#fuck me lads its been a rough year

[no-tengo-ojos]

All I can say is that lore building occurred on this day

[secretobsessionstuff]

A Fantasy Drabble?

A sickfic Fantasy Drabble!

(Sorry not a continuation of the last one)

---------

King Jareth summoned the physician to his daughter’s chambers as soon as he heard the girl cough. It was early morning, and young princess Tilly was just beginning to wake from her rough night of sleep. 

Jareth sat the girl on his lap and listened to her breathe as if he had a clue what he was doing. Her lungs did not rattle, nor did she wheeze. His worries ebbed, but he was pleased when the physician entered the room all the same. 

Doctor Ashben came prepared with his bulky bag that he seemed to struggle to carry in that morning. He lugged his powders and salves in vials along with bandages and tea. He set his bag down on the floor by the bed, using the sound of its clunking to mask his own cough. 

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Ash,” King Jareth said, giving his old friend a warm smile. Ashben had been the old physician’s apprentice when Jareth was still the prince. He and the doctor grew into their respective positions alongside each other. Although for the life of him, the King couldn’t remember if the doctor always had such a red nose or glassy eyes. 

“It’s no problem, my king.” Ashben said, sounding as if he had woken up minutes ago. The fatigue gave his voice a gravelly quality. He cleared his throat and clapped his hands excitedly as he turned towards the princess. “Now, miss Tilly. I hear you have a cough.” 

Tilly nodded shyly as she curled into her father’s side. 

Jareth chuckled. “Don’t be shy, dear. Cough for the doctor.”

The princess did as she was told. She listened to the doctor, coughed when necessary, breathed in and out—all the while, Ashben tried to keep himself from sneezing on the royal child. He rummaged in his bag, feeling as if his head might explode from the pressure. Finally, he emerged with a leather pouch. 

“Did the castle catch a cold, Ashben?” Jareth asked as he eyed the doctor. “It must be going around.” 

“It’s that time of year, I’m afraid.” Ashben did another inspection on the girl, looking over her eyes and nose. When finished, he handed the king the pouch. “These are herbal sweets, Jareth. It’s hardened honey and thyme. Have Princess Tilly suck on one when the coughing fits come on. That should sooth her throat.” 

“Thank you. I shall inform her nurse.” 

The King dismissed his daughter. She ran away happily as children often did even when they had the sniffles. Tilly would not be brought down by a cold. The same could not be said for the physician.

Jareth caught Ashben by the arm when the doctor rose on wabbly legs. “I’ve got you.” He grabbed the medical bag and slung it over his own shoulder. “Come, I’ll escort you back to your quarters. You should have sent that young lad in your place, Ash.” 

“Peter is not a morning person,” Ashben mumbled. “And I’m perfectly capable of doing my—” A tickle irritated his throat, causing him to hunch over with a coughing fit. He hacked and hacked until his eyes grew bloodshot and his vision went blurry. He moaned and said, “Fuck me, Jareth.” 

“I’ve already done that. Now, take one of these damn candies that you prescribed to my daughter.” 

They arrived at the staff’s quarters just as the lozenge melted away on Ashben’s tongue. He tried to give the king an appreciative nod, but he could barely see through the haze that clouded his vision. He leaned heavily into the arms that kept him upright. 

“Get some rest,” The King said. “I’ll make sure nobody sends for you.” 

“M’ sorry…couldn’t be of more help.” 

“Hush.” Jareth opened the door for his friend. “And don’t let me catch you in the halls until you’re well again.” 

[beansandavocados]

Haha we love seeing things from old hyper fixations of yours but soon enough you've dived into a hole of them and you're now fucking crying over it even thought it's been YEARS since you've properly enjoyed them you now think you're ready to actually know what the fuck happened to a certain a certain son of Jupiter and now as you're writing your rant your fucking sobbing you wish you could go back to being 10 and reading Percy Jackson for the first time again and holy fuck I need a life

[albatris]

hi hi hello i come bearing a Blorbo Ramble

so! Salvatore. my mans. he's a vampire from yet another semi-obscure horror/creepypasta series i'm fixated on called Bonesaw Vic's Cryptozoological Gardens!! a series about a guy who gets a job working at a zoo for monsters, run by an ex hitman! and my mans Salvatore is one of the exhibits, and i'm so fixated on him!!

the backstory for Salvatore is that he was a mobster alongside the zoo's owner (Victor), working for the same boss. unfortunately, though, Victor turned against him, tricking him and then feeding him to a group of vampires, resulting in him being turned into one. he then kept Salvatore trapped in an abandoned warehouse for a couple years, but he broke out eventually.

Salvatore tried to hunt Victor down to get his revenge, but he ended up being captured and he's been kept in the zoo as like... his punishment for daring to stand against Victor. and Salvatore really highlights how fucked up the zoo is, because he hasn't been fed in the nearly 10 years or so that he's been there. because vampires can't technically die from starvation, even if they feel its effects. so he's just... suffering constantly and all too aware that there's no way out for him.

the series isn't done yet so idk where it's going, but i just adore Salvatore. he's interesting and tragic and incredibly entertaining. and there's a lot of details i didn't go into that make me more interested in him (like how he actually killed the vampires who turned him, how he taught himself to perfect his limited mind control abilities without any help, or like.... so much more.... i love him)

also i looked at him and diagnosed him with Gender so i have decided he's trans (and also intersex!), and i want to do something exploring that but we'll see ajdjjf i just. i care him

HI HI HELLO

Salvatooooore beloved

poor dude, holy shit, he sounds like he's had such a rough go of it??? please dear god let this guy catch a break???

Victor better watch his fuckin back bc he's gonna catch these hands if he's not careful. Victor sounds like a jerk and I am GOING to fight him

the uhhh zoo for monsters sounds like. hm. well, it sure is something! I'm all for a monster zoo in theory as long as the monsters are well-cared for and are vibin and have proper enrichment and space and protection and aren't, y'know, STARVED FOR TEN YEARS????? (BRUH??)..... but yeah this zoo sounds fucked..... and I will also be fistfighting the zoo as a concept and everyone who has a hand in running it :)

but yeah uhh?? Salvatore sounds like he's kind of a fuckin hardcore badass and has done some pretty impressive stuff in some pretty bleak circumstances.... like.... I still wish things were better and easier for the lad though.....

I want to protect him, I want to wrap him in a blanket, I want to launch everyone who has been cruel to him into the sun. I am giving him a little kiss on the forehead

also..... Salvatore intersex and trans of gener..... yes. stamp of approval. yes yes yes

[from-a-reckless-writer]

here lads have an angsty supercorp soulmate story

It starts exactly 24 hours after Kara’s departure. 

It’s subtle at first. It actually reminds Lena of the first few days after they met. 

The slow but steady build-up of pain manifesting itself into little things; shaky hands, dizzy spells, chest pains. The pills help, of course. She’s already ingested 5 pills in the span of 3 hours and she’s contemplating taking more. Just to keep the pain—threatening to overtake her—at bay. But what good would she be if Alex finds her passed out on the floor? Veins chock-full of narcotics? 

So, she wills her hands to stop shaking and pushes on. She sends a text to Jess to send a shipment of pills to her home address; tells her to be discreet. 

She can do it. She’s done it before. She can fucking do it again. And she will bring Kara home. 

Because every moment that passes with them apart, means a step closer to Lena’s death. 

You might think she’s exaggerating, but really she isn’t. See, Kara’s her soul mate, not just in the figure of speech wax-poetic sense but literally Kara’s her soul mate. 

But her being a Luthor of course, soul mates wouldn’t come easy. None of it had ever been easy. Why would this one be an exception? It wasn’t unheard of, no, there were a few rare cases of it being recorded. Of course, Lena would be one of those people. Why wouldn’t the universe add shitty soul mate luck into the long list of misfortunes in Lena’s life? What’s one more curse, right? 

See, Kara’s her soul mate but...Lena isn’t Kara’s.

“You look like shit, Luthor. You’re allowed to take a break you know?” 

It’s Alex who breaks her out of her reverie. She prays to God that Alex doesn't notice her shaking hands. She’s well aware she looks like shit. She feels like shit, she doesn’t need Alex of all people to point that one out. But now, Lena notices that the whole place is empty, she didn’t even notice J’onn slip out. She didn’t even notice Alex coming in too, really. 

Brainy had long passed-out in one of the beds in the MedBay in the 2nd level of The Tower, Nia taking up the opposite bed. There was a brief moment when she walked in that made her feel tempted to occupy the third bed and take a break. But then, her chest tightened and a flare of pain lit up her whole insides, it was reason enough to keep her feet moving and back unto the computers trying to pinpoint Kara’s location. 

“I know,” she replies, “But it’s really not necessary, Alex. I’ll rest after.” 

She doesn’t need rest, what she needs is Kara to be here. 

She refuses to look at Alex, fingers flying across the screen. Alex shifts closer to her, lays a hand on her right arm prompting her to stop. Her eyes land on Alex's hand and continue up to Alex’s eyes. 

“We’ll find her, Lena. But you have to rest. I’m serious, Luthor. Come on,” Alex persists, wrapping her hand more firmly and tugging at Lena to follow her. 

She doesn’t say that rest will do her more harm than good. She doesn’t say that if she closes her eyes all she would see is Kara’s body floating all alone in space and the pain would start anew.

First, her chest and then travelling up the rest of her body until all there is is pain. 

She doesn’t say that she needs to work in order to distract her from the pain. 

Instead, she holds her tongue, lets Alex bring her to the 2nd level and tries to have the most fitful sleep of her life. 

***

It gets worse on the 5th day of the second week. It really isn’t a surprise considering this is the longest she’s had to go without Kara around. 

She’s taken mega-doses of painkillers in anticipation for today. Last night was a nightmare, she had to bite down on a hand towel as waves of pain assaulted her, again and again and again.

When morning came, it slowly subsided. Once feeling had returned to her legs she ran into the kitchen and swallowed 3 pills immediately. 

It doesn’t matter if she’s taken 3 or 4 or a whole bottle today, because it will just get worse and worse the longer Kara isn’t by her side. 

And so, she drags herself into The Tower again, because she needs to finally find a way to bring her back. 

She tries to ignore the tightening of her chest even though she’s really having a hard time breathing now. Not to mention the pain behind her eyes that is bit by bit making it difficult for her to coordinate with Brainy’s computations. 

She’s taken to keeping a bottle of pills on her person now. Opting to take them dry as if they were mint candies to keep her tongue moving while programming lines of codes. 

She thinks she’s still being subtle. 

Well, she is.

Until she isn’t. 

She crumples to the floor in front of everyone and a guttural scream of pain breaks free from her lips. 

***

When she wakes it’s to Alex sitting by her bedside. 

She lets out a groan in response to the sore feeling of her entire body. It’s like the time they were forced to do team building exercises all day in Mt. Helena and Lena nearly passed out. 

Alex hands her a bottle of water. She sips greedily before handing it back and wiping her mouth. 

“Hey? How you feeling?”

“Like I wanna die.”

Alex sighs and Lena intentionally avoids her eyes. 

“It’s Kara isn’t it?” Alex says and Lena doesn’t bother with lying anymore.

“It is.”

“How you survived almost two weeks away from her, I wouldn’t know. Two days away from Kelly—” Alex breaks off, inhales deeply and then sighs again, “That’s already torture for me.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” She retorts flatly, hands fiddling with the rough edges of the blanket. Alex looks like she wants to say something about that but Lena beats her there. 

“How?” She asks, gesturing to the IV drip. How am I not feeling pain right now? How am I still breathing? How am I still alive?

“The DEO created a special fluid for agents,” Alex reveals, “They distribute it to agents on field assignments. That way, them and their partners don’t die from pain. Good thing, J’onn had a stash hidden here, well, we always thought it would be for me and Kelly. Never expected you, Luthor.”

Lena takes that in for a moment. So, the DEO had a special formula of Dextrose to stave off the pain of soulmate separation and apparently she’s using up all the remaining bags of it. 

And it’s not even supposed to be for her. 

“Don’t worry about it. Brainy can replicate the formula.”

Worry must’ve shown on her face. So, she works on schooling her features again, she knows that Alex is itching to ask her questions but is trying to be polite. 

There’s really no use hiding anything now though. 

“K-Kara’s my soulmate,” she finally says out loud, and she’s always thought that it’s supposed to feel cathartic and freeing but instead it just feels heavy. 

“But I’m not hers,” she quickly finishes, better to rip the band-aid off. She briefly looks at Alex, whose face doesn’t give her anything; mouth a tight line and eyes shining with curiosity. 

She doesn’t know if Alex had ever had a conversation with Kara about soul mates before. Had they talked about it? Had Kara ever mentioned Lena acting too clingy whenever they don’t see each other for a short period of time? Had Kara ever told Alex if she would want a soul mate of her own?

But the look and silence from Alex’s side makes Lena refrain from asking. 

Instead, she starts to tell her how it had hit her the instant Kara walked in her office. How there was a zing! and her brain had immediately screamed HER. That’s the one. She’s the one. 

How when they met eyes and Kara had told her her name it felt like Lena’s soul finally found her home. 

“I asked for her name and I kind of thought she’d wait for me to get out of the office,” Lena trails off and Alex takes it for what it is. 

Their first meeting was all sparks for Lena but then, the conversation kept going and going and Clark had tried interrogating her and Kara didn’t do anything. 

Didn’t approach her afterwards, didn’t show any reaction that might’ve given Lena a clue that she felt the way Lena did. 

A conclusion was easily reached. 

Kara was hers but she wasn’t Kara’s. 

After the initial shock settled in, Lena set to work. Because that was what she did best. Work out a solution to everything and anything that poses a problem. 

How many people have dreamed about meeting their soul mate? How many years had Lena sat there hoping that tomorrow maybe, maybe she’ll finally meet them? She never expected this, never expected her soul to find a home that isn’t hers. 

Staying away from Kara was a non-starter, it’s only been a day since they parted but Lena can already feel the beginnings of pain. Slow but sharp shots of throbbing from behind her eyes then came the shaky hands then the dizziness and then— 

They became friends and Lena made sure Kara didn’t know anything about her growing need to be close to her; didn't let Kara know about the fact that the universe made Lena its most epic punchline yet. 

She agreed to scheduled game nights and movie nights and lunch dates. She never knew the pain of soulmate separation during those early days. Kara was always around; bringing her a salad, covering an L-Corp gala, crashing on Lena’s couch. 

“It was easy, you know? Kara was always there. What are friends for?” Lena mimics Kara and then repeats somberly, “It was easy, Alex.”

Or at least, Lena kept telling herself it was easy. She had it easy. She didn’t have to think about painkiller pills or cutting her business trips short—because the pain becomes unbearable too soon—like so many of her board members do. 

She had it easy with Kara, she can just call and she’ll be there. 

Until, Kara started going MIA. And for three days pain overtook her entire life. The pain made her unable to think clearly, the pills kicking in at the last minute. 

“You haven't been around. Supergirl's been there for me. Person who judges me on the very premise of my last name, but my best friend hasn't,” she accuses because Goddamnit Kara has no idea what kind of shit Lena had to endure with her going away with no warning. 

Logically, Lena knows it’s partly her fault. 

She knows that if she only just told Kara that she needs her to live, Kara would stay. But she doesn’t want anything to change. 

Of course, Kara would stay, it was the kind of thing a person like her would do. 

Kara would take care of her, whatever Lena needed she would give. 

But Lena didn’t want things that way. 

She wants Kara to want her the same way she wants her. 

But no, Lena’s not going to tell her that. She is never going to know. She will find an alternative. So, she injects as much venom as she can into that accusation, “B-but maybe it’s better if I leave.” 

She makes Kara leave. 

She just got her cure back and immediately Lena had pushed her away. The moment Kara stepped out of the door, a dull throb already kicked in her chest; as if telling Lena she was making a big mistake. 

She regretted that night so much, Jess had to drag her drunken body out of her office. 

Then it became normal again and Lena went back to not worrying about body pains again. 

Because a different kind of pain is trying to make itself known. 

A gaping hole in her heart that is entirely unrelated to the biological consequences of being separated from your soul mate. 

She was falling in love. 

She was falling in love and she wasn’t prepared for how it would hurt to have Kara not love her back. She can endure the physical pain, there are pills for that. 

But there wasn’t any type of medication to see your other half everyday and not have them see you as theirs. 

When Lex told her Kara’s secret. Something broke inside of her. Which was saying something, considering she was getting her heart broken every single day that Kara wouldn’t look her way. 

But to know how stupid she’s been? To realize that the flutter of her heart whenever Supergirl was near was her brain telling her it was Kara? 

There was no word for that. 

“I think, I kept rejecting the idea of Supergirl being Kara you know?” Lena huffs out, laughs drily, “Imagine how fucking painful it would be, Alex, if Supergirl was my soul mate. This person who didn’t trust me wholly, who lies behind my back, imagine if she was my soul mate? It would have felt humiliating. My body knew better, though,” she admitted sadly. 

“When Lex told me, all the little painful outbursts every time Supergirl flew away? It made sense. Everything made sense, but at the same time? Everything hurt too.”

She tried hurting her back. Created Hope. Experimented with Q-waves. Foolishly used Myriad. Teamed up with Lex.

But even through all of those? The separation pain never knocked her out. 

Even when they were fighting, Kara was still always around. Even when the world—the fucking multiverse got reset. The pain wasn’t enough to knock her out. Not like today. 

Because Kara was always lingering around convincing her not to join Lex, crossing paths in CatCo, flying into her home even if it was to call her a villain. 

All of those interactions were still sustenance for Lena. 

But this? This separation? This knowledge that Kara was somewhere out there, unreachable. That she could be lightyears away in space and it has been two weeks since Lena had last saw her, it has her every molecule shouting to go find Kara. 

“It’s never been like this before,” Lena confesses, “I thought I could do it without-”

“Help?” Alex supplies and Lena finally turns to her and she feels a hand squeeze her. 

“Yeah.” She mutters back softly. 

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Luthor. You’re part of the team now whether you like it or not. We are going to help you, we’re going to find a temporary solution for that pain and then we’ll get back to work and we’ll find Kara.”

[wandsandwheezes]

As a Kite | R.W

TW / mentions of ouid n getting h*gh , Smut, (Oral - female receiving, dirty talk, a lil dominance) other than that fluffy stuffs.

Fair warning this is basically pwp and I'm not ashamed because I am the biggest simp for my boy Ron 😍 I'll probably end up writing the 2nd part as I am a thirsty girl xoxox

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist ❤️

@witch-and-a-half @weasleysflowr @hufflepuffgirly @theweasleysredhair

Dragging my feet up the stairs to the Gryffindor commons was like hell after a long morning in the dungeons for potions.

I had a free afternoon, one that was usually spent pestering Ron to indulge in a food adventure or a trip to the astronomy tower to get away from it all. There's nothing that I wouldn't do for my best friend. In the summer before my first year, Ron and I made a promise to always look out for each other, mainly because I was way too scared to roam Hogwarts on my own but also because He had already had the craziest first year he could've imagined. We have been inseparable since, There were never any secrets between us and to him I was an open book.

I knock on the door to the boy's dorm, hearing the giggles of the weasley boys coming from within, after a few moments a glazed eyed Ron opens the door, smile beaming at me from ear to ear. "How're we feeling this afternoon, Ronald?" I ask, the faint smell of we*d hitting my senses as I step into the room, "brilliant thanks, I'm glad you're here," he says, I take a seat on his bed, greeting the twins with a smile, "you boys wouldn't happen to be high at all, would you now?" I laugh, "As a kite, dear Y/N" George speaks, "and Georgie made some if his signature brownies, just for you" Fred adds, handing me a foil packet, which I gladly take.

Getting high with the boys was not too unusual, It's been a smell I'd familiarised myself with during my childhood spent at the Weasley home, at first it was Bill's doing, then the Twins, with Ron, Ginny and I following along soon after. I've been lucky to have a wizarding family like the Weasleys, with Molly taking pity on my mother and sister who were both muggles, offering to step in and handle the wizarding side of things with my father out of the picture - a gesture I could never repay.

Fred and George left Ron's dorm to head back to their own after hours of giggles, deciding to take a not so simple detour through the kitchens to satisfy their newfound hunger. This left Ron and I in the room alone, my fingers running through his soft hair as his head lay in my lap, "If you keep doing that, ill fall asleep..." He hums, causing me to laugh gently, pulling a little at the hairs at the back of his head. He watched my every move, dopey grin still all over his face.

"Bloody hell, I think I'm in love." Ron admits, I roll my eyes, "I know Krum's in the castle, Ronald but you're going to need to win him over with more than that." He sits up, looking at me with all seriousness, before shaking his head, "Not Krum... You. I'm in love with you, Y/N." I freeze for a second, shock is not the word I was looking for, perhaps confusion? Sure Ron was an attractive young lad and he was funny, funnier than the twins (not that I'd tell them that), he was charming, kind, strong, caring and by godric he was perfect, but in love with me? He was everything I needed, he was patient with me, he listened to every worry, he was there on my good days and bad days, yet here i am staring at his lips, wanting nothing more than for him to just kiss me. That was it.

I think I love him too, how blind have I been to not have seen this sooner. "Ron, I-" I smile grabbing his hand that had found its way to my cheek, leaning into his touch. "I love you." I breathe out, looking deep into his eyes.

I found out a lot of things about Ron that night; Number one - Ron is absolutely adorable when he's high.

Number two - Ron is literal putty in my hands as soon as I'm playing with his hair

Number three - Ron was in love with me, and I with him.

And finally, Number four - Ron is not the gentle lover I thought he would be, and I am weak the second he's whispering about all the dirty things he wants to do to me. He is a Rough lover, rougher than I expected.

He liked to take control, pinning me against the sheets, placing kisses to every piece of skin he laid his eyes on. "I can't wait to hear you moan for me, darling" he places a kiss to my forehead before resting his own against it letting go of my wrists to pull me up, hand pressed against the small of my back, "tell me if it's too much, we go as far as you want." I run my hands through his soft hair, pulling him in for a kiss, I could smell the cinnamon, a scent I'd associated with him, his kisses were powerful and spoke a thousand words to me, I pull away from his lips for a moment, trailing kisses to his ear, whispering gently to him. "I want you Ron, I need this, make me feel good..."

That was all it took to send him to overdrive, I fell in love there and then with the way his eyes darkened as we fumbled to undress each other, frantic and needy kisses being pressed against each other's skin. He pushed me back against the bed, kneeling between my thighs, as he hooks his fingers into my underewear, pulling them down my legs, a hunger in his eyes, "fuck, you're already so wet," he hums, "what is it you want first baby, my fingers or my tongue? hm? I don't hear my girl begging for anything, I may have to leave her here, untouched and needy. That sounds like fun..." I roll my eyes, big mistake, his hand grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him, "I don't expect attitude from you so early on." he warns "Beg." he almost growls, fingers ghosting over my thighs, "Use your words and tell me what you want." This side of Ron I'd never seen before and it was unlike anything I'd expect from him, but I need him. "I need your tongue baby, please Ron, I need you." that was all he needed, kisses trailed down my body to between my legs, "Good girl," he smirks, blowing gently on my clit, causing a shiver to run through my body, his tongue already on me before i could register what was going on. His tongue was skilled, licking and sucking at my already wet pussy, It was pure heaven. He pulled my clit between his teeth, sucking on it, which in turn caused me to attach my hands to his soft, gorgeous hair, keeping his lips pressed firmly against me "Don't stop, Ron, It feels so good!" I moan out, my fingers in his hair only egging him on further.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he whispers, kissing his way up my body. The sounds of laughing boys echo through the hall, growing closer and closer to the door. "for fuck's sake," he groans, reaching over to grab his wand quickly locking the door with a spell, before anyone walks in on us "colloportus!" he looks down at me with a smile, pressing a kiss to my forehead as he helps me back into my clothes. "I hope I wasn't being too much, I don't want to scare you off." I laugh, reaching up to smooth down his hair, making it less obvious that my hands had previously been tangled in his gorgeous locks. "Bloody hell, as if you couldn't get any sexier... I don't think you were doing nearly enough" I tease, He smirks, picking me up off the bed and carrying me to the door, "good, because I've hardly even started with you, Princess"

"Ron, mate if you don't open this door ill kill you myself, I'm bloody exhausted." Dean groans from the other side of the door, banging on it a little harder than he had been before "Room of requirement after dinner?" I suggest, he nods, placing me down to my feet, pressing a kiss to my lips to say goodbye, "I don't want to open the door because I'm not finished kissing you yet." I roll my eyes, grabbing my wand to unlock the door again, before swinging it open.

Seamus, Harry and Dean burst into the room, swinging their bags onto their beds, "If it was just Y/N in here I don't see why you had to lock the door," Dean whines, Harry scanning over Ron's face, to his hand which is still gently holding onto mine, "I think we may have been interrupting something here, guys" he speaks, crossing his arms looking between the two of us, cueing me to slip out of the room before there are any more questions "Shove off, Harry" Ron jokes, his eyes following my movements to the door, I poke my head back into the room, "Oi, make sure you save me one of George's brownies for after dinner, don't scoff them all!" I smile at the boys innocently, "I will do, Ba-Y/N" Ron quickly corrects himself, nobody catching onto his slip up, "Don't have too much fun without me!" I laugh, Ron responding quickly "I wouldn't dream of it."

[just-call-me-the-intrusive-thot]

Soulmate September - Day 6

Day 6 - When your soulmate is injured you will experience pain in that area

Pairing(s): Analoceitmus [ambiguous, can be read romantic or platonic, or a mix], QPR Royality 

TWs: Injury mention, swearing, Remus being Remus near the end 

–

“I’m going to sue him.”, Logan hissed, attempting to sit up in his hospital bed, “Soulmate or not, how can one man possibly be so irresponsible?! I’m definitely going to sue him.”

He winced as he tried to get comfy, but the tough mattress and uncomfortable bunching of the sheets said suffer. 

And boy, was he. 

Logan Sanders was an immaculate, careful man. Had been since he was a child. A neat and tidy lad who - upon learning of the rules of fate - made it his utmost mission to spare his soulmate any pain or anguish for as long as he could manage. 

His soulmate, however, didn’t seem to share that sentiment.

From childhood, Logan found himself with sudden knee pains from scrapes he never fell for, abrasions he had caused no friction to gain, and the occasional shoulder or back pain as if he’d been pushed over when he was standing perfectly upright. At least the universe had decided to spare humanity the anguish of leaving soulmates with the physical injuries that came with the pain, but it was only a minor comfort.

Logan couldn’t say he hadn’t expected a lot of rough and tumble from his soulmate after his elementary school years, but really; a broken leg, facial burns, and a splintered forearm? “This is absolute bullshit.”, he bitterly muttered, “Barely hours apart! How is that even possible?!”

His ranting went ignored by the nurse who came to administer his medication; thankfully science had worked out a wonderful little clear pill that could banish the pain from particularly debilitating soulmate pains. The little bastards were expensive - the true pain is always capitalism within the medical world -  but Logan’s job paid handsomely. Say what you will about computer nerds and whatnot, but programming for the right people lets you make some seriously high end bread. None of that homemade farmer’s market shit.

Unfortunately, he’d have to wait about a week for his pains to ebb gently into nothingness until the klutz of a man fate paired him with got into MORE trouble. Thus Logan couldn’t get back to his work. His leg was, for all intents and purposes, broken so the staff couldn’t let him go home. He couldn’t simply drive home himself either, his splintered forearm saw to that. And Logan couldn’t even ask his roommate Emile to bring him his work laptop to try and keep his workload at bay, his left eye was too cloudy and painful to concentrate on a screen. 

Yes; his soulmate BETTER be paying his hospital bills.

Realisation struck Logan; his soulmate is obviously just as injured, ergo it’s a high probability that he could be somewhere within the hospital too. Using his good hand to reach for a pen, and absolutely dreading adding to his pain, Logan poked the tip into his good arm, wincing as he first attempted to contact them with simple morse code, “My/ Name/ Is/ Logan. Who/ Are/ You?”

He waited for a response, fearing he would have to start scratching his name onto his arm when he felt the little jabs in response,  “Janus.” Great. He FINALLY had a name to put on the lawsuit. Logan, already wincing at the bee-sting pain from the pen, he jabbed out another message,

“Are/ You/ Currently/ Staying/ At/ Stokes/ General/ Hospital?”

The reply came cryptically,

“Yes / I / -”

Logan wasn’t sure why his soulmate had suddenly stopped replying. Had a nurse confiscated whatever his soulmate was using to poke himself? Either way, Logan would have to be content with the knowledge his soulmate was at least close by. He truly had no idea how close until two very disgruntled voices were within earshot of his room door,

“Brilliant, I just adore being ousted from my comfortable bed so I could spend even longer looking at your delightful face.”

“Oh, like you’re the victim here, asshole! You’re the one stabbing yourself and fucking up my unbroken arm!”

Logan watched them both argue outside of his room door. Both men were sporting similar injuries to his own; the first one that had spoken, refined looking gentleman with sharp features and neat blonde hair, had the left side of his face bandaged heavily. Meanwhile the other man, sporting raven hair and eye bags that could carry a month’s worth of groceries, was fitted with a cast on his left forearm. Both of them were on crutches, though Logan couldn’t see if either had a genuine cast.

“Ahem. Gentlemen?”

Logan called to them, watching as both turned to meet his gaze. He lifted the pen in his hand and asked, “I take it one of you is Janus?”

The man with the bandages over his eye, Janus, nodded, “That would be me.”

The man with the broken arm looked confused, “Wait, so, you’re the one who was ramming a pen into their arm? Damn.”, he turned, begrudgingly to the first man, “I guess I owe you an apology then.”

“Really you needn’t-”

“Then I shan’t.”

Janus glared at the other man’s snark, but Logan found it rather delightful. Clearing his throat once more, he breached the topic, “I take it that means we three are soulmates?”

“Four.”

Logan and Janus looked to the third man as he explained, “Your leg doesn’t have a proper cast on it, this asshole doesn’t have one either,”, Janus gifted the man a half glare and a middle finger before he continued, “And since I don’t have one, it’s pretty obvious there’s a fourth musketeer.”

Fair to say, Logan was impressed, even Janus was hiding the tiniest hint of admiration as he retorted, “And are we to call you Sherlock or D’artagnan?”

The man rolled his eyes, “Ha ha, fuck you. My name’s-”

“VIRGIL!!”

The man, Virgil, nearly lept out of his skin, jerking his arm and giving the three of them a jolt of pain. Logan felt relieved he’d only have to put up with it for a few more days once the medicine took effect. 

In the doorway stood a man who could only be described as unnecessarily handsome, clad in a burgundy bomber jacket and a Nightmare Before Christmas shirt that seemed out of place on someone who stood poised like the protagonist of a romance anime. Logan noted he and Janus both checked to see if his leg was broken; good to know they had similar tastes even if the man’s lack of a cast dashed their hopes. Said handsome man made a beeline for Virgil, only to receive a swat and a motion to back off, 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Princey, you nearly gave me a heart attack!!!”, Virgil hissed and took a deep breath. ‘Princey’ let out a fond huff, “You should be so lucky, Bring Me The Depression, do you know how worried Pat and I were when we couldn’t find you!? This, dearest Emo Nightmare, is karma at its finest-!”

“Yeah, yeah, shut up, Roman. Where’s Pat? He’s gonna wanna meet my soulmates.”

Roman blinked, finally registering Logan and Janus just watching the two of them reunite. Clearing his throat, Logan made the introductions, “I’m Logan Sanders, this gentleman is-”

“Janus Delgado. Charmed I’m sure.”, Janus butt in, “Really, Logan, I can introduce myself. Unlike some people.”

Virgil flipped him off just in time for Roman to frown in confusion, “And…. you’re all sure you’re soulmates? I mean, no offense but you don’t...”, he picked his words carefully, his face contorting at the effort, “....act like soulmates?”

The three of them looked between one another and shrugged, “To be perfectly fair - Roman, yes? - we have all literally just met today under…. Less than optimal circumstances. I doubt you and your soulmate, assuming you’ve found them, hit it off instantly.”

Roman blinked, “Kind of, we didn’t have any problems like this, quite honestly...”, he almost sounded guilty at that notion, “The worst we have to deal with is his cat allergies-”

Out in the hallway, a couple of nurses hurriedly walked past and allowed another man into the room who immediately lit up at the sight of Roman and Virgil, “There you both are!!! I got held up at the vending machine, but when I came back you were both gone!”

“Patton! How glad I am to see you once more!”, Roman beamed, pulling the taller man into a hug and planting a dramatic kiss upon his cheek, to which Logan, Janus, and Virgil simultaneously met with an ‘ugh’. Perhaps they were more alike than they first assumed. 

Patton turned to meet Janus and Logan’s gaze, looking back to Virgil who explained, “They’re two of my soulmates, Pat.”

For a moment, the tall excitable ball of sunshine looked like he was about to pop with joy when Roman held up a hand to interject, “Pardon me, but ‘two of’?”, and cast his confusion towards Virgil who explained, “Our last soulmate has a broken leg, it’s the only injury we can’t account for.”

Patton and Roman shared a momentary look, drawing Logan’s attention, “Roman? Patton? Are you both alright?”. The two seemed to play eye contact rock-paper-scissors to decide who would answer, with Roman losing apparently.

“When exactly did you feel the pain in your leg?”

“Couple hours ago” “Around three?” “Precisely 3:27 pm.”

Came the chorus of answers. Janus and Virgil both shot Logan a look, to which he quietly murmured, “It never hurts to provide a little extra clarity.”

“Apparently so,”, Janus began, before shifting his partial gaze to the couple, “So, are you lovebirds-”

“Qpp’s.”, Patton corrected quietly, to which, Janus did apologise, “Pardon me. So, are you queer platonic saps going to clue us in to why exactly you asked us such a specific question?”

Roman sighed, “I ask because my brother, Remus, broke his leg at that exact same time today. Pat and I were going to visit him right after we’d checked in with Virgil.”

The three soulmates shared a collective look, but the first one to pipe up was Virgil, “You have a brother?! Why am I only finding this out now, I’ve known you for 12 fucking years, Roman! What the fuck!?”

Logan exasperatedly ran a hand down his face as he tried to maneuver himself out of his bed and into one of the hospital’s wheelchairs, Janus offering a hand to him, “Virgil, as much as I would love to listen to you and Roman bicker back and forth, could we possibly save such trivialities for after we meet our fourth soulmate?”

This time Patton piped up, “Oh, um, you may not want to do that just yet-”

As if on cue, roughly six or seven medical staff rushed by, causing Patton and Roman to quickly look around the doorway, only to turn back to the others, “Well, no time like the present. Patton, if you help Virgil, I’ll help Janus once Logan can shimmy into that wheelchair.”, Roman assigned as he offered an arm for Logan to hold onto while he got himself in the chair. Noting the context clues, Logan was rightfully worried, especially as he felt a new pain in his hand, only to note that while Roman and Patton helped them move, Virgil and Janus seemed to be experiencing more pain in their legs than before. In the moment, Logan did feel a little bad that the pill he’d taken hours earlier was saving him from too much additional pain. Approaching the hospital room the medical staff had gathered within, the group were greeted with a wild scene.

A scruffy man strikingly similar in looks to Roman - albeit sporting a thin moustache and silver hair streak - wearing a leg cast was holding a crutch in one hand and an honest to god butterfly knife in the other, standing atop his hospital bed, raving like a lunatic and gesturing frantically to an empty space in the room,

“NOW WILL SOMEBODY FINALLY LET ME OUT OF HERE?! ME AND THIS BEAR WANNA GO CATCH HORNY FISH AND SHIT IN THE WOODS!!” 

Charming. 

Logan glanced over at Patton and Roman, the question clear on his face just like their answer. That was Remus alright. He watched Roman talk with a nurse trying to calm Remus, “We gave him some painkillers to ease his leg pains, but it shouldn’t be affecting him this much!”

“Oh, Remus has always been like this with medication, I should’ve warned the nursing staff.”, he groaned, “But that doesn’t explain-”

“He must’ve pushed the blue button behind his bed,”, Logan sighed, already anticipating Roman’s question, “The medical staff likely assumed Remus was coding and thus went into action. That’s why they’re here right now.”

Roman’s expression confirmed that was indeed going to be his question. As Roman went to help the nurses tranquilise Remus’ wild flailing, and while his other two soulmates stood by to watch the chaos - in varying degrees of worry and strange admiration bordering on attraction for his disregard for social norms - Logan tried to come to terms with the facts.

He had three very different soulmates, and by the looks of it? He’d have to get used to frequent hospital stays….

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

This one’s probably on the weirder side, but uh, yeah, I hope it’s still a good read! [Also sorry these have been a little late lately TTvTT] @tsshipmonth2020 Taglist: @somehow-i-got-an-account @cateye-glasses

[adashelbysgirlfriend]

A Taste for Something Younger  - Polly Grey Headcannon

Omg I love the Ada roommate headcanon! Could you do the same for Polly? Maybe with a woman a little older/same age as Ada (because we accept age gaps in this household) and her and Polly actually get together in the end? I'd die for that ( @vikingsxf​ )

this idea gave me a big gay hard on and honestly I'm so glad you had it; Polly doesn't get enough love. Ive gone for a younger (Ada age) reader because we definitely support a healthy age gap relationship and i just want to pretend its me who's with polly so. ALSO THIS IS A BIT SMUTTY JUST A LITTLE BIT BUT JUST A WARNING OKAY BABES 

you and Ada had been friends since she started at the library

you both had a lot in common and she would tell you about her crazy relatives which always kept you entertained

obviously you had no clue that the Ada Throne you knew was actually thee Ada Shelby 

when you finally do meet her brother in one of his unannounced visits to her flat its a massive shock that your besties family are the notorious Shelby's 

she brings you out to meet the other brothers and John and Arthur both take a liking to you

when Finn tells Polly about Adas new friend from the city who is breaking hearts all over Birmingham she doesn't really have much to think 

i mean it wouldn't be the first time the shelby boys lost their heads over a girl (especially dumb and dumber) and it probably won't be the last

but when she gets the pleasure of meeting you she can't help but understand why the lads lost their heads

you're stunning, not just physically 

you're mind is almost too wise for your years

“you've got an old soul” 

“thank you, Mrs Gray”

“its Miss, and call me Pol”

you're around a lot

you help in the office with the other women and come for drinks when Tommys in a good mood and feels like having the gang out

Polly’s sass making an impression

you're really intimidated by her because she's just this all knowing mature lady who is also really stunning 

she invites you and ada over to have a girly evening 

you literally don't want to go

anxious as hell

i feel like Polly is one of those people that gives off this no bullshit vibe, so you're scared to even chat to her just incase you say the wrong thing

dressing to impress by buying a new outfit and feeling like a fool for it

its the first thing Polly notices when she sees you 

“you look ravishing don't you”

literally blushing all over

stumbling on your words

Ada has no clue whats going on and is so confused

maybe even a little jealous? why are you swooning over her auntie so much 

Ada gets a surprise phone call and has to leave and you are wanting to leave with her but Polly all nah stay 

this is the (best) WORST CASE SCENARIO PEOPLE 

ALONE WITH POLLY 

in her HoUSE

getting drunk to hide the fear but then also getting loose lipped

chatting absolute beans with her and she can't stop laughing at you 

Because she loves that you're a bit scared of her but seeing a more bold side of you kinda turns her on

the drinking night becomes a weekly thing

you start to relax into Polly presence 

seeking comfort in your time in her home 

Ada doesn't even get an invite anymore

getting drunk together and her listening while you babble on about literally the most random topics ever

you get two whiskies in and start telling her all the facts you know about giraffes or the fall of the Berlin wall

and she just loves to sit and watch you 

insane tension 

a lot of staring 

touching but nothing that would cross the friendship line, flirting with it though 

her doing you makeup and telling you about the wild things she's done 

that almost so close you could kiss but without the kiss tension when she's in your face putting your lipstick on

she says you look good in red, which you don't believe but at this point she could tell you you looked good in a teletubbie costume and a bitch would be dressed head to toe as Lala

she sees you start to push your comfort zones and she loves it 

the new found confidence makes her horny as hell

Jealous Ada is more jealous when she sees you walking round in Polly’s shade of lipstick 

“she must really like you to let you borrow that” - but its LACED IN GAY ANGST BECAUSE WTF HOW DID HER AUNT STEAL YOU 

i feel like you make the first move 

which isn't something you or Polly expected

like you've both been drinking all night and for some reason you start doing vodka shots

and this is the good shit vodka were stalking russian standard pissed off your tits shit love

and you watch her neck those shots like she's getting paid by the hour

and you just 

walk stumble right on over there and fall into her lap 

grab that sexy face in both hands and give her the softest kiss she's ever had in her life

it feels like her first kiss ever

which is saying something because you betcha that womans had a lot of kisses

polly doesnt know how to respond she's SHOOK 

she doesn't even close her eyes she's like 

literally frozen in shock 

pulling straight back

whoops

suddenly all that drunk confidence is gone and you're hit with that crippling anxiety you get when you've done something wrong and been caught for it 

Polly grabbing a fist full of your hair and pulling you back down 

now she's KISSING YOU AND OH LORD 

passion 

she's not even clumsy when she's drunk like you are this woman is EXPERIENCED

lip biting oh my christ 

not that pussyass nibbling but actual biting 

and tongue 

and i mean after that loves theres no going back really is there

finding your confidence again or maybe just horniness and drifting your hand under her skirt

your newfound confidence surprises her but she refuses to let you know that because hello she's Polly fucking Gray 

“dont start something you can't finish, little dove”

“do you want me to stop?”

“i didn't say that”

this is the START OF SOMETHING NEW

leaving her panting and sweating, lipstick smudged and clinging to the arms of the chair

i mean once it happens once its a common occurrence loves

not that either of you are complaining 

not just sex but dates in her living room by the fire

walks together arm and arm 

nobody really thinks to much of seeing her and you together, either assuming you're just one of the boys girlfriends or that you're her niece or something 

and they couldn't be more wrong but their ignorance is bliss

she loves how young you make her feel

and you love how much she takes care of you

i feel like maybe she's a little nervous of baring all to you; physically and mentally

her body is slightly more mature than yours, things aren't as new and shiny as yours may be; i feel like she’d take some reassurance maybe before she knew that you wouldn't just leave her for someone your own age

not that Polly is one to doubt her self worth but she feels like maybe she's just a phase for you 

you wouldn't want her any other way though; you love her body and lets be real we all do too 

she takes even longer to be open about her memories and past

i feel like she slowly but surely reveals more and more about her private life until she can finally trust you with the complete story 

the rest of the shelbys know better than to question Polly on her personal choices; but they are happy to see the carefree woman they remember from when they were young 

even salty Ada can see the happiness you bring out in her, although she doesn't want to admit it to herself

Polly buys lingerie for you all the time 

being bratty and flashing your bra strap to her in public places 

or grabbing her hand and running it under your dress until she can feel the lace of your underwear when you're both out in the Garrison 

she has this “wait until i get you home” look that you'll do anything to provoke 

she teases you until you beg for her to let you finish as punishment 

“you see what you get for being naughty, y/n?”

she likes it when you ride her face, because although Polly is still in control she likes to put you in a position of power

and she likes to be able to see all of you when you're close to the edge

angry sex, because lets be real Polly can be a snappy little bitch and when you both get angry what better way is there to solve the issue than rough lesbian sex 

she loves your smile 

and your giggle

it makes her feel like a teenager all over again 

nobody really understands how you put up with such a intimidating, dominating woman everyday but they don't see cuddly Polly who likes to be little spoon 

she does her very best to keep you out of the family business and always will because you're one of the only people on earth Polly couldn't live without 

you often joke about how Polly would just move in after you but she knows that after you there would be nobody else for her

“without you my little doll, i couldn't be me” 

lots of lap sitting 

hair stroking  

the sweetest kisses; she tastes of cherry and whisky

she says you're like pink gin, sweet tasting and extremely intoxicating 

Polly had given up on love until she found you, and now she's got you best believe she will spend the rest of time she has on earth making sure she keeps you 

[tema-makes-art-sometimes]

002 for gercanmano please?

002 | send me a ship and I will tell you:

GerCanMano

when I started shipping it.

Maybe a year to two years ago? It’s hard to say I can’t really remember. I don’t know what sparked it, but either way I know it started with my friend Lemon. Either we were doing things with the BFT and I had made a joke about baby BFT with Romano, Germany and Canada and it just developed discussions from there. Or it was me struggling between the three proponent ships and Lemon being like ‘why don’t you just make them a poly’ and like sun coming out from behind the clouds it finally dawned on me by the power of citrus. Either way it was something I kept messing with, and the more I talked about it the more people hopped on board with me. We’re still just a raft in a sea of ships but I made this baby and I’m proud of it.

I will say I have had a lot of people talk to me like I made it, and while I do want to take some credit cause I put a lot of time into them, I have heard it used to be a ship back in the old hetalia days. But I haven’t found any old fanworks of it. And trust me I scoured every fic and art site I could think of. Maybe it was something only seen in RP groups so it never got published fic or art but I crave content for it so if it was originally a thing and there’s content around let me know please I don’t wanna take credit for it fully but I have not found another person who shipped it before they talked to me.

my thoughts:

Literally some of the only serotonin I get in these trying times. I love them so much they make me so happy. An unbelievably strong power house trio who could do damn near about anything together. They have it all.

I could go on for hours about small scenarios or aus with them. Like I’m a multi-shipper but fuck man they’re my OTP. I can and do ship other things with them, but man they make me melt with joy.

I made a playlist for it, I’m still building it but I like ti so far. I wish I could find more three person love songs but for now I have songs for each of the three lads, and the three ships that make up it, so it works! Might change some of them but I like what I have so far!

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLC4nWN-9zrnEOeLgihkaqQOpPO6nEnc81

Germany and Romano: A Lovely Night and If I Could Tell Her

Romano and Canada: Best Worst Mistake

Canada and Germany: Guy That I’d Kind of Be Into

Germany General: When He Sees Me and Little Miss Perfect (President Perfect)

Romano General: I Won’t Say I’m in Love (so original I know)

Canada General: Would You Be So Kind? and Piece of Art

What makes me happy about them:

Literally everything. Their characters, the dynamics, the growth they create together. They may not work in every story of mine but when they work they really work. They push each member of the ship to grow as a person. Germany finding support he may not have originally had, Canada finding the confidence and support in a group that won’t forget him, Romano finally feeling safe enough to open up to others in a way he didn’t feel safe doing before. It’s just the good fucking food. You can put it in different settings and it just works, they’re able to play off one another in a really great way and pull them out of their comfort zones in ways that other ships don’t hit me as hard with.

What makes me sad about them:

That I am literally one of the only people who makes content for it. I have scoured the internet I can’t find anything, ANYTHING. And often I cannot get people to follow me on it, I’ve been getting more people on board slowly but surely but STILL-- That or they really try to push the whole ‘i ship it with (ship thats similar but with one of the brothers swapped out for the other)’ on me when I’m talking about it and I’m just like. I asked for GerCanMano I didn’t ask for your opinion. I’ve thought about the other ship conbo’s with their other brothers, I just like this one the best.

Things done in fanfic that annoys me:

When this ship is treated as a lesser to other ships around the three characters. People going like well I think it would be better if it was ‘swaps one of the brothers out for the other’ but that’s not the point. Also this is a general problem I have with Germano/GerCan as well but people making it all about their family’s or brothers reactions and how it effects their brothers instead of their relationship. ESPECIALLY between Romano and Italy.

It’s almost always a cheating on their ‘true love’ or some sort of affair fic and it doesn’t focus on their love and living together and more about them bouncing around to avoid getting caught and I just don’t care enough. I just want to see them in a loving happy relationship, and interacting with one another. Prussia, America’s and ESPECIALLY Italy’s reactions don’t matter to me. When it comes to say GerIta fics, there are a few that address Romano’s feelings toward Italy’s relationship, but not all of them. Hell some of them don’t have a mention or hair of Romano, but when the position is reversed with Germano suddenly even if he’s not in the fic it’s all about how Italy feels about it or how it effects him or hiding it from him.

I dont want to watch Germany go back and forth about which Italy brother he likes while dating both. It’s one just not in character and two its uncomfortable. I read this fic for the gercanmano Im not here to hear that Germany’s cheating on and warring with his feelings toward Italy or Canada sleeping around behind Prussia’s back. It’s boring and I’m tired of reading it. I’m digging into specifics of the three component ships cause there are no fanfics of GerCanMano so I can’t talk about what annoys in their base fics.

I had like one person write GerCanMano into their RusPrus fic, which was cool. but then they were a nazi apologist. So I can’t exactly read it anymore. I have nothing else to compare to but the base three ships of Germano, GerCan and Canmano

Things I look for in fanfic I don’t ask much I just want them to exist without me having to write all of them. I wanna find content other people have made, not that I’m lazy and think peopel should make content for me, just that I get bored of reading my own writing. If I wanna be really picky, letting it be a quickly established relationship and getting to see them in the relationship, learning about each other living together dealing with problems together that doesn’t just have them break up after one fight.

Having them in a functioning relationship before the story is over. Letting that relationship blossom past the start or the first date before the fic is finished. It’s sad when a romance story ends with them getting together cause there’s so much more relationship to have-- ;^; what about cooking together and cuddles on the couch and date nights and small fights and family gatherings--

My happily ever after for them:

It’s hard to write a happily ever after for nations or for anything to be honest cause life keeps going, growing, changing etc. But I’d love them to have a wedding and just a calm, slice of life kind of life together. A nice house, a big garden, a pond in the back where in the winter Germany and Canada can ice skate. A nice big garage where Germany and Romano can work on cars, Maybe near the woods so they can all go hiking,

Nothing fancy. A nice place that smells like warm coffee in the morning, that’s lively with sound of loved ones and shenanigans during the day and quiet whispers of affection at night. They get together but meetings are less boring, they have plans with their family and friends. Spain, France and Prussia loving to tease their little siblings/kids about things and make sure they’re doing okay. Veneziano always trying to help Romano come up with romantic shenanigans to use against his husbands. America just being happy his bro is happy.

Just soft wholesome life stuff. ;;

My kinks:

These are going below for discussions of not safe for work topics. I’m not going light so dive below at your own risk. (sex discussion, kink discussion, general ns//fw content)

I exclusively write top Canada. Like, I just do. I don’t really draw or write him taking it, I don’t know why I just don’t. Doesn’t mean he isn’t put under someone’s thumb in bed, but they’re still riding. There are very very few instances where I have written him taking. Again I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just the concept of soft pastel uwu boy slamming Germany into a wall, maybe it’s the thought of Canada in heels and leather just with the vibe of ‘go ahead tell them. no one will believe you’.

Canada isn’t any kinkier than Germany, but he’s more confident than Germany about it.  He’s got a little bit of jealous neediness in the back of his brain so when it comes to sex he loves when his partner’s attention is on him. He loves to spoil and get spoiled and is the roughest of the three. Just a tiny, tiny bit of masochism/sadism. Very small. It’s very much he’ll do it (with safe words set in place and everything) but he will feel eh about it afterward and make sure that they don’t take away that he hates them or anything. In the inverse hes very very good at fluffing people up and body worship, as well as demeaning talk. Loves role-playing, hence slipping into the mind where he’s got the confidence to throw Germany around the bedroom. He loves especially tying them up and just watching them writhe-

Germany is a switch, fight me on it. If you think that man who has very little canon confidence with romance and no experience is a 100% big daddy top you’re just wrong I’m not sorry. Mind you, he can top and he often does, but being rough and demanding and forceful is not something he’s good at he’s so nervous about injuring his partner, even if they tell him it’s fine.

Germany is into all the rough play, like it’s canon. He loves to tie and be tied up and he likes when power is taken away from him. He likes when people push him under their thumb it’s why Canada gets to be rough with him. But at the same time, Germany is the most wholesome lover out of the three. Because it can be so hard to coax him out of his shell with his kinks, he can often be the inverse. Very gentle, very praising. Absolutely loves to body worship his partners. He’s not really all that good or comfortable with giving people blow jobs, however he loves kisses and touches all over. Mind you getting a blowjob is something he really enjoys, hes just not good at giving. Good thing that both his boyfriends are amazing at it. Favorite thing the two do is Canada having Germany Ride him and then Matteo either riding him on top or giving him head during.

Romano oh, Romano. He’s a bottom. The most bottom-y bottom. An absolute pillow princess and a brat wanting to be tamed. He tops very very rarely, and out of the three has the most experience both giving and receiving and with all different partners. Even if he’s bottoming doesn’t mean he’s always at the whim of his partners though, he loves riding.

Romano is the least kinky out of the three, while the other two enjoy being tied up, Romano isn’t really a fan, he doesn’t mind collars or handcuffs but full shibari like what Canada or Germany would be fine with doesn't really fly for him. As I said before, he’s also the loudest, and gets very whiny when left to hang (not like either of them mind the noise). Romano loves giving and receiving blow jobs/hand jobs. Especially giving. It’s how he gets the good vibes of watching his partner squirm in the good way. He also loves to leave nibbles scratches bites and hickies if he’s allowed to. Catch him giving Germany a bite right above his collar before a meeting. Despite what might be expected, he can roll with degradation in bed really well but he falls apart quick with praise. He likes both but he will tear up when Germany gets overly gushy and feelsy.  Loves double penetration and being spit-roasted.

[heartbeatan]

Devil's Garden (Chapter 2)

Return to Chapter 1.

Return to Table of Contents.

Return to Desperado Series.

Return to Taehyung Fanfictions.

Return to Masterlist.

Chapter Two

Taehyung arrived mid-morning to The Devil’s Garden the next day. The establishment wasn’t open to the public yet – it usually wasn’t until near noon – but a lot of the staff were there already, hustling around the property tending to crops, the distillery and preparing the guest services. He was guided down a long corridor by the hostess until she eventually released him in front of your office. You weren’t there yet. You were somewhere else on the property and would be there “momentarily” or so he was told. At first, Taehyung sat patiently in the winged chair across from your desk – smoothing out his tie and straitening the lapels and pleats of his freshly pressed suit.

But patience was never Taehyung’s strong suit and soon his eyes began to wander towards the nooks and crannies of the room. The space smelled clean – clean in the way a woman would keep it. Like fresh laundry, or a citrus cleaner, perhaps a vanilla incense was placed somewhere in the room. He gazed over the bookshelves to his right, looking for the source and spotting the jar of oil and reeds. He stood up before he realized that he had, then strolled across the room.

“Yup,” he said out loud as the scent intensified, confirming the diffuser was the source. His gaze then wandered beyond it, to the books and the knickknacks strewn over the shelves. Organized chaos is what he would call your system. Clean and tidy, but without direction. Files related to business were stored between novels, which were propped against trinkets and photo frames. This office, this shelf, each piece was telling a story - although he didn’t quite know yet how to read it.

The first thing that really caught his attention was a short, silver, decorative dagger, propped up on a simple plexiglass stand. It was the kind you’d find in a games shop. The kind people, of a certain taste, would splay throughout their homes and hang from walls. It seemed massively out of place compared to the contemporary, bright décor of the room. Perhaps it was a gift, or an artifact from a phase you went through in your younger years. He then noticed a box, wood carved and antique looking. He couldn’t stop his internal private eye from flicking the latch to peer inside.

Cigarettes. Taehyung smiled. So, you weren’t as squeaky clean and polished as you first appeared. You too had a dirty little habit the way he did. Except, unlike him, you hid yours. Probably only had one every once in a while, when the world became just a little too stressful.

He closed the lid, then moved a little further down the shelves, ghosting his fingers over the books until he reached one that intrigued him. It was a romance novel – he could tell from the spine. He recognized it as the drugstore type that his mother liked to read. He reached for it, taking it from its place on the shelf and flipping it over in his hand to read the summary.

This one was about a woman at the turn of the century. Young, pretty, wealthy and from “good breeding.” But all she had ever wanted was to rough it with the lads at the tavern: drink beer; gamble over poker; wear pants. A woman who would soon meet a strapping but primitive type man, who would offer her what she wanted at a cost of one wild night together.

Taehyung’s sniffed in amusement as he read the ridiculous description, but it had his curiosity regardless. He wondered… was this simple fantasy, or did this type of scenario titillate you? Was this something you dreamt about late at night - something you secretly wanted? One night of passion with a man who would debase you… use you… ruin you… before you returned to your pretty little life and the boring fucker you meant to live it out with?

He knew these thoughts were biased and self serving, but, oh god, did he enjoy the idea that they could be true; the idea that he could be your Sir What’s-His-Face, owed one night of making you come over and over again.

Maybe it would happen here, at the winery, under the cover of darkness so that sucker of a husband of yours would never find out. After hours, so that no one would be around to hear the sounds he’d make you make…

Taehyung replaced the book on the shelf as he heard voices and footsteps in the hall outside your office. Before returning to his seat, however, something else caught his attention. A photo within a frame. It appeared to have been taken there, in front of the visitor’s entrance. You were there, centre, surrounded by just a few people – far less people than worked here now – but he deduced it was a staff photo. Probably from when you first opened The Devil’s Garden. Next to you stood a man, tall, handsome, grinning widely with his arm wrapped around your waist. Taehyung hated him immediately.

“Mr. Kim,” he turned his head towards the door as you called his name. You stepped across the threshold, smiling brightly at him, more preoccupied by the stack of papers in your arms than of the stranger canvasing your office.

“Taehyung, please” he reminded you, hating how the formality of his name sounded off your tongue.

“Sorry!” you apologized as you threw the stack of papers onto your desk, before turning to him and sticking out your hand and smiling. “Taehyung.”

For some reason, your gesture for a handshake felt even more formal than calling him Mr. Kim, and he didn’t like it either. But nonetheless, he reached out and shook it, but not before his eyes – just as they did the first time you met – flickered down your body to drink in the sight of you. Today, you were in yet another dress. But this time, it was a little more formal, a little bit tighter, and he could swear by the way he marveled at your legs that it was a little bit shorter too. This time, you wore open-toed high heels, and he salivated at the way they showcased your feet and curved your spine. In fear his unconscious objectification of you was obvious, he snapped his gaze back to your face, but your eyes were not on him. Instead, they too had flitted to his shoes, then back up his form, over his broad chest, until they locked with his. For an awkward second, you stared back at him in what appeared to be a state of shock. As if you had been caught. Your cheeks blushed slightly – he was sure of it. Were you… checking him out?

No way, Taehyung thought to himself. You were just sizing him up. Reminding himself what a shit show he looked like yesterday, you were probably surprised that he had cleaned himself up so well today. For some reason, that made him even more embarrassed. He wasn’t sure why – either for the fact that you saw him a mess just less than 24 hours ago, or for the possibility that you realized he was cleaning up for you.

“Is this your first husband?” he blurted out suddenly in a bid to overcome the awkwardness he felt. He pointed backwards to the picture frame he had just be looking at when you entered the room.

“Yes,” you confirmed as you peered over his shoulder to its place on the shelf. “We weren’t married yet, but yes.”

“So, he worked here?”

“Sort of,” you shuffled your head, implying that it wasn’t that simple. “He was going through school at the time. I was supporting him, but he worked here sometimes to help me out.”

“What did he go to school for?”

“To be an electrician.”

“You like your tradesmen, then?” Taehyung quipped, but immediately regretted it. What kind of an asshole jokes with a woman he hardly knows about the type of men she fucks? What kind of an asshole jokes about someone’s dead husband?

This kind of asshole, he thought as he braced himself for a look of disappointment and offence to flush across your face. But, to his astonishment, it never came. Instead you laughed.

“I do have a type, I supposed,” You chuckled as you walked behind your desk. You gestured with your hands to the pile of papers you had brought in with you. “I brought everything I could find dating back to when Ezra and I first got together. Fortunately…” you curved your lips into a mock grimace, “we haven’t been together that long so there shouldn’t be much to sift through.” Taehyung smiled at your apparent humour over your present situation. It put him at ease knowing you were the type capable of laughing at your own circumstance. So many of his clients weren’t – no matter how ridiculous the request or even more ridiculous the return – he received a many a lectures on his lack of sensitivity and jaded emotives.

“Well, let’s get started then,” he suggested as he pulled his suit jacket off his shoulders and began to roll up the cuffs of his shirt.

 

Even though the work itself began slow, the morning passed by rather quickly while you taught Taehyung your bookkeeping style and he showed you what to look for. The hostess delivered lunch to you both in the office sometime mid afternoon, prompting a necessary break for you both. Taehyung asked you more about the inception of the winery – a question more so in personal curiosity rather than in detective interrogation – and you animatedly told him nearly every benign detail of how you opened and closed your lucrative paralegal service in the city in pursuit of your new passion for wine making and hospitality. The story eventually led to a personal tour of the property – just him and you, wandering the vineyard and buildings. You teaching him all the things he already knew or didn’t know about wine making, as well, sharing with him your dream to expand… to open a bed & breakfast on the property… to even the wild idea of owning a small chicken coop for feeing your guest the freshest of feasts. Your passion for your work lifted his mood, but at the same time made him incredibly jealous – or at least, nostalgic. Nostalgic for a time when he was impassioned by his work. When he was bright eyed and ambitious, attaining a career he was passionate and driven for.

“Did you always want to be a private investigator?” you asked him, as you two made your way back towards the main building.

“Sort of,” he replied, trying to hide the grimness that came with his answer. “I wanted to be a detective. A P.I. was just sort of plan B.”

“You could still do it, I’m sure!” your tenor bubbly and encouraging. “It took me a little courage and a few years scraping by, but I made it my dream come true. I’m sure you could too!”

He smiled meekly, appreciative of your words and the naivety behind them. “I did, actually.”

“You did?” you asked in confusion.

Taehyung nodded. “I was a detective. For many years.”

“Oh?”

He could tell from your tone that you were both curious about the story but that you had also picked up on the fact that it was a bit of a sensitive subject. Normally, he would have ended the conversation right there. In fact, normally, he wouldn’t have revealed his past career at all. But today, next to you, he felt different. Today, he felt he could talk about it, even if it was only a small piece.

“I did it for years. But then I left for a while. Thought I’d go back eventually, but… started doing this instead.”

“I take it something happened?”

“It can be a taxing job. It’s also more political than most would like to believe.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” you apologized, noticing how Taehyung’s language had become more elusive.

“It’s fine,” he shook his head. “It’s just a long story.”

You made the rest of your way back to the office mostly in silence. Taehyung regretted it. He had wished the conversation had stayed on you – that he could amusedly listen to you babble about nothing and everything. But, fortunately, the awkwardness soon faded as the two of you returned to the office and buckled in to working hard for the remainder of the day. At least the apparent awkwardness faded.

For Taehyung, even though he could for the most part will himself to become lost in his work, there were too many times when his eyes and mind would wander onto you. Damn, did you know what an effect you had on him? You were so god damned fuckable. The way your lips curved, and your brows furrowed when you concentrated drove him wild. He just knew that was how your face would contort when you were focusing on coming, and fuck, did he ever want to see that. When you leaned forward over your desk, he could catch an incendiary glimpse down that fucking dress of yours, leaving him near salivating at the thought of biting down and marking the soft mounds. At some point, you left your chair for a file stored a top one of the bookshelves. With your back to him, he could shamelessly watch you with out getting caught. Admire the way your body stretched and flexed, the way the fabric of your dress would pull, taunting him with a potential glimpse of your bare ass.

If only you were his in this moment. Or at minimum, if he knew you wanted him too, he would have stood up and crossed the floor. He would have stepped up behind you. You would have felt his chest ghost over your back, just before you would have felt his hand travel slowly, smoothly, tauntingly up the back of your thigh then underneath that skirt. He would hear you gasp faintly when his fingers brush over the silk protecting you from him.

He knew your panties would be silk.

He’d slip his finger along your slit again, this time a little harder, let you know he meant business.

“We’re working, Taehyung,” you would breathe unconvincingly. “Someone might catch us.”

He’d raise his other hand, covering yours as it gripped around the ledge of the shelf in front of you, anchoring you to something so that you knew he didn’t care enough to stop. He’d then drag another long finger across your dampening core, but this time, he’d end his movement by gripping a hold of the fabric, pulling it tight in his fist. As he pulled, your back would arch a little, your ass would perk for him, and you would feel the tension of the fabric tight against your clit. Your gasp would let him know that you too didn’t care enough about getting caught.

He’d release his grip, but he wouldn’t strip you of your panties. No – he would want you to come in them, stain them so that you’d have to go without them for the rest of the day. Be reminded of him everywhere you went that afternoon. So, he’d slip his hand beneath the fabric instead. Touch you raw. Make you drip. Until, inevitably, through gritted teeth you’d beg for him to sink his fingers into you and fuck you harder.

“This is that last one,” your voice broke his thoughts as you returned to your desk with the box you had pulled from the top shelf. “Everything from the last month.”

“Good,” he replied, looking down at his watch to check the time. “What time do you need to be home?”

“Well…” you began slowly. “Ezra is supposed to be done at six… Which means he should be texting me at any moment telling me he’ll be home late.” Taehyung could tell you were trying to be humourous, but it was clear you were annoyed and feeling a little hurt.

“If he does, let me know. Let’s finish up this if we can.”

It felt like working under a ticking time bomb. Curiosity hanging in the air as you both waited for the cellphone to buzz - waiting for the alert that Ezra wasn’t coming home on time, and the prompt for Taehyung to climb in his car and try to figure out why that was. But the message never came. Through it all, you managed to complete the audit of the books.

“Did we find anything?” you asked Taehyung as you stretched back in your chair, both mentally and physically exhausted from the task.

“No. Not that I can see,” he replied. “Everything seems to be in order here. You run a tight ship.”

You sighed.

“I know it seems like a waste, but this was a good first step,” he said, noticing your slight disappointment. “This is a good thing. We don’t know what he’s up to yet, but at least we know he’s not stealing from you.”

“You’re right,” you nodded. “I just want to know what the hell is going on. I’m tired of feeling paranoid.”

“I know this is the most annoying thing to hear in a situation like this but… you just have to be patient. We’ll get there.” You looked up to him, a thinly pressed smile on your face. He could tell his words comforted you a bit, but not enough. “And in the end, there could be nothing. He might be telling the truth.”

The words tasted bitter rolling off his tongue. He thought perhaps they would ease your mind, but it felt like he was telling a lie. If your husband weren’t up to something, this would be a first for Taehyung. Rarely were his client’s intuitions ever wrong – especially when they had gone about taking the step to call him in the first place. He doubted your suspicions were unwarranted, but as you sat across from him now - your eyes locked on his, your lip tucked once again between your teeth, and the surface of the desk between you just begging to be cleared so he could lay you over it - he also selfishly wanted your suspicions to be right. Wanted to know that your husband wasn’t worthy of you.

And then it came… the buzz of a notification on your phone. Both your eyes gazed to each other, then to the phone vibrating on the desk. You picked it up, swiping the screen to unlock it and reveal the message. Taehyung watched you as read it, saw how your lips pursed and your shoulders sunk.

“What does it say?” he asked, but you didn’t answer him right away. Instead your thumbs tapped rapidly over the screen as you replied to him. Moments later, a second buzz came. You sighed audibly as you read his reply.

“It’s Ezra,” you dropped the phone back onto your desk and crossed your arms in front of your chest. “He says he’s going to be late tonight.”

Taehyung looked you over as he felt your aura of brightness dim into one of disappointment.

“Is there something else?” he asked. “You seem more surprised than I expected?”

“It’s just…” you looked back to him, but he could tell you weren’t sure if you wanted to share your thoughts. “Tonight was a bit of an anniversary of ours. We had… special plans. He promised.” His stomach knotted at your words. He didn’t know what your “special plans” were, but he knew what they would be if they were with him.

“Did he say what he was doing?”

“Just that he had to work. Said he’d wouldn’t be home too late.”

Taehyung nodded, unsure of what else to do.

“Since my dinner plans are now cancelled… are you hungry?” you asked. He was. He wanted to stay. But this was the perfect opportunity for surveillance. So, he replied with a polite “no.”

“You should go home,” he suggested instead. “Wait for your husband. Let me know if something changes.”

 

Some time later, Taehyung found himself parked along a darkened street located somewhere in an industrial district on the outskirts of the city. Although dimly lit, he had a clear view of the yard located behind Stintsons – the construction business Ezra worked at.

The building was dark. The yard empty. But Taehyung noticed the station wagon still parked in the lot. It had to be Ezra’s. Hell, no one even drove a station wagon anymore – what were the chances another employee had one as well? He swiped the screen on his cellphone, noting by the clock that it was almost eight. He then opened his messages, clicking on your name to read the last thing he sent you.

TH 6:09 PM: Let me know when he gets home.

He could tell you had read the message, but still there was no reply.

A creak in the still evening perked Taehyung’s ears. He squinted through the darkness to see a figure exiting the building and making their way towards the station wagon.

“There you are,” Taehyung breathed. He watched as the figure climbed into the car, as the lights and engine roared, and as the vehicle pulled itself from the lot and headed down the street. Taehyung reached for the ignition, turning the keys to bring his own car to life, then carefully pulled out into the street to follow.

The wagon drove through the town, down the main roads until it made its way to the highway, taking the pass that Taehyung knew was in the direction of your home. He noted how incredibly unsuspicious it was. Most who were hiding something tended to travel down back roads, take indirect routes, avoid CCTVs. Although this was his first night of surveillance, the thought crossed Taehyung’s mind that perhaps Ezra really wasn’t up to something. He was at the office just as he said he was. Now he was heading home, just as he said he would.

Regardless of those thoughts, Taehyung kept the tail – following the wagon off the exit, down a long residential street, until he turned into a crescent. Taehyung parked his car, turning it off and letting the lights go dim. He watched as the wagon pulled into a driveway. Noting the number on the house, he quickly pulled out his notepad, flipping through the pages until he found the address you had given him.

Yup… this was your house. He looked back up as the wagon door open. The driver climbed out of the car, brandishing a bouquet of flowers in his arms.

“What a fucker,” Taehyung seethed as Ezra made his way up the stairs, opening the front door to the home before he disappeared inside. That’s when his phone buzzed with the receipt of a new message.

Y/N 8:56 PM: He’s home.

 

Taehyung sat there in his car on the street for a while, watching the sky turn a pitch black, watching the lights of the neighbourhood disappear as each household fell to sleep. He was biding his time, but he was driving himself mad in the process.

He replayed over the image of a flower bearing Ezra arriving home to his gorgeous fucking wife who had been waiting all to patiently for him. Better yet, he obsessed over the possible scenarios of what came next. It was an “anniversary” type of night, you had told Taehyung. A “special” night. Were you angry at your husband for coming home late on your “special” night? Did you throw those pathetic flowers back in his face? Or, were you pleased? Did his flowers make you swoon for him? Forgive him? Did you thank him with a long, sensual kiss as he made his way through the door?

Was your “special” night supposed to be romantic? Perhaps, this undeserving, lucky son of a bitch walked into an erotic scene you had planned for weeks. Perhaps a silk robe adorned your shoulders, and you held in each hand a glass of wine – one for you and one for the man who would get to fuck you. Or maybe it was more of a romantic night, and you were upstairs already, your body splayed across the bed and covered only by a tiny chemise, waiting for someone to come find you and make love to you. Or maybe you were a little bit naughty. Maybe you wore lingerie, flame red, tit lifting, and ass hugging. Maybe you were waiting on the kitchen counter, or the dining room table – your legs spread wide, your hands caressing your own body – signalling for your man to eat you until you cried, then pound you until you went blind. Could your husband even fuck you that good?

Even through his jealousy, Taehyung’s dick twitched at the thought. He knew he could fuck you that good. He knew just what he’d do if he was the one walking through that door, and he couldn’t wait to get back home so he could rub one out as he imagined it – just the way he did last night in his chair and again this morning in the shower. He probably could jerk off right there, in his car, outside your house, like some perverted stalker who knew they wouldn’t be caught – but he didn’t - even he had limits.

Another hour rolled by, and the neighbourhood was now completely quiet and shrouded in darkness, save for the single lamp post. Convinced it was safe, Taehyung quietly exited his car, taking with him a long thin rod. He crossed the crescent then walked up your driveway, stopping when he was next to the passenger door of the station wagon. Taking a quick look around, he slid the thin metal between the driver’s side door and window, maneuvering the piece until he heard the gleeful click of the door unlocking. Sliding himself inside, he first popped the centre console and shuffled through the items for anything of interest. When nothing came about, he checked the glove box, quickly scanning over each piece of paper.

He paused at an envelope, noting the familiar insignia on it. It was from the train station. Flipping it open, he found inside two tickets – dated for a week from today, both headed for the coast. Two tickets. That meant Ezra had intended for two to travel. You hadn’t told Taehyung anything about travelling. Did you know? Was it a surprise? Was that why he worked late, to make extra money for a trip? Or, was it a trip for him and his secret lover? A thousand scenarios ran through Taehyung’s mind, but he had no time to mull them over now. Instead, he snapped two pictures of the tickets before replacing everything as it was.

 

The next morning, Taehyung woke to the irritating sound of his phone buzzing and ringing beside him. Through groggy eyes, he looked towards the clock on his bedside table. Empty bottles of beer and wine blocked his view, and he remembered what he had done after he got home last night.

“Fuck,” he croaked as he finally felt his hangover when he moved to find his phone. The call went to voicemail before he could reach it. He considered ignoring it and rolling back over and back to sleep, but curiosity of who was calling him at six in the morning got the better of him.

It was you. You were the one to call him… but that wasn’t until after you had texted him 11 times already.

Taehyung sat straight up in bed, clicking your number as he did, waiting for you to pick up.

“Taehyung,” your voice came through in a clear distress. “He’s missing!”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Night Oliver Branch Died

CW: Drowning, threats with a gun, discussed/referenced noncon of a minor, discussed pet whump/dehumanization, oliver branch is gross but hey he dies in this one so, related note: character death

Tagging Chris’s crew just because I feel like you’ll all appreciate this:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump

READERS: Tell me if you guessed it before reading this!

TIMELINE: Takes place in the future of Chris’s timeline, when he has been free for years and has enrolled in college.

The night Oliver Branch died was absolutely ordinary.

He spent some time going over the notes for the trial, sitting in his nicely appointed but perfectly modest three-bedroom home, scanning his handwritten planned remarks for the press while he ate a light dinner of soup and salad. The cook left for the night, and Oliver was the only one in the house.

Well, or so he thought.

It used to bother him, but honestly he didn’t mind the solitude any longer. Years spent with a full staff, worries he had to constantly consider at all hours of the day and night, natural disasters and economic downturns and everything else. It was nice just to take a deep breath, smell the candle burning in the center of the table, a soft sweet magnolia smell that reminded him of his childhood home.

After the trial, perhaps he would move back home. He’d lived in this state for twenty-four years, was its governor for eight of them, but he felt… a bit tired of it all. He wanted to go back to a place where people moved more slowly, wandered the streets after church in pale linen suits in the summer with the ocean air a constant truth of everyday life.

They would know, of course, about his disgrace. But they would be polite about it, keep it to themselves. He had the sense that while the scandal would follow him, it would be easier to ignore in a place where people keep their secrets safely behind closed, locked doors.

Oliver had done the same, once upon a time, only to have the secret simply walk away when someone else opened the door. 

He sighed, sitting back, looking at his half-finished soup with a wistful sort of sadness. 

Honestly, he couldn’t complain. He was just grateful to be out of prison, living in his own house with his own cook and the cleaning woman who comes by twice per week. Almost back to normal. Once this trial was over, of course, he’d sell the house and move back home, and it would all be just fine.

He took a deep breath and picked up his notes, handwritten in a series of different ink colors to differentiate which part of the speech he was in. It helped him to memorize if he thought of the colors. The only one he didn’t like, but used, anyway, was a deep teal ink in the paragraph where he admitted to what he did to his beautiful boy.

His beautiful boy, who had ruined himself with freedom, just as Oliver had always known he would. Some people were meant to be kept, they could not be trusted to keep themselves. His Baldur had been one of those, he had known the moment he’d been shown the intake photo, of the pretty boy curled up in a corner of a plain white room, hands up over his face in some attempt to protect himself.

We believe this will suit your specifications, the email from Ms. Renfod had stated in flat, clean prose that could never have encompassed the perfect leap in Oliver’s heart at the sight, the excitement that ran through him from scalp to toes at the fear and tears in big green eyes. We have recently acquired this individual as a result of a deal involving a family member. No inconvenient missing persons report, Mr. Branch. Perfect confidentiality, no complications. We believe he will require three and one-half months of training, plus two weeks extra for final preparations. I have attached a price list for added fees.

God, what a sight, the pretty thing before they’d taken him from himself, before he’d been delivered smiling and silent and still in the dead of night to Oliver’s door.

Honestly, what a loss that he was roaming around like some wild animal now.

Some people needed a keeper, and every time he had seen his beautiful boy since his liberation it had only emphasized to Oliver how badly Baldur needed the right sort of keeper. This new one, the tall young man with his threats and curses, clearly wasn’t doing a very good job.

Well. That was fine. Not his problem any longer, and soon enough Oliver would stand up at a podium before the press, looking at all their little recorders, and he would tell everyone exactly who Christopher Stanton was and what he had been. Oliver’s disgrace would be total, but if he played this right, Baldur would never go anywhere again without no longer being able to hide behind his earrings and awful hair and the patch of scarred skin where his barcode once had been.

Baldur might have gotten away from him, all those years ago, but Oliver intended to ensure he could not get away from what he had been made to do, to be. One did not stop being a pet, once they were made into a thing to be used for pleasure, there was nothing else for them to be.

Baldur might have delusions otherwise, but Oliver could ruin those, for him, just like his boy had ruined himself.

Kicked out of his fancy little college for his fake identity, maybe even charged with it. All his new little friends would know who he was. It was the last bit of pettiness Oliver intended to allow himself to indulge in before he returned back to his hometown and let Baldur’s fragile new life come down around his ears.

Oliver smiled, trailing fingertips over the teal ink, the exact shade of Baldur’s hideous dye job. He still had a PI on retainer, taking pictures of his pretty boy out living his life. Oliver liked to keep tabs on his old flames, just to ensure they were keeping quiet, keeping to themselves, living nice respectable lives. 

Lately, with his reduced income, he’d had to cut that down to tracking Baldur alone.

Christopher Stanton. Oliver snorted. Awful name. Hardly did any justice to the perfect line of his cheekbones, the still-gentle curve of his jaw, the nicely full lips that would no doubt still part just so with a press of the right fingertips-

“Daydreamin’, are we?” A strange male voice asked, and Oliver looked up to stare down the barrel of a gun. 

His heart stopped, eyes caught by that circle of infinite black surrounded by unfeeling metal, and then he raised his eyes to see a man he had never seen before. He wasn’t very tall, draped in heavy clothing that disguised his body type, though he seemed a bit on the muscular side. Perfectly average face, difficult to describe to any law enforcement, blondish-red hair cut in a flattop, narrowed eyes, smattering of freckles. Too far to see the eye color.

Robbers, really? Tonight, of all nights?

Oliver put both palms carefully down on the table as his heart began to pound. “Can I help you?”

His voice was admirably steady, and he was more than a bit proud of himself for that. He did not visibly tremble or shake, but he was deeply, deeply aware of that gun. He could see the safety was off, the man’s finger resting lightly around the trigger.

“You can,” The man said, with a hint of amusement in the blocky lines of his face. It came out more like ye can, an accent Oliver couldn’t quite place. Irish, maybe? “Hearing some rumors, about someone planning to testify next week. I was hoping’ you’d be able to disabuse me of such a disturbin’ notion.”

Oliver blinked, caught off-guard by the man’s friendly, personable tone even as the gun never faltered but it’s position held pointed directly at him. “If you work for WRU-”

“Oh, I don’t. No, as heartbreaking as it is, lad, Rossi’s group got the WRU rejects pipeline all sewn up, don’t he? Clever fuck. And I am a good many things, but I’m not a man stupid enough to cross Giovanni Rossi. You don’t put that man in a bad mood and walk out alive, do you?” Once again, the word slipped into ye, and Oliver was sure now that the accent was Irish. Faded, with the local accent flattening the vowels and roughing up the consonants, but the Irish was there nonetheless.

It occurred to him that it didn’t really matter if he identified his accent, because he almost certainly wasn’t going to walk out of this alive if the man was so easily dropping names.

“I wouldn’t know. If you’re not with WRU, I don’t see why there’s-... there needs to be a problem,” Oliver said, without moving, barely even letting his lips form the wounds. His heart still pounded in his chest. His dreams of moving back home by the coast, to Charleston’s beauty and grandeur and age, were rapidly feeling like scraps of tissue paper dissolving in water.

“You’re not just testifyin’ about the company, now, are you?” The man sighed, pulling a chair out on the other end of the table, sitting down without lowering the gun, keeping it trained on Oliver, just shifting it slightly to aim directly into his chest.

Oliver had taken a few courses in self-defense, back in the day. Aim for the center mass, the easiest thing to hit. People in movies can nail an arm or a leg with accuracy but in real life it’s rarely so easy. Aim for something lethal.

“The trial is about the company,” Oliver said, voice shaking, his own genteel accent thickening the more the fear settled in.

“It is, at that,” The man said, nodding. “But it’s not only about that, either, is it?” He snapped the fingers on his other hand, and Oliver jumped nearly a foot in the air as he realized there were two other men standing behind him he hadn’t even noticed. They appeared on either side of him, one of them picking up the papers on the table and moving them over to the man, who gave a soft, polite thanks and looked them over.

Suddenly, Oliver’s different ink colors for different aspects of his speech seemed… superfluous. He was never going to give that speech.

“What else is it about?” Oliver asked, breathy. He was going to die, and he’d always hoped for one more chance to visit his parents’ graves. Spit on them once or twice, leave flowers, and go. He’d always hoped…

Something occurred to him.

“Is this about my Baldur?”

The man’s face twisted in an expression of utter, absolute disgust.

“Is that it? Did his new keeper send you to-”

“No. Oh no, fucknuts, no.” The man laughed, looking over the papers, flipping through them idly with one hand as his associate stepped back, one of them lurking on either side of Oliver, hands pressing steadily into his shoulders to keep him right where he was. “No, no. I’ve nothin’ to do with that young lib boy. Know of ‘im, though. We keep an eye out, on our own. It’s been a long, long time, but… I owe a debt.”

“A… A debt?” Oliver’s voice caught in his throat. 

“Indeed.” The man set the papers down, and for a moment, Oliver could have sworn there were tears in his eyes, emotions that played openly across the man’s utterly nondescript face. Grief, anger, sadness all warred there. 

The hands on his shoulders tightened. 

“Long time ago now, but I don’t forget, do I? Ah, look, here ‘tis.” The man tapped his finger in the teal paragraph so carefully written on the third page of the speech. “Here’s our lad. Tristan.”

“Tristan-... are you talking about Baldur?”

The man snarled, and Oliver flinched back against the back of his chair, waiting for the burst of sound and the bullet and his own death. Nothing came, and after a moment he opened his eyes. The man had settled his expression, but it was with effort - the anger was still clearly visible. “I’m not talkin’ about your bullshite pet name in the slightest, you sack of shit. No, I’m talkin’ about my friend’s boy Tristan.”

Oliver swallowed, and offered, “I believe… I believe he goes by Christopher now. I could give you his address-”

“We know where he lives, gobshite.”

“Then why are you here-”

“I told you, my debt. You’re an awful thick, aren’t you? We’re not the type to abduct a wean, although that never gave your like a pause, did it?” The man tapped his gun on the table, the first time it had truly lowered since Oliver had first realized he was here. Oliver let out a breath of relief.

“What is your debt, exactly?” His voice was still airy, but he tried to sound calm, in control. Never moved his hands. “I still have some funds the courts are not aware of, perhaps we could work out a deal-.. I have a safe upstairs-”

“Not that kind of debt. I had to stand by when my mucker and his wife got his face shot in by our own boss, no less, but I’m the boss, now. Took a while, took too long. I’ve had to wait and wait and wait, but me and my lads here, we’ve all owed Paul Higgs a debt since, Lord, has it been nearly a decade now? And I intend to pay it tonight.”

The man smiled, briefly, at Oliver.

“Couldn’t stop Paul’s boy from the sufferin’ already inflicted, but I can ensure you don’t say a word about him ever again, can’t I? Ah, no, we can’t have that. He’s got a good life now. Nice boy, all grown up. Hair’s a bit bollocked but who are we to judge, hm? He’s got himself a nice life goin’ and I intend to ensure he does his da proud, just like he would’ve if he weren’t forced to fuck you, you depraved bit of dogshit on my shoe. Fucking a child. A boy. What’ve you got to say for yourself?”

Oliver didn’t even bother to open his mouth. He understood that any attempt at self-defense wasn’t needed or even wanted. He understood that probably there was absolutely nothing he needed to say, ever again. He closed his eyes, lips moving in some dim form of prayer.

“Ah. A man of God, then?” Oliver looked to see the man pull a rosary from underneath his shirt. “That’s a fuckin’ laugh, considering what you’ve done. But, hey, He’s forgiven worse, I imagine. Tristan might even forgive you, too, he was always too good a boy for it all. Too bad for you that I don’t forgive shite.”

“If you’re going to shoot me,” Oliver said, barely able to get his voice above a whisper, “then do it.”

“We’re not going to shoot you, idjit.” The man rolled his eyes, giving his companions an exasperated can you believe this? look. One of the men, the one on Oliver’s right, laughed. “They’d trace it, we’d have to deal with the law, and honestly I am just not in the mood to pay any cops off this week. I’ve already paid Rossi off to keep him from gettin’ pissed at me, although he’s a man who understands the value of family, I think he’d have let us anyway. Still, never hurts to grease a palm, does it? What we’re going to do, Mr. Branch, is drown you. Your bathtub’s chock full of river water.”

“What?” Oliver swallowed, jerking forward as if to push himself up, but the hands on his shoulders pushed him back down. “H-how-... why-”

“When we dump you in the Trelawney,” The man said, calm and easy, “your lungs’ll already be chock full of its water. Nothing unusual about that, hm? Just another child molester dumped in that chemical swamp where he belongs. My mucker’s boy-... I couldn’t help him. I’ve owed Paul for that, we all have. This is my organization, now, and I will ensure Paul’s boy’s name never leaves your lips again.” The man snapped his fingers and Oliver shouted as he was dragged to his feet by the other two, kicking out, knocking his chair over with a clatter.

Just beyond the window were a hundred other houses, lights on in some, families laughing in front of their televisions. Utterly unknowing as their neighbor was dragged upstairs to his own master bathroom, to a custom-made clawfoot tub absolutely full of disgusting, muddy river water dredged up and brought here and Oliver had never even known they were in the house. 

They held his head over the water as he screamed for help.

The leader leaned back against the sink, lit a cigarette, took a long drag and let the smoke float over his face. His eyes were green, Oliver realized with a kind of hysterical panicked giggle. His eyes were green. 

Like Baldur’s.

“W-wait-, wait-... one question, just one, one question-”

The leader held up his hand. They kept Oliver’s head a few inches above the brackish water in the tub. 

“Paul Higgs-... Baldur’s-... the boy’s father.” Oliver could barely breathe, barely get out the words. He was going to die, why was this question so important? Still, he couldn’t stop himself from asking it. “The boy’s-... just a friend?”

The leader snorted, flicked his cigarette onto the bedroom carpet through the bathroom door. A trail of thin smoke began to rise. “Paul was my best friend, yes,” He said flatly. “His da and mine were cousins. The looks run in the family, don’t they?”

“Why… why now? Why not before? When he was-... why only now?”

The man’s lip pulled to the side in a sneer. “Had to wait ‘til the company couldn’t protect you, didn’t I? You’re not a client now, Mr. Branch. Just a bit of blood on Karen Renford’s shoes. Loose thread. You’re not the only one keeps tabs on runaways, you know.”

“What?” Oliver’s eyes widened, the muddy water giving him a strange, distorted, half-transparent view of his own reflection. “What, what are y-you-”

“Ah, it’s not worth explaining this shite to him, is it?” The man rolled his eyes. “Renford knew where he was. She knows where all the runners are. She’s not going to let you fuck the company just to get your fifteen minutes, gobshite. I hate that insufferable bitch and she’s the one who made Paul’s boy into a pet, but I know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth even if the one given’ it should probably be shot herself.”

“Wh-why-”

“Shut your feckin’ hole. We may not have the pleasure of a regular contract, but I was happy to accept this little job free of charge. Everyone gets what they want, don’t they? Paul’s boy gets his nice little life for keeping, Renford gets the blood out, and I get to make up to Paul what I couldn’t do back then. Ah, Tristan was a sweet boy. Bit of a wild thing, but…” The man sighed mournfully. “Well. We all lose people, in this business, Mr. Branch. I’m sorry to’ve lost him but I’d never think to take him from what he’s got. I’m no monster.”

Laughter bubbled in Oliver’s throat, and he barely held it back. No monster, but you’ll kill me, will you?

“Tonight, everyone gets what they want.”

“I wanted Charleston,” Oliver said, staring into the brownish silt-soaked water, thinking of the blue of the ocean, the waves battering the shore, white-capped on rougher days, the salt-smell of the sea. His mother’s hands holding him, sitting on his father’s shoulders, before it had all changed. “I, I wanted Charleston.”

The words were more plaintive than he intended them to be.

“Sad for you,” The leader said without sympathy. “The heart bleeds. Perhaps you should’ve kept your wee dick in your pants and not touched our friend’s boy, then, hm? Bit late for that, though. Hope the Good Lord’s feelin’ His mercy today, pervy fuck, ‘cause you’ll see none from us.”

He snapped his calloused fingers, and Oliver’s head went under the water. He’d jerked in a final breath just before, and as he held it - lungs burning, time running out - Oliver had only a single remaining defiance. His last thought, before he had to pull water into his lungs, before the thrashing and the choking and the final blackness that pulled him under, wasn’t of Baldur at all.

He was found in the Trelawney River, the water in his lungs a perfect match for the water around him. His bathtub had been recently cleaned, but that wasn’t suspicious, as his cleaner had been there only the day before and Oliver rarely took baths. His dinner table was clean of any sign of his final meal. 

There were no papers on the table, or anywhere in the house, detailing his intended speech to the press. Those papers were burned and the ashes spread on the graves of Paul and Veronica Higgs, along with a fresh spray of daisies, Ronnie’s favorite flower. 

Oliver Branch’s testimony could no longer be given, due to his untimely death.

The suggestion that he had killed himself because of the shame of his own actions made the rounds in the press, followed by certainty in certain spaces that he had been murdered to protect WRU on Karen’s orders. 

Perhaps a handler had done it, the rumors went, sent by the strange emotionless Karen Renford, who sat on the stand and spoke with perfect diction and a total lack of feeling on the particulars of her job, and who had never once set off a lie detector in her life. Perhaps a pet liberation member had finally snapped - there had been an incident years ago with someone who had beaten Oliver nearly to unconsciousness, maybe that person had hunted him down again.

Maybe Karen had killed him herself.

The rumors went in circles, but no one ever guessed the truth. 

Oliver’s final defiance was known only to him, and went with him to the grave he was eventually buried in. His final thought was simply of the crash of a white-capped wave against the shore. 

Oliver Branch died thinking not of his crimes, but with the ocean behind his eyes. 

[bosspigeon]

"no cis nonsense in this house" please 🤲🤲 i must know

oh this one's fun! so for the last couple years, i've been outlining a plan for a potential future NANOWRIMO project when i'm in a better headspace to sit down and properly focus on it? (also, maybe when i'm actually appropriately medicated lmao)

i’ve only got a vague idea for the plot, but it mostly revolves around Urraka, a 7+ foot dragon-man, and essentially a remnant of a culture/race thought to be entirely either extinct or just a myth, and his adopted kid, Talon. Urraka is a traveling mercenary, and has been for a loooong time, and Talon was sort of raised on the road from infancy, so he’s a bit of a wild child lmao. this whole bit makes me giggle, so it’s kinda long, but i can’t decide which tidbit to cut off, so you just get all of it!

Talon's left a trail of discarded clothing in his wake, and Urraka sighs gustily. He does not change his pace, but periodically he bends down to pick up Talon's battered leather breastplate, his vambraces and kilt, and a sideways glance every now and then to make sure Puck is still keeping pace notes the progress of a mottled flush working its way from the fidgety scholar's ears to his neck and further still beneath his starched clothes.

“It has been a while since we've had a proper wash,” Urraka explains as he catches the flash of his ward's bare backside streaking its way towards the river. Urraka can only hope no wild animals make off with the lad's breeches before he can retrieve them.

“I suppose regular hygiene is difficult to maintain with such a lifestyle,” Puck mumbles, burying his nose in his book pointedly. Talon's too far ahead of them at this point for his weak [human] eyes to make out any details beyond “probably nude” but Urraka keeps this to himself and simply nudges the squirrelly creature away from any obstructions in the path.

When they reach the river, Urraka has gathered most of Talon's gear, and he dumps it on a dry patch of sun-warmed gravel and starts the arduous process of hauling off his own kit.

It's the height of summer, so the river is more of a stream than anything, just barely waist-deep where Talon's splashing around more than he's truly attempting to get himself clean.

Urraka spots a few darker spots that may be deep enough for him to sink himself at least to the hips, maybe to his waist if he sits. But anything is better than nothing, especially when it comes to clearing out dirt between his scales. He rolls his shoulders, and swears he can hear the grit grinding in his scutes.

“Hey, Da, can you toss me the soap?” Talon shouts. Urraka hardly has one foot in the water (warm at the edge, but he's hoping there's at least a few cool spots) but he still rumbles his irritation loud enough for the boy to hear as he lumbers back towards his haversack where it sits slumped on the bank.

Puck stands alongside it, fidgeting like he always seems to do, squinting up towards the sky in an effort to avoid looking at either of his naked traveling companions.

“Doesn't make much sense to blind yourself on our account,” Urraka hums, bending to retrieve the hard tallow soap from his bag. “Modesty has no place on the road, but I'd recommend turning around if it bothers you so much. Better than staring at the sun, at any rate.”

His ruddy cheeks go even ruddier, and Urraka can nearly feel the heat radiating off his ears. His eyes flicker downwards for a split second, and, unfortunately for him, where they'd rest at about chest-height on an average-sized person, they land just at Urraka's groin. He makes a strangled sound and spins around, and the Dragoi bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn't laugh out loud.

“If it makes you feel better, my kind don't keep our bits on the outside.” Puck's back goes ramrod straight, and Urraka's not sure if he's going to start scribbling that in his journal or run for the hills.

“Hey!” Talon hollers from the river. “Where's that soap, old man?”

Without looking, Urraka tosses a bar over his shoulder, and smirks when he hears a satisfying thunk, then an indignant squawk and a splash.

He glances back to see Talon sputtering as he drags himself upright. “Fuck you, ya big bastard lizard!” he roars, sweeping his arms together in a furious thunderclap that sends an arc of water towards him.

Urraka doesn't flinch, seeing as, to him, it's hardly enough water to be anything other than slightly refreshing. But it is more than enough to entirely drench Puck's back. The lad fair squeals and darts away, but it's too late to save his clothes, and he turns a miserable gaze towards the river, where Talon's laughing so hard he's liable to drown himself.

Urraka strides forward into the water, scoops up his insufferable brat before he can gather himself, and hurls him towards deeper water, where he hits with a shout and a resounding crash that echoes down the valley.

“May as well join us,” he calls out to Puck, who appears to be frantically checking his satchel to make sure none of his tools, supplies, or books have been damaged. He looks up, face still fair glowing red, and before he can protest, Urraka adds, “Your clothes will dry faster without you in them, and you've been on the road with us for two days without a bath yourself.”

Urraka doesn't wait to see if the scribe will take his advice, since Talon's erupted from the water like a wrathful sea-beast and is striking out furiously towards him. He's almost twenty feet away, but a quick enough swimmer, so Urraka at least tries to wash his face and crest before he's got the little monster clambering all over him and trying, in vain, to drag him under the water.

A delicate splash at the water's edge and he turns towards Puck, who huddles in the shallows where the water is still warm, and squawks indignantly when he catches Urraka looking.

He simply arches the heavy ridge of his brows and looks away politely, lathering up his own soap and scrubbing the sage-scented suds over his chest.

Talon seems to have tuckered himself out, between the run to the river and the following shenanigans, and when he reaches Urraka he just punches him solidly in the hip and finally focuses on washing up himself. He grumbles something about being lucky the river is clear enough for him to have found his soap.

Once Urraka's sloughed off the worst of the grit and grime of two week's rough travel, he breaks off a bit of his own soap and offers it to Puck, making sure not to look directly at him. The lad mutters a quiet thanks and begins his own ablutions.

Talon rises from the deeper water and sloshes off to the bank to find a nice warm spot to lie down and dry off, and behind Urraka, Puck makes that scandalized, choked sound again. Urraka turns to him, brows quirked, to see those wide eyes staring at Talon as if he can't help it. A prickle of protective instinct itches under his scutes.

“You're really a g-urgh!”

Urraka's claws wrapping around his head and pushing him under the water cut his words off with a gurgle, and he comes up sputtering, his dandelion puff hair wetted down in sandy tangles around his face. “No,” Urraka rumbles at him, dangerously low, and up to this point, he's been careful with showing his teeth, because every time he's so much as smiled, the porcine stink of the scribe's fear-sweat was nigh unbearable. But now, he bares them with clear intent, and Puck goes from blotchy red to starkly sallow, eyes bulging wide with terror. “He is not.”

Talon hasn't taken notice of the exchange, too busy sprawling out in the sun-warmed grass just beyond the riverbank, and Urraka stares hard at the scribe, daring him to say anything more on the subject.

The lad is bumbling, awkward, and wastes all the energy that should go towards walking on chattering endlessly, but he's at least clever enough to figure out, in this moment at least, it's wiser to be quiet.

[giingers]

I have a second request, “I can’t sleep, can I stay here?” with Tommy.

Enjoy my love!!

17: “I can’t sleep, can I stay here?” 

Insomnia seemed to be a horrid and clinging side effect of war, and the wretched spell of sleeplessness had clung itself to Tommy Shelby completely. His mind never rested without the sultry lull of opium, and even then it was short lived, the deep metal clack of shovels against dirt echoing deafeningly through his surroundings and breaking up any temporary peace he could find.

He had spent the last few hours tossing and turning tirelessly, his limbs aching in that bone deep way, but still his mind would not delve into the promise of sleep. He had sat by the fire and had hoped the heat would swaddle him in a comforting embrace, one that would eventually cause him to droop into slumber. But that hadn't worked either.

So now he was confined to an insomniac's prison; mind springing livily with each step while his body screamed at him with an unrequited request for sleep. But he knew no matter how much his tired limbs needed the peace, he didn't really welcome the thought of becoming vulnerable and allowing himself to be a vessel for his nightmares to materialise in.

He couldn't bare the thought of waking up sweating profusely and grappling for an anchor that would bring him back to reality. He couldn't bear to see Freddie's face behind his lids, dirt scattered across his cheeks and a terrified look in his eyes. He didn't want to see Danny's face contort with fear or hear his dull screams again.

So the empty streets of Birmingham became his distraction away from war torn night terrors, and he focused solely on the click of his shoes against the cobblestones and the soft drip of the gutters that the nights flash of rain ran through. Tommy walked for a while, long enough to see the sky change from obsidian black to a dull navy, the world changing with the promise of sunrise. But he walked on, not really knowing where he was heading to, but when the front door of your house loomed towards him he knew exactly why he'd come here.

He knocked gently after a moment of hesitation, but he could tell you were awake since there was a dim glow coming from the window where the fire was lighting and a flicker of movement caught his eye behind the eyelet curtain.

The door was pulled open, and there standing in a ruby red robe, hair cascading down her face and eyes widened as she took Tommy in, was the only person who could dispel all thoughts of France. Shovels digging against dirt, the ripping sound of bullets against flesh, the cries of men and the smell of blood dissipated with one look at you.

"Y/n" Tommy sighed wistfully as if he was only meeting you for the first time. But in truth he'd known you since you were a girl, nothing but a slip of a thing with a wild look in your eye and a talent for mischief. But now before him stood a woman who had his heart completely even if you didn't know it.

"Tommy, is everything alright?" you asked him, checking behind his shoulder for any other infamous members of the Birmingham crime gang but no one else was stalking the shadows.

"I can't sleep, can I stay here?" he asked you in that rough voice of his, his words trickling with a deep sadness that caused the muscle in your chest to twitch.

"Come in" you held the door open for him, knowing full well you'd never deny him the comfort he so often found in you.

Nothing romantic had ever happened between you and Tommy, but there was a naive hope buried within you that told you he felt the same way. But men like Tommy weren't actively in touch with their emotions so mixed signals were often a barrier in your relationship. You'd known him most of your life, since you'd been Ada's best friend for years, but something about Tommy had always caused you to gravitate towards him. And he to you.

Before he went to France a moment between you two had happened that had caused you to believe there would be an abvious shift in your relationship; but the tolling bells of war had rang out clearly, and with them all the men you cared for deeply had been shipped away with the promise of gallant glory bestowed on their shoulders.

Not all of them had returned.

Tommy stepped inside and took off his hat as soon as he walked into the parlour, the flickering glow of the fire casting itself against his face. You took a step closer to him then, your eyes taking in the pale pallor of his skin and the ghostly look in his eyes.

"How long has it been since you slept last?" you asked him caringly but like always Tommy deflected from the conversation, instead turning his eyes towards the stack of letters that were strewn against the table.

He could make out his own scrawl and he fingered the crackly paper as he picked a letter up, one of the many ones he had written to you while he was away. He had written you countless letters during his time in France and you had kept him updated about business back home and all the seemingly mundane affairs that were happening in Birmingham. Your letters had kept him sane, and he had hunkered down in the trenches, holding your letters close and wishing he had told you he loved you before he left.

But perhaps it had been for the best, since the man that had loved you was long gone. And all that was left was a traumatised shell of a man who's violent nightmares were taking control of his sanity.

"You kept all these?" Tommy asked you softly and you slid up close beside him, your warmth soothing him more than you'd ever know.

"Every one" you smiled at him "I think I read each of them a hundred times the day I got them. I felt close to you somehow, like you were still here in England and not.....there"

Your voice cracked at the end and as Tommy shuffled through the letters on the table he came across one that caused his heart to still.

My dearest sister, it began, the men grow weary in this camp, and talk of being home for Christmas is all that can rouse them. I hope that what they say is true and that I too will be home in Birmingham before then, perhaps by then this war will be done with and I will be back home......

"He was a good lad" Tommy stopped reading the letter, placing it down on the table with the others and turning to you. He noticed then for the first time that your eyes were rimmed red and your face pale. You'd been crying, he could tell.

"Yeah, he was" you whispered, your eyes falling onto the signature of your brothers name that rested at the bottom of the letter. It bore into you like a hot iron of red, and pierced you with cuts that stung achingly in the place your heart beat.

This war had been hard on all of the men that had trekked to the front lines, but the women who were left behind to mourn their families were torn with anguish too. You had lost people you'd loved, and with that thought, Tommy brought you close to him with strong arms.

"He was a brave kid. Braver than most men twice his age, and he did all of England proud" Tommy told you softly, running a hand through your hair as you cried against his chest.

"Brave and stupid" you almost laughed, wiping tears from your face harshly as you looked up at Tommy, his beautiful blue eyes piercing into you.

"Aye, us Birmingham lads are all a bit stupid" Tommy said with a smile, his hands coming to cup your face.

"I don't sleep so well either, you know. I just found myself sitting here reading these letters and thinking of everything and I've tried to sleep but I can't seem to" you told him, pulling away from him to fetch a cotton handkerchief that lay on a chair to wipe your eyes.

"I don't think I've slept properly in a year" Tommy confessed to you, his shoulders drooping with the weight of everything that has been weighing him down "but you've always helped me feel better, no matter what"

"I'm glad you came home, Tommy" you said to him, the pricking of traitor tears stinging your eyes.

"You're the reason I came home" he said softly, his eyes shyly meeting yours to take in your reaction, but you just stood there motionless for a minute as you took in his words.

"What do you mean?" you whispered to him, your voice shaking as you spoke.

"Every time I felt like giving up I'd think of you, or read your letters, and I knew I wanted to come home to you. I should have told you before I left how I love you, but I'm saying it now because when I can't fucking sleep or when things get too much its you I go to" Tommy confessed to you, a rare look of vulnerability in his eyes when you didn't answer right away ".....ah I don't know what's brought this on, just forget I ever said anything. I haven't been sleeping so I'm not thinking straight"

"You love me?" you asked him in disbelief, staring at him across your dimly lit parlour.

"Ever since you burst into our house, giggling with Ada on your arm" he said "we were kids, but I knew I loved you as sure as I know I love you now. If you don't love me too, I won't pursue you or torment you. I still want to be your friend, and hope that you don't feel like this has to stop you being a part of the family"

"Oh Tommy! I love you too" you rushed forward into his arms, and when he caught you against him it didn't take him a moment to place his lips on yours.

He kissed you softly and lovingly at first, but more passion was ignited in his lips when his rough hands came to your face. You clung to him desperately, never wanting to let him go, but he pulled away gently after a minute and allowed himself to take you in. His eyes studied every crevice of your face up close, and how your eyes sparkled with the light of the fire.

"Let's go to sleep, my love" he whispered to you, his thumb tracing the red jut of your bottom lip. You nodded, taking his hand in yours and leading him towards your room.

He lay in your arms that night, weightless with the peace of sleep that had eventually clouded over him. You just watched him as he slept, stroking his handsome face gently while not knowing how each loving caress of yours dispelled any nightmares in Tommy's head, replacing them with dreams of you.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Halo

A/N Today the Metric Universe has a guest artist: Depeche Mode!  This story takes place soon after Help! I’m Alive, which is going to require some creative liberties on my part.  Depeche Mode did play London Stadium to a sold-out crowd (one of eight bands to ever do so), but in June 2017, not September.  

All other parts of the Metric Universe are available on my AO3 page. 

The song by Depeche Mode that inspired the title is here. Teenage Michelle listed to Violator on repeat, just like Claire and Jamie.  

September 21, 2017, Spitalfields, England

Jamie’s patrol boots felt like concrete weights about his feet as he plodded down the hallway towards his flat.  Most days, he loved his job.  It filled a psychic need to contribute meaningfully to society and provided a loose camaraderie that acted as a substitute family.  Physically and mentally taxing, on a bad day like today, it left him feeling wrung out and far older than his twenty-seven years.  All that kept him moving was force of habit and the promise of a glass of whisky, a long shower and a comfortable bed.

A steady thump of bass throbbed from behind his door.  Frowning, he fit the key in the lock and walked into a wall of sound.  Claire was nowhere to be seen, but her iPhone sat on the coffee table, wirelessly connected to the tele’s surround sound system.  He tapped the screen once and lowered the volume significantly.

The sudden lull drew his roommate from the kitchen, where she’d evidently been cleaning.  She was wearing a tattered pair of jogging pants, a plain white tshirt and rubber gloves.  Corkscrews of sweaty hair stuck to her temples.

“Jamie, hi.  Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Understandable.   Depeche Mode, Sassenach?”

Her lips curled in a shape he knew was supposed to be a grin.  Something was missing, however.  A spark, a hint of magic, the ineffable quality he associated with Claire.

“Are ye alright, Claire?  Ye seem... I dinna ken, but not yerself,” he inquired as he opened the liquor cabinet.  Raising a nearly full bottle of Glenfiddich in silent query, he set about pouring two healthy glasses.  When they met back at the sofa, Claire had removed her cleaning attire and tried to arrange her hair in a slightly neater bun.

“I could ask the same of you,” she countered.  “You look done in.  Rough day?  Cheers,” she added, raising the amber liquid.

“Slainte,” he replied, letting the spicy heat coat his throat and settle like an ember in his belly.

“Do you ever...” Claire began before subsiding into silence.

“Do I ever what?” he urged.

“Some days I just feel as though no matter what I do, the cosmic ledger is not going to balance, you know?  That there isn’t enough good in me to balance out all the bad.”

He forced himself to mutely accept her statement, no matter how much he wanted to dispute it.  She was exposing a chink in her formidable armour.  His job was to listen, not debate.  He couldn’t help wanting to peer past the small opening to the burning core within, though.

“I loved this album as a lad,” he offered instead.  “Dark an’ moody an’ all about sex. My Mam hated Personal Jesus, complained twas blasphemous.”

Claire chuckled softly.  She was looking at a point over his shoulder, visibly straining to reach some buried emotion.

“When things got horrific at Camp Bastion, the surgeons would listen to music, ridiculously loud music.  Artillery fire, evac choppers, the wails of wounded soldiers, it drowned them all out.  Or at least that was the idea.  The camp only had an old portable stereo on its last legs, held together with suture wire.  By the end of my year, Violator was the only tape that fucking thing hadn’t eaten.  This is the soundtrack of the worst moments of my life.”

He could have asked why she would want to relive that personal hell, but he already knew the answer.  It was the same reason he still rushed into a burning building, even as the memory of his accident played havoc with his PTSD.  Survival was an act of redemption.  You fought your demons because if you didn’t, the demons had already won.

They sat beside each other on the sofa listening to the melancholy songs on repeat.  When her glass was empty, Jamie poured another two fingers unprompted.  He didn’t ask what happened during her hospital shift to send her thoughts back to Afghanistan.  He could guess.   She didn’t ask why his uniform smelled of ashes and burnt flesh.  She could guess.   Sometimes the hurt didn’t need to be articulated.  Sometimes silent complicity was the only cure.

***

October 20, 2017, London Stadium, England

She’d almost missed the envelope entirely.   Bleary eyed after an overnight shift, her plan was to sleep through the rest of the day and wake up tomorrow in her thirties.  Checking the surface of her desk for mail out of habit on her way to the shower, Jamie’s bold scrawl, black across ivory paper, caught her eye.

Happy Birthday, Claire.

Her finger shook as she unsealed the feather-light rectangle.  A ticket stub was the only content.  Her hand covered her mouth as she drew in a quivering lungful of air.  She had no idea how he even knew it was her birthday, never mind how he happened upon the perfect gift.

After a rejuvenating nap, shower and thirty minutes trying on every outfit in her wardrobe, she now stood in an endless security lineup in the hulking shadow of London Stadium.  A soft brush against her bare shoulder and a hint of his familiar scent were the cues that sent her heart beating against her ribs.  She looked up into the sunrise of his warmest smile.

“G’d evenin’, Sassenach,” he greeted.  “Fancy meetin’ ye here.”

She shook her head in mock exasperation.

“Really, Jamie.  I can’t believe you.  How ever did you even get tickets?  It’s been sold out for months.”

“Och, twas nothin’.  The sister of one of the lads on my engine works fer their record label,” he demurred, running a hand through his curls.   She could see they were still damp.  He must have showered at the station and come straight from work.  The bright floodlights caught the blond tones of the stubble along his jaw.  She looked away, feeling a lurch in her stomach that had nothing to do with missing dinner.

They chatted easily as they slowly advanced through the metal detectors and into the colossal stadium.

“I’ve never been inside,” she remarked, craning her head upwards.  “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“Aye, tis.  This way, birthday girl.  We’re on the floor.”  Jamie extended a courtly arm and shepherded her into the steadily growing crowd.

At concerts in her youth, she always started near the stage but was gradually pushed backwards by larger, rowdier fans.  It took several songs for her to realize why that wasn’t happening.  Jamie had planted himself directly behind her and was acting like a breakwater, parting the crowd with his tall, broad form before they could push up against her.   She felt something vigilant loosen along her spine.  Before long, she was dancing and singing along, completely lost in the moment.

Looking up over her shoulder at his proud, chiseled features as they were washed in multi-hued lights, she caught his eye and smiled.  He bent close, his warm breath feathering her hair as he whisper-yelled into her ear.

“Happy birthday, Sassenach.”

Impulsively, she stood on tiptoe and placed a careful kiss near the corner of his mouth.  Lying in bed that night with the echo of the music still ringing in her ears, it was the memory of his shyly delighted grin that lit her mind like a thousand stars.

[iit-s-kitty]

what they don’t see (is how you make me feel)

summary: Angelica Darling had a gift to see changes and small details in the most unexpected of places, or in Harry Hook's case, the most unexpected of people. And Harry being Harry, he is more than eager to show them to the little Darling girl. OR— Angelica Darling is a big oblivious mess that has sex with Harry and even then doesn't notice he is into her. pairing: harry hook/oc (angelica darling), mentioned ben/mal edited: more or less. rating: +15. lenght: 1,1k trigger warnings: implied sex, language. crossposted on fanfiction-dot-net and my ao3 tag list: @sweet-tea228 @esteicy-blog (because she’s a sunshine and my bff who always support my messes and i’ll tag her if i want to lmao)

Angelica Darling had always been one to take notice of the small things. Perhaps it was a product of her upbringing, since her mother, Jane Darling, had been known to be quite the perfectionist (or a control freak, as some would say it); or maybe it could be a side effect of her 'bookworm' status in Auradon Prep. Either way, whenever she would caught notice of something, no matter how big or small but rather how interesting, it wouldn't leave her mind until she had deciphered the reason behind it

She could cite a few examples— one would be the way Mal's hair had gone back to her signature purple color, yet was still stylized to resemble a more traditional Auradon look to signify her relationship to the kingdom (and the prince); another example would be how Evie's make up had slowly faded from a striking but exaggerated kind to a more polished and elegant get up; and where many people would notice how Ben had started to be more daring in his choice of clothing, it was Angelica who noticed that he looked more free, more human. To be able to see where many would just look felt nice, as if in doing so Angelica would find a treasure of her very own, that she was somehow more than a teenage girl whose best friends were a stack of books.

But to see such things always takes its time, you see—it certainly took a while before she saw a change (or well, anything) in him. Many people who met Harry, even the more positives, would point out how the boy was the same eccentric pirate lad from the isle: same clothes, same hair, same exaggerated accent that drove people insane (but not as much as his attitude). And Angelica felt like an idiot for trying to search for something that wasn't there in such a flamboyant being, but never an idiot without a point because there had to be something else in Harry Hook.

Something like his voice, for example.

The thing with voices is that while you certainly hear them, most of the time you don't listen— Angelica certainly didn't want to listen to him for a long time, and on how they went to a point where she felt utterly lost without his voice in her life was a whole other matter, but the thing with voices could certainly applied to Harry: not many listened to him, not many noticed the way it abruptly changed from a giddy, almost sick with happiness rough thing to a more faint but sincere tone, the one that could hypnotize any maiden that stumbled into him if used.

She certainly happened to be such maiden, and he was almost in ecstasy to see it. Thought it had to do more in how.

And it was as she lay bare on his side of the bed, chest nude and against his side, as he slowly dragged her fingers on the skin that Harry spoke: "I could get used to this, you know?"

Angelica, being Angelica, snorted at his words— as if she wouldn't mind 'getting used to it' as well. "You're a hormone filled man, Harry, of course you could get used to sex."

And Harry, being Harry, laughed— but not his high-pitched giggle, but a soft if not tired snort left his mouth as he absent-mindedly pulled her closer. "You're right that I could get used to bedding, my hearty—"

"Please spare me the 19th century pirate slang, I'm too tired to keep debunking it—"

"— but what I actually meant was..." and as her body shook because a smooth, low and ragged voice just spoke, her mind snapped out of the post-climax haze to certify that such voice was no one else's but Harry's. "What I mean was that I could get used to bed you, girlie."

(Though, to be fair, it certainly didn't shake her as much as to hear such words, and from Harry of all people.)

It took even more time before Angelica dared to do bring the subject to him. Most details she could give an explanation herself, but with Harry everything seemed to be crystal clear until you turned the whole thing around and you found yourself in the air with no clue how you've got there. And given that he was, well, bedding her it was a frustrating feeling, to say the least.

Not as frustrating as to bring it up, though, especially with her matted hair covering her flustered face and both their bodies covered in sweat.

"Was it true?" she asked and for a second his permanently painted smile faltered.

"What do you mean, hearty?"

"What you said," and somehow her face became redder and she had to look away as if he hadn't fucked her spent. "That you could... Get used to me, you know."

And he tensed beneath her, for he was most certain unprepared to be interrogated in such way— for it was that to someone like Harry, who always wore his heart on his sleeve and who was unashamed of everything he did, to be questioned in such a vulnerable state was akin to being disarmed.

And Angelica found that she couldn't stare into his eyes, that after all, rejection and to face that she was never something special to begin with was something that she could hardly take with good grace. 'Please be quick,' she prayed to herself. 'Please be good and spare me the pains.'

And as such, to have her face taken and to face him into his eyes, eyes that for once weren't so sure of his victory this time. Not until he used that voice again, anyway.

"Of course, I meant it, Angie, but only if you want to."

It had to be because to know that someone wanted her shook the Darling girl to her core, in a way that no spell could've done, that Angelica wasn't able to say anything coherent. She wasn't the loving, overly emotional type that went to tears, and it was clear that they wouldn't be in this situation if it was any other way; but for many years Angelica had felt painted on the wall, silent and unnoticed, and to be noticed was to feel alive. Such a feeling would leave anyone in shambles, and Angelica Darling, always so logical and stern and just Angelica was no exception.

"Your voice," she said as she unnoticedly traced his lips with her fingers. "It's so different."

"I guess it's like many things lately," he said, regaining his signature smile. "It changes when I'm with you, hear~ty~"

Then again, Angelica had never been the overly emotional type— but she would be more than pleased to see such changes unravel.

[twokinkybeans]

Huldugaldur [Starker]

Summary:  Peter Parker gets his hands on alien sex pollen with Thor's help and uses it to seduce Tony.

Notes: Written for our 600 follower line prompt challenge. I got the following prompt: "He's saved many different lives in many different ways, but "fuck or die" is definitely the one that takes the cake."

This wasn't supposed to be angsty but... Well, that's what happened whoops. I'm sorry, but this is what it turned out to be! Please read the tags carefully, this ain't a sweet, fluffy thing. - Kim

Warnings: Nff, dubious consent, drug use, sex pollen, fuck or die, manipulation, repressed feelings, angst, smut, unresolved sexual/emotional/romantical tension, bad ending.

-

Huldugaldur:

The first seeds for the idea plant themselves into Peter’s head on an early Sunday morning in October. The rain outside is splattering on the windows. It sounds like a drum concert that announces the beginning of Autumn the way drummers used to announce their arrival on a battlefield. Peter doesn’t mind the harsh downpour. It’s the perfect excuse to stay inside and enjoy his day off. Being a superhero and all, those are a rarity. Peter is propped up on his elbows, his eyes skimming over the lines of the new issue of his favorite comic book series. He keeps his collection hidden in a locked box underneath his bed. The mere idea of May finding out that her nephew gets off to drawings of muscular, dangerous extraterrestrials with giant slimy tentacles- Yeah. He’d rather keep that to himself.  May is away for the weekend, though, and Peter intends to make the most of it; enjoying his guilty pleasures without any disturbances.

Yesterday evening after she’d left, Peter had bought the new issue at the small shop just around the corner. The reviews of this specific piece had been off the charts, and Peter agrees with the praise. Fuck, it’s absolutely sensational. Peter has already jerked off to it three times in this past hour, and his still hard-and-ready-to-go dick is leaking small drops of precum into his cotton sheets. He’s trying not to hump against them yet but his hips are moving back and forth slightly on their own accord. It’s insane, absolutely insane, how stunning the graphics of this story are. Peter’s nostrils flare slightly as he keeps on reading, turning page after page, watching the main character get sprayed on with a particular type of sex pollen that forces them to fuck- or they’ll die. The sheer desperateness has Peter whine out loud with need. He presses his groin down a bit more forcefully and gasps at the electrifying sparks deep in his abdomen. His soft, breathy panting becomes louder and louder until his eyes flutter shut. He shivers all over, trying to not dig his fingers into the paper pages- one more thrust- and comes with a silent cry. He stains his bed and himself and damn. Peter goes limp, trying to catch his breath for a second. Just a short bit, and then he’ll continue reading and start all over again.

Oh, he thinks as he stares at the wall. If only he could experience such a rush in real life as well…

Peter sits upright, his eyes wide and shocked. What… What if he could?

-

Peter jumps up from the conference table and rushes after Thor. He’d been waiting for the God to finish his conversation with Dr. Strange and he must’ve zoned out. “Uhm, Thor?”  “Yes, my young lad?” Peter cracks a smile at the name. He wonders if he shouldn’t be feeling nervous about his plan. He feels strangely calm about all of this. Thor has seen and done so many things in his immortal life that Peter doesn’t think he’ll think of the question as odd. “So, I saw this thing on TV- about eh, pheromones on other planets that make you crave sex? I was wondering if something like that exists in our universe?” Thor laughs, a deep rumbling sound coming from the deity’s throat. He puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder and leans in. Almost as if they’re friends about to share a secret.

“We do have something like that indeed. In Asgard, we call it the Huldugaldur. Way before I was even born, my father could harvest it in Álfheimr- but not too long after that, the Dökkálfar were banished to Midgard. Now, the Ljósálfar are its keepers. For a reason. The Huldugaldur is highly addictive and will lure simple humans to their death. Only if you pay a fair price, you can get your hands on the substance.” Thor explains. Peter’s mind spins with all the new information and he has to keep himself from bouncing on his feet as he asks the next question. “Would it lure you to your death, too?” “Nope,” Thor grins. “For us… It’s a celebratory elixir. Makes one feel aroused. I think you mortals would call it a party drug.” Peter presses his lips together for a second as he ponders his next move. “Can I… Try it?” “Look, little hatchling, you are certainly strong enough to withstand it and reap from its pleasures. But there’s a catch. If you don’t make love to someone, you’ll die.”

Peter’s mind provides him with the memory he resents and cherishes most. Soft, slightly chapped lips pressed eagerly onto his. Fuck, Peter can still feel the rough stubble scratching past his cheek. Two years. It’s been two years since Tony Stark drunkenly kissed him and confessed his love. Peter hard just turned twenty-one, but Tony still felt disgusted with himself and told him harshly that they would never work out. Peter had stopped fighting back against the argument after a few weeks but he never stopped hoping Tony might change his thoughts. Maybe… Maybe if the man gets a nudge in the right direction... “Oh,” Peter whispers to Thor. “I know just the candidate.”

Peter is pumped about all of this. So excited he doesn’t even want to think about the possible consequences. He’ll finally get to truly experience the thrill of the sex pollen, and he’ll get to fuck the man he’s been longing for for so long now. “Peter-” “Please, please can I try the elixir?”

-

Peter doesn’t have to wait long before Thor gifts him a beautifully carved glass-like bottle. Deep red fluid swirls inside it whenever it moves. Peter has to admit that even just looking at it makes him feel jittery and low-key aroused. “So, I just… Drink it?” “Yes,” Thor answers. The God looks awfully out of place with his shining armor, long hair, cape… in Peter’s cramped bedroom filled with old reach and nerdy posters. “I took this from my father’s collection. This should be enough to do the trick for you.”

Peter swallows. For the first time, the nerves start kicking in. It’s all becoming so real now. A small voice in the back of his mind wonders if he should politely decline the Huldugaldur drug after all. His curiosity wins, tho, and he reaches out for it. Thor scrapes his throat. “Are you sure you still want this, sticky boy?” “It can’t go wrong, can it?” “Well- It could. Highly unlikely, but possible. Rest assured, I know how to help people through the elixir if the plan doesn’t work out.” “Sex?” “No, it’s… A mind trick Loki taught me. Don’t ask, better not to know. All you need to know is that I won’t let you die if your plan of fucking Stark fails.” “H-how-” “Everyone knows about the kiss,” Thor waves it off. “There’s a reason I agreed to give you the Huldugaldur.”

Somehow, that’s all the encouragement Peter needed to nod firmly.  “I want to try it, then. I… I want to feel what it’s like.” Peter sighs and runs a hand through his chestnut hair, ruffling it slightly and then dragging it to one side- knowing it’ll look better that way. Thor nods. “It should work instantly, so I recommend taking sip by sip until your mind clouds a little. A warm feeling will spread through your chest, and your manhood will erect.” Peter nods, his shaky fingers reaching out for the bottle. Thor wishes him good luck and confirms he’ll be waiting at the park in front of Peter’s flat in case it won’t work out as planned. Once Thor is gone, he downs the bottle in one go.

He waits.

He waits.

And nothing happens. Nothing at all.

-

Tony can’t believe what he’s hearing. Peter is standing in the doorway. His face flushed, jaws clenched, trembling feverishly. Tony’d been drifting off, his head lolling back and forth above the desk when Peter had slammed the door open.  “Tony- Please. There’s no time to explain. I took this elven drug I got from Thor, and if I don’t fuck anyone, I’ll die.”  Tony blinked. He's saved many different lives in many different ways, but "fuck or die" is definitely the one that takes the cake. “What?” “Tony, please, I don’t want it to be anyone else.”

Tony doesn’t know what to do. His mind is racing with thoughts he can’t quite make sense of. He knows exactly which drug Peter is talking about- Thor bragged about it more often than not. Why would Peter take it? Why- Of course, of course Peter would take it. He’s too curious. Loves experimenting. Tends to overestimate his body’s capacities at handling dangerous things.  “Peter, can’t you ask anyone else?” Tony wants to curse at how his voice wavers. “You know- you know we can’t .” Tony swallows once. He’s no longer drowsy with sleep. No. His heart is pumping fast to spread the shot of adrenaline through his body. If Peter dies- no no no. Tony can’t bear the thought. But he doesn’t want to give in to all these years of denying himself and the boy what they both want. He tried to be the responsible adult for so long, and now this ?

“Who?” Peter’s lips tremble, his eyes showing the clear hurt from the rejection. “I don’t want to fuck anyone I don’t fully trust the way I trust you. I,” Peter’s words are cut off mid-sentence as he lets out a whiny noise, grabbing his cock through the fabric of his jeans.  “P-please, Mr. Stark- It hurts…” Tony’s heart breaks for the boy and before he knows what he’s doing, he nods and spreads his arms. Not even a second later, he’s knocked back by the force of Peter straddling his lap and kissing him passionately- the boy’s slender hands already tugging at the buttons of Tony’s waistcoat. “Peter, slow down, boy.” “Can’t. I can’t. I need you,” Peter murmurs and rolls his hips against Tony’s stomach. Tony gasps when he feels the fierce hard-on against his body. He inhales sharply, as he too can feel the slowly building tingling sensation in his balls. His cock hardens where the boy grinds himself against it. Tony’s growing weaker and weaker and he sucks Peter’s bottom lip into his mouth harshly. He’s been wanting this for so long. Too long. And perhaps, the denial had been so repressive that right now there’s no self-control left. No self-control, where Tony’s hands slide down to cup Peter’s beautiful, firm buttcheeks to help him grind faster. No self-control when Peter hastily undresses himself to reveal his gorgeous abs. 

“Mmmmmh!” Peter moans into Tony’s mouth while sliding the waistcoat off Tony’s shoulders and starts unbuttoning the dress shirt too. At this point, Peter is too far gone. Too sexually frustrated to open up the buttons one by one. He rips the shirt off Tony’s body and discards the torn fabric onto the floor. Tony’s hips meet Peter’s with every thrust.  “Pete, Pete, baby. What do you need?” “Fuck me, fuck me Tony please.”  “Have you had sex before?” “Mm- couple times. Not much. ‘S okay I can take it.” Peter babbles and Tony’s eyebrows furrow together. No. No this isn’t right. Not like this. Something about this is very very off and he should keep that in mind. In any other situation they would not be doing this. All he can do is make sure Peter feels good again. Tony can’t let himself get carried away. “Hold onto me, baby, lemme carry you to my bedroom.”

Peter obeys and as Tony stands up, the boy wraps his legs around the older man’s waist. He doesn’t stop grinding though, and when they reach the elevator, Tony traps the kid between the mirror and his own body to kiss him like he is the one almost dying.  “Peter, fuck, I’m so sorry.” “N-no, no Tony it’s okay. Please. This is a dream come true and-” Peter chokes on his breath and his eyes widen. Quickly, Peter tries to make up for his mistake. “I- I mean, you’re saving me? There’s no need to be sorry and-”

Tony freezes. Turns entirely frigid at Peter’s words. That’s… That’s… “Friday,” Tony breathes quietly. He watches the horror spread on Peter’s face and Tony’s heart sinks. No. No, no, no. “Show me Peter Parker’s vitals.” “Tony, I-” “Quiet,” Tony hisses. Peter is still clinging onto him, but no longer grinding as if his life depends on it. Perhaps, perhaps it hadn’t depended on it at all. “Vitals are good. A slight rise in heart rate but that is to be expected in the situation you’re in.” “Blood work?” “Nothing unusual, boss.”

Tony’s gaze crosses over Peter’s face. It’s awfully disheartening to see the guilt spread onto Peter’s face. “Mr. Stark, I can-” “No. I don’t want to hear it.” Tony closes his eyes for a second and slowly he lowers Peter back onto the floor. Tony takes a step back. He can feel his mind taking control. He’s in charge of this situation again. His heart turning cold and distant, cutting off any emotion that had been there just mere seconds earlier. He wishes he could scream, take the anger out right away. But instead he simply shuts down.  Peter betrayed him. Peter, someone he deemed to be one of his best friends and teammates despite their crush on the other. Tony knows they can never be the same again. Not after this. The man had managed to live happily enough without his hands on the young adult, that he could live with… But this… His heart breaks with the realization of everything they could’ve been.

“Mr. Stark- you don’t understand. Please, please let me explain. I swear, I swear I took the drug. You can ask Thor! It just didn’t work as I’d hoped and-” “I said, I don’t want to hear it. You,” Tony sniffs once and points at the boy in front of him. “I don’t fucking care what you did. How on Earth you were stupid enough to take a drug meant for Gods - if you even did. You’ve been reckless. Irresponsible. I thought you changed, thought you had your impulses under control.” Tony takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to say any of this, but he has to.  “But the worst part is that you took advantage of my weakness for your own gain, and that is something I can never forgive you for.”

Ping.

Tony looks up warily and sees the elevator has reached his private suite. Tony eyes the kid one more time before stepping out. Tears are rolling down Peter’s cheeks. His eyes are red and puffy, he’s trembling. Tony can see how sorry Peter is. How much he wants to make things right. Well, Tony reckons, he should’ve thought about that before he decided to do this.  “Friday, please take Peter Parker back to the lab.” “Tony, please, please no-” Peter cries. Tony doesn’t listen to his pleas and continues. “Let him collect his things, and escort him to the lobby. Once he’s out, please deny him access to the Tower for an unknown period of time. No one has the authority to let him back in but me.” “Tony!” “Friday, close the doors.” “Yes, boss.”

Tony turns around, shutting out the sounds of Peter, begging Tony to let him stay. The sound fades when the doors close, only muffled noises coming from the metal box until it completely dies down. “Tony, can you please confirm once more.” “Confirmed.” Tony is met with a deafening silence. He breathes. In. And out. Once. Twice. His eyes sting with tears he angrily tries to keep from spilling. His vision is blurred. The New York skyline is nothing more than a grey patch where Tony stares out the windows.

Again. Again he’d trusted someone who is clearly unworthy of it. He feels bitter. Humiliated. Naked. He swears quietly as he makes way to his bedroom to grab the first sweater he can find and pulls it down over his head. It’s not enough. He can still feel Peter’s fingertips on his chest. His own body feels like a prison he can’t escape from. With shaking hands he reaches for the flask of whiskey standing peacefully on his nightstand and downs it in one go. It burns in his throat. The oaky, sweet yet smokey taste on his tongue is not enough to get rid of the sugary taste that had been on Peter’s lips. With a loud roar, he smashes the glass bottle onto the floor. He watches the shattered pieces, and finally, finally a sob rises in his chest. He drops onto his knees, his hands clawing at the wooden floor. He’s aware that a small piece of glass is digging into his thumb but he doesn’t care. He sobs. And sobs. And wonders what the fuck he did wrong for the universe to punish him over and over again.

“I trusted you,” he whispers into the empty room. “I trusted you.”