#otp: one in particular

[whollyjoly]

@luztoyeweek 2024 day 2 - francis forever by mitski

[randomthunk]

I got woken up one morning with news of a new meme dropping, and very quickly it became obvious that Merilwen and Dob were just meant to be for this one.

[lover-of-mine]

It might take longer than we have, could you live with that?

[mangofresca]

zephyr | 18+

ii.

“We could leave, y’know.”

Romano startles, head turning over his shoulder as if he were searching for a spy, a conspirator. Sometimes, that’s not unlike how Portugal feels here, always a little too relegated to the outside for comfort, too close to the inside for tranquility or freedom.

He shakes the thought away, eyebrow raised in question at the only other person here who hasn’t exhausted him yet.

Romano’s eyes flick from his face to the windows, to the rain pelting the windowpanes, and he scoffs. “And do what? Get soaked?” His fingers tap the glass in his hand, and Portugal watches with muted disinterest as the wine rocks back and forth, back and forth, an ocean all its own, confined and confined and confined.

“Better than staying here.” Staying here and playing pretend with a government who can only just tell him and Spain apart, and Portugal doesn’t have the stomach anymore for the accent or the language or the face of it all.

Romano tsks, and, for some reason, this infuriates him, as if Romano is content to sit here and be lessened, nothing more than a jewel on a crown on a head who so blatantly picks favorites. Like they’re above it all, the two of them.

He turns, and he leaves, and he doesn’t care enough to see if anyone watches him go.

vi.

“That was–”

Portugal is already pushing up off the bed, flicking hair from his eyes. “Want a drink?”

“Obviously,” Romano snorts, but he sounds like he’s amused, and when Portugal turns around to look at him, all he can see is the way Romano’s lips curl around his teeth, how his cheeks look when he smiles.

ix.

Romano snores when he sleeps, raspy and rough, and when his hair falls in front of his eyes, his nose crinkles with the tickle of it, too deep in dreams to bother moving it away.

We shouldn’t be doing this, Portugal thinks, because things are messy, only getting worse, and he doesn’t understand how Romano doesn’t grow restless beneath a thumb that demands obedience, that is all too comfortable pressing down on the pulse of their throats, hard enough to feel it beating, not hard enough to choke.

“I wish this was easy,” he says instead, and his skin goes cold when he realizes he means it, green eyes already looking down at tanned legs tangled with his, errant curl brushing his collarbone.

He’s gotten used to that, too.

iv.

Portugal can see him on the docks again, hair just as windswept as that first time, waves falling over each other to brush against dark eyelashes, to curl into knots at his hairline.

Spain’s hand is heavy on his shoulder, smile tipping into something that more resembles a bridler than a brother. “You look like you’re thinking hard,” he says, and Portugal hears the warning in it like a bell tolling within his head. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” Portugal replies. The weight on his shoulder feels suffocating.

vii.

“We should have sex here,” Portugal says, out of the blue and apropos of nothing, voice hushed into a conspiratorial whisper when he leans himself into Romano’s ear.

Romano coughs, splutters, eyes narrowing when Portugal only grins at him.

“Not now, obviously,” he continues, because his brother is here, and his—their, because God forbid any of it is really his—government, too, and he isn’t stupid enough to try anything here, now.

Romano wipes the coughed wine from his lips, arm crossed over his chest as he settles back into the wall behind him. “Please,” he says, and he already sounds scandalized and petulant, “as if I’d settle for anything less than a bed. You think I’d let you fuck me on a settee? Not a chance.”

“I think,” Portugal replies, smiling, “you’d let me fuck you anywhere I want you to.”

Romano scoffs again, furious and blustering, but his shoulder brushes Portugal’s arm, and he doesn’t move it away.

v.

Lively doesn’t adequately describe it when it finally happens.

Romano has him pinned up against the library wall, holding Portugal’s wrists against hand-bound books and shelves which haven’t been dusted in God only knows how long, but all Portugal can think is how difficult it is, when kissing Romano, to push him away, to have him be the one pressed between linen and literature.

He manages, only just, and the heady, groaned gasp of surprise he receives pleasantly makes it worth his while.

x.

Portugal can see him on the docks again, hair wind-knotted and wild, exactly like it was that first time, exactly like the second, like every other time, every other time.

He can’t discern the expression on Romano’s face, too far away for detail, sunlight blinding on wave-crested waters, but he can see him turn around, see him walk away, back to that house and that voice and that hand and that crown.

He almost regrets leaving without a goodbye, but he knows, is certain in the knowledge, that expectation for their kind is the heartbeat of disillusionment, and he doesn’t have it in himself to be disappointed by someone so supine as to find comfort here.

Nothing ever gets resolved with avoidance and shame, but their arrangement never really did have room for much else, anyway.

iii.

He has a dream, then, that lingers worse than a bad hangover or a bloody wound. Maybe it’s years after their last conversation, or maybe it’s days, or maybe it’s hours; he can’t be bothered to keep track, not that their kind usually does when it comes to time.

(Hard. He wakes up hard, and that’s not how his dreams usually go—or, not the ones with Romano, at least.)

Romano was over him, or under him, maybe—not that it matters, because it doesn’t matter, not really. What matters is that Romano was close, breathing against his neck, sighing his name, and it’s—

It was slow, the way they moved. Tender, close.

Odd.

viii.

He’s gotten used to it—the way Romano’s voice hitches, goes taut, tight as his white-knuckled grip on pearl-hued sheets. He’s gotten used to it.

He’s gotten used to it.

i.

They meet officially, formally—and notably without supervision—on the docks of Almería, both windswept and water-worn, and it makes Portugal wonder how long Romano had been standing there for him to look like that, like he himself had blown in with the breeze of the ocean, side-swept bangs tangling into soft knots at his temples.

He is sure he himself is no better, likely worse—a ribbon can only do so much with the whipping winds that dance themselves through his sails—but he doesn’t bother brushing his hair from his face before approaching, grin ticking at the corners of his lips.

Romano blinks at him, hazel eyes owlish before settling into something calmer, almost bored. “Oh,” he says, “it’s you.”

Portugal smiles and tips his head. “Hello,” he replies. Always best to start with hello.

[pollyna]

Air shows are a Mav thing, always have been, and since Ice has memory of them, he never missed one. He remembers doing favours to people he would have preferred having punched in the face rather than speaking to them for more than a minute or two, just so he could be back in the States to see Mav fly. The occasion wasn't relevant: Thanksgiving, Christmas and the fourth of July, if Mav was flying Ice was on the ground watching him, taking photos and later videos, recording Slider, Bradley and the other's comments and storing it all away in his video library.

And so will be for this Halloween one. If Mav is going to be up there, flying and giving a show, showing the world and every fucking brass who's the best, Ice will be on the ground, phone in his hands, filming away a couple or thirty minutes of his memory card.

(Stading is painful, and every breath feels like a stab at his troath and lungs. The jacket and all the medals on it weigh on his shoulders and back like bricks, and the material hitches against his skin. Sarah's hands are too cold and too hot at the same time around his waist, and Tom has to grit his teeth to not beg to go back home and never move another step or speak another word. Pain used to come and go in waves where now, it's a constant companion that leaves him without any relief. But then, and for the next couple of minutes, Ice's eyes are to the sky, to the jets Mav is leading through intricate manoeuvres showing off just a little bit and Ice feels thirty again, just back from a God-awful travel on a fucking commercial plane, watching is boyfriend moving in the sky and then on the ground, sweaty and smiling with the intensity of one hundred suns. It ends before Ice can realise, and that same man is moving towards him, sweaty and smiling with the same intensity. If Ice hadn't lost his voice to cancer, he would be asking all the right questions and listening to Mav babble away for the rest of the day. He can't speak, but he can hug the man against his chest, sign that Sarah recorded it all and that was the best show he ever saw.

"You always say that, love." Mav answers, laughing against his neck. Ice doesn't let go, not yet, he hugs Mav and clings on the hope to see another one, to watch Mav moving between people to come to him, to have something else to add to his ever growing video library. Maverick hugs him back.)

[i-will-sing-no-requiem]

our story's unscripted in this secret show we'll draw back the curtains and see where it goes __________________________________

Ineffable Playlist Track 1: Where The Nightingales Sing by Alan Doyle

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[leslieseveride]

i don't wanna see my precious baby girl lucy ever get hurt, but i live for parallels and would love another chenford ambulance ride to parallel the opening scene of s2.

[m4rs-ex3]

they say "write what you wanna read" but that can absolutely not be true. i almost exclusively read the fluffiest fluff to ever fluff and yet detailing my blorbos' suffering is easier than breathing. like i can't stop these guys are getting MASSACRED. i know damn well i would absolutely hate reading my own fics and i will not be changing anything anytime soon

[elvenbeard]

the warmth of the water and your body against mine

Upcoming poses by @humberg 💜

[lilacerull0]

do you ever think about the diagram of the door opening as a love confession because i am trying not to think about it and could really use some help

[lover-of-mine]

Seven Sentence Sunday!

I was tagged by @prince-buck-diaz @panbuckley @cowboy-buck @alyxmastershipper @housewifebuck and @bucks118 thank you 🩷🩷🩷

I didn't make any of the other tags this week except for the poll thingy because I don't write linearly so most of my wip are a mess ���️ but my stablished buddie with Buck in Eddie's turnout won the poll and that's actually kinda structured now thanks to that and I plan on having this out this week (pray for me) so here are seven sentences (you can read another snippet of it here)

Eddie already has a hose, helping some guys from another station when he finally finds Buck again. He's following Hen, helping triage the less serious cases on the other side of the parking lot, and he doesn't watch for too long, it's barely longer than a glance, but he does a double take once the image fully registers. Because Buck is still wearing his turnout jacket. Properly now. And he doesn't really know what to do with what he's feeling when he sees the DIAZ across his back. Buck sometimes teases Eddie about being possessive, on the rare occasions he gets jealous enough that even Buck notices, but this is not that. The feeling in his chest is warner, not about the idea that everyone is trying to steal him away, or the thought that Buck would somehow leave him (an idea he rationally knows is insane, he knows how much Buck loves him, it's how much Eddie loves him, it's just that sometimes he gets irrationally jealous, he's not sure he could be blamed, just look Buck, who wouldn't be scared to lose him?), but about how much he likes the idea of sharing a last name.

I don't know who to tag cause I don't know who posted already because my dash has been crashing since last night so I'm not gonna tag anyone.

[crispyflowerblaze]

billy joel songs that are just conceptually funny to me

that awkward moment when you go home with a guy and he thinks you want to hook up but you really just wanted to hear him play the saxophone. and this ends up ruining his life (christie lee; an innocent man)

when you're so distracted by your beautiful wife that you can't get anything done and all your friends make fun of you (temptation; the bridge)

stop being so mean to my wife!!!! (that's not her style; storm front)

phone sex (sometimes a fantasy; glass houses)

(i'm making a les mis reference, sorry if this makes no sense to you because you don't have enjoltaire brain rot lmao) ... literally just how grantaire would think of enjolras if he wasn't in love with him (prelude/angry young man; turnstiles)

huh, thought i would've had more lol

[postmanlinksbootyshorts]

takut0wa shippers are so insecure and annoying, it's genuinely so fucking funny that i can't even be mad fr

[autumnalhalcyon]

Ugh. I just spent p much all night reading old blazing--soul posts. I kinda really miss the shenanigans. I kinda really don't miss the drama.

[seariii]

When I was like... 12 - 13, I became hyperfixated on a soccer anime, Inazuma Eleven. Little teen me loved the characters and discovered fanfictions, she was mesmerized.

Little me read and read many things on fanfiction . net, is what she found and she didn't know better. She suffered with things that didn't have warnings an also found out what lemon was, the bad way (I'm on the ace spectrum and I'm sex repulsed, so yeah, horrible).

Little me didn't know how to save media, and her phone would always close the windows she had open. So her idea to save those fanfics she loved was to write down the url on a note book. Some of them were massive.

I particularly remembered one where the writer made a self insert and was the sister of the male protagonist (I think?), but I don't remember why, everything was so edgy. The protagonist on the og media was golden retriever type, a ray of sunshine, and on the fic he was angry and annoyed at the world and I remember so vividly a particular characteristic, which was that he had lost his eye when he was bullied and so he had a crystal eye with a thunder. (The thunder is reference to the anime)... I remember I didn't like what the writer did to that blorbo, but I also remember I wanted to know what would happen next, and so I wrote down the url on my notebook...

Needless to say, all those urls, when I tried to type them into the PC I couldn't reach any of them, so I never knew what happened to those characters and if they got their happy ending