#boarding school fic

[scintillyyy]

the thing about transforming jack & janet to be worse than they are in canon is that as a hypothetical i do think it can be interesting if it's done thoughtfully (despite all my normal bitching) (i would also be more interested if there was a lot more dick & tim in this scenario but i digress) (also, why doesn't mandated reporter dana ever get hit with the bad parent stick. i love her, but also. share the love here!! if you're gonna transform parents worse, let's at least remember *all* the parents to transform them.) and listen, sometimes people want their specific blorbos in angsty overwrought situations. i get it, i truly do, actually.

unfortunately. tim drake fic without there having to be a line making sure to mention that he was neglected & his mom didn't want to spend time with him is a needle in a haystack. like. even if the fic in question has no reason to be bringing them up. like they have nothing to do with anything there. but there they are, being bad parents. even if they're dead & tim has to be sad and angsty about them it's always a made up "that one time janet didn't want to spend time with her son", not like. you know. the time she got poisoned to death when tim was only 13. or the time tim tried to pull a boomerang out of his dad's chest with his bare hands. and that ubiquitousness of them sucking in 1 particular way that *always without fail* has to be mentioned even if they're dead and not the focus of the fic is what gets tiring (especially when there is genuinely a ton of canon based angst and happenings that are super interesting to explore or could be used instead for angst with literally no change to the fic that you never ever see in favor of "janet's a misogynistic caricature of a refrigerator mother"), not that people want to imagine and explore scenarios where they suck a little worse.

[phoenixcatch7]

Bit of a shame I left hp before I entered svsss because one of my favourite tropes at the time was 'dumbledore calls in External Support from different fandom during ootp and they show up to grimmauld to help (and utterly upstage everyone in the process)'.

And needless to say Sqq, at any point, would have been perfect.

Like. He's a teacher too. A scholar. Secretly from the modern world so he'd have no trouble with its intricate and mysterious workings, incidentally making himself look very cool and competent in the process. He'd have So Many Opinions. He'd incite bloody war with umbridge. He'd project his feelings for sj onto Snape with a side of commiseration for his role and fate. He'd mostly pretend to know so much less about hp than he actually does (which, hilariously, he canonically name drops in svsss, AND his system is pretty heavily implied to have previously worked in, like wow). He'd be constantly comparing Harry with lbh. He'd have a running internal dialogue bemoaning the world building, the characters, Harry's fate, the general decision making process, maybe some death of the author. Geeking out about magic. Raiding the library whenever he's free.

He might bring his students as part of an exchange, he might bring a fellow peak lord if it was a serious mission (liushen anyone?) he could bring adult lbh. Maybe sqh? Or sqh could be the messenger with the system and/or mbj.

A self aware character who couldn't live with himself if he didn't at least try to change Harry's fate whether or not he actually likes the kid? He could canon that divergence before you could say horcrux. That kind, oblivious, smoking hot exotic teacher who had people ruining their lives for him in a world that was used to people that pretty and also hated him specifically?? The hogwarts students wouldn't stand a CHANCE.

Man the scenes are coming to me so strongly I almost want to write it just as a like. Satire piece or something. Just Sqq ripping everything to shreds, accidentally or not. Diatribes on the author biases. Unintentional themes. Iffy world building choices. Nothing new, but through the lens of svsss' Sqq it'd be something for sure XD.

[nostalgic-bee]

So you know that thing in media where for a health class the students are paired up to take care of a fake baby

Imagine that with the Anubis kids, but more importantly the sibuna gang

Imagine them having to each take care of a fake baby but also have to deal with a literal curse

[nicoisanangelo]

I don't know if there's any fics like that but imagine a religious, boarding school kid with religious trauma getting a Hogwarts letter. I mean, i would read it. Especially if it was adapted to the marauders era.

[girlwithherheadinthestars]

burnt out gifted kids return - three hour honors class early in the morning edition

someone brings food for everyone

someone buys coffee for everyone

person b: two hours and thirty seven minutes left of torture."

^person a: (teacher) can hear you hush!

^person b: they know how i feel about this i made my opinion abundantly clear

teacher: *asks a question*

^person a: answers

^person c: *mocking clapping*

^person b: stfu that's my academic rival slash partner piss off only i get to annoy them

^person a: slash what now?

^person d: oh haven't you read anything? academic rivals always end up married

^person a: WHAT? SINCE WHEN? (turns on teacher) did you know about this?

^teacher (sighs in they're never going to finish the curriculum): no, sweetheart i didn't. can we carry on with --

^person a: NO

^teacher: five minute break? (for the fifth time in the last hour)

^person c: but we were in the middle of --

^everyone: oh shut up

someone forgot there was a class and is still sleeping in their dorms.

^teacher: where's person i?

^person b: (takes out phone and calls) hey, i. um. i think we have class.

^(i screaming from the other end of the line)

part one - where they're studying for a test

[therentyoupay]

[ modern!AU | neighbors-to-lovers!AU | mountain living!AU ft. jelsa ] [ based on snow globe by @therentyoupay ] [ 1 2 3 4 ]

On July 1st, the lonely house at the top of the mountain was finally sold. — In which Jack(son) Overland tries his best to befriend his neighbor, one woodworking project at a time. Prompt: Three-word sentences: "Just say it," for @aicosu.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"The Carter Academy for Omega Excellence" Pt 10

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Tags: age gap, boarding school au, a/b/o, dub-con/non-con, spanking, feminization, dumbification, sexism, misogyny, prostate milking, discipline, D/s elements, hurt/comfort, mentions of past self-harm, predatory behavior, teacher/student, bathroom use control, humiliation, omorashi

Summary: Bucky Barnes is young, confused, and conflicted—a real "rebel without a cause" type. His parents ship him off to Steve's reform school to help him get straightened out into a "proper young omega."

Wait! I haven't read an earlier part of this fic! Story Masterlist

Part 10 Expedient Action

Steve watches as the kid’s lower lip trembles, his stubborn little cleft chin moving along with it, and he hums sadly. “Do you remember the last time you were happy, Bucky?”

The boy shrugs, won’t meet his eyes. “Dunno,” he eventually says.

Steve nods, having expected as much. Slowly, he curls his fingers over the top of the towel at Bucky’s waist. Bucky’s stomach sucks in with tension when he realizes that Steve intends to pull the towel off him, but he makes no move to try and stop it. Steve lets it fall to the floor, then looks at Bucky’s lap, eyes briefly considering the state of the omega’s rigid little prick, before sliding to the side to look at his leg. Sadness fills him again at seeing them, even though he’d known they were there.

Right along the top of Bucky’s left thigh are a series of pale lines. Scars, lined up in a tidy little row that begins at his hipbone and ends several inches before the knee. Most are white, but some are pink, still in various stages of healing from the recent past. Months old, but not years. Steve grabs Bucky’s hands when he tries to cover himself. “It’s okay, Buck. You’re not in trouble.”

Bucky whines and tugs his hands away. “Leave me alone,” he groans, sounding miserable. Steve has no doubt that he is, though that doesn’t mean that he’s not aroused, as well. Steve could smell his slick as soon as he’d gotten out of the shower, and it’s only intensified since then. Understandable, after what they’d witnessed from the doorway of Parker’s room. (Steve really needs to give Natasha a good bonus this semester. That woman knows how to get a task done.)

With the towel discarded, Bucky’s scent is rich and unimpeded, that pleasant mix of loamy earth and spiced verbena combining to arouse Steve’s senses. Virtually all omegas smell nice at bare minimum. Even ones pregnant by other alphas still smell good, if not particularly arousing. But again, he’s reminded that the notes of Bucky’s scent stand out to him more than what he’s accustomed to, pulling at all the baser instincts that live in the back of his brain.

He tries his best not to let his enjoyment of it show, but there’s only so much a man can do. He’s wearing his own special brand of compression underwear at the moment. Made for alphas, thank god, or else there’d be a very different situation at the front of his slacks right now. The bloody things are tight as fuck, but they do a good job at concealing all but the most aggressive of boners. And for an alpha who spends his days surrounded by hundreds of teenaged omegas reaching the peak of their sexual maturity, they are a godsend.

Steve rests his hand on Bucky’s leg, right over the scars. Oh Sweetheart, he thinks mournfully. Who did this to you? He lets his thumb trace one silvery-thin line, probably one of the oldest, and hushes Bucky’s whimper when it comes. “When did you start doing this, Honey?” he asks, being careful to keep his voice as gentle and as coaxing as he can. “Shh. It’s okay.”  Poor thing’s just embarrassed as all get-out, and Steve isn’t trying to scold him. “When, Bucky?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs and won’t meet Steve’s eyes. “Couple’a years ago, I guess. I don’t do it anymore. Not … not much.”

“That makes sense,” Steve observes. He’s baiting Bucky, and it works.

The kid peeks up at him. “It does?”

“Sure. Your heats mature at about fifteen, sixteen. That’s when it gets harder. Without a safe and consistent partner with you each cycle, you’re not going to be very fulfilled.” He watches as Bucky frowns down at his lap and thinks about that. “Has that been your experience?” he prods gently. “Feeling unfulfilled?”

“I … no.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Want to try saying that like you mean it?”

Bucky grimaces. “I mean, I didn’t use to think so. It just was what it was, y’know? Most kids don’t have a heat partner, so I figured I was just bein’ oversensitive. I at least had Brock. … Once in a while, anyways.”

“Hm.” 

“I thought that was good,” he says, looking to Steve for confirmation in a way that is pitifully naïve. “Nobody else pairs. Unless they’re dating. And even then, people have lives. They can’t just stop everything for a week every single month. That’d be ridiculous.”

“Right,” Steve says, hating this. He wants to growl and bundle Bucky up and make him see how neglected he’s been, how he deserves so much more. “You felt like you had to make due on your own.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I could get a hookup, at least for the second day of my heat. Those are usually the worst.” Bucky looks away, evasive. “And … I tried some things.”

“Suppressants?”

“Yeah. But before I figured out how to get a doctor to prescribe ‘em, I used to steal Ransom’s credit card to buy some of those supplements you see in the infomercials. You know: with the testimonials and everything? People saying how good they work?”

“How well they work,” Steve corrects under his breath. “Those are expensive.”

“Hundred and fifty bucks plus shipping, every month,” Bucky confirms. “Well, at least until Ransom noticed it on his credit card statement.” He colors a little and admits, “I also tried those things they sell over the counter at the pharmacy. Those, erm, those things that you can take. That you stick up your—”

“I’m familiar,” Steve drawls. “So, you put multiple things in your body without knowing what was in them.”

“Well I figured they couldn’t sell ‘em on tv if it wasn’t safe,” Bucky defends. “And besides, everybody does it.”

“Not exactly winning me over, here, kid.”

“Look, you don’t understand!” he snaps. “You’re alpha. You don’t get it. Heats are stupid, they're not fun. They just get in everybody’s way, and these products help. They help quality of life. They help make it less of a problem.”

Steve holds back the actual growl that wants to come at hearing such a tragic pile of tripe. “Did you ever stop to wonder why it’s always your natural biology that gets labeled as the ‘problem’, hm? Always something to be fixed, rather than something you’re entitled to? Something you deserve to have accommodated?”

Bucky blinks a few times in a row, mouth working. “Well … no. That’s just how it is.”

“Oh is it?”

“It is if you want to make it anywhere in life. Get into a good school, get a good job, work your way up at some company.” He blithely rattles off the examples, speaking like this is all pre-determined truth, and Steve is the only idiot who hasn’t been clued in. “People won’t hire you if you need all that time off of work and stuff. You’ve got to make yourself as good as a beta employee, at least. Otherwise nobody’ll hire you.”

Steve nods solemnly. “Yeah, well that’s where I take issue. I think omega rights—true omega rights—demand that society value omegas for what they naturally are. And that means allowing them the space and time they need for their cycles, not treating it as something inconvenient, not expecting people to use a bunch of drugs to try and force themselves into some, some …” He makes a frustrated gesture. “Some employable box.”

“Well yeah, I guess. But—”

“Omegas deserve to have their contributions as mothers and homemakers valued, too,” Steve asserts, then narrows his eyes at Bucky when the kid rolls his eyes. “You scoff, but the omegas who consistently rank highest in self-reported life satisfaction are those who choose to take on domestic roles. The only thing career omegas consistently rank highest on is level of  antidepressant usage. It’s a trend we’ve seen increasing ever since the seventies.”

“Right,” Bucky snaps. “Back in the good old days when we didn’t have any rights.”

“That’s not true,” Steve says sternly. “Omegas had all the same rights as other designations, it was culture that was different. There was a place carved out in society for them. Omegas’ natural affinities were valued. Those who did work were able to find jobs that fit their lifestyles and needs. Now, employers expect you to change yourself for the job, just like you said.” He shakes his head sadly. “One could make the argument that that’s equality, but it sure as hell ain’t fair. Betas and alphas have society shaped to fit their needs, and omegas simply have to try and force themselves into difficult spaces just to get by. I don’t think it’s right that the way we do things is geared towards what alphas and betas naturally need, and nothing that’s naturally omega is accommodated for anymore. Do you?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, but his posture slumps with uncertainty the more he considers what's being said.

Steve softens his tone to something more gentle. “That’s why I think the erasure of gender roles is unhealthy, Buck. Not because I’m a sexist who hates omegas and doesn’t want them to be able to do anything, but because I think you guys deserve so much better. So much more.” He watches Bucky’s face, the growing doubt in his features, and figures it’s time to stop with the proselytizing. He's given the kid something to think on. That's good enough for now. It is bedtime, after all. “Just think on it a bit,” he advises kindly. “You’ve had a lot of experiences, but there’s still a lot for you to learn. Try and do it with an open mind, okay? You might come to see one or two things a little differently.”

Bucky grumbles unhappily, but Steve can tell when his point is getting through. Most students start to come around to considering the school's curricular viewpoint by the one week mark. After a week of constant offers to have his needs fulfilled—and constant refusal of those offers—it’s pretty obvious that Bucky is nearing the turning point. Steve decides to end this little talk on a positive note. He gives him one final pat on his legs. “Okay, Hon. Time for bed.” He stands up and observes the way that Bucky seems to physically stall, unable to quickly process Steve’s sudden departure. 

“You’re leaving?” he blurts.

Steve offers him a gentle smile. “Would you like for me to scent anything? Maybe a blanket or a pillow?” Right now there’s only a sheet and a single, thin blanket on the bed. He thumbs backward at the room’s cabinet of nesting supplies. “The nurse said you’re mid-cycle. The urge to nest must be waxing rather than waning at this point, yeah?”

Bucky seems surprised by the offer, but after a moment he nods shyly. “Maybe an extra blanket wouldn’t be so bad.”

Steve turns and goes to grab a blanket out of the cabinet and scent it, taking Bucky’s compliance as a significant win. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and is doubly pleased when Bucky makes no snippy remark at the gendered praise. He doesn’t face Bucky as he scents the top edge of the blanket with his wrist and then his neck. He doesn’t want to push his luck and make the boy so embarrassed that he’ll revert back to his pattern of disrespectful misbehavior. It’s always a balancing act, with new students, but once you get the right combination of domination, kindness, and familiarity? That's when things begin to smooth out.

Bucky takes the blanket with a bashful, “Thank you,” when Steve hands it over, and Steve gives him a quiet rumble of praise for being polite.

“You’re welcome, Honey.” Bucky moves like he’ll get under the blankets, but Steve stops him with a hand on his shoulder. “Hang on a sec. You forgetting something?” Bucky blinks vacantly up at him, and Steve can’t help but chuckle. “We don’t sleep naked, do we?” 

Bucky looks back down at himself, like he’d forgotten he was naked in the first place. “Oh.”

Steve fetches him a pair of underwear from the room’s dresser. The students’ nighttime briefs aren’t dissimilar to what they wear under their uniforms during the day, but they consist of one piece rather than two, and the padding’s a bit more … thorough, meant to help deter wandering hands at night. Steve finds himself unable to look away as Bucky puts them on, sliding them up his legs with shaky fingers and whimpering near subvocally when his leaking prick gets covered up by the padding. His hands fist the bedsheets at either side of his hips, and for a second his face gets red and his eyes go unfocused.

Oh Jesus. Steve grinds his teeth at the display, unhappy to feel his own cock pulsing insistently against the seam of his slacks. Bucky’s tortured, straining efforts to not touch himself are near-pornographic to watch, making that warm, sexual urge swirl up harder in Steve’s belly than before. He shifts in place and flexes his hands as he tries to think of something to counter the pulsing in his dick—picturing his grandparents fucking is his usual failsafe, in times like this. He doesn’t want his scent to grow so strong that it affects Bucky right now. Not when they’re ending the night on such a positive note. 

The thought of Nana and Pawpaw doing the nasty does the trick, and Steve retreats to the doorway. He hums in approval as he watches Bucky climb into bed and get settled. He nests only the barest bit, almost tentatively, tucking the scented end of the blanket up alongside his pillow and draping the rest of it over his body. He curls up on his side and nuzzles his cheek against the pillow. Steve waits with his hand poised to flip the light switch. “You have everything you need?” he checks, giving Bucky one final chance to be honest about his needs.

But he simply tucks his face into the scented blanket and closes his eyes. “Uh huh.” His still-damp hair is stark against the white pillowcase, and Steve’s heart gives a fond twinge at the sight.

It does dry curly.

“Okay,” he says quietly. He flicks the lights off, knowing that by tomorrow morning, he’ll have a punishable offense to address with the boy. “Goodnight, Bucky.”

“… Night, Steve.”

Despite the excellent performance of composure that he’s managed to maintain with Bucky for the past few hours, all that time with the omega really has taken its toll. Steve is relieved to get back and shut himself away in the confines of his office. It feels like a sanctuary right now. It’s a deep mental and physical relaxation that hits him as soon as he sinks into his desk chair and inhales the professionally filtered, pheromone-free air of the room. 

“Ahh," he sighs, rubbing at his temples. "God save the queen. Fuck."

Compared to other alphas, he’s got excellent control of his reactions and is able to mask a great deal (an invaluable skill when one works with hordes of hormonally-peaking teenagers), but the end of the school day always provides a bit of relief—today more than most.

He opens his laptop and leaves it to boot up while he goes over over to pour himself a drink. He pulls out one of the cork-coated lowballs that he keeps in the freezer (because he prefers his drinks on the rocks, but whether he likes it or not Peggy’s had an influence on him these past twenty years, and he knows it’s blasphemy to add ice to a 30 year old Scotch). He eyeballs a finger of the liquor—okay, maybe closer to two fingers—and brings it back to his desk to sniff it and swirl it around. 

It’s a vintage that one of Peggy’s relatives gifted them years ago, worth quite a bit of money apparently, and it’s been Steve’s one petty protest amongst the many bigger ones of his soon-to-be ex-wife. He’s only begun making use of it since their divorce proceedings intensified over the summer, with Peggy’s obstinance against fair division of assets reaching damningly selfish levels. Steve never thought of her as someone who’d go for the nerves in a divorce just for the hell of it, and it’s upsetting to see that nastier side exposed. It feels like all his good memories are slowly being tainted by it, made ugly and ruined, like paint thrown over a fine portrait of the woman he’d once admired. Steve’s not a heavy drinker, but he’s nearly made his way through the entire bottle these past few weeks.

At his desk, he peruses current events on his newsfeed and a few academic articles of interest, being sure to sip steadily despite his leanings as a teetotaler. He wants to feel a bit of a buzz by the time he dares to brave his inbox. The little icon tells him that he’s got dozens of unread emails waiting in there. Not unusual for a weekday, but there’s one from Peggy that he purposefully puts off for last. And surprisingly, there’s one email each from the personal accounts of both Tony Stark and Harlan Thrombey.

He clicks on Stark’s first, expecting the email to contain more demands for the accommodations he wants for the upcoming parents’ weekend. Sure enough, Stark doesn’t disappoint, asking Steve to please arrange for a 2-minute slot for one Ms. Pepper Potts to speak during that coming Sunday’s evening ball. It’s during said ball when the school has its traditional slew of scheduled, “spontaneous” rounds of toasts over betrothal announcements. Steve’s happy to agree to a slot for Ms. Potts, just grateful that it won’t be Stark himself making the speech. Thank god for small favors. 

Stark also has a footnote jotted in, as though it’s a nothing, requesting a black Rolls Royce Phantom to pick them up afterwards to take them to their hotel in Newcastle-upon-Tyne. In the distinct manner that Steve’s learned only multi-millionaires ever really have, Tony blithely throws out his specifications for the car’s interior temperature (73 degrees Fahrenheit, precisely), a fully-stocked bar, and a selection of snacks and juice boxes that sounds suspiciously catered to a certain omega's tastes.

Smirking and shaking his head, Steve spends a moment researching the costs of this additional, last-minute amenity. He tacks an extra two grand onto the price and shoots the email back with an inflated invoice that brings him no guilt. Academia is little better than a break-even industry, after all. And besides, Stark can afford it.

Normally, Steve would save any email of Peggy’s for last, but given his growing obsession with interest in Bucky’s case, he decides to save Thrombey’s email for last.

Peggy’s email is also very typical of what Steve’s come to expect from her: curt, concise, and infuriatingly presumptive.

📨Peggy: Asset Divisions Update

Steven, it reads, My solicitor will be in touch after this next weekend with an updated proposal for division of assets. I did not find your last offer acceptable. Mr. Jorgensen is out of the country on account of an emergency this week, which is the reason for the delay. I do apologize and hope you will understand. In the meantime, I look forward to enjoying a pleasant and uncompromised parents’ weekend with our two schools. I’ll be in touch soon, in regards to those preparations. Cordially, Peggy.

Steve sneers at the ‘cordially’. “More like cold as ice,” he grumbles, grabbing the glass of scotch to toss back the last few sips. Parents’ weekend is going to be hell, having to be in such constant proximity with her. 

Thrombey’s email is long and flowery, in the distinct manner that only novelists ever really have. He rambles on, bemoaning the state of his grandson for several long paragraphs before getting to the point. Finally, he lays out the issue, and it is a doozy:

📨Thrombey: Expedient Action Required

—has come to my attention that the boy has been engaging in a form of online prostitution. Something called only fans.”

Steve’s jaw drops as he feels the blood drain from his face. Oh no. Bucky wouldn’t … would he? Shit. He totally would. Steve’s eyes flick back to the email.

—can imagine my horror to find that for a monthly fee, subscribers have access to his nude photos. I hadn’t the stomach to look myself, but Ransom assures me it’s all him on the webpage. There are even videos, and Ransom says that James’ face is visible in some of the footage. His face! This is outrageous! 

“You’re telling me,” Steve mutters. 

Thankfully, the Academy’s structure seems to have put an end to his production. There’s been no new footage uploaded since the week before his enrollment. My lawyers are working on having the account erased, and I can only pray that nothing comes to light publicly before then.  Now more than ever, an intervention is required for my grandson. His eligibility for a good marriage will be out the window if word of this pornography spreads, his prospects ruined. I want you to put your full efforts into seeing him matched up with a suitable Alpha as soon as possible. I don’t care who it is, what nationality they are, if it’s a triad, if there’s no notable family name—nothing. All that matters is that you find him a decent mate with no record of mistreatment. Do be thorough in your searching, but do not drag your feet! I’m sure I needn’t explain how damaging this will be to my family, if word gets out.  I am counting on you to take expedient action, H. Thrombey

At the bottom of the email is a link. It’s to an OnlyFans page. Steve’s heart rate picks up and he hesitates for a long moment, knowing that he shouldn’t look. Harlan’s lawyers are handling it. 

But his morbid curiosity wins out, and he clicks on the link. It leads directly to Bucky’s personal page, and Steve experiences a very unpleasant combination of sensations: his dick filling with blood at the same time that his stomach turns from seeing the images that are on the page’s banners. It’s Bucky’s body, that’s for sure, with his face cleverly turned away or artfully clipped from the shots. Below the title page and summary are links to “Exclusive new hot videos!” with 3 second thumbnails of Bucky’s ass moving, his back arching, his hand moving over his—

Steve looks away from the computer screen, furious and aroused and mortified. “Goddammit, Bucky,” he hisses, angry that the kid has done something so inherently damaging—not just to his reputation like Harlan is thinking, but to himself, to his soul. Steve’s stomach churns something awful at knowing that this stuff is available for any creep with a credit card to purchase … and at his own reaction to even the barest glimpses of it. He peeks up again, this time reading the titles of the videos: 

“Hot O-on-O action!”

“Omega dominates Alpha Slut”

“Horny Teen Twink in Heat”

His jaw ticks angrily. What fucking awful, typical titles. He looks down at his cock, which is visibly pressing against the seam of his slacks. “Fuck,” he groans. He can’t jerk off to porn of Bucky. He can’t. It’d be beyond unethical. Even if the kid was his mate, Steve would still feel the moral obligation to—

Oh. Well there’s an idea. 

His brain stalls on the thought of him as Bucky’s mate, his Alpha, in charge of him and giving him what he needs … and taking what he wants. Mortifyingly, a growl builds up in his chest as he glances once more at the thumbnails of Bucky doing lurid things. The kid’s got such tight, smooth skin; such a perfect, pretty shape. Steve’s mind slips into editorial mode, imagining what it would be like if Bucky was his, the omega’s ass moving under his hips, his back arching in his bed, his quivering hands smacked away from his cocklet while Steve rails him from behi—

Jesus fucking Christ. Stop!

His hand is halfway to his pocket when he realizes that he’s reaching for his wallet, contemplating buying a subscription just so that he can see. Disgust floods his chest, extinguishing the growl, and he snaps out of it. He pushes away from the desk and stomps over to grab the bottle of Scotch and bring it back, dumping himself back in his desk chair and heedlessly pouring another fill. 

And so what? he thinks. Who cares if he finishes the whole fucking bottle? He might as fucking well. His wife, the woman who agreed to be his life partner, who placated him with endless promises of “one day” and then went ice cold and bitter and reneged on everything she’d ever claimed to want with him, is putting him through the wringer just for shits and giggles. And now come to find out, his newest pupil, a boy for whom he’s got way too much personal interest, is selling himself on the internet—For $9.99 a month?!!! The videos seem to cost extra on a pay-per-view basis, but even still, what the ever-loving fuck?!

Steve’s whole body stiffens as something else occurs to him: Harlan’s email said that Bucky’s face is visible in the videos. Bucky’s stepfather reported that to Harlan. Which means he's seen the videos. Which means … 

Steve’s jaw ticks as he glances back to the computer screen, to Bucky’s homepage and the free lurid teaser photos that don’t show his face. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hisses, angry. That Drysdale guy had been a prick during the tour of the campus, and now Steve knows what a fucking pervert he is, too. Because the only way he could know that Bucky’s face is shown is if he bought the subscription and paid extra for the videos.

Steve closes out the browser window, not wanting to see any more of it. The warring disgust and temptation to be one of those creeps who pays money to view omegas degrade themselves is just too much. He yanks his wallet out of his back pocket and chucks it angrily at the couch, missing by a country mile. He takes a gulp of the Scotch, exhaling harshly at the burn as it goes down. “Fuck.”

Pornography for omegas carries a heavy social stigma—far beyond what any beta or alpha porn star would ever face, and deeper in the nature of its contempt and consequence. Omegas who do porn make big bucks, because they’re making an even bigger trade-off. Engaging in any sort of sex work virtually erases an omega's chance of mating. It hadn’t merely been upper crust snobbery in Harlan’s email, but common sense as well. People from all walks of life treat omega sex workers as an untouchable caste, damaged goods, not worthy of real relationships. 

It’s one of the few holdovers from the old days, even though porn isn’t what it once was. It’s easier to make than ever. Amateur is in. Omegas who would’ve once been exploited by large production companies now work from home, in control of their own content creation. More and more of them are choosing get rich quick schemes over mating, turning to platforms like OnlyFans and giving away their most sacred gifts to any scum bucket with a credit card. Ruining their lives. 

Steve loosens his tie and takes another gulp of liquor before setting the glass down heavily. His hands go resolutely back to his laptop with what he knows he has to do. It sickens him that he even has to do it in the first place. He considers himself a man of morals, a man who lives by his word. But in this one thing, he’s let himself become a hypocrite. He navigates to his internet bookmarks and opens the subfolder marked “Meditations.” It’s his porn stash. Favorite videos he’s saved for lonely nights. Nothing too wild, but virtually all of it involves omegas. Watching A/o porn has been his guilty pleasure for … a while.

He used to avoid it on principle, but these past few years have been different, his desires harder to ignore, the urge to bond, mate, and breed pooling in the back of his brain and the pit of his belly, winding him tight with a tension that he doesn’t like. At first, he’d just chalked it up to being a horny bastard, but that wasn’t it. The unrelenting tension came with a hollow, forlorn ache that refused to go away. Even after a good jerk off session imagining himself in one of those videos, it never went away for long. It’d taken Steve a long time to figure out what that ache really was. For the first time in his life, he felt unfulfilled. 

He only hesitates a second before right clicking on the folder and pressing delete, a grim sense of rightness settling over him at the action. He should’ve done it long ago. He shouldn’t have compromised his values in the first place. Of course he’d made all sorts of excuses for it: the porn was amateur, it was self-made, the omegas were getting off and enjoying themselves, he wasn’t paying for it, maybe the Alphas in the videos were actually their mates.

And then of course, the lamest excuse of all: that he deserved to watch it, because his erstwhile wife was ruining everything. 

He closes out the browser window and frowns at his reflection on the screen. “Lame,” he mutters. He opens Harlan’s email back up and begins drafting a response, assuring the man that he has nothing to worry about, that Steve will find Bucky a suitable match in no time.

He uses one of the school’s proprietary databases that tracks eligible bachelors, typing in search parameters for sex and nationality (any), net worth (≥ €2,000,000) and age (25-45). Alphas live longer than other designations, so he isn’t worried about being too picky on the age range. Just so long as it isn’t some young sap who doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing. Bucky needs a firm hand and lots of attention. He needs an Alpha who can handle him with gentle dominance, who’ll know when to be indulgent and when to put their foot down.

Steve can’t say why he picks €2m to be the cutoff point for a prospective Alpha’s net worth. Maybe he likes the idea of Bucky being given an easy, comfortable life. And if he sets the search results to list from lowest to highest net worth, well … maybe it’s because he doesn’t like the idea of Bucky being smothered by ludicrous levels of wealth (like Parker’s undoubtedly about to be). 

The list of possibilities starts with a landowner in rural Scotland, and ends with an Israeli shipping magnate based out of Cairo. Steve scrolls through the profiles, dismissing anyone he deems unworthy of being Bucky’s mate. Too ugly, too ugly, too fat, too old, too many divorces, too ugly, too ugly. Nobody seems good enough. Steve finds flaws in every profile he sees. And underneath it all, the thought remains: he could be Bucky’s mate.

He shakes his head like he can rattle the idea loose, thinking: don’t be stupid, Rogers. He’s the headmaster here. Taking a student as a mate would be a violation of his professional duties. Not illegal, hell, not even technically against the rules, but certainly embarrassing, perhaps bordering on … unseemly. Parents entrust him with their omega sons to train them up and secure good matches for them, not to mate them himself. 

… But Harlan’s email had specifically said that nothing else mattered. Not race, nor gender, nor pedigree. ‘All that matters is that you find him a decent mate with no record of mistreatment’.

All Steve can think about is how that could be him. He could be Bucky’s Alpha. He could take care of him, provide for him, have a family with him. Pieces of an imaginary life layer up in his mind like paper mâché, one on top of the other, slowly congealing into a picture that makes the yearning in his gut that much worse. He imagines Bucky as his omega, living in the Pendergast Street cottage together, a scar on Bucky’s neck; holing up in the house’s nesting closet with him each month, fucking him through his heats, getting him pregnant, watching him give birth and nurse their baby inside a bundle of blankets that have Steve’s scent on them.

He’s always wanted kids. Peggy had, too, or so she said. They’d talked about it infrequently, but they had talked about it. How one day they’d mate an omega and live a blissful family life, have a traditional triad marriage. But that was the problem: they’d only ever talked about it. And on the rare occasion when they had, Steve was always the one to bring the topic up. He hadn’t realized that, hadn’t realized how often Peggy’s only input wound up being an obfuscating ‘one day’. 

The day when she finally nutted up and said that she’d changed her mind, that she didn’t want an omega mate in their marriage, didn’t want babies, was the day Steve finally uttered the word that’d been sitting on the back of his tongue for months: “Divorce.”

He still wants to have that intimacy with an omega: bonding them, sharing their heats, getting them pregnant and watching them grow, seeing his child in their arms. He thinks of Bucky in that role, imagines how the boy would take to it, what their first time would be like, if he’d instinctually know to go ass up in the bed or if he’d need to fight it a little, have his alpha toss him around and hold him down before he could accept a knot. If he’d get quiet right before coming, or shriek and thrash and dissolve into agonized tears.

“Fuck,” Steve groans, letting his hand slide over the top of his thigh and into the crease of his groin. He palms himself there, gripping his dick and giving a few short tugs from over the material of his slacks. He looks down and stares at the hard line his boner makes, imagining Bucky being here and seeing it, putting his hand there, how much smaller it’d be than Steve’s, how much less experienced. God, Steve wants to guide him through that, teach him how to touch a man, watch the nervousness and arousal play out on his face as he learns how to please an alpha for the first time. 

“Fuck, Honey,” he breathes, thinking about the little noises Bucky would make, the little protests and growls, and the slick that would drip down his thighs and betray him. Steve wonders how the kid touches himself, thinks back to that first day in his office, when he’d asked him how he liked to make himself come. Bucky hadn’t gotten around to answering before he’d lost control of his body, wetting up his underwear in submissive release and going a fascinated shade of red once Steve cooed at him over it. 

He’s never had a student release like that before. Not that easily. And he’s just so fucking pretty, even his anger is pretty. Steve grits his teeth at how he can feel his self restraint slipping. He thinks of Harlen’s email: find him a mate, anyone will do. Well if anyone will do, then why the fuck shouldn’t he put himself in the running?

Bucky is low hanging fruit, so fucking ripe for the picking, and Steve just knows he could get him to bend so beautifully with only a little bit of tender care. He could have him happy and content in no time, releasing at the barest show of dominance, just like before. He can still hear that warbling, humiliated whimper that came right after Bucky wet for him, the way his big, confused eyes had looked to Steve for help … 

“Goddammit.” He hastily undoes his belt and fly. He shoves his pants and underwear down to free his dick, wrapping a hand around himself and squeezing tightly at the base. His knot is already dark and aching, halfway to being erect after less than a minute of touching himself. He wrings his fist up under the head, forcing the skin over the tip and jacking off with it, guts coiling tighter at the tiny, wet sounds it makes. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He takes his hand off, not wanting to come too fast. He slumps back in the desk chair for a moment, panting, and remembers two things at almost the exact same second: He needs to check the surveillance in Bucky’s room, and he’s got a pocket masturbator in his desk drawer. Well, fuck.

He all but lunges for the drawer, yanking it open and cursing when he sees it. He grabs the toy and holds it to the tip of his cock, moving his hips to push the head through in tiny, teasing little pulses. Oh god, it feels amazing. He pulls it off and reaches for his laptop, opening the school’s surveillance mainframe and navigating to the dormitory views. He clicks on the camera for Bucky’s bedroom and toggles the night vision to on. At first it doesn’t look like much is happening, but then he catches the slight movement of Bucky’s body beneath the blanket … and he moans all over again.

“You little fuck,” he breathes, grabbing the masturbator to slide it all the way over his dick. “Ughn.”

Bucky’s touching himself from underneath the blankets. He’s lying in the same position that Steve left him in, only now his eyes are clenched shut tight and he’s panting open-mouthed into the pillow, his one shoulder angled in such a way as to suggest that he’s got his hand reached behind him. His arm moves in tiny, barely-there pulses. Steve realizes that, unless Bucky’s got the longest fingers known to mankind, he’s using a toy on himself back there. 

“Nnh.” He squeezes the silicon sleeve over his cock, dragging it up and down in time with the motions of Bucky’s shoulder, imagining that it’s Bucky he’s feeling around his cock, imagining that Bucky’s feeling him.  “Naughty boy,” he grunts through a grin. He knew Bucky would be jerking off once left alone, but this is even better. Steve regrets not watching the feed from the moment he left, as he’d love to know just what the toy looks like, and where Bucky was hiding it. Somewhere in his luggage, obviously. New students are always searched when they arrive, but clearly the boy managed to get something past bag check. Steve almost feels admiration for the sneaky little shit. 

He pushes the unmute button and listens to the audio. At first it’s just the quiet rustling of fabric on fabric, the stirring of Bucky’s body against the sheets as he pleasures himself, but then a tiny, breathy moan breaks through, and then another. Steve’s hips flex into his stroking hand. “Oh, Honey.”

Bucky’s face is pinched and he’s biting his lip—probably trying to keep quiet. The notion makes Steve smirk. Omegas are very vocal in their sexual pleasure, prone to keening and squealing and making all sorts of warbling, debased noises when they’re feeling good. It must be the most exquisite torture for Bucky to try and stay silent like this as he fucks himself on whatever toy he’s managed to sneak in. Steve watches it with a tightening belly and aching balls, twisting the rubber sleeve over himself again and again, bumping down hard against his knot on every stroke. “Fffuck.”

In the frame, Bucky’s voice catches on a single, high pitched noise as he comes, his body going rigid under the sheets and his hips pulsing harder than before. He whimpers and turns his face further into the pillow to muffle it, but Steve is already right there too, jerking himself hard and fast with the sleeve until he shouts and starts to shoot. His knot blows inside of the rubber, which isn’t as good as the real thing, but still feels fucking amazing. He keeps his dick fully buried and squeezes the toy hard over his knot, milking himself until his hand cramps and he lets go. The toy pops off his cock and falls to the floor, and Steve goes boneless in his chair as he shivers through the long wave of his orgasm. 

When it’s finally over and he looks back at the computer screen, it’s to see Bucky carefully rearranging himself under the blankets. Whatever it was that he’d used to fuck himself, he seems to be keeping it hidden between the mattress and the room’s wall. Steve plays idly with his knot while he waits for it to go down, deciding that the kid gloves need to come off now. It’s time Bucky learned just what it means to be taken in hand by an Alpha. And with the development of the online porn and Harlan’s request, there’s no longer need or time to play things slow and easy.

Tomorrow, Steve’ll finally do what he should’ve done from the get-go, what he’s been wanting to do ever since Bucky trounced into his office with a bad attitude and false bravado. From here on out, he’s going to take proper care of that boy. Starting tomorrow, he’s going to handle Bucky’s education himself. And if things progress from there? Well, Harlan said anyone will do.

Story Masterlist

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[irondad-defensesquad]

"now, who hurt you? who is this flash kid?"

"no one, he's... nobody."

"i can tell he isn't nobody, pete. from the sound of it, he makes you feel bad for even breathing in his direction, right?" tony supposes. at peter's silence, he continues, "it's easy to believe that he's harmless - well, technically you can beat his ass easily, but he isn't harmless, i can tell. sometimes bullies get to us, and that's not your fault. do you hear me, kid? it's not your fault."

tony seems to speak from experience. he sounds hurt. it sounds like it happened decades ago and it still gets to him.

[greenerteacups]

Never a Romione shipper but tbh, love Harry and Ginny or at least the potential of them. It always irked me to no end that JK Rowling reduced Ginny to "hot cool girl who likes Quidditch" when, in reality, that girl's been through some stuff. There was so much missed opportunity here for them to bond on a deeper level i‘ll be mad forever. Hello?? She knows what it's like to have Voldemort in her head, she was possessed for like a year at ELEVEN. That's insane, only to be brought up literally once

This is what I'm talking about with Early Installment Weirdness! The transition from children's book to Y/A involves a major pivot in how serious you can be about the almost-dying stuff. Plus, if you take it on face, Chamber of Secrets is by far the darkest book. The main plot is a slasher thriller stapled onto a murder mystery. There's an 11-year-old girl being possessed by a malignant spirit. There's a dead girl haunting the bathroom. Threats are painted in blood in the walls. Dumbledore warns Hogwarts might have to "close forever." Harry's hallucinating a whispering voice in his head saying "hunt, hunt" and "kill, kill." It's all gothic as hell and fucking awesome, but also, uh: "children's book"? HEWWO?

This is part of the reason I cut Ginny's possession arc in Lionheart. It's a shame to take a major plot beat away from her, but I didn't feel that Book 3 or Book 4 gave her any space on the page to deal with it, and by the time she loops back around to being a major character in Book 5, it's been two years and the book's so crowded I can't imagine where an arc for her would fit.

[cerise-grenadine]

older Snape fans, what are your oldest works like?

i’m curious 🤭

found the old display book where i stored my second (and longest)(and unfinished) fanfic and i’ll have you know the highlight was Severus stabbing a dragon in the throat with a poisoned dagger to save Hogwarts, in front of everyone 🙌🏻

he was able to jump on the dragon because he had ✨angel wings✨ black covered in ebony feathers, of course 🖤

and every chapter had deep poetic introductory quotes bc i was a dramatic teenager.

[foolishlovers]

i'm writing a new chapter for my current good omens wip (wild hearts) rn and i'm just having such a wonderful time writing pining!crowley

wilds hearts is a slow burn fic set at a boarding school in tadfield. at the start of a new school year, english teacher!aziraphale convinces biology teacher!crowley to lead the school's theatre club together. he agrees to it rather reluctantly but there's not a lot crowley would deny his best friend/ the person he's been silently in love with for six years...

featuring teen!the them and warlock + plenty student shenanigans, fluff, angst, and eventual smut

[formosusiniquis]

In a turn of events surprising exactly no one among the group, it's Dustin's who starts the whole thing. He calls a formal party meeting, and an hour after the message goes out over the walkie Steve has a living room full of anxious freshman and Eddie Munson -- and him and Robin who are mostly there because the meeting had to be held at Steve's house for some reason.

Dustin's sense of dramatics have come to rival Eddie's, and he waits until they're all seated before he even bothers coming out from where he hid himself with a manilla folder under one arm and the only white sheet in Steve's house, that had definitely come from off of his parent's bed, under the other. He doesn't say a word as he throws the sheet over the entertainment center and comes back again wheeling in an overhead projector. Steve can still faintly make out O'Donnell written on the side. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've gathered you all here today," Dustin punctuated his sentence with the heavy click of the projector being switched on.

The fan doesn't drown out the screaming from the crowd.

"You made it sound like an emergency."

"How did you get that here?"

"How did you get it at all?"

"Please," Dustin interrupts, "save all questions for the end." From his manilla folder he slaps a pre-written laminate down on the light table. Projecting, enlarged for everyone to see, 'Why Lucien is secretly the big bad of the whole campaign: a presentation by Dustin Henderson."

"This is the lamest reason for petty theft ever." Eddie gripes. Clearly more upset than Henderson had actually figured the plot twist out, Steve remembers how proud of himself he'd been when he talked himself through it weeks ago.

"Did you help him do this?" Steve asks, afraid of the answer. 

"Obviously not, why would I spoil my own-"

"The projector, Eddie."

"I mean barely, I was more of a getaway driver. Really, if she wanted to keep her projector she shouldn't have moved it out into the hallway so they could wax the floors. I didn't know he was going to use it for evil."

Henderson clears his throat, a disgusting phlegmy hem-hem, "If you're going to talk through the presentation, you'll be asked to leave."

The attitude on the kid, really.

It becomes a thing after that. Steve already has the projector, it's not like he can bring it back to the highschool. What would he even say, 'Sorry about the confusion, my overhead projector looks just like this one.' When there's nothing good at Family Video to rent or it's raining too hard to use the pool, they'll all go to different corners of the house with a stack of ten laminate sheets, a wet erase marker, and a vague theme. Then they come back and share what they've come up with.

The group is incapable of not instigating some kind of competition, at the end of the night they'd fight and argue over whose presentation was best. Steve participated half the time, but more often than not let himself be talked into playing referee to make sure no one's feelings got too hurt. On those nights he'd add onto Robin's. His favorite: why star trek is better than star wars (with footnotes from Steve)

It's at least twice as gay, kirk and spock are basically alien married and uhura definitely had a thing for spock's wife. All star wars has is the robots and they're barely main characters.

Steve note: Spock's half-vulcan status can be looked at the same as being bi or genderqueer, not feeling like you belong right in either half of your identity cause you aren't enough of one or the other -- Luke is just a twink with a nice wardrobe.

The Party could argue about anything, but Steve wasn't exactly surprised when the young adults got in on the fun too. The projector didn't usually come out until they were all drunk or stoned enough to admit that they had been waiting all night to make their presentations. Unlike the kids who mostly treat the games like debate team: who's the most powerful fictional character, what's the best PC class, what character from star wars would survive the Upside Down (he thought Erica's presentation: why the my little ponies could take down tiamat but wouldn't because they're too civilized, was especially inspired). The older teens treated it more like an amped up game of truth or dare, making up things that someone else in the group should have to do and encouraging the rest of the group to join in too.

They started the night off with Argyle's "Why Steve should give me his secret brownie recipe" which turned out to be mostly about how good they would taste as weed brownies and Eddie and Jon were quick to join his side.

They go around like that advocating for bad decisions like consequences don't exist, like they could be kids again. Robin thinks they should get tattoos, Steve is easily swayed. Jon proposes a road trip back to California. Nancy says they should all move to Boston with her. Eddie thinks the core four should start a band. Steve waits for his turn.

Steve has had his pages written and waiting for days. He knows exactly how long it takes his friends every time they meet to get wasted enough to give in to the temptation to wheel out his contraband projector. Once Robin is finished shouting at Eddie about how they're the only ones with any musical gifts he takes his turn.

"Why Eddie Munson should go out with me: a presentation by Steve Harrington."

[methylphenidatedreams]

In my dream last night there was this collection of old comic books and they were like super old fashioned and yellowing and they were about a version of Jason who had first become robin while living in this orphanage/boarding school/academy. He had a few misadventures before meeting Batman, including one where he saved a baby Waylon Jones, and another where he got in trouble but managed to escape but not before Dick heard of it so then Jason had to go BACK and save him because they were both having a ‘I need to save the civilian’ moment. I should have noticed it was a dream because it had a 70s era Dick in the same comic as a Jason who I wouldn’t be surprised if he came from the Golden Age, but the real anachronism was that Batgirl Steph drawn in the 2000s BoP style appeared and she was like time traveling I guess? And then I also had comics about Red Hood Jason helping out Steph and like putting a blanket over her when she went to bed and no actually the weird thing that should have woken me up was that I was showing these things to actual Robin Jason from the 80s and he was not surprised that he was a comic book character he was just nodding along as a showed him.

[doyelikehaggis]

7 Days of Scarepairs: Blam | Blaine Anderson x Sam Evans (Glee) + “Vampire”

Requested by Anonymous

"I have to compel you. If anyone found out-"

Sam stared back at him, his eyes as big as saucers. "Who would believe me? I don't even think I believe me."

"Trust me," Blaine said gravely, "plenty of people around here would believe you, and that wouldn't end well. For anyone. It's not just me."

Sam got out of his chair. "Wait, there are others? Like, here? In Lima?"

Reluctantly, Blaine nodded. He knew shouldn't be telling him any of this. It was too much of a risk. He should compel him now, like Mr Schue told him to.

But then he caught a glimpse of Sam's face. He was grinning from ear-to-ear as he sank back into the chair and shook his head. He looked up at him.

"This is so cool."

"It's really not," Blaine tried to protest.

"Dude, you're a freaking vampire!" He glanced around them, his face taking on a more serious look as Blaine motioned for him to keep his voice down. "Sorry. It's just... I don't understand. You're this awesome, supernatural being with awesome powers. You're like a superhero."

Every disadvantage and negative side to it rolled right back down Blaine's throat. His mouth quirked and Sam's grin widened.

"I guess, in a way..." he said, his brow furrowing. "Wait, you like superheroes?"

"Are you kidding? I love them," Sam said with barely contained excitement but, to his credit, he managed to keep control of his volume. His eyes grew impossibly wider and he was out of his chair again, standing in front of him. "Could I be your human sidekick?!"

The answer to that question should, undoubtedly, be a resounding no. Letting him keep his memories was bad enough. But actually involving him in any of it? Mr Schue would never let it slide.

He opened his mouth to shoot him down, but... he just couldn't bring himself to do it. The truth was, it was a pretty lonely existence. He'd only been a vampire for two years, but he barely had anyone to talk to anymore. His parents didn't want to know him. It was better they forgot about him entirely and went on pretending he had actually died that night.

Even his brother was better off like that.

Sure, he had a few friends at Dalton, and they knew what it was like, but... he was still really lonely. They had all gotten used to in their own ways, but he never could. Mr Schue was always telling him he couldn't have human blood because of the ripper gene, so he couldn't exactly tag along with David and Jeff when would sneak out.

He never even talked to Kurt about it because he thought it might freak him out too much, with all the history between witches and vampires, and now he wasn't even there anymore anyway.

He felt completely alone, even in his own world.

But here was Sam, looking at him like he was the coolest person he had ever met. Asking to be his friend. He wasn't afraid of him or what he might do, not like everyone back at Dalton or Mr Schue.

"I'm sorry." He sighed as Sam's face fell. "It's too dangerous. I need to make you forget all of this."

Sam pressed his lips together and nodded. "Can I just ask one thing? Don't take everything away."

Blaine opened his mouth, already shaking his head, but Sam lifted his eyes to him, freezing him to the spot with his next words.

"Leave the part where we met today."

Sam took a deep breath and nodded one more time, letting him know he was ready, even if he wasn't really. And he wasn't the only one.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't make him forget.

Worse than that: he didn't want to.

[groenendaelfic]

changes season 3 will probably inspire me to make to the ALaWHEO outline:

(a 1000% serious manifesto)

here I was worried about my Wilmon boning all through the Easter holidays when clearly I didn't write them horny enough

adding a smidge more character growth to Micke (not on my bingo card)

figuring out a way to add Wille relaxedly sitting at a campfire and calling it a rave somewhere

Rousseau getting more than just a few paragraphs dedicated to his fate

more pda and Wilmon getting it on in public places (not really, but Wille bb you have a room with a selection of beds, please bang there and not in idk the music room)

August being recommended to give yoga a try

Farima, Farima, Farima (also not on my bingo card)

Wilmon communicating less

changing the color of the name day / birthday cake (the most important change of all 🎂)

Things from ALaWHEO which are now canon:

Simon having family in Gothenburg

The security service realizing that living on the GROUND FLOOR is a bad idea

spending holiday time at (totally not) Stenhammar

Ludvig's characterization

no one else's characterization (Simon bb what did they do to you?)

[paintmegrey]

Just a little Jegulus for the heart

"Even with blood drying under his nose and on his bottom lip, his hair a mess, sweat and crimson mixing in drops from his forehead down his face—all Regulus can think is how beautiful this man is.

It vibrates through his body like a sin."

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57856558 👀👀👀