#he screws over every white collar criminal he ever had help from

[theunvanquishedzims]

Calming my post-election anxiety with sweet sweet logic

So Trump is a wannabe dictator with crazy screaming fans who are headed toward violent armed meltdowns. What’s to stop him from going full dictator and refusing to leave office?

I’m glad you asked!

You see, the major difference between wannabe dictators and actual dictators is ALLIES. Dictators are surrounded with tight security, aided by the military, cheered on by media that they control, and are either helped, encouraged, or just ignored by other countries with the power to stop them.

Trump has charged the Secret Service money for the privilege of protecting him and his family since day one. You remember the first year, when his wife and son refused to move to the White House so the Secret Service had to RENT FLOORS in TRUMP’S BUILDING to be close to them? And how his extended family went globetrotting and the Secret Service had to accompany them? And when Trump himself insisted on hosting people at his golf club, he made the Secret Service RENT GOLF CARTS from TRUMP’S CLUB to follow him while he went golfing?

The end result was that halfway through the first year of his presidency, the Secret Service could not pay their own wages. Because half their yearly budget had gone straight to Trump’s pockets. And that’s just financially. I think we all remember how the White House came down with Covid and Trump still insisted on Secret Service agents driving him around to wave at people. He has not been kind to the people who are sworn to protect him. These people have had a front-row seat to his circus since 2016. When the time comes from Trump to leave the White House and Biden to take over, I doubt they’ll betray the country out of loyalty to Trump. If anything, they’ll be the ones to drag him out.

As for the military, Trump insulted and fired four generals from his administration staff. He said on multiple occasions that soldiers who get captured or killed are suckers and losers. He refused to visit a cemetery to honor the dead because it was raining. He tries to pander to the military by massive increases in defense spending, but that money goes to capitalists who make weapons and war technology, not the soldiers or veterans. (He also hypocritically accused military officials of being in bed with those same companies.) In a poll of 1000 service members 50% said they disliked Trump. Overall, he doesn’t act like a leader, and the way he skirts responsibility (like taking charge during the pandemic) doesn’t appeal to a group that functions on trust in their leadership.

A proper dictator would have spent the last four years cozying up to his generals and making sure they knew the financial and social benefits of answering to him personally, not the office of the President. And while Trump did adhere to the adage “find a foreign foe” to unite people against, he badly misjudged what most US citizens consider “foreign.” He hasn’t found a villain that we would root for the military taking down, and the people he targets (Latinx, Blacks, immigrants, and people in countries our military has already devastated) are not a minority he can turn the majority of the country against, especially with how many of the former two serve in the military themselves. When the time comes for him to leave office, the military might be the first to cut ties with the wannabe Dictator-in-Chief.

Now, the media. They’ve been treating him like a joke candidate since day one, but after he was actually elected and took office they’ve started to take him more seriously. He’s gotten his catchphrase “fake news!” to catch on, but that doesn’t change the fact that under his administration news reporters have been harassed, illegally arrested, and generally poorly treated by Trump, especially if they’re women. He’s trashed talked everyone, with Fox News being the last bastion of semi-legitimate news that openly supports him (and their credibility has taken a big hit over it.)

Despite this support, in recently months Trump has been increasingly dumping on Fox, even throwing the mediator they provided for the debate under the bus, and risking alienating them in the process. If his supporters listen to him and start considering Fox part of Big Fake News, it might possibly be the death of Fox, leaving most of his supporters adrift and isolated from their source of right-wing news, and sending the more extreme fringes into the arms of conspiracy theory websites. (I’m not saying this is bad, being cut off from Fox and its toxic stream of “information” can actually help rehabilitate the right.)

Honestly, I don’t think Trump ever had a shot at controlling the media like a dictator would, mainly because of social media. He’s in love with attention, and Twitter has provided him a nonstop stream of it. No other President has threatened, insulted, promoted, or hinted at war over social media the way Trump has, and he gets so much direct feedback and interaction with the public and the world as a result. He could have leveraged that by buying the company (through a shell corporation, obviously) and setting it up as The One True Source of Information, manipulating public perception of him and his administration by keeping a tight grip on what information he let out.

But he’s just. Not. That. Clever. He blurts out everything that crosses his mind, leaving his administration to play clean-up on his messes, put out fires he keeps pouring gasoline on, and claim he’s joking when everyone knows he’s testing the limits on what he can get away with saying. He took advantage of the direct communication with legions of supporters, but seemed to forget that his detractors had equal access and would absolutely call him out on things he definitely said, it’s right there on his Twitter account, they have the Tweet pulled up on their phone right now. Instead of operating a single state-run media outlet while crushing all free press and limiting internet access like other dictators, he’s mooned the world’s cameras and acted surprised when they put his saggy butt on tv. “Fake news! That’s not my butt! THIS is my butt! [image attached]” he tweets. “Twitter is so biased, they haven’t censored any of Sleepy Joe’s photos!” he later tweets.

And lastly. The key to a dictatorship’s success. To prevent outside intervention, the country a dictator runs must be unimportant and ignored, wealthy and well-connected, or scary and well-armed. Minor warlords are the former, Putin is the latter, Trump might have weaseled his way into being the middle. But at the end of the day, America’s whole thing is new leadership every four years. It was revolutionary to replace a lineage of kings and queens stretching generations with a non-royal elected leader who only held office for four to eight years, but we’ve stuck to that for 200 years and everyone’s used to it by now. It would take a charismatic and powerful person to move the American people towards abolishing such a basic tenant of our democracy, and despite the mob mentality that lead a small portion of his supporters to chant “sixteen more years!” in the heat of the moment, Trump is not that charismatic. He’s not that smart. He’s not that well-connected. He’s not that savvy. He’s not that good at politics. And he’s not that powerful.

(I was going to say something here about him being the laughingstock of the world’s leaders and shouldn’t expect any outsiders to help him stay in power, especially since his tax returns came out and showed he owes people a ton of money that he doesn’t have, but this post is long enough so let’s cut to the chase.)

Trump is a greedy, small-minded man that has clung to power by appealing to the worst in humanity and scraping away at the best. But he hasn’t succeeded. He’s a sad old man who will say anything to be loved, and I don’t think he even knows what love is, so he’ll settle for attention. He doesn’t have money, he doesn’t have an army, and the only allies he has are using him as a political pawn to further their own interests. They will cut him loose the minute he stops being useful.

Now, the bad part: crazy screaming fans. Fringe groups on the internet. Mobs chanting “sixteen more years!” Men with guns and bombs and kidnapping plots, men trying to get into voting centers to destroy the election, men driving trucks with black flags that say FUCK YOUR FEELINGS, TRUMP 2020 (available on Amazon for $11.99, I wish I was joking.) I have no idea how many people in this country genuinely love Trump. It is hopefully significantly less than voted for him. There are some big issues in this country that are make-or-break, and unfortunately by reason of running Republican Trump has aligned himself with some of them.

There are people who hate everything about Trump, but he put a pro-life judge on the Supreme Court so they’re voting for him. There are people who are uncomfortable with Trump, but they’ve forgiven their grandpa for saying worse at Thanksgiving dinner, so they’ll vote for him. There are people who don’t know a single thing about Donald Trump, but they see (Republican) next to his name on the ballot, so they vote for him. None of that means those people will side with him if he tries to make a move towards dictatorship.

Now there are people who love Trump. They’ve heard and seen the vile things he’s said and done, and are genuinely okay with it, because they are full of hate and rage and want to change the world to put themselves on top. I do not know how many of these people there are. I know they exist all over the country, not just in red states. I know some of them have guns and want a reason to use them, because they’ve been talking about it for decades. I don’t know if we can trust the police to side with us over them if fights start breaking out. (And I pray pray PRAY people de-escalate any fights, because monkey see monkey do, and one news report of a MAGA extremist shooting someone can inspire a hundred copycats can lead to full-on civil war like we've never seen.) I know we need to be careful the next few months, to take care of ourselves and watch out for the more vulnerable in our communities.

And above all, I know this: Trump is not going to keep this country. He got it through trickery and deceit and foreign influence and national indifference and people not taking him seriously. We’ve learned. We’ve grown. We’re taking him seriously now, and we will not let him take what we’ve already told him he can’t have. The election is over. He’s a loser. He’d better start packing his bags. Because he’s not staying in office.

[dontcallmecarrie]

writer’s block bites, here, have some off-the-cuff rambling:

.

Justin Hammer was 19 years old when he first became a white collar criminal.

Not that anyone would ever know, of course. 

Except for the person that he was doing it for, but then, the number of secrets Steph could hide in her smile was probably reaching in the hundreds at this point.

.

For the record, money laundering was...depressingly easy to figure out, even for someone like them. It didn’t take a genius to spot some of the loopholes, and since Justin was cautious about how they went about doing it, nobody would be able to do anything about it without anything more than the most ironclad of proof. 

It helped that it wasn’t that much money, to begin with: it was the greedy idiots pushing thousands per day that raised red flags, whereas Justin’s childhood allowance was more than what they were trying to do. 

By all rights, he shouldn’t have been doing this.

But Justin Hammer’s parents were assholes and Justin trusted them about as far as he could throw them, especially with all of the recent fights. He wouldn’t put it past them to kick their daughter out on her eighteenth birthday, just for daring to have hopes and dreams for a life that wasn’t the cookie-cutter plan that had been laid out for her and just the reminder made Justin seethe all over again.

So he made preparations. 

Because if push came to shove, he knew he’d be under an eagle eye— everyone knew just what kind of older sibling Justin Hammer was. There was no legal way he could help Steph, not when their parents had all the power and there was only so much Justin’s connections could do at this stage. 

So...illegal it was, then.

.

Push came to shove.

Steph ended up storming out of the Hammer mansion with furious tears and an overstuffed backpack. 

Ended up storming out, and almost breaking down on the park bench because she still felt like she was seventeen and she had no idea what to do next, not when she officially had next to nothing to her name but she refused to come crawling back because they’d be expecting that—

So she scrubbed her face, and pulled out her copy of the bible Justin had handed to her on her way out. It’d been the one thing their father hadn’t sneered at, beyond a casually cruel remark about “learning her lesson” because he was a goddamn hypocrite like that, and so it was that the last part of the action plan Justin had been working on for who knows how long came into play. 

.

It started with money laundering. 

Then, forgery, fraud, and extortion, and things only went downhill from there because Justin Hammer was a product of his environment, for better or worse.

They made connections to rival their father’s, leveraged what little power they had to get more, and all the while they knew it wasn’t okay but they’d be damned if they ever got to that point of powerlessness again. Not when they knew the world took and took and took, even after there was nothing left but cold and misery— and what’s worse, was that if they failed now, it wouldn’t be just them who fell. 

Just because their parents denied it, didn’t change the fact that Steph was the only daughter of a family that had a lot of enemies. And despite her best efforts, Steph was a young woman chasing her dreams with a safety net that was next to nonexistent, because despite Justin’s best efforts, there was only so much they could do at this point at it grated it at them.

Even more so, whenever they glimpsed Tony Stark screwing around, partying hard and flaunting his sexuality without so much as getting a slap on the wrist for it.

Everything Justin worked so hard to get, handed to their rival on a silver platter. Genius, money, friends— and here was Justin scrabbling for some semblance of stability, fighting tooth and nail to get even a modicum of control in their life. 

Tony Stark didn’t have to be paranoid about every word that came out of his mouth; didn’t have to second-guess his every move, or how useful his allies were. He didn’t have to have safeguards for if his backup plans failed, didn’t have to make convoluted plans every time he wanted something done and his parents felt like being difficult. 

Some days, it was so, so hard for Justin to to not resent the injustice of it all. 

To not let it get to him, any of it, because if he did, it’d never end and he refused to let it consume him. 

Even so...there were still moments when they can’t help but look around the room, and wonder how things got to this point. 

Wonder how, despite being all of two years older than his rival, growing up in the exact same environment, Justin felt so, so much older and world-weary— and how his rival could burn so, so brightly, and still brimming with so much hope for a brighter future. 

No matter how hard he tried, Justin still couldn’t understand it. But goodness help him, he’d fight tooth and nail to keep it from going out.

[thebonerpit]

~*~ Santa’s Little Helper Pt.2 ~*~

(Part 1 here) And here’s the smut! Also posted this in full on my Ao3 here. Thank you everyone for your notes/reblogs/comments, it totally inspired me to continue this. Tagging: @rileyrosebelluniverse @tony-is-my-daddy @annoyingcatto @baly0110 @areluctantsblog @consciencecoward

Saturday arrived before Tony knew it, but it still somehow took too long to get there. Ever since Peter texted him he had been buzzing with excitement over their date. It was ridiculous. He was forty-fucking-six years old and he felt like a teenager before prom. Fitting, he supposed, since he was going on a date with an actual teenager. He shoved that little moral dilemma to the back of his mind and concentrated on getting ready. He didn’t want to look too formal because he knew Peter probably didn’t have much of a budget for dress clothes and he didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable, so he settled on a simple black suit jacket, worn open over a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and black trousers. Peter didn’t have to know the entire outfit probably cost more than a year of his tuition.

It made more sense to meet at the bar rather than Tony go out of his way to pick Peter up (even though he did make it perfectly clear he would). Peter’s only stipulation was that they didn’t go anywhere Christmas themed which Tony was perfectly happy to comply with. He chose a secluded little lounge at the top of a ritzy hotel that most people didn’t even realize was there, which made it nice and quiet most of the time. He saw Peter waiting downstairs outside and smiled as he approached.

“Pretty sure they would have let you wait inside, you know,” he said, noting how Peter was shivering slightly in his thin jacket.

“Oh! H-hey, Mr. Stark, I just—”

“Hi sweetheart,” Tony interrupted, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek which made Peter shiver even more, “call me Tony, alright? Not that the whole ‘Mr. Stark’ thing isn’t a turn-on.”

Peter blushed and laughed softly. “Ok… Tony.”

“Let’s go upstairs.”

The lounge was small, decorated with dim lights, flickering candles, and a number of plush couches. There was one in front of a roaring fireplace that Tony made sure would be empty for them. A handful of people were relaxing with drinks in their hands, all engrossed in their own private conversations, and they didn’t even look up when Peter and Tony entered. Peter immediately wandered over to the window where there was a spectacular view of the city, and Tony watched with an amused little smile on his face as Peter quickly took a picture before coming to join Tony on their couch.

“Oh wow,” Peter whispered as he sank into the fluffy cushions, “this is so nice.”

“Mmhmm, you bet. Drink?”

“Um… I’m… I’m only 19…”

Right.

“Don’t worry about that, I’m here a lot. They’ll be flexible.”

He motioned for the waiter and ordered an old-fashioned for himself. Peter looked at the drink menu, brow furrowed, and eventually decided on something called a sugar cookie martini. It looked hideously sweet, the rim decorated with green and red sprinkles, and somehow suited him perfectly. The waiter nodded and retreated to the bar without a mention of Peter’s age.

“See?”

“Thank you,” he said, glancing up at him through his lashes like he did when they first met. It was devastating and Tony was sure Peter had no idea what he was doing with that look which made it even sexier. They made casual, pleasant conversation for a while as they sipped their drinks until Peter darted his eyes over to Tony and swallowed thickly.

“I, um, have a confession to make.”

“Alright… but if you tell me you’re a real elf I’m taking that drink away.”

Peter giggled and shook his head, his cheeks pink from the alcohol.

“No! That’s… no. It’s just that, um… I sort of… I knew who you were. Who you are. When I saw you last week.”

Tony raised his eyebrows. He knew he was pretty well-known in the tech industry for his robotics work but he wasn’t arrogant enough to think everyone knew his name… yet.

“It’s my roommates fault. His name is Harley. He like, worships you, basically.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I took the wrong college student out on a date then. What’s his number?”

Peter looked horrified until he realized Tony was joking and smacked him lightly on the arm, which made Tony laugh.

“He’s taking mechanical engineering and never shuts up about the robots you built. So, yeah…”

“Does he know you’re currently on a date with me?”

“Absolutely not! He would probably be here right now, talking your ear off about something called a DUM-E, I don’t know.”

Tony laughed again. “Well, I appreciate the honesty. But that means you’ve got an advantage. You know all about me and all I know about you is how good your ass looks in tights.”

Peter groaned and hid his face in his hands but Tony gently pried them away by his wrists.

“Nuh-uh, none of that, sweetheart. Tell me about yourself.”

So Peter did. And by the end of it Tony was pretty sure he was in love. Peter was sweet, and intelligent, and incredibly kind-hearted. He was an orphan, his family ripped apart by gun violence, and instead of letting it ruin him he volunteered at hospitals and group therapy communities for people who have been through the same thing.

“So you aren’t an elf, then… you’re an angel.”

Peter blushed furiously and busied himself with polishing off the last of his drink.

“Not at all. I just… I just like to help people, that’s all. I’ve done bad things, too, y’know.”

“Oh yeah? Like what, accidentally stepped on an ant once back in the fifth grade?”

“Mmmmm nope,” he said, flopping back against the cushions. He was starting to look a little hazy-eyed and yeah, that was enough alcohol for this one. “I didn’t wear those tights like you asked me to.”

Tony laughed and settled back into the cushions as well, leaning in close so their shoulders were touching.

“Not exactly a criminal offense, Pete.”

“I wore something else, though,” he said softly, biting his lip as he looked over at him. Christ, his dick twitched just from that one glance. Tony was done for.

“Are you going to share with the class?” Tony whispered.

Peter looked around quickly to make sure no one was in their general vicinity before shifting down a bit further and tugging at the hem of his pants. Tony watched, eyes wide, and his mouth went dry as Peter revealed the edge of what looked to be some lacy green panties.

“Fuck,” he rasped, desperate to reach over and touch that sliver of skin, warmed to a golden brown by the light of the fire.

“Is that… something you like? I didn’t know—”

“Pete, if we were alone I’d already have those trousers on the floor,” he said, leaning over and instead of touching his hip cupping Peter’s cheek, letting him stare into those big brown eyes up close.

“Then let’s go somewhere we can be alone,” Peter said. He looked surprised by his own boldness but held Tony’s gaze as he licked his lips.

“Yeah. Good plan. Big fan of that idea. Check, please?”

The Uber ride back to Tony’s wasn’t far but it took every ounce of his willpower not to lean over and have Peter right there in the back of the car. Screw his perfect 5-star rating, some things were more important. But they managed to get there, all the way up the elevator, and into his apartment before he grabbed Peter by his slim hips and pressed him up against the wall.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast,” he said.

“If you stop I might actually die,” Peter responded, his voice high and breathy as he wrapped one leg around Tony’s waist to pull him closer.

Tony kissed him like he needed his mouth to breathe, like Peter was keeping all the oxygen in the room behind those perfect pink lips. Peter moaned as Tony pressed his tongue inside and god, he tasted like rum and sugar and Tony was sure he was getting drunk off it. He felt slim fingers scrabbling at his buttons and managed to pull himself away long enough to stop him, which earned a particularly cute pout from Peter.

“Bedroom. This way.”

By the time they managed to get there they had left a trail of clothing on the floor behind them, Tony completely naked, although he waited until he was seated on the edge of his bed with Peter in front of him to unveil the pièce de résistance. He leaned in to kiss at Peter’s taut stomach as he unbuttoned his trousers and pulled them down to reveal the panties, now stained from where Peter was leaking against the front of them. His cock looked delectable encased in green lace, and even better was the view from behind. His ass was more perfect up close, framed by a heart-shaped cut-out in the back and topped with a red silk bow.

“A Christmas present I don’t even need to unwrap to get to… what a treat.”

Peter looked back over his shoulder.

“Please,” he whispered.

“Please what?”

“God, please, anything, I’d let you do anything,” he begged, wiggling his hips.

“Ok, fuck, I changed my mind again. You aren’t an angel, you’re an actual demon, sent here to tempt me to do very, very naughty things,” Tony growled, leaning in to bite at one plump cheek. Peter yelped but pressed back against him, and Tony left two more bites on his ass before flipping them around so Peter was bent over the bed and Tony was on his knees behind him.

“Give me your hands, baby,” Tony said, and Peter immediately obeyed which wow, ok, Tony would definitely be exploring that later. Tony put one hand on each cheek and leaned in to kiss the base of his spine. “Hold yourself open for me.”

Peter made a whimpering noise into the sheets but did as he was told, exposing his perfect little pink hole. There was a brief moment when Tony thought about teasing him, but he would have only been teasing himself. All he wanted was to taste that incredible ass, so he did. The first touch of his tongue made Peter jolt and whimper again as he spread his legs even wider. Tony buried his face in between his cheeks, licking and sucking and rubbing his goatee against Peter’s sensitive skin.

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck Tony pleeeeeease,” Peter begged. He was rubbing himself against the mattress, obviously desperate for some friction on his cock, so Tony reached underneath him with one hand to press his palm against his bulge. Peter groaned, now unsure whether to push against Tony’s hand or back against his mouth.

“You like that, baby, hm? You like it when I eat you out like this?”

“Yes, oh my god, Tony please don’t stop!”

Who was Tony to deny such a sweet request? He dove back in, spearing his tongue as deep as it could go, licking him out until Peter was literally dripping with his saliva. It was running down the insides of his thighs, making his pale skin shiny in the dim light of Tony’s bedroom.

“Wanna come like this, sweetheart?”

Peter managed to prop himself up and look over at Tony. He was an absolute mess already, lips bitten red and hair mussed up from where he had pushed his head into the sheets.

“Want you inside me.”

“That can definitely be arranged.”

Tony stood up (and hoped to god Peter didn’t hear his knees popping) and rummaged through his nightstand for lube and a condom.

“Can we… I’m clean, and on PrEP.”

Tony looked down at Peter who had crawled up into the centre of his bed and was laid out there like a little prince.

“Me too. Are you sure?”

Peter nodded, rubbing at his cock through the panties.

“Want to feel you. God, your dick is huge,” he groaned, and Tony smirked as he crawled over on top of him.

“Should’ve pegged you for a size queen,” he teased. Peter just giggled softly and wrapped his legs around him to pull Tony down for a filthy kiss. “Leave these on?”

Tony fingered the edge of the panties and Peter nodded as he reached over to grab the lube. He started slicking up his own fingers but Tony stopped him with a shake of his head.

“Let me do that.”

“Fuck, ok… please hurry,” Peter said, shifting underneath him so he could throw one leg over Tony’s shoulder which was an incredibly pleasing development.

“Flexible… yoga?”

“Mmhmm, and I dance in my spare time,” Peter said, shivering a little as he felt Tony’s fingers rub against his hole.

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you,” Tony rumbled out as he pressed two slick fingers inside. Peter’s mouth dropped open in a high-pitched moan and he arched into Tony’s touch, immediately pushing down to get him even deeper. “Oh fuck baby, look at you, taking it so well…”

“Feels so good,” Peter whimpered, jolting up against Tony’s sturdy frame as he started working his fingers in and out, slow at first but then in a steady, unrelenting rhythm. Tony was hard as rock, rubbing himself against Peter’s leg as he tried his best to concentrate on opening him up. He was just about to add another finger when he felt Peter shoving at him so he slowed, confused.

“What—”

“On your back. Quickly. Want to ride you.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked, already complying with a pleased smirk on his face. “Is that what you like?”

Peter nodded as he climbed into Tony’s lap, pausing to adjust himself in his panties. The head of his cock was peeking out of the top and Tony couldn’t resist rubbing one thumb over his leaking slit.

“Ahhhh! Tony st-stop, so close,” Peter whined, reaching back to blindly grab for Tony’s cock.

“So desperate, sweetheart,” Tony cooed, taking pity on him and lining himself up. Peter flushed, suddenly self-conscious at how uninhibited he was acting, but Tony was having none of that. He held Peter’s chin in one hand as he rubbed the head of his cock against his fluttering hole. “Look at me. Want to see that beautiful face when you ride me.”

Peter gasped as Tony breached him. He was so fucking tight and Tony really should have insisted on working him open a bit more but Peter moaned in pleasure as he sank down on Tony’s thick cock, his own twitching and leaking in the confines of those gorgeous panties. Tony could feel Peter squeezing around him and he squeezed back with his hands wrapped around his narrow hips.

“Does that—fuck, d-does that feel good?” Peter asked, breathless, his fingers scrabbling at Tony’s broad chest.

“So good, Pete, so fucking good. Wanna see you come on my cock, baby, just like this ok? Just take what you need.”

Peter bit his own lip so hard Tony thought it might actually bleed as he started grinding his hips back and forth. The angle must have been hitting his prostate perfectly because he was soaking his panties, shuddering and gasping as each spurt of pre-come leaked out.

“Gorgeous,” Tony growled, spurring him on.

“Hahhhh, ah, oh my god, so full, so big,” Peter babbled, his head thrown back, brown curls bouncing as he moved even faster, thighs shaking from the effort. Tony reached up and tweaked his pink nipples, rubbing his hands everywhere he could reach. “More, more, more, touch me, please, oh fuck, Mr. Stark, please!”

Oh, this little minx…

Tony planted his feet on the mattress and started snapping his hips up, jostling Peter in his lap and making him practically scream. Thank god for soundproofing.

“You gonna come, baby? Gonna come for me?”

“Y-yes, yes, so close, don’t stop!”

Not even a world-ending catastrophic event could make Tony stop at this point. He was relentless, pounding up into Peter until he went rigid above him, nails digging crescent moons into Tony’s thighs, as he came with the most beautiful gasping moan Tony had ever heard. Sticky fluid covered both of their stomachs and Peter collapsed on top of him, squishing the mess between their bodies in what should have been an unpleasant sensation but now just felt filthy in the best possible way. Peter was shaking, and Tony rubbed a hand up and down his back to soothe him.

“You did so good baby,” he whispered. Peter whimpered in response and squeezed around him again.

“Don’t stop,” he begged, wiggling his hips and burying his face in Tony’s neck, mouthing wet kisses wherever he could reach. “Want you to come inside me. Fill me up.”

Tony groaned and his dick twitched, something deep and primal inside him sparking at the idea of marking Peter as his in that way.

“Are you sure, baby? You aren’t too sensitive?”

“I… I like it,” he whispered, now moving on to nipping at Tony’s skin. “Feels amazing. Like… being used, just for your pleasure.”

“Fucking christ, Pete, you’re going to give an old man a heart attack talking like that,” Tony gasped out, to which Peter just giggled and kissed Tony’s jaw.

“Pleeeease, Mr. Stark,” he begged. Tony could feel the smile on Peter’s face against his skin and he couldn’t resist any longer. He grabbed two handfuls of Peter’s perfect ass and held him in place as he fucked up into him, hard, lost in the intense sensation of heat and slick. All he could hear was Peter panting into his ear and the sound of flesh slapping against flesh, and it didn’t take long before he was reaching his own climax.

“Ready, baby? Gonna fill you up, just like you wanted” he growled. Peter whined and clung on to him so hard he was going to have bruises as Tony groaned deeply, coming in hot spurts inside Peter’s wrecked hole. He nearly whited out from the overwhelming feeling of it all. Tony hadn’t come that hard in years and he was actually breathless for a moment, gasping for air over Peter’s shoulder as his dick twitched inside him.

“Oh my god, I can feel it,” Peter whispered, reaching back to press his fingers where he was still stretched around Tony. All Tony could do was huff out a weak laugh and cling weakly to Peter’s hips.

“I never thought I’d say this,” Tony managed to say in between heaving breaths, “but fuck am I glad I listened to my ex and took my kid to a mall Santa.”

Peter groaned and slapped at Tony’s chest pathetically, but Tony could tell he was laughing.

“What, you don’t agree?”

“I do but, um, I just thought of something potentially… problematic.”

“What, me having to explain to everyone that I’m fucking a 19-year-old?”

“No. You having to explain to Morgan that her dad is fucking one of Santa’s elves.”

[sirsharp-a]

My Conscience is Clean. ❜

Summary:  Edgar can be an idiot but God was a bigger one this time around. Warnings:  Brief mentions of abuse/sexual assault, though nothing in detail Parts:  Part 1  |  Part 2  |  Part 3  |  Part 4 ( here! )  |

    His grief was insurmountable.

    “I trust you have made your peace with the end,”   Raku said as tentatively as he could, small form gradually sinking until he could sit next to Edgar at the edge of No Man’s Bluff.  The ground was cold.  The moon, round and full, gave off a ghostly glow.  Their silhouettes looked borderline comedic beside one another, one tall and distinctive while the other was a short stubby mass.

    The lye was silent for a while, black eyes affixed on the abyss in front of him.  To him, it was like staring into a mirror.  In a voice filled with vitriol:   “... rest assured, there will be no peace.”

    I will linger in the void as a ghost.                                My spite will blacken your name, enter your blood as venom.

    “Edgar…”   The deity sighed, eyes closing tiredly.   “This is the best way forward.  You know that I do not want to do this.”

    “I don’t want to hear it,”   he spat.  In the moment, his words were more poisonous than he was.   “Just get this over with.  There is nothing I can do.  Screaming and crying about it will only make me look weaker.  I am not weak.”

    The last thing he wanted to do was sit there and accept it, but he knew deep down that there was truly no way to avoid this outcome.  The God had already made up his mind, and he was powerless to stop the chain of events that would ultimately result in his demise.  He had spent millennia outfoxing the smartest of people:  white collar criminals who had the money to buy their freedom whenever they screwed up;  threatening organised gang units who didn’t fear the law; other lyes that were, at least on surface level, ‘more’ than he was.  This, though…  this was a fight that he could not win.  There was no element of chess, no wit to be challenged  -  there was fate, and there was a cold chasm, and that was that.

                                                                                                    Grace…

    Every time her name resurfaced in his brain, his heart began to ache all over again.  It hadn’t stopped since their last night together, her touch both soothing and scalding as he revelled in its undeniable purity, but thinking of her made it hurt more.  Though he tried ever so hard not to, he couldn’t help but yearn for her.

    How could I let myself fall in love again?     How could I let my feelings be returned?     How could I even think about leaving her behind?

                                                                     There has to be  SOMETHING  I can do--                                                                                       -- there’s  nothing  I can do.

    An ear twitched as his maker’s voice drew him back to the present.  He found Raku floating in front of him, held aloft by unbridled power, short black legs slightly bent as he relaxed above the open pit as if suspended by string cast down from the Heavens.   “... pardon?”

    “Kneel,”   he repeated, gesturing to the ground with his head.  

    After a moment of hesitation, Edgar realised that he was on his feet.  He didn’t remember getting up, nor did he recall having the strength to do so.  This entire thing has taken a toll on me.  I’m not weak but I feel it.  I feel so wrought with depression and anguish that I don’t want to move.  Every time I need to get up, there’s a great ache in my bones that won’t dissipate.

    Edgar shook his head.   “No.”

    He felt it then:  a steady pressure making a home on his shoulders.  It was light at first, though the longer he remained standing, the more harsh it became.  Eventually, he was trembling with the effort it took to remain upright, legs wobbling like jelly before a final barrage of metaphysical energy saw them giving out beneath him, knees hitting the cold rock formation beneath him with a dull thud.  A flush of shame coated the back of his neck, teeth bared in a furious snarl as he glared up at the deity.

    “I said kneel.”

    “Fuck what you said,”   Edgar growled, bile transforming into a tiny ball of molten venom. Without thinking, the lye spat it at the saviour, eyes flashing a menacing white as he did.  It shot a clean hole through the deity’s robe, material fizzling with raw energy, and the shocked sound that he made sent a bolt of pleasure through Edgar’s core.   “I won’t ask for forgiveness, even though my end is nigh.  I don’t require it.  My conscience is clean.”

    I’m not your bitch.  I’ll never  be  your bitch.                                     You may take my life but you will never take my rage.

    He zoned out again.  Even when the God glowed a bright white light that hurt his eyes, he remained unresponsive, refusing to give him even an ounce more of his acknowledgement.  How dare you try to take what you didn’t help me to get?  You don’t deserve my tears, or my pleas, or my apologies.  I’ll never--

    “Stop!”

    -- stop, I’ll never stop, I’ll--

                                                                                       … stop?

    As Edgar’s head slowly inclined, he realised that Raku was no longer looking at him but off to the side, large blade seemingly crafted out of pure  light  held stationary above his head. Gradually, Edgar’s line of sight followed suit, landing on none other than Grace.  Could you feel my longing?  Is that what led you to me?

    Simultaneously:

                                   “Who are you?”                                    “Grace…”

    When she was close enough to the scene, her form shifted, golden hair and striking blue eyes replacing her animalistic visage as she skidded to a stop beside her lover.  Even on his knees, he was more than half of her height.

    “What’re you doing?”   the Alpha asked through clenched teeth, feeling a searing pain blooming in his chest.  Not only was it shameful to be seen in such a defeated position, he couldn’t bear to make her watch him die.  You seeing me take my final breath…  it will change you.

    “I read your stupid letter--”   she seethed, looking at him with such scorn that it burned. Though he opened his mouth to speak, she cut him off:   “How could you address that to me?!   You idiot--”

    “Grace--”

    “YOU IDIOT--”   She had a funny way of making him feel  grateful  for having his intelligence demeaned, but in this case it only wounded him.  It wasn’t even the insult to his pride that stung-- it was the  tears  welling up in her eyes, the strong woman that he knew crumbling at the seams. He couldn’t enjoy her misery in the same way that he could other peoples’.  Grace Adler in tears was a heart-breaking sight to behold, one that chewed at what little was left of his heart.  Please stop.  Please, please don’t cry.

    Grace sank to her knees in front of him, ignoring Raku completely, trembling hands reaching up to cup the sides of Edgar’s face.   “You can’t go.  You can’t.”   She fought against the gentle coil of his fingers around her wrists, refusing to allow him to guide her away from him.   “Y-You can’t confess your feelings to me and then just vanish…  y-you can’t do that, Eddie… please don’t do that to me…”

    “I don’t have a choice--”

    “You have a choice!”   Beneath it all, she knew that what he was saying was true.  She just didn’t want to  accept it.   He’s wonderful, powerful, smart as can be…  but that’s nothing to a God.  Bitterly, fingers lightly digging into his skin:   “I  won’t  forgive you if you do this to me.  I won’t.”

    The change in his face shattered her in two.  She witnessed the last little spark of hope in his eyes die, brows arching as he stared at her wordlessly, helplessly.  His dim gaze averted sullenly from hers, focused on the dead rock beneath him.  In a tight voice:   “...  I suppose that is what I deserve.”

    “Edgar…”

    Her ears swivelled the opposite way when she heard shifting behind her.

    “Grace…”   Despite his self-righteousness, Raku’s voice was soft.   “Please step aside.  Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”

    “I refuse to leave him alone,”   she hissed, glaring daggers at him as soon as she’d turned her head.  Though she could feel Edgar’s hand pressing gently against her side, as if urging her away from him, she remained adamantly in place.  Teeth were bared in a defensive snarl, venom pooling at the corners of her mouth.   “I  WON’T  let you take him from me!”

    That seemed to startle the deity somewhat.  Slowly, his weapon was lowered to his side, glowing blade matching the pallid white of his robe.  The hole that Edgar had made was now gone, no evidence of his defiance left behind.

    “I understand that you’re angry...  but you don’t see the big picture, Grace,”   Raku began solemnly, stance now more open and patient.   “His continued existence is dangerous.  He is living on borrowed time.  He--”

    “I DON’T CARE.”   The woman stood up with a stomp of her feet, fiery indignation threatening to burn her alive.  Even in her fury, she knew that she was behaving rashly.  This was her creator…  her  maker;  the one she would answer to when all was said and done.  Nevertheless, her life was as good as over if she lost Edgar now.  It had been so long since she had been granted happiness;  whether his behaviour was birthed out of lust and a desire to meddle with her feelings or not, it didn’t matter.  The end result was something real;  something that, now that she’d felt it, she couldn’t live without.   “A-All of your excuses…  every single one of them, they’re not good enough for me.  CHOKE  ON  THEM!”

    As much as she resented it, she could feel herself getting emotional.  Her eyes burned;  her throat felt tight;  her heart ached so fiercely that she felt it would burst.  Arms wrapped around herself, squeezing her frame tight as she tried to resist the urge to scream--  to jump off of the edge of the bluff--  to hurl herself at her lord and saviour and send them  both  spiralling into the dark below.

    “It feels like you don’t see the big picture,”   she uttered ruefully, voice wobbling, nails digging into her arms as she shook.  Though Raku was barely over a foot tall, his effortless hover made her feel small in his wake, like an ant staring up at an incoming boot.   “If you did, you’d know that killing Edgar is just as dangerous.  It tells me that you don’t  UNDERSTAND  all that he’s done for so many people!  It shows me that you just want somebody to be the villain, and of course it would be a lye.”   She wasn’t stupid;  she knew that Edgar wasn’t perfect.  On the contrary, she knew all too well that he was a sadistic creature that longed only for his own entertainment…  but he had always been good to her.  To his creed.  To his friends. And, as far as she was concerned, they were the ones who mattered.   “Business…  all the people that needed help and he was there to offer them it--”

    “Through abusing his abilities--”

    “It doesn’t matter!”   Grace exclaimed fiercely, teeth grit tight.   “He was there, and he was honest.  Those people needed help and he gave them it.  He didn’t need to use his powers for that but he did.  He helped the weak.  The defenceless.  Those that were trapped in horrible situations and couldn’t do anything about it themselves.  Abuse victims. Homeless people.  Young children.  Poor people.  All people who were suffering the weight of this place.  The place that you made.”   She didn’t wait to see if Raku had opened his mouth to rebuke her, nor did she look behind her to discern whether Edgar approved of her running her mouth or not.   “They’ll all be out a hero.  And his creed…  they’ll be out a leader.  You made lyes, right?  You know what happens when they’re gone.”

    “...”

    “Aléjandro Murphy.  He told me all about the time that you revealed yourself to him and a handful of others.  He’s a huro you look up to very much because of the family that he belongs to;  he’ll be out a dear friend.  Deeana Braav, a woman who treated you with extreme kindness while you were busy hiding from war;  she will lose the man who killed her abusive ex, the man who freed her.  Ivan Mox, the one I call my brother, will lose a steady beacon of support.  Huron will be out one of the first inter-species establishments that has existed.  And I…”   She felt a sob slip past her lips, even in spite of how vehemently she was trying to hold it back.   “I’ll lose all that makes me happy.  Y-You’re God…  you know the life I’ve lived--”

    “I don’t know,”   Raku interjected.

    “Then let me educate you.”   I refuse to let you take control of this conversation.  When all is said and done, you have the last call anyway.  This is the last and only chance, and I intend to take it.   “I was taken advantage of.  I was beaten and battered by my first Alpha;  raped and bred by my second.  It’s funny to me that the Alpha you want to kill off is the one that gave me everything.  Even when I was rude to him.  Even when I bared my teeth and insulted him.  Even after I acted like a little brat, because I didn’t know h-how to--  h-how--”   She paused to sniffle, furiously wiping at her eyes.  Don’t start crying now.  Don’t you  dare  lose it now.   “... h-how to deal with my--  deal with all that I’d been forced to live through…  a-and endure…  and he was  STILL  THERE.”   She’d long since learned that tears burned much like shame did.  As they trailed down her cheeks, she found that she could do nothing to stop them. How is this justice?  How does killing him resolve anything?  It’s your fault he’s even here again in the first place.  You  unleashed this ‘evil’ yourself.  The weight of the situation was steadily crushing her, an uprising surge of panic and grief threatening to submerge her.  After snivelling meekly, she doubled down, feet planted firmly on the ground, hands curled into defiant little balls.   “I won’t leave him behind.  If you want to get to him, you’ll have to go through me.  ”

     Could you do that, Lord?  Could you damn an innocent soul just for acting earnestly?

    “Grace…”   The God’s blade vanished, the small creature floating closer to her.   “You have to understand, this is for the best.”

    “For WHO?!”   she shrieked.   “For YOU, that’s who.  Not for me.  Not for him.  Not for the hundreds of people he’s helped.”    Everything  hurt.  Her chest ached every time she took a breath.  Her vision blurred a little more every time she blinked.  The tremors wracking her body left her feeling frazzled and exhausted.  In a more resigned tone:   “If he goes, so do I.”

    “Grace…!”   She turned back to see Edgar staring at her, wide-eyed and urgent.   “Please step back.  Don’t say th--”

    “I’m tired, Eddie,”   the scout interrupted, voice worn and weary as she looked down at him. Her hands reached out, gently touching the sides of his face again.   “... I’m so tired of living so precariously.  I want to be happy.  I want to feel stable.  I get those things when I’m with you.”   She smiled a weak smile, sinking to her knees before him once more.  Though she couldn’t stop crying, she nestled her face into his chest, relishing in the warmth, in the familiar scent.   “I always respected you for giving me choices.  I’d like to be allowed to make this final one.  If Raku takes you away, I’ll be close behind.”

    “... how…?”

    “We’re on the edge of a cliff, Edgar.”

    His arms wound tightly around her then, like an anaconda threatening to squeeze the life out of its prey.  She didn’t resist;  only nuzzled closer, his warmth soothing the terror inside.  You can’t fix me.  You never could.  But you can make things better.

    The God stared wordlessly at the couple, their wholesome embrace sending a chill down the length of his spine.  The whole time he’d thought to pursue this line of action, he hadn’t considered the possibility that Edgar was in a genuine, loving relationship.  The deity knew very well of Edgar’s sweet nothings;  of his momentary fascinations with ‘perfect’ women, only for it to sour when they displeased him in some way.  A hopeless romantic--  but a twisted one, too. One obsessed with fairytale-esque connections  -  and one who grew angry when the picture-perfect moment was soiled.  One argument was all it took.  One little blunder that most didn’t even consider a mistake…  but there was no faking the hurt on his face.  The way he clung to her was nothing short of desperate--  as if she was all he had.  Perhaps that was true.

    Was I…  wrong?  Did this little crusade of mine go too far?     Was there some element of truth to this murderer’s outrage?     Was the idea to raise damned souls from the dirt a twisted one after all?     Why do I feel like  I’m  the bad guy...?

    It had never failed him before.  Edgar was the first and only example of a hybrid lye far out-lasting its given time.  But just because his methods had succeeded in the past, itdidn’t mean that they were necessarily ethical.  A bad man Edgar Romero had been…  but a tortured one too.

    Would you have travelled that same path had you not lost everything?     Could I have done something?

    Briefly, he thought about all the positive things that he had accomplished during his first life. He’d done all he could for his family, bent over backwards to work and provide for them;  he’d been a fair, honest businessman who hadn’t resorted to trickery or fraud;  he’d incited positive political change, both as a protestor and as a public figure.  Saying ‘no’ to those above him when he felt that they were wrong…  he’d always done that  -  even before he’d lost his family.

    Are you saying ‘no’ to me in that same fashion too?

    “Perhaps…”   The God hesitated, before sinking to the ground.  Small black feet were soundless as they touched the rock below.  I honestly don’t know if I have the  bottle  for this regardless.  Killing somebody willingly...  it’s a horrifying concept, even if it’s for the greater good.  I was never too good at the ‘punishment’ part, was I, Al?  Though neither of the lyes turned or looked up to regard him, both sets of ears had swivelled in his direction.  They were listening, even if they were doing so begrudgingly.   “... perhaps there is another way.”

[illyrianwingspans]

Do Not Go Gentle: Trouble

Link to song

Synopsis: The one where Tamlin figures things out, and Feyre loses everything. 

TW: domestic violence, domestic abuse. Please read with caution.

Ao3 link

Chapter 5: Trouble

I was asleep when Tamlin got home Sunday night. Well, I was ‘asleep’. I’d felt the kiss he pressed to my bare shoulder before rolling over onto his side. Then I stayed up most of the night rethinking all that’d happened in the last few months, wondering how life had gotten this messed up.

Rhysand’s words came back to me, how he’d promised that he’d answer my questions tomorrow morning. Tamlin had never explicitly agreed to answering my questions, and at this point, I was in no mood to try and coax any sort of information out of him. Both my mind and my body couldn’t handle it anymore.

The ceaseless commotion of the city life kept me company as I stared out the floor to ceiling windows that stood on the far end of the room, the wall closest to my side of the bed. I used to sleep on the other side—I always felt like I was going to roll off the bed or something and find myself tumbling down onto the sidewalk in my sleep. But after the accident, I’d switched sides: I needed the open space. I’d been stuck inside that car for too long, and the claustrophobia hadn’t left me since.

Blood splattering across the concrete surfaced in my mind, and my eyes snapped open. I would not regress. I could not.

If I went back to who I was after the accident, I was afraid I’d never make it through this.

So I compiled the list of questions mentally until my eyelids felt too heavy and I drifted off, unable to keep myself awake any longer.

+

It felt like I was fucking up every order that came through. Whether it was cream instead of milk or two sugars instead of one, I kept pouring the cups down the sink and starting over, the white ball in my chest growing tighter and tighter with each screw-up.

What made matters worse was my wrist. It kept aching, dully when I wasn’t using it, and in sharp bursts whenever a rush pulled through. My forehead was lined with sweat, and my face was practically sore with every wince.

By the time lunch swept around, I almost got up in a man’s face because I put ‘too much’ whipped cream on his hot chocolate. He’d stormed out of the shop with his middle finger up, and I was ready to climb out from behind the counter and hunt him down. I was snarling like a feral cat as Rhysand walked in, eyebrows raised.

“Did you make him a decaf by accident?” He called out smugly from the entrance. He just stood there, leaning against the wooden doorframe, and I rolled my eyes.

I said, “Try too much whipped cream, if that’s even an issue.”

Rhysand chuckled and finally ventured further into the shop until he was leaning up against the counter, sitting upon one of the bar stools. I made him his usual, in a ceramic mug this time, knowing he’d be lingering today—and Rhysand accepted the mug gratefully.

“You know what, I’ll take one of those tuna paninis as well, if you don’t mind,” he added.

“Feeling adventurous today?”

“No, I’m ravenous.”

“Tuna hits the spot for you?” I wrinkled my nose.

“Pescatarian,” he explained, “and there are other things I’d like to devour, but that would be inappropriate to mention while I’m eating.”

My cheeks warmed—nearly as hot as the panini press—and I replied, “You’ve never held yourself back before.”

“Yes, but telling you exactly how I’d like you splayed out on that table over there would put a dent in your engagement I think.”

I choked on the breath in my throat and turned around to face him, feline smirk and all. “And what makes you think I’d ever say yes to you?”

“Well, the heated cheeks, for one. And the way you froze, for another. I’m quite good at reading body language, Feyre.”

“Can you read this?” I held up my middle finger and presented the sandwich to him, of which he immediately took a big. Pain flared in my wrist and I lowered my sweater-clad arm, trying to shake out whatever flare up I’d triggered.

“Loud and clear,” he smirked around the bite before wiping his mouth with a brown napkin. “You alright?” He pointed to my hand.

“Fine,” I said dismissively. As soon as he swallowed the bite, the first question on my mind escaped my lips. “What kind of pills are they?”

The man stared at me for a few moments before taking a long sip from his mug. The tension sat heavy upon us as our eyes locked together. He set the mug down carefully and straightened out his napkin, then said, “The pills are a variant of hallucinogens that induce intense feelings of euphoria. They’re crossed with stimulant side effects so they don’t make you drowsy. People—mostly white collar workers—are using them for party drugs at the moment, but they’re getting popular in the streets. They call them Cauldron. C’s for short.”

“Why?”

The smirk returned. “Because you never know what they’ve brewed in that shit.”

I snorted. “And I assume you’ve taken it before?”

Another sip of coffee, and a look of disgust. “Never. I don’t do drugs.”

“You work in the drug industry and don’t do drugs?”

“Some things aren’t as black and white as you’d like them to be, Feyre,” was all he said before taking another bite of his sandwich.

“And how long has this operation been going on?”

“Three years,” Rhysand said around a mouthful of tuna, and my stomach dropped. Three years? Tamlin’s been keeping this from me all this time?

He must’ve read the expression on my face because he clarified, “Your boy’s only been involved for the past six months. He’s been offered several times before and well…” my eyebrow quirked, and Rhysand shook his head. “Can’t tell you that. Confidential.”

I sighed. “Fine. How much does each shipment cost?”

“The individual pills go for about ten to fifteen dollars apiece, so I’d say a week’s worth of shipments range between…” his eyes flipped back and forth as he did the mental math. “Around fifty and sixty five thousand dollars.”

My jaw dropped. Tamlin was making that much? In one week?

“A percentage of it goes to Tamlin. I don’t know how much, so don’t ask me, but it’s a nice percentage: just enough to tease him and keep him wanting more.”

“More?”

“Hybern wants a contract. Tamlin might think this is short-term, but once you’re in with them…” Rhysand shook his head. “There’s no going back. They will extort and manipulate and black mail to no end. The law bends around them because of Hybern’s guys in Prythian PD. He’s basically untouchable.”

Untouchable. So Tamlin was going to get roped into this, and we were going to have to live the rest of our lives as fucking drug pushers.

How could he have been so stupid? Why couldn’t he have put his investments into rising stock? Open a new business? Anything except criminal activity?

“The people handling the shipments. Who are they?” My voice was low and patchy. Everything about this was only wearing me down, more weight to add on my shoulders despite the aches that were already there.

Only Rhysand noticed the dip in my mood instantly. Softly, he said, “After Bron and Hart screwed up the last shipment, it’s been my guy. He’s one of my right hands, and he poses absolutely no harm to you. The one thing Tamlin isn’t lying about is that fact that you are safe here.”

They both kept saying that word: safe.

But ever since my hands had touched those plastic wrappers, I haven’t felt safe for a second since. I kept looking over my shoulder as I walked down the street. Every time a new customer came in, I had to look them up and down and evaluate: were they a cop? A junkie looking for a fix? Low level pushers looking for some product to steal?

Everybody seemed to be fine with the drugs except for me. And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could handle this.

“How do I know I can trust you?” I asked quietly.

Rhysand took the last bite of his sandwich and stared at me as he chewed. Slowly. Once he swallowed, he said, “Because you’ve got nobody else to turn to.”

Tears filled my eyes when he said those words. It was true: I had nobody else. Not even my fiancée or my best friend could answer my questions because they were too damn head strong and stubborn. They thought they were protecting me.

I understood why. But I also really, really didn’t.

“Feyre.”

My gaze snapped back up to take in the concern flickering in Rhysand’s eyes. He licked his lips then said, “You have me. It seems like you’ve got nobody right now, but you have me.” With that, he pulled out a pen and scribbled a phone number on a new napkin, then slid it over the counter to me.

“If there’s absolutely anything I can do, you call me. No matter the time or day.”

I looked from him to the napkin and back. “Why?”

It took Rhysand a few moments before he said, “Because I see you. I see you, and I see your pain, and I just want to help make it better in any fractional way that I can.”

There were so many things I wanted to say but Rhysand swiftly got to his feet, drained the rest of his coffee then turned on his heel, heading straight for the door.

“Rhysand?” I called.

He paused and slowly looked over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I said, and it wasn’t sarcastic or bitten out like a witty retort, but true. Sincere.

“Call me Rhys, darling.” He replied as he adjusted the collar of his suit. “Only my enemies call me Rhysand.”

This time, he'd left a fifty beneath his plate.

+

This week, when the shipments came, I stared at the man handling the units from the entry to the storage room. We exchanged no words beside a heavy, tension-filled gaze as he unloaded the pastries and sandwiches, then loaded the boxes and boxes of 'coffee' silently. He was tall, darker skinned with that same jet black hair. If I wasn’t imagining things, I could’ve sworn he was a copy of Rhys and Cassian, only with his features scrambled: where Rhys’s eyes were wide and bright, this man’s were sharper. More narrow. And his hair was shorter, sticking closer to his scalp, which only further accentuated those high cheekbones. If they were brothers, like Cassian had hinted at, it must’ve been one hell of a gene pool.

The man had said nothing, and neither had I. Just a normal day. Just a normal shipment.

Yet all my mind could think of were drugs, drugs, drugs.

To get everything off my mind, I texted Cassian.

I need to see you. Tonight.

Within minutes, he responded. Feyre, we’ve been over this. You’re engaged. Sex is off the table, no matter how attractive I may be.

I rolled my eyes. You know what I mean. Are you free?

Of course. I’ll see you at seven. You bring the wine, I’ll bring the condoms.

Asshole.

The minute hand couldn’t move fast enough today. At some point I tried experimenting with the syrups and trying to configure new drinks for the holidays coming up—pumpkin spice season was fizzling out—but everything tasted like hyperglycaemia and cholesterol. Plus, my right wrist was still killing me even after I’d iced it yesterday.

There was nothing else I could do besides wait. Wait, and let my thoughts send me careening off the deep-end, unable to roll myself back in. Even in the light of day the parasite of darkness wouldn’t go away, and I was stuck, sitting on the stool, trying to blink back tears every few minutes as the waves of emotions continued to crest through me until the day ended.

I texted Tamlin before my shift was over. I’m meeting with a university friend for dinner tonight.

His response came seconds later. Who?

You’ve never met them, I lied. It’s just dinner. I’ll be home around eight.

Fine.

It was one word, and in my mind it sounded like a growl, but at least I got his approval. Once five o’clock came around and I was off my shift, I went home, shovelled some left-overs into my mouth then set out into the streets and down to Wind avenue. This time of year I needed to bundle myself up. It was going to snow any day soon—but for now, Prythian was stuck in limbo where the rain didn’t freeze to snow but it was cold enough to bite you in the ass. Trees shed their leaves and spread them through the city like an epidemic of wildfire. Every where I walked, those patterns of orange and red and gold were stuck in the nooks and crannies of the sidewalk. Fall used to be my favourite season, but this year it fell short. The lack of daylight was a blessing and a curse—more time for the stars to shine, but more time for the darkness to reign.

Cassian was already at the reception desk when I entered the building. His mouth was set into a concerned frown. “What’s going on, Feyre?”

In the month or so that we’d grown to know each other, Cassian could read me, better than anybody in my life could for some reason. He was probably the closest person I had to a friend—him, Rhys and Alis (though it was kind of in Alis’s job description to be my friend). I could read him, too. On days where he pushed his body to the limits, when his jokes ran dry and his eyes lacked the light and amusement they usually held, I tried to liven him up in any way that I could.

But tonight I didn’t want to talk. Tonight, I just wanted to punch and kick until my knuckles bled and my knees buckled.

“Fight first. Talk later.” With that, I wandered into the changing rooms.

When I walked out, Cassian was already in the ring, fists raised. I didn’t hesitate before donning the gloves he’d laid out for me and raising my own hands.

And Cassian didn’t hesitate to throw the first punch.

+

Another punch. I pivoted on the ball of my right foot, and saw that his left side was open. Instinctively, my left hand prepared for a low hook, but Cassian anticipated the move and went for an uppercut instead. I knocked it out of the way with a simple swipe of my right hand, and winced at the bone to bone impact of his forearm onto my wrist. Even with the thick sweater, I still felt the full brunt of hit and ground my teeth.

“You alright?”

“Yes,” I spit out, and tried a right switch kick. His leg met his elbow instantly in a flawless block, and he followed up with a jab only to find I’d stepped out of the way. With every movement, though, my wrist throbbed, and I had to close my eyes for a few seconds as a wave of pain rushed over me.

“Feyre, I’m not fucking around anymore. What’s going on?” He lowered his fists and stepped out of his stance to stand in front of me. Scowling, I pushed his chest with both my gloves fists.

“Come on,” I egged him on, “stop it. Let’s fight.”

Cassian raised an eyebrow, which normally would’ve been a playful gesture, but his features were filled with contempt. “Seriously? You want to fight, Archeron?” Then he grabbed my right wrist. Hard.

I gasped out a grunt of pain and my left hand instinctively slapped his grip away. “What the hell, Cassian?” He let go and I cradled my wrist in my hand. Wildfire spread through my arm, and I had to bite my lip to keep it from trembling.

“My office. Now.”

Without another word, he stepped out of the ring and into the employee’s room. Sighing, I stripped off my gloves—careful of the sharp pains shooting up my arm—and followed suit, knowing I was in for a round of even more painful lies.

The employee’s room was a foldout table and a mini kitchen with a fridge. A hallway continued past the shared area and into an office, where I could hear Cassian rifling through drawers. When I entered the space, I blinked in surprise: it was neat, professional and extremely tedious. By looking at Cassian, most would think he was a slob, but his desk was organized immaculately, right down to the alignment of his pens next to the open folder on his desk. Only he wasn’t in this room. There was a light on in what looked like a closet space just beyond the bookshelves lining the walls, the only light shining through the room besides the moonlight entering through the wide windows.

It wasn’t a storage space like I’d thought, but an infirmary. There was a singular uplifted patient bed up against the far wall lined with wax paper, and Cassian squatted down as he rifled through the drawers.

“Sit down,” he ordered. No tenderness, no softness or concern. Concern had left the window as soon as Cassian had taken those gloves off.

“Cassian, seriously, I’m fine—”

“If you say those words again, I’m firing you as my friend. Now sit down and shut up.”

Sighing, I shuffled over to the bed and hoisted myself up carefully with my left hand. The paper crinkled beneath me, and I stared at my toes as my legs swung back and forth below me. The sleeves still hid the bruises, which had faded to a lighter shade of green-purple. Not as sickening as they were the day before, but still raunchy enough to incite concern.

“There,” he said, before pushing off the ground and standing before me. He held out his hand and ordered, “wrist.”

I shook my head and clasped my hands between my thighs. I couldn’t meet his eyes, which I knew were staring down at me piercingly, ready to explode any second.

“Feyre,” he said, “you’re hurt. Please, just let me help you.”

Ever since I was a kid, I’d never relied on anyone else.

Nesta and Elain, my sisters, both had two wheel bikes while I was still stuck in training wheels. My father told me it was because they were older and were more experienced—but I didn’t care. I wanted to be like them, I wanted to prove that I was just as good as them. So I stole Elain’s bike one day when they weren’t home and tried to pedal by myself.

I fell so many times that day I was surprised I didn’t break a limb. Scratches lined my body up and down, my mother was horrified when she saw me and told me I’d been irresponsible. Child-like. Nobody helped me as I’d poured the anti-septic on the cotton swabs and dabbed at the sensitive flesh. Nobody patted my head and told me I was going to be okay. No, I bandaged myself up, then got back on Elain’s bike the next day, and the day after that until I could finally ride the damn thing without dying in the process.

The same pattern followed me throughout my life. I relied on no one, nobody except myself.

I don’t know what it was about the words that incited the burst of fear. Maybe it was the stress or the pain or the exhaustion, but I began to cry silent tears as I rolled up my sleeve and showed Cassian the bruises. His face fell as he gently examined them.

“Feyre,” he murmured, as he gently prodded the marks, “you’ve got to tell me what happened.”

“I fell.”

“Bullshit.”

“Cassian, I’m a clumsy person. You’ve told me yourself that I’ve got two left feet.”

There was fire in his eyes when he said, “Fall injuries would’ve caused bruising to your knees, maybe torso. But wrists?” He gently took both my wrists in his hands and held them up. A breath hitched in my throat as I remembered being pressed up against the window pane and feeling like death was standing just above my shoulder. “I’m not an idiot. So stop lying to me.”

Carefully, he released me and I let my arms fall to my lap, not caring that another flare of pain shot through my nerves. Never again would I be able to look Cassian in the eyes. Not now that he knew the truth—well, guessed correctly at the truth.

“If somebody is hurting you—” he tried once more with thunder in his voice, but I interjected quickly.

“It’s not going to happen again. It happened once, it was a mistake, and everything’s fine now.” The words were hollow. Empty. Because something in me knew that they were lies.

Cassian wasn’t appeased, though. His jaw was clenched so tight I thought he was going to break a tooth as he unwrapped the compression brace and slid my wrist into it, then velcroed it shut. I’d probably have to take it off as soon as I got home to not piss off Tamlin further. If he found out I ever told somebody about this… I didn’t even want to imagine his fury.

“I can call someone,” Cassian said softly, “one of my closest friends is a lawyer. She can get you out of this.”

“Stop,” I said, squeezing my eyes shut at the tears that threatened to fall, “please.”

My voice broke on the word. So pathetic and weak and broken…

“Okay,” Cassian murmured, and as my chest began to shake with sobs, both of his arms wrapped around me and he held me tightly against his chest. “It’s okay.” He kept murmuring it over and over into my ear, but all I could thin was it’s not, it’s not, it’s not okay.

+

He told me to call him if anything ever were to happen to me, and I promised I would, but I’ve been promising a lot of people a lot of things these days that weren’t true. He gave me one last hug in the lobby before releasing me, and I was on my way back to the condo in the cool night.

Only when I entered the parking garage, Tamlin’s car was already there. He said he was coming home late tonight. I thought I’d have time before I got home to shower. Gods, I was still in my workout clothes.

My hands were shaking as I rode the elevator up. Terror streaked through me, cold and pulsing within my limbs, and I had to clamp my jaw shut to keep my teeth from chattering. I could probably lie my way out of it. Besides, Tamlin was probably just in is office losing track of time with paper work like he always did.

The doors opened after punching in the key code. Silence blanketed the apartment eerily, and my footsteps echoed throughout the space. HIs shoes were at the door, and his coat was in its usual spot on the coat hanger. Quietly, I padded through the penthouse down the hallway into our room. He wasn’t there either. I made the best of it and changed quickly into different clothes—more appropriate for an outing with a friend—then stepped back out after stuffing my workout clothes to the bottom of my hamper along with the wrist brace.

Light shined through the crevice of his office door. Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself, then knocked softly. “Tamlin?”

“Come in.” Cold, dismissive. My stomach lurched at the sound, but I opened the door nonetheless and found myself facing him from where he sat behind his dark wooden desk. Bookshelves lined either side of the room, and the windows stood behind Tamlin, looking over the city. A print of Spring Corp tower hung proudly on one wall in black and white. My eyes darted between Tamlin, whose scowl made my knees quake, and the half empty glass clutched in his right hand.

“How was dinner?” He asked, but there was no sincerity in his voice.

I swallowed hard. “Fine. What’d you have?”

He licked his lips, then pushed off his desk to stand. “I bought soup from Suriel’s again for you. But you had other plans tonight.”

My face fell. “I’m sorry, Tam. It was so last minute, and I didn’t want to blow her off again—”

He laughed, and it was empty, hollow. “Blow her off? No. But you probably blew him, didn’t you?”

Heat spread through my cheeks. “What?”

“The guy you were with. The gym on Wind Avenue?”

The burning in my chest was like wildfire. “How did you…”

“Sorry, Feyre, but you don’t have friends,” he spat the word like venom, and I flinched. “I knew as soon as you texted me that you were lying to me.”

“So you followed me?” I demanded, incredulous. How could he be so invasive?

“Well, apparently you’ve been doing this a lot for the past two months, so what’s the arrangement? Casual sex? Or are you actually in love with this low-life?” He turned to look out over the city, and beneath his white shirt I could see his muscles tensing. “Every weekend you go to Wind Avenue Gym. You meet with the same man at the reception, then there’s at least an hour that you’re unaccounted for.”

“Are you fucking stalking me?”

“Tamlin—”

“Answer me,” he snapped and slammed his fist down on the wood.

It shook something within me, and I quipped back with equal ferocity, “Where is it that you go, eh? You don’t see me prying into your life every second of the day.”

“Because I am out there working my ass off to put food on the table! To pay for this place, to pay for everything! And this is how you repay me? By fucking other guys?”

“I’m not cheating on you!” I shrieked, my hands clutching the emptiness in front of me. “Where the fuck is this coming from?”

Tamlin strode out from behind the desk until we were facing each other, our faces only inches apart. Deathly low, he said, “I know that you meet him. At the gym. What is it, you guys fuck in the locker rooms or something?”

Tears spilled onto my cheeks at the absurdity of the situation. My voice was rough and breaking as I yelled, “I’m not cheating on you, I am working out! It’s just boxing, for fuck’s sake Tamlin, I’m trying to protect myself!” My hands clutched my chest and a sob tore through me. “I’m trying to have some sort of control on the situation that you’ve put me in!” I pointed an accusatory finger at him and his eyes flared with rage.

“Why not ask me? Why not come to me for help?” His fist pounded at his chest.

“I did and you said no. You completely shut me down, like you always do.”

“You don’t trust me,” he spat, then continued louder, “Why don’t you trust me?”

“I don’t trust you because you’re a liar and a fucking drug dealer!” The words tore from me.

Like sparks and a match, we ignited. The heat, the rage, the anger simply exploded, until all that remained was my broken, limp body, and his heavy breathing as the adrenaline faded, and time regained its normal rhythm.

I couldn’t quite remember what’d happened. Either purposefully, or because I’d kept my eyes shut tight the entire time, all I remembered was lying on the floor.

He slammed me into his desk. Hard. That I knew. I think I hit my head on the floor after his hands let go and I fell limp, but all I knew was that I laid there, still. Un-breathing. Hoping, wishing that maybe this time it was hard enough to kill me.

“Feyre,” he whispered, and tears streamed down my face.

“It’s okay. I’m fine.”

“Feyre,” he moaned, like he was the one in pain, like I did this to him.

I breathed, “It’s okay. Just…” My breath rattled in my lungs, and I let out a wheezing cough. “Give me some space.”

"Feyre," he said once more, and his footsteps grew closer.

"Don't," I sobbed, "please, don't touch me. Go. Just go."

I didn’t remember him leaving. I didn’t remember how he’d stepped over and brushed my hair with the back of his hand despite my protests. All I could do was lie on that floor, close my eyes, and pray that this was some sort of nightmare, and that I’d be waking up any second.

That night, Tamlin took a piece of me. He’d taken them slowly over the time we were together, so infinitesimally small that I hadn’t noticed until I was left with a withered version of my self, the version of myself that let herself be used like a brute’s rag doll.

Today, Tamlin took a piece of me. One that I’d never, ever get back again.

+

The next morning, Tamlin got on a plane. There was a business meeting he had to attend on the west coast. I tried to convince myself that the tears in his eyes as he whispered another apology to me were genuine, that he truly felt sorry for what’d he’d done, but I knew better.

Yet still, despite the fact that I knew better, I couldn’t leave him.

Because as I stood there in the back of the storage room, trying to stifle my sobs and wipe away the tears on my face, I realized that I had no where else to go. I didn’t have money. I didn’t have friends. My family had all but disowned me after I left.

I had nothing to my name and no one to rely on. The thought settled within me like a heavy stone.

The bell to the shop rang, and I tried to wipe my face, to make myself look as presentable as I could. I smiled at the two men who approached the counter and asked, “Hi, what can I get you today?”

“Shut the fuck up,” said the first man, voice like gravel, “and bring us the drugs.”

My heart stopped. I looked at the man, who was of average height and brown, greasy hair. His eyes, though, were blue like crystal waters. The one beside him couldn’t have been older than me—and he probably looked just as terrified.

Shakingly, I replied, “I—I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

The man reached into his back pocket and the next thing I knew there was cold metal pressed against my forehead. “Go get the C’s,” the man threatened, “or I start shooting.”

The bullet clicked into the chamber, and I stopped breathing.

[delkios]

Another Interruption

Follows Extra Credit and Date Crasher.  Don’t know if I’m going to continue this or how I would but this is so much fun to play with and I highly encourage anyone else inspired by the idea to please run with it <3! Title: Another Interruption Fandom: DC TV Rating: PG-13 Word Count: 1057 Characters: Len, Mick, Barry Summary: Barry continues to have awkward villain encounters. Ever since the Tricksters fiasco, Barry had taken to buzzing galas, balls, any gathering where rich, well-to-do and influential people went in numbers. This particular one was an opening of a new veterans hospital which Barry couldn’t help but find odd that a vast majority of the people were the super rich. There were some actual military there, cluster from every branch in their sharpest dress uniforms. Barry ran by a second time and when he realized something had caught his attention, he made a one block u-turn twenty streets down and came to a stop outside the party less than two seconds later. Sure enough, just as he’d seen, there was Cold mingling around in a suit and pleasant smile, a bag hanging crosswise on his body and something in his hand. Whoever he was talking to didn’t seem to recognize him at all. Barry waited until Cold’s company wandered off before blasting through, grabbing the man and zinging to an unoccupied part of the grounds- Barry wanted to stick nearby, knowing Cold preferred to work with a crew. Barry shoved the older man up against a wall, hands on the sleek lapels of his suit. “What are you up to?” “We really need to stop meeting like this.”

“Then stop being a criminal!” Barry put on his best growl. “You know I’m going to stop whatever’s going on, so why do you keep trying?” Cold tilted his head to the side, his nonchalance was putting a niggling feeling in the back of Barry’s brain. “If I remember our encounters correctly, current count has me in the lead.” “I’m more than willing to even that out right now.” “Are you really going to interfere with the Constitutional right of freedom of the press?” Barry stared at him and Cold held up the object he had in hand- a camera -and a press pass for the Keystone Herald in the other, complete with Cold’s photo and a fake name. Barry screwed up his face, insulted at the idea that would be enough to dissuade him. “You really expect me to believe that’s real?” “Real enough to get me in.” He narrowed his eyes, the niggling feeling in the back of his brain finally forming into a coherent thought: Cold had been both at the edge of the party and in a very visible area, it almost seemed like Cold wanted Barry to see him. Barry gave him a hard shove, not enough room to punch the breath out of Cold’s lungs but enough to shake him a bit. “What are you up to?” Somewhere from behind, someone asked, “What’s going on here?” Barry barely glanced over his shoulder, just enough to recognize the chevrons. “It’s alright, Sergeant, I’ve got it taken care of.” Then he did a double take, brain stuttering to a halt when he realized who it was. “Holy shit.” Beside him, Cold purred. “I know.” Standing there, looking like he’d just stepped out of a softcore porn masquerading as a recruitment poster, was Mick Rory in full Marine Corps dress blues. The red trimmed epaulets emphasized his broad shoulders, medals and ribbons doing similar for his chest and coupled with the white belt made his waist even trimmer. The high collar and white cover made his jaw seem stronger, blood stripe on his trousers making his legs seem longer and every inch of him was carefully maintained perfection. Barry could only let out a ‘guh’ at the sight. “Careful whose husband you’re ogling, Scarlet.” Though Cold was smirking, there was a definite threat in his words and Barry shook himself out of his daze. “I wasn’t ogling!” Much. Because that was just weird because super villain. A thought hit Barry and he squinted at Heatwave’s chest. “Wait- are those real?” “They’re accurate if that’s what you mean,” he said, looking down. “Can’t chance picking stuff at random- place is crawling with Marines and they’d spot something wrong in a second.” Barry looked between the two, expression becoming trepidatious. “Did… I interrupt another one of your roleplaying dates?” Cold gave him a flat look. “Why else do you think we’d be here?” “…thieving?” Heatwave snarled. “You think we’re gonna steal from a veterans hospital? We’re crooks, not assholes!” “Besides,” Cold waved a hand at his partner. “I don’t know if you noticed, but Mick doesn’t exactly have a lot of places to stash loot or a weapon.” “Couldn’t bring that sword to this stupid party,” Heatwave groused. “You have a camera bag!” Cold obligingly opened it up, showing additional lenses, lamps and an empty space for the camera currently in his hand. “Yes. Because I have a camera.” “Maybe the camera’s fake!” There was a flash of light, right before Barry managed to close his mouth and Cold turned the camera around so Barry could see the rather unflattering picture of himself on the screen. “…that doesn’t prove you’re not here to commit a crime.” “And, yet again, you have no proof that we are planning anything illegal so run along, Scarlet.” Barry pressed his lips into a thin line, hands clenching impotently. “I know you two will be up to your old tricks sooner or later so remember- I’m keeping an eye on you.” “I’m not exactly an exhibitionist and I’m terrible at sharing so pass.” Barry felt his face heat up. “Ugh, you’re even more unbearable now that I know about your relationship.” With that, he flashed off, leaving the two criminals alone on the edges of the party. “Well,” Cold said after a fair few minutes have passed, “he won’t be coming back tonight. Let’s get this heist on the road, shall we?” They had no plans to rob a veterans hospital but Lisa was waiting with an empty car carrier in a lightly monitored section of a lot filled with incredibly high-end cars. “Finally.” Heatwave rolled his shoulders, making the medals on his chest flash. “Can’t wait to get into something maneuverable.” Before he could move to where a change of clothes was stashed, Cold stepped in close enough his breath brushed over his partner’s lips. “Don’t wrinkle that uniform, you’ll be putting it on again tonight.” Cold stepped around Heatwave with the kind of smirk that always made the other man shudder. He licked his lips and grinned. “Yes, sir!”