next

tags: @kage-tobiuo@kreishin @rosephantomhive@yeahdrarry@splaterparty0-0 @dear-dairiesss @qluvrv @hafsuhhh @eissaaaa @ayolk @doan-19 @fourcefulcupid@ariachaos@cerisearan@irisspade@yaesflorist@jcrml@xiaosprettygf@yevenly@amaris08atoshi012022 @obsessed-with-a-fictional-man @softbummiee@cassanderasblog @waka-babe @bananatwirl@s1mp69 @mitsuyamistress @hottiewifeyyyy @reiko69 @syyyy4ever @pinkpastel-l @dododododooosworld @gwyneveire @mvoonxlightv @noisyenthusiastface @coldpeachkitten @brightykitten @worstliving

[apollogeticx]

NAVIGATION

MASTERLIST

artwork

in the night (mlp) avy jorraelan (figure skating) what could have been (mlp) on wings of moonlight (mlp) laughing jack (creepypasta) labour (fnaf) arcade (starker) choso's character study (jujutsu kaisen) the red means i love you (jujutsu kaisen) pin the tail on the pony (mlp) gojo's the feels (jujutsu kaisen)

fanfiction

chamtrails over the country club (fushiguro toji) birds of a feather | part 2 (gojo satoru) people you know (gojo satoru) say yes to heaven (gojo satoru) dumb & poetic | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 (gojo satoru) stereo hearts (gojo satoru) young and beautiful (gojo satoru) labour | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 (gojo satoru) (geto suguru)

©apollogeticx ⋆ all rights reserved.

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

A Tale of Love, Death and Maggots, part 16-G

Part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11, part 12, part 13, part 14, part 15

I paused, thinking about it. “Sure, why the hell not? I'll bite. What's the plan, Mrin?”

It made her break into a proper smile. This time I could see the cracks in it, where something that horrible and despairing lurked. “Are you alright, Mrin? You look… troubled, my love.” The last word lingered on my tongue. It tasted like the fields in summer.

“It's nothing, Doc. Nothing at all.” Mrin turned away, but I caught the flash of grief. Stronger, it was. Starker against the warmth in my chest.

“No, it's not nothing. Don't brush me off, Mrin. Not after everything we've done,” I said, grabbing her arm and pressing it to my chest. “I swear, Mrin, I'm done trying to accept my fate. I'm done trying to make my own heart freeze over. I'm done refusing to admit that I don't care about you, or Athena, or Brett.” 

I don't know when I decided that. To be honest, I hadn't quite realised it until the words flew out of my mouth. I suppose it must have been when Mrin burst into tears that night. It always did come back to her, after all. Her and that piercing gaze of hers. It revealed things I didn't know about myself.

But it was true. I was done, once and for all, of letting harm coming to the ones I loved. It was time for me to step up and be a man for once. I pressed her calloused hand to my chest. “Come on, Mrin. Tell me what's wrong. Let's face it together, no matter how horrible. Isn't that what partners are for?”

She looked down, avoiding my gaze. “I've come to a conclusion of my own, Doc. I think- I think it's time I stopped trying to make the impossible happen. I've been stuck here for what, a decade? And no matter how hard I've tried, I can't find a way to escape this place. I…”

“I don't think there is one.”

The admission made her voice crack, and she yanked her hand from my chest as though I'd stabbed her. “Fuck, that hurts to say aloud. But it's the truth, isn't it? There's just no way out. We're stuck here. Doomed.”

It was the opposite of my decision. “Mrin…”

“No! It's pointless, don't you get it?! It's so… so accursedly unfair of you to say something like ‘I love you', right when I've made my choice! I admired you, Doc. I admired how stoic you were. I tried so, so fucking hard to stay calm in the face of everything. I tried so hard not to care. I tried to be like you, and just as I succeed, you do this?!”

She shook, though with rage or grief, I could not tell. “You stupid bastard. You and Athena and Brett, you've all left me no choice.”

“I've got to save you all. Even if it means killing myself.”

“Mrin, what the hell are you talking about?” I tried to reach out again, and she gave me an infuriated look. 

“Run the numbers, Doc. I'm never going to be happy here. I don't want to spend my life chasing something that will never come to pass. It's all so pointless. Pointless, I tell you.”

“You're repeating yourself again, Mrin.” Even as I said it, I knew it was useless. We really were doomed to repeat our mistakes. This conversation had been the lead-up to Athena's death, and it was gonna be the lead-up to Mrin's too. I felt that mantle of despair settle about my shoulders, unavoidable as ever. 

Yet I had to try anyways, didn't I? Wasn't that what I'd told her just now? Damn, this trying thing was hard. It was hard to get arms to move when they'd stayed still for so long, hard to get the ball rolling when it'd been gathering moss for forever, hard to try when it was so much easier to just not. But I had to. For Athena, who I hadn't reached out to in time. For Brett, who I could have saved if I'd been less of a fool. 

For Mrin, who I still had. Who I would lose. Who I couldn't lose, not when we'd admitted the truth to each other.

“It's not pointless, Mrin. You're a fool if you believe that.”

(Character development!!!)

Taglist: @coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch

@tragedycoded, @finickyfelix, @urnumber1star, @ratedn, @ramwritblr

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west, @differentnighttale

@evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms, @xenascribbles

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable, @paeliae-occasionally, @an-indecisive-nerd, @thecomfywriter

@seastarblue, @wyked-ao3

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[starkerfestivals]

Hello!

Introducing our February event, we have a Secret Starker Valentines Event!

Info:

This is an exchange event. We accept fanfics, fanart, and gifsets/Moodboards.

Minimums:

Fanfic: 2000 1000 words

Fanart: Lineart

Gifsets/Moodboards/Other Edits: 9 images

The schedule will be as follows:

Sign Up Form Opens: 01/13 - 01/19 11:59 PM PST

Assignments will be given out: 01/19-01-20

Duration: 01/20-02/25 11:59 PM PST

From 2/25-2/28, pinchhitters will be contacted and assigned if necessary

Posting Date 🎉🎉: 02/29

How This Works:

1. To join the Secret Starker Valentines Event, please sign up using the form below.

You will be asked to provide 3 prompts to be given to another participant who will be chosen to create content for you. (These prompts can be as generalized or as detailed as you want but please keep in mind that someone else will be creating a gift for you so being too general or too specific may cause difficulties)

2. Once the form is closed, each participant will be given the prompts for another participant.

Only one work is needed to complete this event so you may choose 1/3 of the prompts.

3. During the duration of the event, the mods will reach out twice before the due date. These check-ins are just to check the progress. You do not need to be done with your gift when we send these check-in messages 🎁

4. Due Date: Your gift is officially due on this date.

5. Posting Date: On 2/29, you may officially post your gift! We will have a How to Post for this event a week before 2/29.

We hope you join us in our February event! Feel free to DM any of the mods or send in an ask to the blog if you have any questions.

[thestarkerisobvious]

Saltburn - A Starker Story (With Footnotes)

This is a spoiler-free story, starring Starker, with amazing art by @mrstarksbaby Enjoy.

Peter’s father has a title.(1)  Peter’s family lives in a castle.(2)

Throughout Oxford(3), that is what people say about him.  The first thing they say about him.  Sometimes the only thing they say about him.  His father has a title.  His family lives in a castle.  What else would you need to know?

Unless, of course, you talked to Peter.  Then you would find out a few more things.

Like how his mother had been a ridiculously famous groupie, knowing all the bands that had been hot in London in the 90’s, to the point that she had songs written about her(4).  Like how his father would throw lavish parties for almost-strangers, just to give him an excuse to wear his family’s armor.  Like how his parents were so comically out-of-touch with the real world they had once asked him “where Liverpool was located.”(5)

He would also tell you about the many other people that lived at Saltburn.  And, if you were VERY special, he might tell you about Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark was an employee of the family, but in many ways he was a family friend as well.  It was often that way when people worked together for decades.  Peter’s father trusted Mr. Stark with his life, and with Peter’s life as well.  Technically Mr. Stark's title was “Head Butler.”  Which is why the family called him “Anthony.”  It was customary for the royalty to call the help by their first name, and the help to call the family by their last name.  Only Peter insisted, even as an adult, on calling the trusted man “Mr. Stark.”  It sounded overly formal, but it was completely the opposite.  Peter trusted Mr. Stark more than any other human being on earth.(6)

And with good reason.  It was Mr. Stark that saw that Peter wasn’t doing well at school, not because of his title, but because of his brain.  It was Mr. Stark that convinced the family that Peter SHOULD graduate a year early - that the challenge of the extra coursework would help Peter thrive where he had been floundering.  It was Mr. Stark who convinced the family to let Peter take a math track,(7) rather than try to fulfill any vague artistic dreams his mother once had for him.  Yes, the boy had the soul of a poet, but the mind of an engineer.  A mind that would be be so much happier with a practical degree.(8)  

And so Peter excels at school.  You should know that about him.  You should know that he went to Oxford a year early.  And that he loves every minute of his studies. (9)

But not of going to university.  Peter is a real brain, and a complete softy, but no one ever sees that.  His cousin MJ never lets him forget, or lets anyone forget, that he has a title and lives in a castle.  Peter MUST be a careless snobby playboy partier because everyone in the upper-upper-crust crowd is a careless snobby playboy partier and Peter, well, Peter fits in with everyone in the upper-upper-crust.   (But that’s not really who Peter is.  Peter is a dreamer.  An artist.   A photographer.  But only Mr. Stark knows that about Peter.  Only he encourages it.)

Peter is not happy at Oxford. (10)

Enter Quentin. (11)

Quentin seems to be everywhere for Peter.  (12)  There when Peter gets a flat tire while biking (13) to school.  There when Peter needs a real conversation (14) while all his friends were doing shots.  There when Peter needs someone to answer the question “Tell me about yourself.”

And so the year at Oxford goes on.  Things are good.  Quentin makes a good mate and Peter makes good marks and MJ doesn’t get too toxic when Peter doesn’t spend his every weekend partying with her friends.  And Peter keeps Tony updated about everything and looks forward to break. (15)

But as the year comes to a close, tragedy strikes.  Quentin’s family seems to have imploded - but the solution seems simple!  Peter will simply invite Quen to Saltburn to stay the summer!  It seems like a great idea - to have his new friend at his side all summer.  And Peter is happy.  Happy that he can help Quen now, the same way Quen helped him in his time of need.  He’s thrilled!! His mother, as batty and clueless as she is, is thrilled!  His father is not bothered!  Even MJ, in her condescending muted way, seems to not-hate it…  

Everyone is happy!!!

Except Mr. Stark.

Peter can’t explain it.  But Mr. Stark is being odd.  Awful.  Mean.  Cold to Quen, hostile, even.  Peter can’t explain it.  Mr. Stark had always been wonderful to him… (16)

Quen is saying Mr. Stark hates him because he is the “common man.”  Not that kind of person that “belongs at Saltburn.”  Peter can’t stand the idea.  He “orders” Mr. Stark to “stop being so dreadful” to Quen.  Sometimes he acts like it’s a joke and laughs it off.  But mostly Peter just pretends it isn’t happening.  Quentin is his friend.  Quentin understands Peter.  That’s why Peter gave Quen the room next to him.

That’s why they were sharing a bathroom. (17)

Okay, the TRUTH is, Peter was really trying to seduce Quentin.  Only… he was bad at it. (18)

VERY bad at it.  As in… Quen seemed to be hitting on… MJ?! Only MJ wasn’t having it!?! Only they were like… a couple now?  Or something?!?!

Peter was NOT happy.

How could he be?

He thought his dream had just come true.  He has a FRIEND(19) at Saltburn.  A friend to spend the summer with.(20) A friend that MIGHT… just might… help him with his little problem. (21)

Except…

Except Mr. Stark does not like Quentin.  At all.  Keeps being cold to Quen.  Mean to Quen. Actively.   In ways that cannot be denied, cannot be ignored.  Seems to always be appearing in odd places, rarely giving the boys any time alone to themselves.  Keeps appearing at Quen’s shoulder saying cryptic, menacing things.  “People get lost at Saltburn”  Mr. Stark had said.  Whatever that meant.  And Peter didn’t know what to do. 

He had hoped this summer would turn out to be like a movie, like a Romantic Comedy, or at least like an 80’s Sex Romp.   But it is quickly shaping up to be a tragedy.  (22)

-------------------------------------------

footnotes below

-------------------------------------------

1  Sir.  Peter’s father is a knight.  With an actual suit of armor.

2  Saltburn

3  A college he did NOT choose for himself.  But going to Oxford was his only option.  It was Oxford or nothing, a shameful secret that Peter has always resented.  

4  See Common People, Pulp 

5  But if you ever said “But Peter, you’re so down-to-earth!” he would go on to explain the influence of his aunt and uncle.  Who lived, along with so many other family members, at Saltburn.  He would explain how his aunt and uncle in essence raised him while his mother continued to globetrot and hob-nob with the famous elite as if she had never had children, or even had married, at all.  He would explain how, when his uncle Ben died, his adulthood had really begun.  It was the first time Peter had taken a hard look around him and made some decisions.  Some decisions about who he wanted to be.

There was another man, an older man, who had a great deal of influence on Peter.  A man who had worked at Saltburn on and off for decades, appearing and reappearing in Peter’s life for as long as he could remember.  That man had taken up permanent residence at Saltburn the year Peter had graduated high school, and had given him the courage he had needed to make his own demands about how his college education would proceed.  Everyone in Peter’s life knew that Peter was going to Oxford if he went to college, but only Peter knew that it almost didn’t go to college at all.  But Peter had a secret - a man with a superpower.  A man who could help him.

6 Like the fact that Peter DID NOT LIKE GIRLS.  It was Mr. Stark (who Peter called Tony, but only in private.  Only behind closed doors) that convinced Peter it was a simple fact that he would be able to speak out loud in time.  Convinced Peter that his parents were so much more open minded about these issues than Peter realized (after all, Mr. Stark knew Peter’s parents well.)  It was Tony that Peter confessed his secret to first, as well as his plan.  To tell the world.  Eventually.  After a year or two at Oxford.   At least.

7  Because Tony KNOWS Peter.  Knows what he’s REALLY like.  What he REALLY likes. How he doubts himself.  Completely.  Constantly.  What he wants to be in life.  What he finds attractive in a man.  Yes, Tony knows everything.   

8  And would that be SO BAD??!!  To have a REAL job?  To be an engineer, or an inventor?  Or an innovator?  To have his own career, his own flat, his own life?  (He wouldn’t live alone, of course.  That would be too scary.  He would bring someone with him from Saltburn, of course.  Someone to live with him.  Someone he trusted.)

(Like Tony.)

9  Well, he loves STUDIES.  But class ends eventually.  You have to stop studying EVENTUALLY.  Put down the pencil.  Shut the book.  THAT'S when the problem begins - when the tightness begins - when the low-grade panic starts.  But Peter ALWAYS knows the cure for that - the balm for that.  THAT'S when he turns to his superhero.  That’s when he gets out a sharp pencil and a clean piece of paper.  And he starts to write  a letter to Tony.

10  SO WHY IS HE STILL AT OXFORD?!  WHY has he not run scared, run back home, run back to safety?  How can he find the strength to get out of bed every day?  To walk out of the door every day??  Because of Tony.  Because of his superhero.  That’s why.

Because Tony writes back.  Constantly.  Weekly.  Sometimes DAILY.  And - hell - let's just admit it - sometimes the letters are not enough and Peter CALLS HIM ON THE PHONE.  And Tony tells him it will be okay.  He can stay.  He can study.  And then Tony starts to ask Peter about his classes, and then they are talking about maths again, and then it's all okay.  Peter is okay.  Because school is a GOOD thing.  It is a hard thing, but Peter can do hard things.  And because, when break comes, Peter can see Tony again.

And when those phone calls last long into the dark night, well, no one needs to know about that.  About what happens after Peter says goodbye to Tony, after he hangs up the phone.  About what Peter dreams about at night.  About what Peter’s hands do in the darkness, while his ears still echo with the sound of Tony’s voice.  

11 …with his stupid soulful eyes and his stupid handsome face.  Peter doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him or punch him in his stupid beautiful face.

12  Really, it DID seem like Quentin was everywhere.  Now that Peter knew his name, he realized he had seen Quen just about everywhere at Oxford.  Funny how life throws you together sometimes.

13  Oh god, that flat tire.  Peter was nothing without his bicycle.  MJ and his mates would forever give him grief about it, but Peter didn’t drive.  He had always been a year younger than everyone, and now he was two years behind, and driving was something that had always been done for his parents, not something that his parents did.  But he had no fear, as long as he had his bike.

It would be different in the future, he knew.  Tony had assured him that driving an automobile was not the mystery his parents made it out to be.  Peter was smart (Tony said) and once Peter saw how it was done he would wonder why it had ever intimidated him.

Besides, Tony would teach him.

Just like Tony had taught him how to take care of his bike.  Taught him how to take it apart and put it back together again.  When you saw Tony in his official suit, you would never imagine what a “grease monkey” he had been in his youth.  In his private time he liked to tinker with cars.  Peter would never forget last summer when he had been allowed to sit in the spare garage and talk to Tony while Tony tinkered.  Never forget what Tony looked like with his arms almost bare, his biceps bulging, sweat caressing his brow.  Peter would remember that forever.

And Tony would actually teach Peter to drive, he was sure about it.  That had been a promise.  Peter thought about it often (mostly at night.)  How Tony had pulled him into a friendly hug, Tony smelling of sweat and oil and something else… something… sturdy.  Something strong.  As if the man were made out of iron.

That’s when Tony had hugged Peter hard, clapped him on the back, and said “I’m your man, Kid.”  

(He called Peter “Kid.”  He was the only one allowed to call Petter “Kid.”)

“I’m your man, Kid,” he had said.  Whispered, really.

“When you’re ready, I’ll teach you how to drive.  I’ll teach you anything you want.”

He let go of Peter then, clapping him on both shoulders one more time.  Letting his hands rest there for longer than a moment.

“When you’re ready.”

14  And while Quen could sometimes be invasive (sometimes annoyingly so) the man was a good conversationalist.  Peter could talk to him for hours.  And Quentin was well-read in all kinds of subjects.  Really, anything Peter had latched onto, anything that caught his interest for a week or two that semester, Quentin always knew a lot about it.  Whatever it was.  It was uncanny, really.

15   Although when Peter DOES get home there won’t be any more letters from Tony.  Which is funny, really.  Peter loves those letters.  Tony sometimes fills them with sketches of Saltburn - the towers or the gardens.  And sometimes with sketches of Peter.  “But I know what *I* look like - I see myself in the mirror every day” Peter complains.  “Send me pictures of YOU.”  And Tony does.  Sends a single sketch of himself.  In the sketch he is looking down.  Looking tired.  Looking a little guilty.  But Peter likes to imagine Tony is looking down at something that has his complete attention.  Something important. 

Something like… Peter.

Yes, Peter likes looking at that picture of Tony at night.  In the darkness.  And then when he touches himself, he imagines his hands are Tony’s hands.  Callused, but gentle.  Knowing.  But commanding as well…

16 …always gentle.  Always helpful.  Always honest.  Because that’s what Tony WAS to Peter… the man who would cut through the bullshit.  Cut through the pretension.  Tell him the truth.

17   Because… and this was STUPID but… but Peter had a fantasy.

In that fantasy, he was done with university.  He had his degree.  He had freed himself, finally, from his family.  And then, with his new career, with his new flat, with his new suit… he rang up Anthony.  

Took him out.  Took him on the town.  They went to a pub together, took in a show.  And then they talked.  Talked like men.  Talked like equals.

And then Peter took Tony home, and invited Tony into his bed.

As men.

As equals.

Only… only that’s where the fantasy abruptly ended.  Because there was exactly one problem.  

WHY would Tony go to bed with Peter if Peter was still a virgin??

And that’s where Quen came in.

Peter had a pesky problem, and he had set out to find another man to take care of that problem.  And Quentin was that man.  Peter had decided.  This would be the summer - the summer that Peter lost his v-card and became a man.  The kind of man that could take Tony Stark as a lover.

18  AND HOW COULD HE BE SO BAD AT IT?!?  He thought he had made it CLEAR to Quen that he was ready.  That he was just waiting for Q to make his move.  I mean, how more obvious could Peter be?!?  How many forehead kisses, blowing-kisses, and goodnight kisses, and jokes about oral sex, and late-night drinking games, would it take?  Peter was being obvious, wasn’t he?  He had given Q an adjoining bedroom.  He had all but invited Quen to watch him bathe.  He slept every night with his door open!  What more did Quen want?  An engraved invitation?? 

19 Okay maybe not so much “friend” as “boy I am using for one thing and one thing only” but hey.  Friends used Peter all the time.  And no matter what Quentin was, he certainly wasn’t hard to look at.

20  And it was going to be so perfect!  Peter had it all planned out - he would tell Q that he spent every summer sunbathing - just like they did in France - completely in the nude.  And then he and Quen would go shirtless and lay about on lawn furniture getting tanned.  Shirtless - and eventually more than that.  Peter had wanted so badly to do that last summer - and this time he would get up the nerve. To position himself outside the Great Hall window where Tony had his office.  To take off his shirt - and maybe more - where Tony would certainly look out and see him.  See his new, adult body.  Realize that Peter was a man, now.  A man to take seriously.  A man that might want another man in his bed…

21  And okay dammit this was a big problem because that meant that PETER WAS STILL A VIRGIN HOW WAS THIS STILL A THING?!?!?!?  Life was so damn unfair.

22  And, okay, maybe everyone is right.  Maybe Quen does NOT belong here.  Maybe everyone can see what Peter has been denying.  Maybe Q IS too eager to please.  Too eager to fit in.  A little too obvious, too clunky, with his manipulation.  But DAMMIT QUEN WAS JUST A MEANS TO AN END and Peter really REALLY can’t figure out WHY would Tony be mean to THIS particular classmate?!  Dammit Peter just wanted to get laid…

At the dock MJ had demanded to know what was going on with Peter.  Actually accused him of being in love with Quentin.  Which was ridiculous - he wasn’t even 100% he would call Quentin a friend.  Quentin was, at best, a study partner.  He had invited Quen to Saltburn because of all the things he was going through at home… come on Quen’s dad having just died and his mom being a mess and…

Oh all right, let's be honest.  He doesn’t even like Quentin that much.  He brought Quentin back here because he thought Quentin had the hots for him.  But in the end, Quentin is just one thing to Peter - a warm body.  A warm body with a stiff cock, which Peter needs.  

Because many things got “lost” at Saltburn, but…

… Peter’s virginity wasn’t going to get lost by itself.

[lanyakea-universe]

Starker

Ten things Peter loves about Tony:

1) Tony

2) Making love with him

3) His ramblings

4) His smell

5) Feeling his beard against his skin, especially when they're kissing

6) The fondness in his eyes when Tony looks at him

7) His scars

8) His vain attempts to prepare an edible breakfast

9) The taste of his semen

10) His silly jokes

[spiderlinging]

heyy im new to the starker fandom and i need some good fics. any recommendations?

Hello Anon! Firstly, welcome! I would love to give you some fic recs

Full disclosure, all of my recs are either E or M because that's just the kind of person I am. So, I apologize greatly if you were looking for something less than smutty. But! If you're all good with the smut, then buckle up!

These are in no particular order because I would drive myself insane trying to rate them.

Canon & Canon Divergent:

From Thy Bounty by feyrelay, natureboy (natureboi)

2. Literally anything from Anonymous with the tag "author has already arranged a ride to church trust me"

3. Soft Kitty by Layora88

4. attached by pleurer

5. we will never return to closing doors by littlelocaldreamer

6. The Catfish Chronicles by stfustucky (iwillpaintasongforlou)

7. Waiting For You by ValkyrieShepard

8. here is my hand, my heart by belatrix

9. when the sun came up (you were looking at me) by charonsdescent

10. Scaling the Walls by Starker1975

11. For the Cameras by LearnedFoot

Alternate Universe

1. Genius, Acrobat, Playboy, Philanthropist (Circus AU) by scarletmanuka

2. Detentions and Sugar Quills (Harry Potter AU) by preromantics

3. Make It Last (Mob AU) by TwoKinkyBeans

4. Flipping through the phone book, trying to find your name (Soulmates AU) by curv

5. Brewing Love (Harry Potter AU) by Sparcina

6. Intertwined (Hanahaki Disease AU) by RedLink

7. so we can all Reborn by RoamingSignals

Last but hopefully not least, I've written some stuff myself, which can be found here. Nothing to write home about, but I'm pitching them anyway!

I'm sure there's plenty more amazing fics that are slipping my mind at the moment, but hopefully this helps you start your journey into the wonders of Starker!

[therulerofallpotatos]

Fic Tag Game

Tagged by: @wincestation, @realisticintentions, @realmermaid333, @cosmic-lullaby, @suchaladyy, @beri-allen

1. How many works do you have on Ao3?

149

2. What's your Ao3 word count?

361,707 words.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Wednesday currently. Teen Wolf for six years. Harry Potter, Hannibal, Thorki, Starker, Twilight (Bella/Carlisle and Bella/Aro), The Umbrella Academy (not that i got very far before getting obsessed with wyler), and Madrigalcest (Primarily Brumira)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

Overall?

Fuck It (Steter, Teen Wolf, 3,396)

When it Needs Fixing (Steter, Teen Wolf, 3,339)

Hostile Takeover (Steter, Teen Wolf, 2,781)

Absolution (Steter, Teen Wolf, 2,691)

Wandering in the Dark (Steter, Teen Wolf, 2,250)

In Wednesday?

Her Monster (Wyler, 708)

Hold Me Close (Wyler, 593)

Revelations (Wyler, 499)

Warning, She Bites (Wyler, 464)

Impressing Wednesday Addams (Wyler, 387)

5. Do you respond to comments?

Sometimes. I reply when I have something meaningful to add. Otherwise it'd get very repetitive and generic and that kind of soulless connection isn't really the point of this kind of thing. I adore my comments nonetheless and I read them a lot.

6. What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hold on. I gotta skim my list.

update: i do not remember some of these fics or what happened in them

Maybe Modi the Brave (MCU, Thorki). This was an angsty fanfic of a fanfic. There was a happy ending in the original fic, The Rescue by madwriter223

I'm not counting Absolution because it was immediately followed by a sequel. But technically, it did get me the most angry sobbing comments which i treasure to this day.

The Final Straw was angsty but it was also dumb and half-cocked and the closest thing to an embarrassment on this account. It was literally just a half-thought half-scene of my 18yo self's emotional state in 2018 that is very evident that I wrote this angrily in study hall. I wrote a lot of fic in that high school during classes. Like a lot. It was my school computer. I got plenty of use out of it. There was no structure or coherent plot. I didn't even hint at anything deeper to be explored in your own minds. I didn't want to look at it long enough or think about it long enough. I just wanted it out of my head. If I didn't have a strict no deleting my works policy, or hiding from my past art policy, I would probably have deleted it within the week of posting. I do not understand how it has the kudos, subscriptions, and bookmarks that it has. I guess it resonated. Good for y'all. I mean it.

Literally just the entirety of Tyler's Bad Year is meant to be about a very traumatic time in a young man's life and him surviving it. I'm not going to go through them and try to pick out "the worst" one. That's not really the point and it'd be largely subjective.

I'll Eat You Raw has an angsty ending but angstiest? I'm not sure.

I don't write a lot of bad endings. Open endings? sure. Complicated endings? Absolutely. But unhappy endings? No. I don't often have the desire.

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Jesus fuck we want to be here all day? Ok lemme look through shit again.

Wandering in the Dark has a whole story behind it. There was actually two versions. Only one was posted to ao3 and is the "canon" version. I wrote this fic for a high school assignment my senior year. We were assigned to pick a chronic disease out of a literal hat, then write a story around it. We had complete creative control so I took that chance to write teen wolf steter fanfic in class and actually have it be on task for once (I got an A in that class btw). The reason my teacher got a dark ending version is because by the time he got back to me on the maximum word count, I'd already finished the canon version and it was way too long. I couldn't trim the fat, so I wrote a different ending to shorten the story. That version is one of the angstier stories I've written. The one posted and linked above, is the very happy by comparison. This fic is also designed to be read by someone who doesn't know shit about teen wolf.

Through Thick and Thin was also extremely happy. As is Her Monster. Benevolent Gods was meant to be very hopeful. The Hale Pack (Undying) was the end to a series that was my baby for a long time . Like long enough you can see my writing evolve as you go. Part one was one of the first things i ever wrote. Like ever. The last part was years later. Jasper was meant to be a very light-hearted, happy story as well. It's extremely sweet and fluffy. You was also very happy and the epilogue cemented that happiness. Warning: She Bites literally had a happy end that unknowingly prevented a main character committing suicide in the near future. Saving lives by being horny. Wednesday Evening, and every installment in that series, is excessively happy as well.

Alright I ran through my list of fics. These were the ones that stood out. There's too many to really commit to one answer tbh. Especially because the way they're happy varies.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not really. Or. Well. I'm sure I do. I block antis on sight and I wholly reject purity culture, and I haven't really been the target of a major attack or anything. I don't get as many hateful comments as one might think, and I don't entertain the ones I do get. I've been accused of vile shit of course because of a fic I wrote. I don't remember what fic or even what ship it was for because I don't dwell on them really at all. Aside from that, I get more entitled but probably ignorant to how they come off as entitled comments that aren't really that big a deal. Just a bit of a peeve sometimes. I honestly think the majority of them truly believe it's a kind gesture when they say it.

9. Do you write smut? What kind?

Yeah. You could say that.

What kind? In a word? Intense. I could make a joke or a long elaboration on my niche in hyde sex and whatnot, but at the end of the day, intense. Even my most laid back, domestic, slice of life fics have a sense of intensity to them because otherwise I get bored and it feels soulless and it's just not my writing style.

10. Do you write cross-overs?

When I feel like it. When I have an idea.

11. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! I have a steter fic on a russian fic website that was translated years ago. I have no idea which it was or if it's still there. Wait! I might remember. Yeah no. I don't remember. It wasn't the one I thought of.

12. Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

No. I've started to outline one before but it went nowhere and we both forgot about it.

13. What WIP you would like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

Harry Potter and the Night that Changed Everything.

I had a whole novel basically planned for it. Writing Bellatrix and a Harry who was raised by Bellatrix took a lot out of me emotionally, and I lost steam.

Also, a Bella Swan/Marcus Vulturi fic that i also had a novel length plot planned out, wrote three chapters for, and then lost steam when I left the fandom due to getting the life sucked out of me by a bunch of toxic people in the fandom killing my joy. Those chapters are just collecting dust in my files right now. I'd like to go back to it one day and finish it in some form or another. Maybe it's original enough I could actually just write an original novel out of the scraps I already have. Actually, to be honest, it is probably original enough that I could write it as an original story. There is not a lot of Twilight there that is necessary to the story and can easily be written out. Something to think about maybe. Ironically not the first prompt I thought up initially for Twilight that I then realized nothing about Twilight was necessary for the idea I had, and I just wrote it without Bella entirely. This is how my original zombie novel started and then immediately evolved into an entirely different thing that has nothing to do w Twilight. Like literally nothing. I had to work to put the Twilight into that one. Not the other way around.

14. What's your all-time favourite ship?

wyler (steter and tomarry honorary).

15. What are your writing strengths?

Dialogue and characterization

16. What are your writing weaknesses?

pacing. movement heavy scenes. Longer projects if only because I have less practice at them.

17. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Yeah. If it fits, I'll write it. I won't pretend to be fluent, but I'll do my best. Probably won't do anything too complicated for the sake of realism of my abilities. Especially if it's not Spanish which I at least have spent time trying to learn.

18. First fandom you wrote for?

Teen Wolf

19. Favourite fic you've ever written?

Listen...

We've established how well I am at picking one end all number one.

Fuck ok. back to the list.

Water of the Womb was one I was planning to write for almost a year and it turned out pretty good I think. Actually no.

No. It's not a fic that's been posted yet.

I think the favorite fic I've ever written is I Bit Him So He's Mine. it's my "Wednesday is a Hyde season one rewrite au". It's my first novel that is more than just a future novel. It's hit 40k and I have to start Act 2 still. It's my first proper murder mystery where the mystery is the primary plot equal to the romance. I've had a lot of fun with it, I've put my heart and soul into it, and I really look forward to calling it ready to post. Once it's done, you guys are getting regular updates for a long time.

20. What fic would you want to rewrite one day?

Out of the Fire haunts me. It was a lesson to learn. I had the desire to write a steter/hannigram crossover and zero plan of any kind outside that. It crashed and burned because I only had a first chapter in me. I recently met a local and successful author who recognized my ao3 username because of this fic and remembered me years later enough to compliment my writing (I cannot express how much that meant to me). Wait no that might have been Mark of an Angel which also haunts me, but I didn't have zero plan. I had almost no plan, and lost steam when I hit a creative block at a bad time. Normally, I'd have just sat down and workshopped a starter outline and wrote myself out of that block, but I lost steam so I never did. Different deal. Not as impactful in my creative journey. Out of the Fire, however, was very important to me because of why it failed, and remains very influential with every new project I start. Actually rewriting/finishing that project would be a defining moment for me as a writer, I think. At least to me personally.

Tagging: @duplicitywrites, @dispatchvampire, @dark-visitors, @fiktorsempra, @graciebirdie, @gardenoblues, @grim-reaper-barbie13, @gabelish, @killingdoll, @lavender-lotion, @lovepoison9, @wednesdayandherhyde, @udunie, @itshype, @insomniac1994, @onlyangelxo, @obsidianpen, @ourdramaqueen, @persephoneed, @pororoh, @badmoodbatflowers, @brascu

[babybatscreationsv2]

Upskirt ch6

Marvel | Starker

Someone has been taking pictures up Peter's skirt when he's not looking and poor Peter has found their blog.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Warnings and tags below

Warnings and tags: femboy!Peter, public sex, teacher/student, romnoncon, spanking, threesome, thigh fucking, face fucking

The weekend dragged on for much too long. Peter did his best to use his free time to get caught up on homework and studying, but he just kept thinking about his teacher. He checked the blog a million times a day, but there were no new pictures. He half expected there to be one of him with Tony's cum on his face. He'd definitely taken one. Peter supposed it would get them both into trouble if someone recognized his face. Covering your student in cum was definitely a firing offense if not a crime.

He was up early Monday morning. He told his aunt he would most likely be late again before running out the door. His heart raced all the way down the street and onto the subway platform. It was the usual morning crowd full of barely awake zombie faces. Everyone sipped coffee or scrolled on their phones. The train pulled up and they squeezed their way on. Peter didn't see Mr. Stark anywhere, but he rarely did. Still he was disappointed. He need it.

The subway began to move along and that's when Peter spotted Mr. Stark standing a few spots ahead. His teacher looked back and met his eye. He shot him a wink that he felt in his groin. He didn't seem interested in pushing his way through to Peter. It was even worse to have seen him and still not get what he wanted, but maybe he could volunteer to stay after to help 'grade homework'.

Peter jumped as someone touched him. A curious hand fondled his ass through his skirt. He stared at the back of his teacher's head across the train. Did he know? Was that why he looked back at him?

When he didn't pull away, that hand grew bolder just as Mr. Stark once had. It slipped under his skirt and calloused knuckles ran over the curve of his ass where it stuck out the bottom of his panties. Peter licked his lips. He wanted him to touch him he needed it. Whoever this person was, they didn't seem to have the same reservations Mr. Stark had started with. They reached between his legs, forcing him to shift his feet apart, and palmed his cock rubbing and squeezing as if he were some sort of toy.

They played with him for a while, getting him fully hard and embarrassingly close, before stopping. Their hands traced his waist up to his chest and found his nipples under his shirt. His mouth dropped open, but he choked back the squeal that almost escaped. They pinched and tugged and it had Peter humping the air and desperate.

Mr. Stark looked back and watched him for a moment with amusement. He'd definitely set this up, whoever it was. Peter swallowed. Mr. Rogers? Mr. Stark had promised to call him after their talk about how fuckable he was. He was so rough and Mr. Stark was so mean and if the two of them didn't give him the nastiest spit roasting possible he would going to simply die.

As the train reached its stop, the hands went away. Peter stood, panting, nipples hard under his shirt and cock aching in his panties. When it came time to move, he was stuck until the person behind him nudged him forward.

He didn't look back. Not until he reached the front of the school. Sure enough, Mr. Stark was walking and talking with Mr. Rogers. They spotted him and Mr. Stark grinned while Mr. Rogers looked hungry. Peter almost wanted to laugh. If Mr. Stark wasn't going to fuck him, Mr. Rogers definitely would. He looked like he wanted to throw him down on the sidewalk and fuck him like a dog.

Now he had two classes that he could barely survive. Mr. Roger's class was early in the morning. The man acted like he didn't know Peter existed, but Peter's nipples were still hard under his shirt from where he'd touched him. Or maybe they'd hardened up when he came into the room. He wasn't sure. He couldn't think straight. Mr. Stark's class wasn't any better. He didn't take in a word being said. He was busy remembering the taste of his cock.

At the end of the day, he ran back to Mr. Stark's room. The room was empty. Peter stood beside, Mr. Stark's desk. It was just the same old desk that had always been there, but now looking at it just made him horny.

The classroom door closed. Peter jumped, quickly turning around. Mr. Rogers stood by the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

"How long have you been letting strangers molest you in public?" he asked. He didn't hide the disgust his voice. As if he wasn't the one who had done the 'molesting'. Peter's face burned. He didn't know how to answer that, but it sure seemed like the man expected an answer.

"I uh..."

His eyebrows raised. His arms dropped. He marched across the room with heavy steps backing Peter into the desk. His hand gripped his chin. "You are a little slut aren't you? I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt. Thought you were sweet, but you're not are you?"

Peter whimpered. He seemed so angry. Like Peter's lack of morals was a personal affront. He wanted to argue that the teacher was really no better, but he couldn't find his voice. Mr. Roger's grabbed his wrist and Peter flinched. He brought it to his crotch and pressed Peter's palm against his erection.

"That's what you do to the grown men who see you bouncing around like somebody's toy. You've got us all walking around thinking the most disgusting thoughts about you and you love it don't you?" He let go of Peter's wrist. His knuckles trailed up his thigh and under his skirt. "Well... it's my job to teach you after all."

He let go of Peter's chin to turn him around. He pushed down on his back, bending him over the desk. His arm knocked over Mr. Stark's pens and they rolled across the floor. One hand held the back of his neck. He shivered at the sound of a belt coming undone.

Finally.

He was so ready for it. He was starving. Mr. Rogers grabbed the bottom of his skirt and flipped it up around his waist, but rather than a hand pulling down his panties he felt the cool leather of the man's belt touching his thigh.

Peter jumped as he heard the door click. The hand on his neck kept him from moving.

"Started without me? And I invited you to my party," Mr. Stark said.

"I'm just doing my civic duty and teaching the youth."

"He's a really slow learner. You're gonna need some help making sure the lesson sticks."

"Could use some help making sure the rest of the staff don't come running."

Mr. Stark chuckled. "I have just the thing."

He heard the sound of another belt coming undone. Mr. Rogers manhandled him until he his head could hang off the side of the desk. Mr. Stark walked around, pants hanging open, stroking his cock. Peter licked his lips. The teacher smirked.

"You know what to do don't you?"

Peter opened his mouth as he came close. He moaned as his teacher's cock filled up his mouth. And screamed when Mr. Rogers struck his ass with the belt.

"Perfect," Mr. Stark sighed. He pushed himself into Peter's throat. Tears welled in his eyes as he choked. Mr. Stark wiped them away while a grin.

"Never took you for a sadist," Mr. Rogers commented.

"Me? No, I just love teaching my favorite student how to be a more upstanding citizen."

Mr. Rogers scoffed. "Sure, Stark."

"Isn't that what you're doing?"

"Of course." He struck him again with the belt and Peter squealed. Mr. Stark kept his cock in his mouth, though it didn't actually do much to quiet him, while Mr. Rogers spanked him. His ass heated up quickly, stinging more and more and with each strike of the belt until he thought it had to be bleeding, but when his teacher stopped and ran his hands over his ass he didn't feel any broken skin.

Mr. Rogers knelt behind him and pulled down his panties. "Nice and red," he mused. "Have you learned your lesson yet, Peter?"

He tried to say yes, but his mouth was too stuffed. Mr. Stark just laughed. "I think he wants more, Steve."

A hand palmed his sore flesh. "I think so, too." Rough hands spread his ass open. Peter jumped and then moaned as his teacher's tongue swiped over his hole.

"Oh he loved that, listen to him," Mr. Stark said. He slowly fucked his mouth while Mr. Rogers ate him out. It felt so good, that tongue pressing over his hole, running around his rim, running down over his taint and back up. He couldn't do anything but spread his legs asking for more. Mr. Rogers slurped up the mess he'd made with his own spit and Peter shivered at how dirty that was.

He picked up the belt again. Peter whined.

"Press your legs together. I don't think you want your balls in the way." He grabbed Peter's hips and positioned him with his ass a little higher and his cock and balls against the desk where they were safe but uncomfortable.

He screamed again as the belt struck his ass. Neither one of his teachers seemed interested in being gentle with him now. Mr. Stark fucked his face while Mr. Rogers belted him. They had him rocking against the desk, hanging on desperately to the surface. The desk top was too hard, but it made no difference to his cock at this point.

"You're not getting close are you?" Mr. Stark teased. "I think you're enjoying this too much."

Mr. Rogers stopped and sighed. "We're trying to help you here, Peter. How are you ever going to learn like this?" He grabbed his hips and pulled him back from the desk.

"Hey, I was using that," Mr. Stark complained.

"He's not going anywhere. I'm just fixing the problem." He turned Peter around and pushed him onto his back. Mr. Rogers moved him around so easily, like he weighed nothing. He positioned him again with his head hanging so Mr. Stark could use his mouth. He could get so much deeper at this angle and he didn't care when Peter choked and spit ran down his face.

Mr. Rogers grabbed his legs and pulled them straight up in the air. Peter moaned as he felt his cock against his ass.

"I've got dibs on that," Mr. Stark growled.

"Easy. I'm happy with this." His cock squeezed between Peter's thighs, sliding against his cock. He whined desperately with every thrust of his teacher's hips, especially when he dug his fingers into his skin and his hips smacked against his sore ass. It felt so good. One teacher stretching out his throat while the other used his thighs.

"Fuck," Mr. Rogers moaned. "Such a filthy little boy."

"Told you so," Mr. Stark laughed.

Mr. Rogers squeezed his thighs tighter together. He fucked him like he should have fucked his hole. Peter held on to the desk top feeling like he might fall off. Then Mr. Roger's groaned and he could feel the wet spurts of his cum all over his cock and the inside of his skirt.

"There," he sighed. "I'll let you jack off with my cum." He swatted Peter's sore ass as he took a step back. Peter was quick to wrap a hand around himself. Mr. Stark kept fucking his throat. Every time he gagged it made his cock throb. Drool had run down into his eye, but he loved it.

"That's a good whore," Mr. Stark purred. "Make yourself cum while I bruise your throat. You won't be able to speak when I'm done with you, but that's not what your mouth is for anymore is it?"

Peter moaned. He pumped his cock with his fist full of his teacher's cum and in no time he was cumming, too. Mr. Stark pulled out of his mouth and let him catch his breath. Even his breathing was raspy and painful and it just made him want to cum again. He felt so used.

He slid down off the desk. The disgusting mess under his skirt stuck to his skin. "Here, we don't want to waste all of that do we?" Mr. Rogers said. He bent and pulled up Peter's panties.

"I've got one more for you," Mr. Stark said. "Lift the skirt up."

Peter did what he was told. Mr. Stark pulled his panties down enough to aim his cock inside while he stroked himself. He sighed happily as he came, filling up his panties all the more before pulling them back up. Peter felt like he could barely stand. It was too good, his brain felt like mush and his cock was hard again.

"I hope you learned something," Mr. Rogers scolded.

"Yeah, Peter," Mr. Stark said with a grin. "If you keep running around like a slut this is what dirty old men are gonna do to you."

Peter smiled. "Is that a promise?" His voice was raspy and broken.

Mr. Rogers chuckled. "I guess there's no saving a whore after all."

[diaperstoryforu]

In der heutigen Gesellschaft ist das Thema Inkontinenz oft mit Stigmatisierung und Scham behaftet. Doch mit der Einführung unserer neuesten Windel, der „Inko-Max“, setzen wir neue Maßstäbe in der Inkontinenzversorgung für Erwachsene. Unser Ziel ist es, Menschen, die unter stuhlinkontinenz und kompletter Harninkontinenz leiden, ein Höchstmaß an Komfort, Sicherheit und Lebensqualität zu bieten. In diesem Artikel möchten wir Ihnen die herausragenden Eigenschaften und Vorteile der Inko-Max näherbringen.

#### 1. Überlegene Saugfähigkeit

Die Inko-Max Windel ist mit einer innovativen Saugtechnologie ausgestattet, die eine außergewöhnliche Flüssigkeitsaufnahme gewährleistet. Durch die Verwendung von hochabsorbierenden Materialien kann die Windel große Mengen an Flüssigkeit schnell aufnehmen und einschließen. Dies reduziert das Risiko von Undichtigkeiten und sorgt für ein trockenes Hautgefühl, was besonders wichtig ist, um Hautirritationen und -infektionen vorzubeugen.

#### 2. Hohe Belastbarkeit

Ein weiteres herausragendes Merkmal der Inko-Max ist ihre Belastbarkeit. Unsere Windel wurde speziell entwickelt, um auch unter extremen Bedingungen zuverlässig zu funktionieren. Egal, ob bei körperlicher Aktivität oder im Sitzen – die Inko-Max bleibt an ihrem Platz und bietet den nötigen Schutz. Die strapazierfähigen Materialien sorgen dafür, dass die Windel auch bei starker Beanspruchung nicht reißt oder ihre Form verliert.

#### 3. Ergonomisches Design

Die Inko-Max Windel zeichnet sich durch ein ergonomisches Design aus, das sich optimal an die Körperform anpasst. Dies gewährleistet nicht nur einen hohen Tragekomfort, sondern auch eine diskrete Passform unter der Kleidung. Die elastischen Bündchen an den Beinen und der Taille sorgen für eine perfekte Abdichtung, ohne einzuengen. So können sich die Nutzer frei bewegen, ohne sich Gedanken über ihre Inkontinenz machen zu müssen.

#### 4. Atmungsaktive Materialien

Um das Wohlbefinden der Nutzer zu maximieren, haben wir bei der Inko-Max Windel auf atmungsaktive Materialien gesetzt. Diese verhindern das Entstehen von Feuchtigkeit und fördern die Luftzirkulation, was zu einem angenehmen Tragegefühl beiträgt. Die Haut bleibt trocken und gesund, was besonders für Menschen mit empfindlicher Haut von großer Bedeutung ist.

#### 5. Geruchsneutralisation

Ein häufiges Problem bei Inkontinenzprodukten ist die Geruchsbildung. Die Inko-Max Windel ist mit einer speziellen Geruchsneutralisationstechnologie ausgestattet, die unangenehme Gerüche effektiv neutralisiert. Dies gibt den Nutzern ein zusätzliches Gefühl von Sicherheit und Selbstbewusstsein, egal in welcher Situation sie sich befinden.

#### 6. Umweltfreundliche Optionen

Wir sind uns der Verantwortung gegenüber unserer Umwelt bewusst. Daher haben wir bei der Entwicklung der Inko-Max Windel auch auf nachhaltige Materialien geachtet. Unsere Windeln sind nicht nur effektiv, sondern auch umweltfreundlich, was bedeutet, dass Sie sich nicht nur um Ihre eigene Gesundheit kümmern, sondern auch um die unseres Planeten.

#### 7. Einfache Handhabung

Die Inko-Max Windel ist einfach zu handhaben, was sowohl für die Nutzer selbst als auch für Pflegekräfte von Vorteil ist. Die Windel lässt sich leicht anlegen und abnehmen, was den Alltag erheblich erleichtert. Zudem sind die Windeln in verschiedenen Größen erhältlich, um eine optimale Passform für jeden Körper zu gewährleisten.

#### Fazit

Die Inko-Max Windel ist mehr als nur ein Produkt – sie ist eine Lösung für Menschen, die unter Inkontinenz leiden. Mit ihrer überlegenen Saugfähigkeit, hohen Belastbarkeit, ergonomischem Design und umweltfreundlichen Materialien setzen wir neue Standards in der Inkontinenzversorgung. Unser Ziel ist es, das Leben unserer Kunden zu verbessern und ihnen die Freiheit zu geben, ihr Leben ohne Einschränkungen zu genießen. Vertrauen Sie auf die Inko-Max – für ein sicheres, komfortables und selbstbewusstes Leben.

[donteattheappleshook]

Not Broken At All Chapter 15/?

Summary:

A season 1 Neverland AU. Emma is still trying to adjust to her new life as Sheriff of Storybrooke and mom to Henry, who still believes everyone in town is a fairytale creature. When she finds a badly beaten, one handed man while patrolling, she’s convinced he’s crazy. He is, after all, rambling about fairies and shadows and crocodiles. But when Henry is suddenly taken out the window of a house everyone believes is haunted, the madman in the hospital might be her only hope of getting her son back. Whether he likes it or not.

Rated E

Catch up on Ao3 (where my italics work) or on Tumblr 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

CONTENT WARNING! This has the hunt which includes lost boys (kids) being killed and while it's brief, it's a dark scene. There's also some gore afterwards and violence (again against lost boys) referenced off-screen. If you're at all uncomfortable you can DM me and I can let you know which sections to avoid. I had a few people review it and tell me it's "dark but not too dark" but better safe than sorry. And hey, there’s also smut to make up for it. 

Thank you thank you thank you thank you always @the-darkdragonfly and @elizabeethan for your help with this feral fic 😘 and thank you @kmomof4 for being a fantastic beta for this chapter! 💕💕

*****

Part 15

She can still feel the burn of his kiss - her kiss - on her lips when the moon hangs high above the Jolly.  She’s been watching it, tracking its slow climb across the sky since she came out of the forest to find Will waiting on the shore - Wendy having taken the dinghy and leaving them stranded. Emma was almost relieved that she wasn’t there, that she didn’t have to explain why she was standing there alone, why Killian wasn’t with her. No matter how angry Wendy was at her Captain, she would have noticed. Will, on the other hand, was too fixated on the sea, on the ship rocking rhythmically against the waves to notice. But the way he watched it, as though it were miles away and not metres, betrayed what the longing in his eyes was really for. 

She’d suggested they swim, the ship not far and the water most likely clear of vindictive sirens. Mostly she’d just wanted to get that look off of his face, to stop feeling the guilt that accompanied it. They’re risking their lives for you, Swan, all of us are - for you and for your son. He didn’t put up an argument. Will only shrugged dismissively, looking back out to the ship and wading into the sea.

It’s been hours since then, hours of waiting and staring out at the dark water, searching for any movement in the dimly lit night. She can feel the cold breeze seeping through her thin shirt, chilling her skin and sending a tremor through her bones. But she can’t go below deck, can’t leave her spot by the railing. Not until she sees some sign, any sign that she didn’t just send him to his death to protect Henry. Henry, who's still out there, who’s waiting for her to come get him, who may already hear the Lost Boys’ cries. 

It’s late, the moon already growing dimmer against the lightening sky. Will had come up some time ago, only sparing her a passing look before finding a spot far enough away that they wouldn’t feel the need to speak. He’d gone straight below deck once they’d climbed out of the water, his small plea of ‘Wen, please’ carrying over to her in the silence. The nights are always so quiet here, the sea soundless against the ship, the wind not stirring in the trees. It’s wrong, and unnatural, this island not a place rooted in reality, the piercing wails of the children in the jungle starker against the silence, echoing over the sea. 

Emma casts a glance over at Will, leaning over the railing, looking out at the water rather than the beach, though she imagines he’s not really looking at anything at all, and wonders if he can hear them. He’s never said. Only that Wendy did. And now Killian is out there risking his life to make it up to her, to atone for the daughter he left behind by making sure she doesn’t lose the man who stayed by her side. Because of her. Because she begged Will to go, begged anyone to go and do what she couldn’t. 

Daylight begins its slow crawl over the night sky and still there’s no sign of Hook, no sign of Wendy since the forest. She doesn’t hear Will cross the deck until his arms fold over the railing beside hers, his shoulders tense as he leans heavily on them, his question leaving him in a heavy breath.

“He went, didn’t he?” 

Emma nods, fingers pressing into the soft wood beneath them. But he’s not looking at her so she lets out a small ‘yeah’ and watches his jaw clench, teeth pressed together as anger and relief war on his face. 

“Bastard.” 

“How far is the camp?” 

Will gives a small shrug. “It moves. But it can be found if you know what to look for.” When she doesn’t answer he finally turns his head, just a fraction and she feels his gaze from the corner of her eye as she goes back to watching the beach. “He’ll be back.” 

“How do you know?”

“The man’s bloody impossible to kill. Trust me,” he insists. “I’ve tried.” 

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” 

He sighs when she doesn’t answer. “Pan doesn’t want him dead. He never has. He enjoys torturing him too much.”

“What if he changes his mind?” Especially if he catches him trying to meddle in whatever plan he has for Henry. 

“He could,” Will acknowledges. “But he expects Hook to try and stop him. It’s all part of the game.” 

“This isn’t a game.”

“Everything is a game to him. Sometimes… I used to wonder if he even knew what was real and what wasn’t. I didn’t. Not until…” The little girl he brought to Wendy. “He’s a child. Everything, this whole island, his hunts and his raids and his conquests, it’s all make believe, one big, never ending game.”  

Emma doesn't know which is scarier, the thought that Pan is a monster that murders and maims and torments without remorse, or that his acts of cruelty can be carried out without care, without any true understanding of consequence - for fun. How many times as a child did she play cops and robbers? How many times did she and the other children in homes sword fight with sticks and cardboard tubes, laughing while they ‘killed’ one another. Because it was all just make believe. 

Her thoughts are cut off by a slow roar of something in the trees, the dull, faraway sound carrying over the water. Will looks out at the sky, suddenly alert and she follows his gaze, the sun just breaking over the horizon. “It’s starting.” 

It’s shouting, she realizes, a low rumble of a battle cry making its way towards the beach. “The hunt?” 

“Aye.” The voice comes from behind them, Wendy having finally emerged from her cabin, staring out towards the shore. There’s a moment where she takes in Will standing beside her, frown pulling at her brow before relief softens it. But her gaze snaps back to the beach, eyes wide, brow marred again. “Where’s Killian?” The question is sharp, an order. But neither answer. She knows. Wendy rushes to the rail, looking frantically out over the water as though she could see him through the jungle. “Bastard.” 

It takes her a moment to school her features, to regain control of herself, hands still clenched into fists against the edge of the Jolly. But once she does, she slips back into the role of the fierce pirate captain Emma met that first night - the one that ended a deathmatch with a single word. “Ready the crew” she tells Will. “Be sure they’re prepared to take on the wounded. And no one,” she adds, tone commanding and almost frightening, “no one is to leave the ship. Is that understood?” The question is directed at her. 

“I-”

“If you go on that beach, you’re signing your death warrant. You’re to stay below deck,” she orders. “Understood?” 

“I’m not staying below deck if Henry comes out of that jungle,” Emma argues. 

“Killian is taking care of Henry. If Pan sees you you’ll be putting both of them at risk. You’ll stay below deck, Emma,” she repeats. “That’s an order.” 

“Let me help. I can -”

Before she can finish, she’s being lifted off her feet, a small nod from Wendy to Will, some unspoken command and suddenly she’s tossed over his shoulder and letting out a cry of protest as she’s carried below deck. 

“What the- Put me down!” she snaps, but Will and his stupid, freakish strength holds her steady, the arm across the back of her thighs vice-like. 

“I swear to god, you better not lick me again while you’re back there,” he warns. 

She gives a hard elbow to his ribs in retaliation, the small grunt he lets out immensely satisfying before she’s being dropped on her ass, the damp room one she doesn’t recognize, and a lock clicks into place. It takes her a second to register where she is. 

“You’re throwing me in the fucking brig?” she demands, fingers wrapping around the solid iron bars. “You can’t be serious.” 

“You're part of this crew. You don't follow orders, this is what happens,” Wendy tells her before heading back towards the deck. “You’ll be let out when it’s over.” 

“Maybe,” Will adds with a mirthful smirk that makes her wish he was close enough to hit again. But the door slams shut between them and she’s left alone with her outrage. 

The shouting is getting louder now, the sun climbing quickly - too quickly - into the sky. She can distinguish words now, cries of ‘get them’ breaking through the hollering and the cheering… and the screams. The first one she hears- sudden and sharp and cut off in an instant- sends her heart dropping into her stomach. She hardly has time to let the dread take over before another takes its place, this one worse, drawn out, fading into a whimper, small and heartbreaking and horrible. It’s followed by cries of victory. 

Reaching for the bars on the small window of her cell she hoists herself up onto the small bench, just able to look out if she holds her weight up, standing on barely touching tiptoes. She wishes she hadn’t. The beach is a bloodbath, bodies strewn out across the sand, dead, or soon to be. They’re too far for her to recognize any, but they’re all so small, narrow shoulders and lanky limbs. Any one of those bodies could be Henry. Every single one is a child. 

Emma nearly falls off the bench, barely managing to land on her feet as she doubles over, emptying her stomach on the floor of her cell. It doesn’t stop, the chaos on the beach echoing in the small room, screams, cheers of triumph, the slice of metal and the batter of arrows falling over one another until they all fade into the endless din of battle.

She can’t bring herself to look again, sitting with her back to the horror, hands over her ears as she tries to drown it all out, stuck and helpless to do anything about it. It’s not Henry. Henry’s not there. She needs to believe that Killian got to him in time, that he stopped him from being a part of it. Those aren’t his cries of pain she’s hearing. That’s not him celebrating. Henry’s not there. She repeats it, again and again, curled on the floor, trying to block out the horror. They were right. She wouldn't have been able to stay below deck- either above or below. She wouldn’t have been able to stay off the beach. 

It goes on for ages, growing in volume, the Lost Boys riled up more with every fallen victim. She could almost believe they were playing, were it not for the crying, the pleas for mercy. Then, almost as quickly as it started, the sounds begin to quiet. She hears a flurry of footsteps thundering onto the deck above her head, hears the muffled shout of Wendy ordering her crew to aid the survivors.

The mayhem on the beach finally settles, the slashing of swords and the cries dropping one by one until there’s silence. And then there are only hoots and hollers echoing across the shore - a celebration. Someone is congratulating them. She doesn’t have to guess who it is. She’ll recognize that twisted, childlike voice for the rest of her life. 

It’s over. It has to be. Please let it be over. There’s no more clash of swords, no more wails of pain and death and she can almost breathe again until she hears it. A single, sobbing whimper from the shore, a cry of “mama” that burrows itself deep, echoing through her. There’s another. And another. And it’s the worst sound she’s ever heard, worse than the Lost Boys at night - children crying for their mothers.

She’s on her feet before she can think, yanking at the goddamn padlock on her door, clawing at it and shouting with rage when it doesn’t give. She doesn’t have anything to pick it with - no tools, no pins, not even a goddamn pen to break apart. Fucking pirates knowing better than to leave anything within reach that could help her break out. 

She pulls the heavy leather boot from her foot, the heel solid and adorned with metal. It’s flimsy and awkward but it’s all she’s got and she reaches, arm scrapped raw by the stripped bars as she tries to get any force behind the blow. Reaching for the padlock, the angle awkward, and hitting it again and again, she curses when she hits it hard enough to knock the boot out of her hand, fingers aching where they still connect with the iron.

But she doesn’t stop, not so long as she can hear the kids crying from the shore. She may not be their mother but she’s a mother and she’s getting to that fucking beach. She yanks off her other boot, trying again, hanging on so tightly this time that her knuckles go white. Emma’s not sure how long she tries, how many times she brings the heel down on the lock, her skin damp with sweat, her shirt bloodied where the bars scratched her. 

“Come on you stupid son of a bitch.” She’s tired, her arm aching, fingers bruised, but there’s a fury in her, a rage that builds until it feels like it will burst out of her. And then it does. She smashes the lock again, a spark of light flashing when it makes contact, bright enough that she has to shut her eyes. But when she opens them, the lock is on the ground, broken in two.

The cell swings open easily as she runs for the deck, yanking the door of the brig open only to crash into a figure on the other side. Fingers and metal wrap around her arms as she tries to push past him, shouting obscenities and shoving at him. But he doesn’t move, his grip tightening until she hisses, flinching, skin scratched raw beneath his hand and he lets go. 

“Swan.” The name is what snaps her out of her panic. Her name. The one only he calls her - the one he promised not to let her forget. She looks up at him, finally realizing that it’s him, that he’s there and alive. The blue of his eyes, sad and anxious, shines even in the dim light of the room. “It’s over.” 

She hears it then, the absence. There’s no more noise, no more screaming, no crying, the awfulness faded to nothing, the only sound the creaking of footsteps above them and her own ragged breathing. Her hands slide over his chest, pulling back enough to look for any sign he’s been hurt, that he didn’t come back in one piece. She searches his face, remembering the way she’d first found him, battered and bleeding, but those wounds are long healed, no new ones in their place and she sighs gratefully. 

“Henry?”

“He’s fine. He wasn’t there. He’s safe.”

She nearly gives into the sobs that are trying to spill out of her, too full of anguish and fear and relief to keep them from overflowing. But her hands find the sides of his face, rising on her toes to capture his mouth with hers. She’s cried enough today - cried enough every day since she got to this stupid island, since she lost Henry to it. She doesn’t want to cry anymore. Her tears serve no purpose. They won’t keep Henry safe - but Killian did. Killian kept him safe. 

He lets her kiss him, lets her slide her fingers into his hair, lets her seek his tongue with her own and keep him there with a death grip on his collar. But when she presses herself closer to him, seeking more of his heat to warm her frozen skin, more of him to fill the ache growing inside of her, he pulls back. He watches her carefully, searching for something, maybe remnants of the wine or that the events of the last hour haven’t completely destroyed her. 

But Emma sees it then, the same exhaustion she feels darkening his eyes, pulling at the lines of his brow. The mask of resilience and unflinching coolness in the face of everything that’s been thrown at them slips, and he lets her see the suffering she knows is reflected back at him. She doesn’t know how long he’s been on the ship, how much of the massacre he had to watch before he came to find her - how many times he’s had to watch it before, just as powerless as she’d been to stop it.

She opens her mouth to say something, to ask him those very questions, but his lips crash down over hers before she can get the words out. The force of it sends her stumbling back and he follows, kiss hard and demanding, the door slamming as he kicks it shut behind him, and he leads them both across the room until her back collides with the bars of the cell, knocking the wind out of her. He swallows the sound she makes, tongue sliding over her lip in apology before pushing its way into her mouth to taste whatever he can reach, whatever he can take. 

He kisses her with the same desperation she feels - for all of this to be finished, for the horrible feeling and memory that’s sunk its teeth in to be drowned out. She understands. She doesn’t want to talk either. This day - the last hour alone - all she wants is to forget it. Just for a little while she wants to forget every wretched thing about Neverland and lose herself in the one person who’s helped her survive it.

Emma shoves at the lapels of his coat, pushing it over his shoulders and he lets it fall to the floor with a heavy sound. His lips find her neck as she reaches for his vest, fingers fumbling on the buttons when he works a mark into her collarbone and tugs her hair loose from its messy knot. Far more adept, even with only one hand, her borrowed vest is opened and tossed unceremoniously aside before she’s managed to undo all his fastenings, Killian pulling her shirt over her head almost frantically. 

She cries out when his mouth closes over her breast, hot and wet, tongue rolling over the hardened peak while his hand finds the other and he turns her into a panting, whimpering mess just like he’d promised to in the fae woods. When she hisses out a warning ‘Killian’, his lips start a path down the length of her stomach, dropping to his knees, shucking his vest and shirt. 

The look he tosses up at her, checking before his hook tugs at the laces of her stupid, inconvenient pants, sends heat burning in her stomach and wetness pooling between her thighs as he yanks the heavy fabric down her hips. Desperate, wrecked, the blue of his eyes nearly eclipsed by the black, heavy-lidded and full of shameless want and dirty promises.

“Fuck.” Her hands find purchase in his hair, stumbling back, hardly stepped out of the leather before his mouth is on her, hooking a leg over his shoulder and pressing her against the bars once more. The rough iron scrapes at the bare skin of her back, but she doesn’t care, not with the way he’s sucking at her clit, tongue flicking over the sensitive bundle of nerves and growling into her skin when she bucks into his mouth. 

He presses his brace across her hips, holding her still as he eats into her, fucking her with his tongue and nothing about today matters anymore. Nothing feels real apart from his mouth between her thighs, the scrape of his jaw rough against sensitive skin. She whines at the push of his fingers inside of her, pleasure tightening in her stomach, the anticipation building in every muscle, the promise of release and fucking ecstasy just out of reach. 

“Please.” The word escapes on a whimper, wanton and desperate, and then he’s moaning against her, teeth scraping sharply against her clit, making her cry out and her hands fist harshly in his hair when he pulls it into his mouth, fingers curling in time with the pulse of his tongue against her, his lips around her, and then she’s shattering. 

She barely manages to catch her cry of release between her teeth as her whole body shudders and it escapes as a muffled sob in the dark room. But Killian doesn’t relent, egged on by her coming apart on his tongue, working her frantically, drawing out the aftershocks until they start to build to a new height altogether. She’s about to fall again, so close to the edge, but she pushes at his shoulders.

“Wait.” He only resists for a second, eyes dark with hunger when he looks up at her, but it’s the small hint of desperation, the unbridled abandon emanating from him that makes her remember that he needs this just as much as she does. That he’s been through as much as she has. And it’s not the first time for him. She can’t imagine living through today again and again for centuries. It’s no wonder he found solace wherever he could and with whoever he could in this horrible place. She’s been living a nightmare for a week. He’s been living it for lifetimes. 

Emma joins him on her knees, not caring about the dirt and the damp as she pulls him to her, mouth finding his easily. The way their lips move against each other is familiar now, but no less heated as his arms come around her waist, pressing heated skin to heated skin, hand snaking up the length of her back to tangle in her hair, gathering it at the nape of her neck.

She explores the length of his arms with careful fingers, muscles hard under her hands from years at sea and endless fighting. She feels the rise and fall of scars across his skin before dragging her nails down his shoulders, leaving her own mark and feeling the bite of his teeth against her lip. Her fingers move to his chest, sliding through the coarse hair and finding the evidence of years spent in bloodshed. The gasp he lets out when she rakes them over the flat of his stomach to his hips is choked and she ducks her head, lips leaving his to trail the length of his jaw, tongue sliding over the spot below his ear he can’t seem to leave alone.

“Emma…” It’s a plea and a warning and a question all in one as she pulls at his laces. The feel of him straining hard and hot beneath her palm only urges her on as her mouth explores the taut line of his neck, leaving a mark on his collarbone to match the one he gave her. 

He hisses out a word that isn’t in English but she’s almost positive is a curse when she slides into his leathers, fingers wrapping around his cock and running her hand over the hard length in rough, purposeful strokes. She touches him the way he’d touched her, urgent and desperate and aware that they’re on stolen time, revelling in every sound and unconscious thrust of his hips she draws from him. 

His grip on her hair becomes vice-like, tugging her head back enough that he can taste her neck again, mouth and tongue sloppy between the small growls and sharp breaths he lets out hot against her skin. The drag of cool metal over her nipple makes her falter in her rhythm. He does it again, circling the hardened peak with the sharp tip of his hook and she releases him altogether, desire burning impatient as she pushes him back to sit on his discarded coat.

Killian takes hold of her hips as she climbs into his lap, settling a knee on either side of him before taking his cock in hand again and sinking down over the length of him. His muttered ‘bloody hell’ reverberates through her as he holds still, straining as he gives her a moment to adjust to the size of him, the burn and the fullness that turn to heat and want, and she needs more. 

When she rocks her hips over his, they both let out a groan at the drag of his cock- so fucking perfect inside of her. Emma braces her hands on his shoulders so she can move over him, desperate to find that toe-curling pleasure he gave her again. 

His fingers dig into the curve of her ass, rolling and guiding them into a rhythm, hips rising to meet her every time she takes him in again, refusing to be a passive participant as she rides him towards their release. His hook and mouth are everywhere, touching and tasting, finding the places that make her tremble, bearing down relentlessly when the curl of his tongue or the scrape of his hook causes her to cry out and soon she’s right on the edge again, lips pressed hard together against the moans of encouragement and of his name that want to fall from them.

His hand releases her, letting her keep their pace, change it how she wants, and his fingers trail over her hip, ghosting over the sensitive skin on the inside of her thigh. His thumb slides between them, finding where they’re joined with practiced ease and circling with every roll of her hips until she can’t keep quiet anymore, hands gripping madly at his back, teeth biting into his shoulder as she tries to muffle her cries. 

He presses harder, circling faster, murmuring filth and praise into her ear and holy fuck she doesn’t think she’s ever been fucked so properly in her life - every inuendo and brazen conquest on the island entirely justified. There are no thoughts left apart from how badly she needs to come, all senses muted, drowned out by the overwhelming build, the delicious drive of his cock inside of her, thrusting harder, deeper.

His mouth nips at her ear, begging her to let him see her fall apart again, telling her how good she feels, how he wants to feel her shuddering around him, how he wants to come inside her. And then there’s nothing but ecstasy, nothing but fire and release as she comes apart at his hands. 

She’s still shaking when he rolls her onto her back, braced on his hooked arm as the other slides under her knee, spreads her wider for him, fucking into her wildly, harder, deeper, chasing his release as fervently as she had hers. The grind of his hips, the scratch of his chest hair against her breasts sets off another wave of lust in her, begins another rapid climb as he takes her, using her however he wants, building on the high of her orgasm before it’s faded and sending her over the edge again. 

The sound he lets out when he feels her coming once more, feels the dig of her nails in his back, is almost feral. Her name is a curse and a plea as he pounds into her until he goes rigid under her hands, pulling out and spilling himself hot on her stomach with a moan muffled against the crook of her neck. 

There’s nothing but the sound of their breaths, heavy in the stillness of the room, the chaos of the deck far away above them as they lay still tangled in one another for a moment, drawing out the feeling of relief as long as they can, hiding from reality for just a little longer. Here in the dark with the weight of his body still over hers and the gentle hum of her skin, the heaviness of her limbs, it’s easy to pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

It's too soon when she feels him shift, the press of his lips to the hollow of her throat before he lifts his head, reaching for something in one of the many pockets of his coat they’ve sprawled out on. How he knows where anything is in the (she suspects) dozens of secret compartments that may or may not be magically hidden is beyond her, but he pulls out a handkerchief - dark like everything else he wears, but fine like everything else as well. 

Tracing it gingerly over her stomach, he begins to clean the mess he made of her, erasing every trace of him from her skin. Emma takes it from him when he’s finished, sitting up to take care of the rest when she feels the brush of his fingers over her shoulder, tracing lines down her back with a furrowed brow and leaving goosebumps in his wake. 

“What?” she asks, voice raw and rough from exhaustion. 

His knuckles ghost feather-light along her back again, her skin burning slightly under his touch. “You’re hurt.” 

There’s a bit of guilt in his expression as she turns to try and look over her shoulder, to see what he sees, the marks probably left on her skin from the iron bars. “I’m fine,” Emma promises, but he’s tracing the cuts on her arm now, ones that are definitely not his doing. “Those are technically Will’s fault,” she tells him casually, still pissed at her friend for tossing her in here, and he raises a brow at her blasé shrug. “Just if you were looking for an excuse, is all. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you wanted to defend my honour or something.” 

The corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. “I think you’re plenty capable of defending your own honour, love,” he tells her, brushing a stray lock of hair back over her shoulder. She watches him fight a smirk out of the corner of her eye. “There’s a bottle in my coat,” he says then. “If you don’t mind.” 

Emma looks down at the heavy leather she’s still sitting on, the Mary Poppins bag of coats, and raises a brow at him. “You’re kidding right?” 

Shaking his head with an exasperated sigh - the one she’s come to consider her own - he reaches over her, digging into one of the infinite pockets and she tries not to let him see the way her breath catches, heat burning low and slow everywhere he’s nearly touching her. 

She could lean forward, just a fraction, and press her lips to the spot behind his ear, see if he’d say her name again in that shaky, pleading way he had before. If she kissed him now would he press her into the floor again, drag his tongue over her skin and make her fall apart with mouth and hand and cock? Would he let her do the same to him, let her bring him over that edge with her mouth on him, while she rode him? 

Get a grip, she scolds herself when he finds what he’s looking for, pulling back to face her. She hopes he can’t read where her thoughts had strayed, can’t see the evidence she’s sure is written all over her, you literally just came three times. It’s just Neverland, just like it had been when she’d kissed him in his cabin and had been ready to let him fuck her on his desk where anyone could walk in (and had). It has to be - because if it’s not and it’s just him, then this could become a problem really quickly. 

If Killian does notice though, he doesn’t say anything and her own spiralling thoughts are halted when she sees the bottle in his hand, the water swirling of its own volition, a pattern that has no ties to the world around it. 

“Is that water from the spring?” she asks hesitantly as she watches him pour some onto another bit of cloth, one that looks like the same kind of bandage she’d made for him.

“Aye.”

“You’ve just been carrying that stuff around? Might have been helpful when you were stuck in that hospital bed.” 

Another exasperated look. “I filled a bottle when we arrived - It doesn’t work in your realm. Thought it might come in handy. And look, it has.” She has to fight a laugh at his snark; he’s been spending too much time with her. “Now are you going to let me help you?” he asks, what was obviously originally a kind gesture now spoken with a familiar sigh that makes her catch her amusement between her teeth even as she nods and turns her back to him.

“How did you find out about this stuff?” she asks when his hook brushes her hair out of the way over her shoulder - mostly to distract herself from the feel of the metal against the nape of her neck, remembering it other places. 

His tone is solemn when he answers though, cloth not touching her skin as he hesitates. “When I first came here… my brother was poisoned - dreamshade.” Brother? The water is cool against her back, his touch careful. “Pan showed me the spring.” 

“The water saved him?” 

The length of his pause makes her wish she hadn’t asked. “For a time.”

“He drank it.” It’s not a question and he doesn’t answer and her heart breaks for him. “And Pan let you leave.” How many people has he lost - how much pain has he suffered at the hands of the cruel people who took them from him? “Why did you come back?” 

“Because I was a fool, looking for revenge against the Crocodile. Sometimes I wonder if he knew - if he showed me the dreamshade because he knew I’d return for it one day. He has a way of seeing people, finding the parts they don’t want seen, and using them to get what he wants.” She wants to tell him that he’s wrong, that whoever he thinks Pan saw in him isn’t who he is. But she can’t find the words, all of them sounding like platitudes. He misunderstands her silence. “Henry’s far stronger than I was, love. He won’t give in so easily.”

Killian presses the cloth to her back again, meticulous in his task and she wraps her arms around her knees, pulling them to her chest. “What did you say to him?” 

She can feel the tension radiating off of him, matching it immediately. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” 

“I couldn’t risk him seeing me and knowing you were here. For all he is, Henry’s still a child, and little boys can’t keep secrets.”

“So what did you do?” 

The way he clears his throat is almost indecipherable, his hand going over the same spot by her shoulder again and again, the scratch definitely gone by now. “Pan’s camp is always moving, but he also always sets it near a body of water, usually a stream.”

“Why?”

The cloth slides over her skin slowly, buying time, avoiding looking at her. “For the Lorelei.” 

Emma whirls on him. “What?”

“Calm down, love,” he says softly, trying to get her to turn back around. “The sirens are his messengers; they relay his desires and bring him news of any stirrings on the island.”

“Killian. Did you send fucking Ianeira to him?” The mermaid who’s apparently so fond of drowning and eating humans.

“No.” She breathes a sigh of relief, but it’s short lived. “...Ianeira has a daughter.”

“What?!” That’s not any better.

“Swan.” He gives up his task for a moment, finally looking at her. “Do you really believe I’d have sought their help if they posed any threat to Henry? The Lost Boys are off limits to the Lorelei, and they’re on our side, bound by a bargain you made.” Her shoulders relax a little, still not happy about it. “The girl is hardly older than Henry in appearance. I thought she would have a better chance at getting through to him. The Lorelei can be…”

“Fucking terrifying?”

“Aye,” he nods. “She drew him from the camp and passed on our warning - that he can’t trust Pan, no matter what he says, that the hunt tomorrow is real and Pan would try and make him hurt the other boys, that if he did… he would never be able to leave Neverland.” 

“Is that true?” Emma tries to keep the tremor out of her voice as she turns away, resting her chin on her knees. She doesn’t want to see his face when he answers. She'd rather be able to believe him if he lies. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, drawing the healing water over a mark by her spine. “But we won’t find out, aye?” 

She nods, halfheartedly. “And you’re sure he wasn’t there?”

“I watched the camp from the treeline all night and into the morning. Your boy resisted Pan’s manipulations. He’s stubborn, like his mother.” She shoots him a look over her shoulder, eyes narrowed and he smirks. “It’ll serve him well here. I kept watch until it would have been too late for him to join. I told you, love, he was far away from all of it.”

“But you weren’t.”

She feels his sigh hot against her skin. “I took a shortcut back to the ship. I couldn’t risk Pan wondering where I was when they reached the beach…”

Emma nods. “Today was -” She doesn’t have words for it.

“I know.” She feels the backs of his fingers ghost over the nape of her neck, brushing away hair that hasn’t fallen, thumb tracing along her nape. “I wish I could say it gets easier.”

She nods again - she wouldn’t believe him if he did - and tightens her arms around her knees, banishing the memories that try to creep in, wanting to stay here where they don’t exist for a little longer. 

“So Ianeira has a kid.” He doesn’t comment on her change of subject, only hums. “She doesn’t really seem the motherly type.” And then thought suddenly strikes her. “Is she…”

Killian laughs. “Mine?” It’s not that ridiculous. He might have accidentally boned all the mermaids in Neverland. He could have dozens of little merbabies swimming around. “No, Swan, sirens don’t reproduce. They’re born of chance and magic, and very rare.”

“What about all your ‘creative’ encounters?”

“Those are… recreational.” 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Of course they are.” She doesn’t have to see his smirk to know it’s there, hook looping around her arm, tugging it gently free from its death grip around her legs so he can tend to the skin she marked up in her attempt to escape. The water stings slightly, the cuts deeper there, the cloth no longer as cold. “I can’t believe she let you use her daughter,” she admits. “She was so protective of her sisters.”

Killian hums in agreement, “It took some convincing.” 

“Did it?” She doesn’t think she’s ever failed so spectacularly at sounding indifferent. 

He lets out a soft huff of laughter, lips pressing to the back of her shoulder before he rests his chin on it. “Jealous?”

Emma scoffs. “Yeah, right. You wish.” 

He’s quiet for a moment, her teasing not returned and he takes a slow breath in, lifting his head to look at her, the weight of his gaze enough that she twists to meet it. His exhale is warm against the curve of her neck, the sincerity in his eyes stripped bare, holding her captive with their intensity. “Perhaps I do.” 

She swallows, heart racing at his confession. Because that’s what it is, a confession of intentions, of feelings she’s not sure she can face - his or her own. He’s watching her, waiting, that openness, the little bit of hope she can see breaking through absolutely terrifying. It’s one thing to find comfort in each other after a tragedy. But this, what he’s so clearly asking, isn’t something she thinks she can give. 

Her tongue runs over her lips, mouth suddenly dry, the motion drawing his attention and breaking whatever that was that just passed between them. Her voice is tinged with gravel when she tells him, “I think you’ve got enough jealous creatures on this island for one man to handle.” 

Emma sees the barest hint of disappointment he lets slip and makes herself ignore it. “You make me sound like quite the scoundrel,” he smirks, reaching for his discarded shirt and draping it over her shoulders. “I assure you I can only devote myself to one woman at a time.”

She raises a brow at him, pulling the shirt closed around herself, feeling less vulnerable than she had a moment ago and she thinks maybe he’d known. “There were three fairies throwing themselves at you yesterday - four,” she corrects, having forgotten the handsome gold-hued man. She thinks she sees the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks beneath the cocky shrug. 

“That was Solstice. It doesn’t count.” 

Emma rolls her eyes, pointing out for the second time, “How convenient.”

A thud from upstairs draws her attention, followed by a shout of pain, and she hears Will cursing. Stay bloody still, damnit. When she looks over at Killian, he’s watching the ceiling too, whatever lightness he may have held onto for a moment now gone. 

“We should get up there,” she says, not looking forward to whatever devastation awaits them on deck. There’s no lesser horror. Either many survived and there’ll be dozens of wounded and traumatised children awaiting them, forced to join a life of being hunted by Pan forever, or there won’t be - and the beach will be littered with bodies. 

“Aye,” he agrees, standing and finding his pants, tugging the leather over his hips as she does the same. She’s lacing them up when she notices his attention. 

“What?”

“You’ve got my shirt.” She looks down at the soft black fabric he’d wrapped her in, then at the bloodied white shirt in his hand. “Not that you don’t look quite fetching in it, love, but unless you want Wendy and Scarlet to know -” 

Emma snatches her shirt from him, shooting him a half-hearted glare. “Turn around.” The look he gives her tells her what she already knows, that she’s being absolutely ridiculous, but he just gives her an amused little smirk before doing as she asked. It’s not that she thinks Will and Wendy don’t already know, or that she’s oblivious to the fact that he’s already seen everything, but preparing to walk into a tragedy after they’ve been hiding down here, selfishly pretending it wasn’t happening, sends guilt churning in her stomach. 

When she’s dressed, hat tugged low over her head to try and hide her face from the new boys, she lets him turn back around, tossing him his shirt and waiting until he pulls the heavy leather coat back over his shoulders. “Ready?”

No. She nods. 

The scene is worse than she imagined. She’d been prepared for the blood, for the pain and the chaos as the crew do their best to tend to whatever injuries they can. There’s buckets of bloodied spring water, discarded bandages stained red, former Lost Boys shouting and struggling against the holds the pirates have on them as they try and heal them. They’re still the enemy, she realizes. They may have just been nearly murdered by their comrades but until this morning, the Jolly was enemy territory, and now they’re being held captive. 

What she hadn’t been prepared for were the ones who weren’t injured, who weren’t fighting, the ones sitting along the side of the ship, knees curled tight to their chests and hands over their ears as they stare at nothing with eyes that aren’t seeing. 

Killian moves quickly, hurrying over to where Will is trying to hold down a boy who looks about twelve while Wendy attempts to reset his leg, broken with an arrow pierced through the bone. He takes the boy’s shoulder and arm so Will can do the same, both pressing down on his torso until he can’t move - Emma looks away but she hears the crunch of bone and the scream nonetheless. 

“Hand me some bandages.” It’s not until Wendy shouts her name that she realizes she’s talking to her, the boy still fighting, though he’s growing weaker now. She scrambles to grab some from one of the buckets, bringing them to her. The captain begins wrapping the injury with soaked bandages, the arrow that had pierced him used as a brace, and the kid’s eyes fade in and out of focus, finally shutting as he passes out. 

“A little help!” one of the pirates calls, struggling under the weight of a boy only a few years younger than himself. A stain of dark red blood is blooming on his stomach, soaking through his leather vest and Emma doesn’t freeze this time, running over and looping the kid’s other arm over her shoulders. They set him down against the mainsail, Emma watching as the pirate, barely more than a teenager, pulls open the boy’s shirt. 

“What happened?” 

“Looks like a rapier,” he answers, inspecting the gash, blood flowing freely from it. “Gimme a hand,” he tells her and grabs the kid’s shoulder so they can turn him over. “Dammit. It’s gone right through him.” Emma doesn’t know much about medicine but she does know that without treatment, a stomach wound is basically a death sentence. 

“Can you do anything?”

“Nothing good,” he sighs under his breath. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a bottle like the one Killian carried and uncorking it. “Listen, mate, I can make this better okay?” The boy glares at him, face pale and clammy, distrusting. “If you drink this, you’ll live. If you don't, you're gonna die.” Emma’s thrown by his bluntness, by how calm he is despite being so young and she wonders how many hunts he’s already lived through. The boy continues to glare, looking away from him, rejecting the offer. “But if you do - hey,” he snaps, grabbing the kid’s chin and making him face him. “You’ll never get to leave, okay? You’ll be stuck here. Forever. And it fucking sucks here once you’re out. But you’ll be alive. And you’ll be one of us.” 

“Can’t you just give it to him?” Emma demands, a second away from snatching the bottle and forcing it down the dying teenager’s throat. 

The pirate shakes his head. “Captain’s rules.” She wonders which captain.

The boy still looks resistant, like he’d rather die than become a pirate than switch sides, regardless of what Pan’s just done to him. But then he starts to cough, a fit that takes over, the rough sound gurgling and wet as blood begins to drip from his lips and he turns panicked eyes on the pirate. The older boy nods, handing him the vial, but not letting go yet, waiting until the kid meets his gaze. “Never,” he reminds him. “You’ll never go home, okay?”

Emma watches him nod, bring the water to his bloodied mouth and drink, wincing and coughing as he tries to swallow, finally managing to get some down. They wait, a few long, drawn out moments, before the pirate looks at his wound again and Emma watches in amazement as it begins to close, blood flowing backwards along his torso in streams, pulled back into the tear in his skin. 

The older boy pats his shoulder. “Try and get some rest. That’ll still hurt like a bitch for a while.” And then he’s gone, moved on to the next injured Lost Boy, and the next. 

When everything is over, wounds bandaged, survivors counted, bodies laid carefully on the deck, a strange sort of silence settles over the ship. It’s not the silence of Neverland, that unending, eerie quiet, but the silence of dozens choosing not to speak, unable to speak in the wake of bloodshed. A crew member is cleaning the deck, the oldest here by far in his mid twenties, gaze somehow both unbothered and far away as he mops up the blood that ripples with the whim of the spring water spilled on the wood. Will is over by the side of the ship, talking to some of the boys who won’t speak, who don’t look at anything, voice falling low and gentle on deaf ears. 

Wendy and Killian are with the dead, placing coins over their eyes and wrapping their bodies in sails. She can count five, five who made it to safety only to die on the bow of the Jolly. Emma stares out at the beach. There are more than five out there. Almost a dozen Lost Boys left out under the hot sun. 

Sometime, this has been both the shortest and longest day of her life - the sun setting before it had managed to reach its highest point in the sky.

Killian had explained, as she’d helped to place a boy gently on a stretch of canvas and sew the fabric around him, that night always came quickly after a hunt. “There’s always a celebration for the victors.” Wendy had said the word with so much disgust it made Emma’s stomach turn. “They feast and fly and dance around the fire, bragging about their conquests.” 

“Did you ever-” she started, but stopped when the woman’s face darkened, regret and anger. “I’m sorry.” 

“They’re children,” is all Wendy gave in answer, casting a look towards Will, still trying to reach a boy, shaking and huddled by the helm. “So were we.”

Sleep doesn’t come easy, the sound of footsteps above her making her jerk awake - boys who’d refused to take a bunk below deck, still not willing to accept their new fate, their new role on this island. Voices set her heart racing, forgetting every time that the hunt is over. The crying tonight is louder than it’s been since she arrived, and the sounds of celebration carry over on the water.

She wants to go up there, wants to help them in a way she couldn’t this morning. But she saw the way they looked at her on deck, anger and hatred and fear. She’d be no comfort to them, not as a pirate. She could as herself, as a mother like ones they keep calling out for even now. Little boys can’t keep secrets. Emma’s shared her secret enough on this island. She can’t risk it without knowing they’re allies. 

Knowing that doesn’t make it any less horrible, doesn’t make the guilt any lighter or stop each wail from piercing through her chest. And it doesn’t bring sleep either. She hears the door to the room beside her open quietly and shut with a click, hears the muffled voices, one hissed anger and the other gentle compassion, back and forth until they both go silent, finding comfort amidst the chaos. 

It makes her want to cry, to let her own tears join those she only hears because she’s always been alone, because she’s always been abandoned - time and again. That may be the worse part, the small, selfish part of her that couldn’t help but understand their sorrow. She’s never lived through anything like they just have, but she knows that betrayal, the heartbreak of having trusted someone so completely, only to be cast aside. Alone again. Always alone. 

“Emma?” He’s not asleep when she sneaks into his cabin, pads across the small space to his bed. He’s half sat up, hand reaching instinctively for his sword at the first creak of the door opening, but his brace and hook are on the small table beside him, blunted arm and chest bare, sheets pooled in his lap. “What’s wrong?”

She tries to answer, all of her explanations feeling weak, and her words get caught on a shaky inhale. She doesn’t want to talk about it, so instead she closes the rest of the distance between them, climbing carefully into the bed beside him and sliding beneath the covers. He tenses for a moment when she curls herself against his side, head resting tentatively on his shoulder, but then he softens, letting out a breath and sinking back against the pillows. 

His arm hovers, hesitating before wrapping around her. She brings her own hand to his chest, focusing on the feel of the dark hair beneath her fingers rather than the way her hands still shake, listening to the rise and fall of his breaths rather than the sobs upstairs she can’t escape, and the steady beat of his heart as she tries to forget all the ones that won’t beat again. 

His lips press to her crown, not quite a kiss as he speaks against her hair. “Sleep, love. Neverland can’t find you here.”

******

Let me know if you'd like to be added or removed from my tag list!

@kmomof4 @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly  @undercaffinatednightmare @jennjenn615 @dramioneswan @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @batana54 @lfh1226-linda @csalltheway @xsajx @xarandomdreamx @onceratheart18 @ownedbycaptainswan @teamhook @pirateprincessofpizza @lostintheskyfaraway @zaharadessert @thejollyroger-writer @ultraluckycatnd @justanother-unluckysoul @spartanguard @jonesfandomfanatic @deckerstarblanche @jrob64 @klynn-stormz @wefoundloveunderthelight @sailtoafarawayland @tiganasummertree @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @stahlop @superchocovian @snowbellewells @xellewoods @sals86 @karlyfr13s  @ouatpost @skairipakomtrikru @lonelyspectator12   @anmylica   @alexa-fangirl-forever @inspiredbystardust @marcella2727 @paradiselady19 @koryandr @killiansprincss @goforlaunchcee

[whateverithinkof]

Daily Fanfic Rec (Day 32)

Avengers

5/26/2024

Masterlist

Title: House Stark

Author: von_gelmini

Words: 1,556

Chapters: 1

Completed?: Yes

" 'We're not all you,' Peter muttered almost silently under his breath, not raising his head from scrolling on his tablet.

'That's not what Vogue Hommes said when they wrote that they hadn't seen anyone as 'electrifying' on the runway since I walked twenty five years ago. 'The next Tony Stark', I believe was the quote.' Tony snorted. 'I'll just call Azza and inform him of the mistake.' "

-- -- -- -- --

A fast-paced starker fic consisting of ex-model Tony Stark, his runway show, and his model Peter Parker. Peter knows what's best for Tony's show, but will Tony accept these changes?

[artenon]

wip ask game

i'm afraid the only people who might care about these already know what they're about, but i like tag games so here i am, and thank you for the tag @wingdingery! <3

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

okay i have a ridiculous number of WIPs because i need to like... put the ones that are Probably-Never-Gonna-Be-Finished somewhere, so here are all my recent WIPs (read: within the past year or so), plus a few older ones that i still cling to hope of finishing someday lmfao

[ff16] roscest

[fob] BSB wolfbunny i think i'm not supposed to talk about this one because it's for an event lol

[fob] soulbond body share

[fob] what a time to be alive (with you)

[genshin] date auction

[GO] Like a Game of Divine Telephone so what if i haven't worked on this one in 3.5 years, i have hope and fondness for it

[kh] dammit fine another akusai this one also hasn't been worked on in 3 years BUT it's so back for bingo purposes

[kingsman] wingfic SO WHAT IF THIS IS ANOTHER ONE THAT HASN'T BEEN WORKED ON IN 3 YEARS, I LIKE IT

[mcr] actual puppy frank

[mcr] angel!frank

[mcr] antiproximity

[mcr] bitchy brothers who love each other

[mcr] fraycest 5 + 1

[mcr] little!mikey and puppy!frank

[mcr] waycest cnc

[mcu] homecoming starker

[mcu] KITTYdevil

gosh i have quite a few teen wolf WIPs from 2020-2021... but idk if i'll ever revisit them so let's end the list here!

i tag @floralegia @buildarocketboys @pyrchance @etriva @ursafootprints @27-royal-teas @lavendori (hii) and uhh @shark-myths !!!

[ashilrak]

Ao3 Fic Meme

Tagged by @60sec400

Rules: go to your ao3 account and find the following:

1. What ratings do you write most of your fics under?

Teen And Up Audiences (73)

2. What are your top three fandoms?

Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types (113)

Hamilton - Miranda (69)

Marvel Cinematic Universe (19)

3. Who/What is the top character your write about?

Percy Jackson (105)

4. What are your top three pairings?

Apollo/Percy Jackson (48)

Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson (20)

Peter Parker/Tony Stark (15) [Tie]

Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens (15) [Tie]

5. What are your top three additional tags?

Post-The Trials of Apollo (57)

Established Relationship (37)

Alternate Universe - Modern Setting (26) [Tie]

Ficlet Collection (26) [Tie]

6. Does any of this surprise you?

I'm definitely surprised that Starker made it up so high with the ships, but I think that's largely due to just having written enough ships it doesn't take much of one to end up on top. Same thing for 'Alternate Universe - Modern Setting' and 'Ficlet Collection', but they also both make complete sense because I split up my ficlet collections by ship and I used the Modern Setting tag a lot for some Hamilton fics (I can't escape my past).

I'm tagging @mrthology, @charmacden, and @skywalking-through-life 🩷

[starker1975]

Hey!! It's been a while since I've been on tumblr or ao3 because of how hectic life has been lately, and I only recently started reading again. I haven't been keeping up with A Familiar Stranger (Tony's Version) a lot so when I saw it had 5 chapters it made me SO SO HAPPYYY 🥹🥹 The last time I checked it had only 1, and now I come back with 4 new chapters?? You're incredible!! It was so good, I love the complexity of it all and I'm so hooked!! Your work is incredible. Please be patient with yourself, I'll wait for another thousand years if I have to. 💗

Omg this is so sweet. Thank you!!! 🥹🖤

I’m totally with you on the life being hectic thing. That’s why my writing updates have been so sporadic. I still love starker though and don’t see myself ever getting over it. Especially AFS. It’s crazy when I first started shipping starker I wasn’t into starkercest, bc their power imbalance dynamic was enough for me. Look at me now 😵‍💫🤣

I’m so excited about Tony’s POV!! It’s definitely a challenge bc I find it easier to write Peter and I have to make sure I don’t contradict original plot points, and I have to make sure it’s not boring or repetitive and that Tony’s perspective adds new layers to content we’ve already read before. But that makes it even more rewarding to write. When you get to that moment in a scene where it’s like OHHHH that’s what Tony was thinking??? I love it.

It’s so lovely to hear from you!! Thank you for your support and Happy New Year. 🥹🖤🥳