#real life has had the audacity lately to demand my attention so things might be a little slow around here

[papa-evershed]

Liam Connor, Coronation Street THE RESCUE 🚑🏥 requested by: anonymous

[burnedbyshoto]

Sickness and Afflictions

todoroki shouto x reader; bakugou katsuki x reader

warnings: angst, fluff, cursing

a/n: one crushes your heart. the other one fills it. pick your poison. bitch... this made me sad and happy....

Part Two ; Alt Ending

todoroki shouto

You had been happy in your relationship with Shouto. Happiness and longevity seemed to be something coined for the two of you. But you knew that you were the first real relationship he had.

Recently, Shouto was becoming better acquainted with his family. Often spending his free days with his family instead of spending it with you. Which wasn’t an issue in your opinion, but it was three months since this started… and you only ever saw Shouto at night when he would come to bed past midnight. You were becoming upset by this, and whenever you voiced your emotions he was quick to ignore you.

The reality of your relationship was that you were not happy at this moment. You were also sure you did not wish to break up with him… but you wanted effort. Today was your birthday, and you hadn’t received a single acknowledgment from him about it. Today was your day off and he didn’t so much as kiss you goodbye today when he left for work as you woke up.

Today, you sat at the kitchen table at nine at night, waiting for him to come home. Your fingers play with a gift you bought for the two of you as a way to get him to go somewhere with you.

Some part of you wishes that he isn’t here because he has some elaborate plan. That these past few months, he’s been making you insecure for this very night. That Shouto’s waiting for you to cave first so he can expose his birthday celebration plans. But you know better to assume that, Shouto has never been spontaneous like that.

So today, instead of celebrating with friends, you waited for Shouto to come back home.

One hour passed.

Two hours more.

It’s no longer your birthday when the front door opens and closes. Your weary eyes staring at Shouto who walks in, slippers on his feet, exhaustion on his face.

Your eyes lock with his, and you break the gaze to continue down his body. There’s no card in sight.

“Why are you coming home so late?” You ask placing your chin onto your hand. Your eyes boring into your boyfriend’s ambivalent aura.

“Long day at work.” Was his response and it irked you.

“Midoriya-san posted a video of you and your classmates at a bar. Why are you lying?”

“We only went in celebration of—“

“Bakugou’s early birthday celebration, yeah. I know.” You snark back, your hand dropping on the table and a frown on both your faces.

“I’m not in the mood to have a lecture right now. Especially since you know everything there is to know.” Shouto voice drips with sarcasm as he tries walking away.

“Only because if I don’t you won’t ever talk to me!” You exasperate standing up. The sounds of the chair scraping against the floor echoes through the apartment.

Shouto stares at you, his heterochromia eyes feeling empty, lifeless.

“You don’t talk to me anymore.” You repeat, your bottom lip quivering. You try not letting your feelings overwhelm you. Desperate not to give him a reason to walk away. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Keeping your business to yourself?” Shouto steely response. His upper lip presses into his bottom one. “Why do you need to know everything?”

You blink many times, your mouth dropping with failed sentences.

“You’re my boyfriend,” You’re slow to respond. “I’m curious and concerned because you’re my boyfriend.”

“If you’re going to be telling me things I already know, I don’t see the point of me listening to you.”

You laugh, unsure of what was wrong with him. In your inability to speak, Shouto begins walking away. His arm hitting your shoulder causing you to stumble.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” You seethe, your eyebrows scrunched as you push his back. He stills, not turning around. Your mind now in overdrive. “I’m trying to have a conversation with you! A conversation, Shouto! Something we haven’t done in fucking months! And you’re— you’re ruining it!!”

Shouto turns around, his face dark, his own eyebrows crunched as his lips are curling into a scowl. “Let’s make this clear, I’m not ruining anything here. I’m busy, y/n, I have a fucking job that requires utmost concentration and dedication. I can’t be waiting on your every demand and need. Don’t pretend that you didn’t know that coming in.”

“Of course I fucking knew that coming in! I’m the damn best fucking support employee Japan has! I’ve dealt with shit for you fucking heroes! I can see that you’re busy! But you’re not always busy! You just don’t spend any free time with me! And that’s what’s bugging me!”

That one complaint sends both of you over the edge. And insults pour out of both of your mouths. Eventually, you’re both just saying things to make the other upset.

You were too clingy. Demanding. Impatient. Unclean.

He was too bitchy. Completely unavailable. Dense. Opinionated.

He scrutinized what you had gotten him for Christmas. Claiming it was insensitive and embarrassing to open in front of his family.

You retorted that at the very least you had gotten him a present! You further added to the fact that he refused to meet your family.

He fought that you shouldn’t be too sensitive all the damn time because you’re a grown adult. Not some child.

It circles back to him not being attentive, the two of you in each other’s faces.

Red.

Angry.

Yelling.

“I don’t owe you anything. I don’t owe you my time, my energy, or my presence. If you’re not happy with it, why the hell are you here?” Shouto growls at you, his face dark.

“Because you mean everything to me, you fucking dick?! Something I’m not ready to give up! Is it that hard to fucking see that I want to be here?!”

“I don’t owe it to you to spend my free time with you,“ Shouto repeats. “You’re my girlfriend, not a pet!”

“Oh, no, sorry!!! I forgot because if I was a pet, I would be getting much more love and affection than this!! You know what, Shouto? This is my place. This is my apartment, and you still have the fucking audacity to show up with this attitude? For someone who loathes Endeavor as much as you do, you sure don’t act any fucking different from him.” You hiss centimeters from his face.

Your mind doesn’t even register the terrible words that come out of your mouth. All you know if that pure rage manifests upon Shouto’s own.

“Don’t you dare fucking compare me to him. You know nothing about what it was like living up with him.” Shouto seethes, as his body stiffens, his eyes dark and angry.

“Let me guess, always distant and cruel? Emotionally manipulative? Using the people in his life for his own advantage? Seeing only his own fucking feelings and no one else’s? Hm, and the real question is who am I describing?! Pro-Hero Endeavor or Shouto?!”

Shouto’s right-hand grips your forearm, shocking you at the sudden movement from him. But Shouto’s too angry to notice that his quirk activates in his moment of anger and frustration. Ice cold burning pain shoots down your arm. It not until you’re sobbing out in pain does he see the blistering ice burns on your forearm and the tears in your eyes. And fear fills his being.

You rip your forearm from his grasp. Baffled and choking sobs leaving your lips as you examine the blistering skin. You tremble as you cry.

He burned you.

Shouto burned you and he wasn’t even apologizing. All he was doing was staring.

Your eyes rip away from your burned arm and stare at Shouto. A new sadness burning through you. “I only wanted you to show me that I mattered today… it was my birthday today. No yesterday Shouto… it was my fucking birthday! But… I get it now, how much I annoy you, and how much you’re unhappy with me but… still. It was my birthday and you didn’t speak to me or acknowledge it at all yesterday.” Your voice resonates with broken, cracked, and defeated tones.

Your throat tightens with overwhelming sadness as pain throbs through your arm. But it’s nothing in comparison to the pain in your heart. You cry as you walk to the table grabbing the white envelope in your hands as you give it to him.

“Take this, it’s yours…! I’m… going to the hospital to get this fixed up… please don’t be here when I get back. …we—we are…” Your voice cracks again as you know what you have to say, but don’t want to say. It’s too late to fix these mistakes. “We’re done. Please have Midoriya come pick up your things. I don’t want to see you, ever again.”

You don’t even conceal the flowing tears as you clutch your burnt arm to your chest. You want him to say something, anything! Anything to convince you that this has only been a few bad months, but that this was the extent of it.

But still, even in defeat, he won’t budge to your will. “Leave the key under the mat, goodbye Todoroki.” You whisper completely defeated as you turn on your heel and leave the apartment.

Shouto goes to open the envelope you gave him, unsure of what it is. But he freezes at the sight of the address. ‘for shouto so that you can have fun with boring old me!’

Shouto unravels a letter within the envelope and reads it over.

‘dear shouto, I don’t know how to start a letter! is it like this? oh well!!!! I figured you were going to get me something I would love for my birthday. so I went ahead and got us this! two tickets to go, drumroll please, see the All Might museum that just opened!!! yes! you read it correctly!!! so I know you and all your friends somehow lost the lottery system for getting it among the Pro-Heroes. don’t panic, we support techs are smarter. we bid on them like feral animals. this ended up costing me ¥125,000!!! totally worth it in my stance. I know somethings been off with us lately, and I’m not all that sure what it is, but I do love you. like a lot. I’m just at this point unsure if I did anything in specific to make you mad? god, I hope not… anyways!!! I know we’ll get over it, we always do!! I love you Todoroki Shouto, and I’m so excited to get to go to this museum with you!!!! love - y/n’

A splitting headache overcame Shouto. His heart is frozen as he stared at the two tickets for special entrance to this museum. It was made out for today, the day after your birthday. A birthday that slipt his mind until your choked up voice reminded him of it.

Shouto sank to the ground, tears falling from his eyes. Oh.

He fucked up big time.

bakugou katsuki

On god, you were going to murder your boyfriend.

How could someone so smart be this dumb?

This entire day he had been avoiding you like a ninja and simply ignoring your every action to get him to open up. It was pissing you off! He was acting like a damn cat instead of a human being.

“Katsuki, I swear, if you don’t eat this goddam soup and medicine, I WILL murder you!” You snap through the bathroom door.

The countless amounts of dry heaving coughs, sniffles, and sneezes heard from the door. You still continue to bang the on wall despite him ignoring you. “Soup is fucking disgusting, and medicine can suck my balls!” Bakugou’s voice weakly snaps back. The sickness heavy in his throat. You can hear him retching just a little bit.

How the mighty fall when they’re sick. But Bakugou fell hard. Plus he refused anything to make himself better! He was more typically relying on his own body to make him better. Which was dumb! But this was week three of him being this way, he needed something stronger than his own immune system.

“If you don’t open this door, I’ll find someone who can kick the door down. Like Deku!”

“Like hell, you would, shitty woman. Even like this, I can kick his ass across the country and—and—ACHOO!!” The crackling of his quirk goes off.

Yes, the worst part of Bakugou being sick was that he was no longer as in control of his quirk.

You grumble as you place the piping hot soup and medicine bottle onto the hallway counter. You walked to the kitchen grabbing your spare bathroom key. You opened it up to find Bakugo sweating profoundly. His body shivering, yet wrapped up in five blankets. His eyes were bloodshot and his nose was plugged up with a tissue.

He looked disgusting.

“Don’t you dare,” He croaks slightly, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

You grab the damn soup and medicine and put it on the bathroom counter. Bakugou was trying to escape. But he was weaker than he typically was only because he would get a migraine from standing up. “Oh no, you’re not going fucking anywhere, dumbass!” You snap at Bakugou as you put your full weight onto his hips, trying to keep him pinned down.

Bakugou won’t let you challenge him like this, and is very quick to fight back. So there the two of you were, wrestling in the bathroom. Your healthy body pressed against his clammy and sweaty one, but still, he’s able to keep up with you.

“Let go of me, shitty woman! I don’t fucking need that crap!”

“Your nose is just about dripping on me, idiot! You’re taking the damn medicine!”

Bakugou’s hand clutched your forearms, ready to throw you off him. But he freezes, and your eyes widen in the horror of having his hands on you. And as he sneezes before he can pull away, his sweaty hands exploding against your arms.

“OH MY GOD!” You scream, scorching pain exploding against your skin. You pulled away from Bakugou, your arms quivering as you watched red blisters form on your arms.

“Shit, babe, I’m sorry!” Bakugou sneezes again, his fingertips exploding.

“You burned me!” You shriek, unsure on how to feel about your boyfriend using his quirk on you.

“Well, I told you to leave me alone!” Bakugou throws back at you, and youthrust your burned arms his way.

“Yeah, still! Also, WHY do you have zero control over your quirk when you’re sick?! YOU’RE SO ANNOYING!” You cackle despite the pain as Bakugou blows his nose before crawling over to you grabbing your arms.

“Stay here, shitty woman,” Bakugou says after examining your burnt arms.

You watch as Bakugou stands up and goes to the medicine cabinet and pulls out some burn salve he owned. He often got burns from overexerting his quirk, and it seemed that you were going to be the one using it today.

“This is why you need to leave me alone when I’m sick,” Bakugou grumbles as his clammy fingers touch your arms. The soothing balm kicking in at the slightest touch.

“NO, what you need to do is to let me take care of you, dumbass!” You counter, shoving him with your foot. “You’re sick, and you could’ve been better five days ago had you just let me take care of you.”

His eyes look up at yours when he’s done applying the balm, and he presses a kiss to your cheek. “Fine.”

Within a day you get him to feel better, but now it’s your nose that’s running. Chills running down your spine as Bakugou shoved soup down your throat.

"You’re gonna eat this damn soup.” Bakugou snaps as you groan.

Why was this soup literally the worst?

[iworshipkeanureeves]

Denim Dreams (Scott Favor x Reader)

A/N: This is My Own Private Idaho fanfiction requested by @jadore-keanu30​, I also managed to slip in a small part about Scott being ticklish as requested by anon. And maybe let’s imagine this is AU where Mike is not in love with Scott.

Summary: Your friend Mike introduces you to Scott Favor, but you hate him at first. Scott, however, persistently tries to get your attention.

Warnings: language, smut

Words: 2,7 K

Woken by a doorbell, you rolled out of bed grunting. You were never a morning person, so it made you internally scream at whoever was behind that door. To your surprise, it was Mike, and even though you were sort of friends, he would rarely show up at your doorstep, especially this early.

“You can come in, my mom’s at work,” you invited Mike in, but he seemed hesitant to go.

“I thought we could get breakfast,” Mike suggested, leaning on your door frame.

“Are you asking me on a date?” you chuckled teasing him, when you knew this was never going to be the case.

“You’re not exactly my type,” he replied giving you an impish smile, and you rolled your eyes tying your hair up in a messy bun.

“Just give me a minute to change,” you said still wearing pajama and disappeared into your room, leaving him at a doorstep.

------

Mike and you were supportive of each other, but you weren’t particularly that kind of friends who would hang out together much, so all of this was a surprise.

“What’s the occasion?” you wondered as you and Mike were entering a diner.

“I wanted to thank you for saving my ass yesterday,” he replied, with his eyes stuck to the ground, as usual.

In fact, you had saved Mike’s ass many times before. Working at a movie theater, you would help him hide in one of the auditoria, usually from his clients and sometimes from the cops too. You had an understanding of what Mike was doing to get by. Yet, you two had an agreement that he wouldn’t involve you in his business further than that.

After much consideration, you decided to get a burger, which wasn’t a typical breakfast food, but you had a strong craving and it was already after 11 AM, so technically it could have been almost considered lunch. Mike was silent as usual, munching on his waffles, occasionally lifting his eyes to stare into a quiet street, and you could never tell what he was thinking about.

Just as you were about to take a next bite, you sensed the seat next to you caving in. Suddenly, you were being accompanied by a tall dark haired guy. He and Mike exchanged “Hey”s, so you assumed he was probably one of Mike’s friends. You didn’t know him, and it felt weird how he sat next to you instead of Mike. Not that it made you uncomfortable, but you found it rude, especially because he was coarsely invading your private space.

“I’m Scott, I’m Mike’s…”

“I know who you are,” you cut him off, after hearing the name. You recognized him from Mike’s stories. “Mike has told me about you,” you added and went on with another bite of your heavenly delicious burger.

Even though Mike had spoken only favorably about Scott, from what you had heard, you couldn’t approve him. You didn’t like the fact that Scott was privileged with his trust funds and did what he did only for fun. You believed that he would leave Mike any day to get back to his prosperous life, and you knew how much it would hurt your friend. Therefore, Scott was your enemy, even if you hadn’t met him before.

“She’s Y/N,” Mike mumbled, after a long silent pause around the table, and you choked a little looking up to give him a discontent glance.

“What a chatty girl,” Scott hissed ironically, raising his hand for a waitress to come.

“She’s just not an early bird, it’s too soon for her chirps,” Mike intervened, trying to cushion the conversation after seeing your face all frowned.

If Scott really wanted to talk, you decided to go at him.

“Don’t you feel like a fraud here?” you spoke calmly. “This life you’re living for the moment, isn’t it just one of your whims, until you choose to move on to something better?”

You already knew the real answer, you were just curious to see what Scott saw in all of this.

“So just because I’m going to inherit my family funds, it means I can’t live the life I honestly enjoy? Does it always have to be connected to money?”

His emphasis was on enjoyment, and you knew well, it was a brittle, fleeting thing. Yeah, even if this was the life he truly fancied, it was for a short moment only, and that moment was about to end meaning that someone would get hurt. Your dear Mike, most probably.

After finishing the last few sips of your drink, you gather you stuff and were about to put your jacket on.

“Leaving so soon?” Scott scoffed with his obnoxious exhale, and you could almost feel your blood beginning to boil.

“Work,” you looked at him with a painfully fake smile. “Some of us here”, you said pointing between you and Mike, “have to actually earn a living, we have no rich daddies to run to.”

You looked at Scott, implying he should really move, but he seemed to enjoy annoying you and wasn’t going to go anywhere. Playing his game, you decided to just climb over him, sticking your tight-fitted ass right in front of his face, wiggling it a little to tease him even more. Approaching the door, you turned around to give Mike one last goodbye, proudly witnessing Scott’s hand in a pocket, adjusting his emerging boner.

------

It was your usual day at work operating cash register, putting up a smile to everyone and kindly accepting their complaints about high prices and lack of interesting movies, as if it was personally your fault that this theater was kind of shitty.

Just as you thought it couldn’t get worse, it surely did.

What the hell, you thought, looking at Scott entering the movie theater, weirdly alone and still not losing that annoying smile of his.

“Hey there,” Scott spoke, leaning with his elbow on top of your desk. It left you speechless for a moment, as you were astonished by his audacity to come visit you at work. “Come get a drink with me,” he demanded.

“Don’t you see I’m working?” you couldn’t believe his oblivion. How self-centered could he possibly be?

“What about later?”

“Later? Oh yeah, still working,” you smiled mockingly. Scott seemed to be getting a little frustrated and there were no words to describe how much you enjoyed it.

“Fine, then one ticket to Bird on a Wire,” Scott requested, reaching for his wallet.

“Magic word?” you kept taunting him, squeezing every bit of his patience, though he seemed to be holding on surprisingly well.

“Please?” he grunted, slipping you a few bills.

“Rich boy with no manners, what could be worse?” you grinned, shaking your head, handing him the ticket.

Scott only cracked a smile. “See you around,” he said leaving your desk.

You really hoped this wouldn’t be the case, but oh boy, he was not wrong.

------

Scott came in the next week to see Back to the Future III, no stupid flirting this time. He directly asked for the ticket, and even added please, learning from his mistakes. Of course he was nice, it was probably his tactics to get you go out with him, but you knew better than that.

The problem was Scott’s persistence, as he kept on coming every night, and you would chat a little more each time. It was usually about Mike, but other things too. There was something frightening about letting him too close and you would have to remind yourself to keep a distance.

Every time you wanted to change the topic, you could turn to movies, because at some point Scott had probably seen more of those than you had. He saw Total Recall, Dick Tracy, Robocop 2, Days of Thunder, Die Hard 2, well, basically everything the theater was screening for the moment.

Indeed everything.

It seemed like you were unintentionally seeing Scott more than you were seeing Mike, and it drove you crazy. You started asking around if he also came on nights when you weren’t working, hoping that maybe he had just discovered his passion for movies. But that wasn’t the case.

------

One night Scott showed up looking different. His hair was messy, jeans were tighter, and he had a denim jacket on. It was buttoned up, but you could see that he was wearing nothing underneath. You felt bad for finding this tempting, but you couldn’t help it. Anyway, you didn’t have to like Scott as a person to admit how sexy he actually was.

“Hey,” you greeted him. “I don’t think we have a movie that you haven’t seen yet,” you continued, getting rid of all the scorn that you used to have in your voice before. Honestly, you were tired of torturing him, and he genuinely seemed not that bad. At least better than you had expected him to be after the first day of meeting him at that diner.

“Well, then I’ll have to watch Die Hard again,” Scott giggled, suggesting that he didn’t mind it, he just enjoyed coming to the theater.

After handing Scott the ticket, you realized that there might be a day when he wouldn’t come anymore. Or even worse, he would bring someone with him, another girl maybe. You couldn’t believe your thoughts, and how upset it made you. It felt like you were betraying yourself, but there was nothing you could do.

Fuck. You were falling for him

------

It was getting late and the majority of tonight’s screenings had ended, you were washing your hands in the ladies room, thinking about what needed to be done before closing up for the day. You couldn’t believe it when you caught yourself looking in the mirror to adjust your make-up and a few stray hairs, thinking you might meet Scott again.

After all, this wasn’t a bad decision, because just as you were leaving the restroom, your eyes met Scott, who was inspecting movie posters in the empty hallway. He must have heard the door shut, because he immediately turned your way. Was he following you? Waiting for you? You couldn’t tell, but honestly, you didn’t care any longer. You mind was captured by his unbuttoned jacket, exposing his bare stomach, and a scar running along his abs line, leaving you powerless against him.  

Coming closer to meet Scott, you felt yourself giving in. He had already put too much time into all this, for it to be just another of his games. Scott was being nice to you, so why push him away? It’s not like you were going to marry him and live happily ever after, but giving him a chance would be something. Something you might even enjoy.  

Scott was inches away, glancing down into your eyes. His messy hair was casting shadow over his dark gaze, making you weak in your knees. After looking around, very timidly you ran your fingertips through his exposed scar, feeling his radiating skin. You wanted him so badly, you could feel the heat accumulating between your legs just thinking about it.

Felt like it was now or never, and you decided to go for it.

“Do you have a condom?” you whispered, glancing at him.

“What if I do?” Scott asked, trying to play cool, but you could see the surprise in his eyes.

“Then it’s your lucky day,” you giggled dragging him back to the ladies room, into one of the stalls.

“What if somebody catch us? Aren’t you going to lose your job?” Scott slowed down a little.

“I hate this job,” you smirked, closing the door and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer into a kiss.

You were delicate at first, slowly tasting his fleshy lips, your hands wandering along his sides, slowly reaching inside the jacket, your fingertips brushing his satin skin. Just as you reached Scott’s ribs, you felt his muscles tense and he bounced back a little with a giggle leaving his mouth.

“What a sensitive boy,” you smirked, pulling him closer again, invading his mouth with your tongue this time, writing your name inside his throat. Scott’s palms were on your ass, squeezing it tightly, his bulge pressing on your stomach, throbbing in his tight jeans.

Scott was slowly lifting the hem of your skirt, his hands getting closer to your heat, fidgeting with your skin, and then you felt his fingertips tucked inside your panties, dragging them down. His fingers were navigating through your folds, finding your swollen clit, and rubbing circles on it, while he was passionately kissing your lips.

An unexpected moan left your mouth and Scott had to cover it firmly with his palm, giving you a displeased stare. Finding this funny, you naughtily took two of Scott’s fingers in your mouth, sucking on them, hollowing your cheeks and gazing into his dark lustful eyes, while his other hand was skillfully working your clit. You wanted to scream at how good it felt.

As you were unzipping Scott’s jeans, you felt two of his fingers smoothly sliding inside of your throbbing pussy, slowly stretching you before you take him.

“You’re tight, baby, I want to prepare you a little bit,” he whispered, but the time wasn’t on your side, knowing the theater would be closing soon.

“We have to be quick,” you moaned, dragging his jeans down, and pushing him onto the covered seat. Scott’s thick fingers fell out of you and he took them in his mouth, slowly licking your juices off, maintaining a sultry eye contact. The sight gave you shivers, and the pressure in your lower stomach was getting unbearable.

“So sweet,” he said licking his lips, and went into his pocket to grab a silver packet.

While Scott was giving himself a few strokes and sliding a condom on, you stepped out of your panties that had been left hanging between your ankles and straddled him. Feeling his tip brushing against your slit, you helped him line with your entrance and lowered yourself gradually. He was really big and you felt flames in your walls, but Scott was patiently waiting for you to adjust, his fingers softly brushing your hair.

Getting more comfortable, you started moving faster, taking him all in, feeling his length hitting you in the right spot. Scott’s hands were on your hips keeping your balance, and his lips were placing wet kisses all over your neck. Every thrust was audible with your skin slapping against each other and your wet pussy splashing every time he went all the way in.

Scott had noticed that your thighs were getting tired, so he stood up with you hanging around him, your legs wrapped across his waist. With your back set against the wall, Scott drove into you with force, you could feel and hear his balls slapping your ass and you felt your release coming.

“Scott, I’m close, please just don’t stop,” you whimpered, with incoherent cries leaving your throat, as you felt him pushing even harder. Your abdomen cramped and you came undone with moans that were probably too loud, but you couldn’t care less.

Scott was still jamming into you vigorously, grunting as he came hard, stalling inside of you, with his throbbing cock pulsating against your walls. He was panting, as he looked up to you and smiled, “You’re good?” he asked, catching his breath. But you only managed to nod eagerly, as he was letting your feet to the ground, pulling out of you slowly.

With remaining tingles in your belly, you put your panties on and carefully peeked out to see if it was safe to leave. Leading the way, you held Scott’s hand and asked him to wait outside the restroom until you fixed your hair and make up, again. You wanted to hate yourself for this, but instead of feeling guilt or regret, you could only feel ecstasy in your veins. This was too good to let go.

As you were leaving the restroom, Scott greeted you with a wide grin, taking you by the hand. “I know this isn’t the exact order of how relationships go, but how about that drink now?” he asked modestly.

“Fine, just let me drop my uniform,” you smiled, rising on your toes to give him a little kiss and disappeared into the staff room.

[rhysismydaddy]

Bad Boys of Persia: Part 3

Here’s Part 3!! Sorry for the wait. 

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 4 || Masterlist

________________________________________________________________

Elain pushed the doors to the police department open, the words she’d listened to replaying in her head, stirring her on.

You might want to sit down.

She stormed across the lobby, holding a hand up to stop the man she’d spoken to earlier that day from continuing his approach towards her. He wasn’t who she was here to see. She wanted to see Eris.

His name is Eris, he’d told her. And he used to be her fiance.

Elain climbed up the stairs to search the second floor offices, looking for the nicest one.

It was an arranged marriage, because both of their families come from very old money. But Mor knew Eris, had known him her whole life. She knew he was abusive to all his girlfriends, and that he’d be abusive to her, too.

Her heart pounded, remembering the look on Mor’s face, as she skimmed past rows and rows of cubicles.

So she did the one thing that would make her unmarriable, to save herself. She slept with someone. He sighed. She still won’t tell me who, he’d muttered with a pointed look in her direction.  

Elain had been confused at first, until he explained. 

Women are meant to be “pure” when they get married. It’s considered a crime against the gods if they aren’t. And when Eris found out... 

She’d glanced at the large bandage covering her midsection. 

He left her in the middle of the desert around the city. Alone. She almost died. She still might. That nail, he bit the word out, might give her an infection. 

The worst part, he’d continued, is that I can’t do anything. He runs this city, and he knows it.

She narrowed her eyes on a mahogany door in the corner of the building that read Police Chief: Eris Vanserra. 

He might run this city, Elain had said, surprised to find her voice so steady, so angry. But he doesn’t run me. 

She shoved the heavy door open, looked into the golden eyes of the man she already despised, and growled, “I’m your two o’clock.”

She wasn’t, but Elain had an occasional flare for the dramatic.

He hardly looked up.

“You’re American,” he said with distaste. “What does an American need from the Persian police?”

“I’d like to file a complaint against a Persian citizen.”

His eyebrow raised. “There are men downstairs who can help you with that.”

She thought of Mor’s tear streaked face to get the courage to say, “None of them would take it. Because, you see, my complaint is against you.”

Eris sighed. “I’ve never met you. Nor have I done anything wrong. Go waste someone else’s time.”

Elain bristled. “I’d say assaulting and almost killing a woman who was to be your wife is pretty wrong.”

She’d prepared herself for all sorts of things when she decided to come here. She’d shared her location with Feyre in case she “disappeared.” She’d grabbed the pepper spray Nesta had given her in case he attacked her. 

But she hadn’t done anything to prepare for laughter. 

Eris threw his rust colored hair back and laughed at Elain’s words. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she spat as he grabbed his stomach.

He chuckled once more before saying, “You’re such a typical American. Coming to my city, then talking about something you have no idea about.”

“I’d say anyone knows about murder-”

“Shut up, woman. And don’t interrupt me again.” His voiced had changed from amused to violently angry in seconds. “Since you don’t understand, allow me to explain.

“Morrigan Smullien, the bitch I was supposed to marry, became mine to do whatever I wanted with when we got engaged. She answered to me. And when she went and fucked some random prick like the low-class whore she is, she became his to deal with. I was entitled to react however I saw fit.”

Elain forced herself not to use her pepper spray. “And you saw it fit,” she threw the word back at him, “to drag a six inch nail across her stomach, then leave her in the sands surrounding this city to die?”

Eris shrugged. “She knew what would happen to her when she ruined the prospect of our marriage. She knew I’d have to retaliate for her trying to ruin my good name.”

“Like I said,” Elain ground out, forcing her voice to be steady, “I’d like to file a complaint.”

He smiled. “The Persian Police Department of Suza rejects your complaint.”

Elain smiled back, finally allowing him to see her for what she was: a wolf circling its prey. “That’s what I thought you’d say. Do me a favor,” she said, pulling out her phone. “Smile real quick?”

His bushy eyebrows narrowed. “What are you doing?”

She snapped the picture, then opened Instagram. 

“Like you so astutely pointed out, Mr. Vanserra, I’m just an American woman who doesn’t understand your customs. So I thought I’d share Morrigan’s story with the world and see who wins more support: a woman who would do anything to stay away from you and your abuse, or a stuck-up man who thinks he’s entitled enough to get away with murder.”

He had the audacity to roll his eyes. “Telling your little friends makes no difference to me.”

Elain turned her phone to show him her profile. “Actually, I run a sort of travel blog, and I post pictures about where I’m going and the food I’m eating (it helps promote my restaurant back home). I have over sixteen million active followers. And I’d say a crowd of that size can always make a difference. Even to a man protecting himself with his family’s money.”

He was silent for a beat, then shook his head. “It’ll be your word against mine, bitch.”

“No,” she shook her head and brought up the recording app she’d had running since she walked into the building, letting the sound of their conversation surround them. “It’ll be your word against... your word.”

Eris paled. 

“You see, Mr. Vanserra. 16 million people demanding justice for a woman is sure to gather the attention of even more people. All these people suddenly hating you and the corruption in this city will definitely ‘ruin your good name.’ Your family might even cut you off,” she laughed. 

He shook his head again. “It won’t matter. You’ll never walk out of here with that,” he motioned to her phone.

Elain hit a button, then shrugged, yet again showing him the phone. 

Showing the new post, with a picture of Mor’s face and the caption: Share her story. Fight for justice. #MorriganSmullien 

“I’m afraid you’re too late. It’s already done. Oh look, it already has two thousand comments.”

Rage like she’d never seen crossed over his face and he shot from his desk, in front of her in seconds, fist pulled back. But this was what she’d prepared for. She brought her canister in front of his face and sprayed, loving his yelp entirely too much.

His kneed hit the floor and his palms pressed into his eyes. 

“Your mistake,” she whispered, bending over him, “was thinking that women are weak enough to harass into silence. Your mistake was underestimating what women will do for each other. Have a nice day.” 

She opened the door again, leaving Eris on his knees, smiling as the phone started to ring.

________________________________________________________________

Nesta shifted back on her bed, narrowing her eyes at the man still taking residence in the corner of her room. An auction. “Why do you think he’ll choose me?”

He grinned. “You’re American. We don’t get too many of those in the running. You’re also blonde with blue eyes, another rarity around here. And you’re not completely awful looking. Plus, I’m going to teach you what to do, what to say, how to act. You’re going to win. You have to.”

“And then what?”

He looked confused, and Nesta rolled her eyes.

“He chooses me at this auction--which you still haven’t told me about--and then what? I get taken by a man even worse then you?” she asked with a grin.

“Well, considering your little friends watching your location as we speak, I think you’re pretty safe. Just follow whatever your plan to bring me down was. I thought you’d appreciate the opportunity to get a bigger fish.”

She did, but she wouldn’t admit it so easily. 

“Tell me about the auction.”

He cringed. “It’s- uh- it’s less auction and more you have to sell yourself type of deal.”

Nesta debated throwing another pillow at him. “What?”

He sighed. “Basically, you and I will go to a party. The boss will be there, but no one knows who he is, because it’s a masked event. The idea is that you have to find him instead of him finding you. And once you do, you have to make him want you.”

Nesta was silent for a beat. “What happens to the girls he doesn’t choose?” she asked quietly. 

He gritted his teeth, a muscle flickering in his jaw. “You know what happens to them.”

A lifetime of misery, forced to use their bodies to survive. She thought about her sisters, how she’d do anything to keep them safe. Someone needed to fight for these girls like she’d fight for them. 

“I’m in. Wait, when is this all happening?”

He cringed again. “Soon.”

Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “How soon?”

His golden eyes looked at the ground, the walls, the sheet still covering her. Anywhere but her face. 

“Spit it out, you fucking moron,” she snapped.

“Tomorrow. We leave at 9 o’clock tomorrow.”

Nesta saw red. “Of course it’s tomorrow! You couldn’t be bothered to give me more than a day to prepare? You realize we’ll both probably end up dead now because of you-”

He was across the room before she could finish yelling at him, slapping a hand on her mouth and hissing, “Shut up, Nesta.”

But she was tired of being talked to like a child. 

And he’d been stupid enough to leave room in her cuffs. Room she’d used to start picking them off the second she woke up.

She grabbed them, using the steel as makeshift brass knuckles, and swung, relishing in the surprise in his wide eyes as they found home on his jaw. Blood burst from the split skin, and he cursed.

Nesta ignored it as she swung again, aiming at his left eye.

But he was ready for her this time. He effortlessly blocked the blow, then grabbed her arms. She didn’t stop fighting; her knee came up to strike in between his legs, but he tackled her back to the bed before she could land the blow.

His knees pressed into hers, and he pinned her arms down with one of his huge hands, the other one gripping her chin.

“Stop fighting me, Nesta.” She swung her forehead up to his, aiming for his nose, but the grip on her chin tightened. 

Nesta was trapped, utterly trapped, beneath him. 

“This will never work if you kill me,” he reasoned. “Plus, you’d miss having someone as handsome as me to protect you.”

“It isn’t going to work anyway,” she growled. 

He used the hand on her chin to force her to look him in the eyes. “It has to, Nesta. They have to be stopped. And you’re my only chance.”

She glared up into his golden eyes, noticing the black flecks in them for the first time. 

“You’re their only chance.”

She sighed, then nodded. He released her chin but didn’t move off of her. 

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly, realizing she didn’t have anything to call him besides curses.

“Mike.”

She took in the deep gold of his skin, the dark hair, the accent, and almost laughed. “What’s your real name?”

He smiled, “Cassian Nezara. But all my friends call me Cass.” 

Nesta couldn’t help but smile back. “Nice to meet you, Cass.”

They’d been too preoccupied arguing to hear the door handle jangling again. It swung open, hitting the wall loudly. Nesta hardly had time to register Cassian releasing her legs, sliding in between them instead, before his mouth crashed down onto hers.

His tongue deftly slid into her mouth, and she tried--she really did--not to moan at the taste of him. If he was surprised by the sound, he didn’t show it.

His hand slid down her body, Nesta realizing with a start she was still naked, leaving goose bumps on her flesh. He gripped her thigh and swung it over his waist, pressing his hips to hers. 

Then he “noticed” the man standing in the doorway and jerked his head up. 

“I thought I made it clear you weren’t supposed to come back, Farshid,” Cassian growled, hand still roaming her body, as if he couldn’t help it. “She’s mine.”

She’s mine.

“It’s the boss. He wants us to send over her file.” Nesta couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes glazed over as he looked at them. 

“Then send it to him,” he murmured before pressing his lips against the base of her throat as his hair fell into his face. 

She wanted to run her fingers through it, pull it maybe, but he still had her arms pinned over her head.

Farshid was still hovering in the doorway, looking pissed.

“Is there a reason you’re still here, wasting my time? Time I could be using,” he pressed his hips into hers again, and Nesta arched her back into his chest, “differently.”

His voice sounded husky, but maybe her ears were playing tricks on her.

The man rolled his eyes, but shut the door regardless, leaving Nesta alone with Cassian, both of them panting.

Neither of them said anything as Cassian leaned forward and placed a small kiss to her lips. “It’s nice to meet you too, Nesta.”

He rolled off of her, handing her the sheet to cover back up and settling in his chair in the corner. 

“Now,” he said, voice clearing, “let’s get you ready to win this thing.”

________________________________________________________________

“I said,” the stranger growled, “Why are you following me?”

His accent was thick, but his English was surprisingly good.

Feyre couldn’t breathe, let alone answer his question. Why had she been following him, anyway? Because she was bored and sad and wanted an adventure? Yes, but that’d be too embarrassing to admit, so Feyre went with a different version of the truth. “I saw you steal from that vendor.”

“Which is your business because...”

She narrowed her eyes. “The property of that woman is as much my business as it is yous.”

Surprise lit up in his violet eyes, then he smirked. “Well, feel free to tell her. But, you should know she doesn’t speak a word of English.”

“How do you know I don’t speak Persian?”

He gave her a look, then turned to leave.

“Wait,” she called out. “Where are you going?”

He turned around, amusement written across his face. “Follow me and see.”

“Where are you going?” she asked again.

He gave her a look that said he understood why she had followed him. That said he understood how lost and desperate she felt. “Does it matter?” he asked, extending a hand.

No, Feyre thought. It really doesn’t.

As she grabbed his calloused hand, she thought about how for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t thinking about Tamlin or things of the past. She was only thinking about now.

He pulled her to the ladder on the side of the nearest building, then helped her to the top.

She was nearly out of breath already, but lost it entirely when she stood up on the roof. The sun had fallen completely, and she felt like she was standing in the middle of the galaxy, surrounded by stars. The city was quiet and dark, lit up by starlight.

He turned back to her and Feyre froze again. His loose white shirt was billowing in the wind around him, violet eyes piercing hers in the moonlight. Her hands itched to grab a paintbrush.

“What?” he asked, coming closer, full lips pulling into a smile at the look on her face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

She tilted her head up at the sky, taking in the thousands of stars surrounding them. “It’s like a painting,” she breathed, wind twirling her hair softly.

“Are you an artist?” he asked.

Feyre shrugged off the question. She hadn’t painted since before Tamlin had broken up with her, hadn’t felt like doing anything, let alone creating art.

He gripped her hand again. “Let’s go.”

She followed him over the rooftops, amazed at how comfortable she felt. With a stranger. In a city she didn’t know.

For all she knew, he could be leading her into a trap or planning on killing her. But for now, surrounded by the night sky, his warm hand in hers, Feyre didn’t have a care in the world.

They walked along the sloping roofs until Rhys held up a hand and said softly, “We have to be quiet.”

Feyre nodded, suddenly worried she’d been brought along to assist in some sort of robbery.

He scurried down a ladder on the side of the building they were on, Feyre following. Until the rungs ran out. She looked down at him, eyebrows raised.

He just raised his arms. “I’ll catch you,” he whisper-shouted from at least eight feet below her.

“Oh, absolutely not!” she said in the same tone. “You’ll drop me.”

He looked too amused for the situation. “I promise I won’t drop you.”

Feyre rolled her eyes and debated her options. She could do the wise thing and go back to the hotel, try to get some sleep. But she didn’t know where she was, and no cabs were driving at this hour. Or she could jump, hope he’d catch her, and sneak into a random building.

Feyre decided she’d let herself be stupid, at least for one night, as she released the rungs and dropped to the ground.

True to his word, his arms wrapped around her, like twin bands of steel, as he caught her.

Then held her.

“Are you going to put me down?” she whispered.

He grinned up at her, arms still wrapped around her waist, as Feyre started to giggle softly.

He gave her an incredulous look, but she couldn’t stop.

“I just realized,” she said through laughs, “that I’m about to break in somewhere with you, and I don’t even know your name.”

He grinned, finally letting her slide down to the ground. “Rhysand. Or Rhys,” he murmured, sticking out a hand.

“Feyre,” she replied, shaking his hand with a smile.

He led her to a door, then pulled out a key. “And by the way, we’re not breaking in. Technically.”

He jimmied the door open, then pressed a finger to his lips.

Feyre braced herself for what she would see as she stepped inside, but definitely wasn’t ready when she looked down on rows of bunks, full with sleeping children.

Her eyebrows bunched together, but Rhys just shook his head and kept leading her through the hall between beds.

Fifteen.

There were fifteen children here.

He led her through a door on the opposite side of the room, and as soon as it clicked shut, Feyre started in on him.

“You have got to be kidding me!” she whispered angrily at him. “Robbing a kind woman is one thing, but children?”

He released a surprised laugh.

“I don’t steal from them,” he said slowly, as if she were dense. “I steal for them.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed together. “What?”

Rhys pointed to a sign above what she guessed was the front door. “Welcome to the Night Star School for Children.”

“This is a school?” she asked softly.

He just took her hand again and led her down another hall, towards a kitchen.

He took the loaves of bread out from where he’d hidden them, placing them in a still-warm oven, then pulled her into a stairwell.

They climbed up two flights of stairs, a fact Feyre was well aware from how winded she was, before Rhys pushed open a door above their heads. They climbed into a room of sorts, with completely open walls. The four corners of the room held stone columns that supported the roof overhead.

But that was it.

There were no walls, no windows. The room was completely open to the air around them.

And it was beautiful.

Soft white curtains were tied to the columns and blowing around them, giving the room the feeling of being in the clouds. There was a mattress on the floor, covered in burgundy and orange pillows. Blankets covered the stone floor and were draped over the edge of the room, and thick pillows were placed on the floor. 

She looked to find Rhys staring at her, looking nervous.

“Is this where you live?” she asked softly.

He nodded, leaning against one of the columns, hands in his pockets.

One of the curtains blew against her arm and Feyre laughed, smiling brightly for the first time in weeks. “I love it.”

Rhys gazed at her with wide eyes, mouth slightly open. “Smile again,” he whispered, coming to stand in front of her.

Feyre hadn’t felt so light in a long time. Surrounded by the night sky, she felt like she was in the clouds for so many reasons. She looked up into his violet eyes, noticing the shine of his black hair, the smile lines, the way his lips curved up.

And she smiled.

Without restraint, without wanting to cry, without the feeling of being forced.

One of Rhysand’s hands came to cup her cheek softly, and he said, “You’re beautiful, Feyre.”

She blushed, making him grin even wider.

“Are you a teacher, then?” she asked, stepping back. She needed to put some space between them, needed to get her thoughts in order.

She’d never felt a connection to anyone as fast as she did to him, and it both scared and excited her.

He nodded, dropping onto one of the floor pillows. “I teach English.”

Makes sense. “How many other teachers are there?” she asked, sinking into a floor pillow near his, surprised at how comfortable it was.

He sighed. “Besides me, two. Kallias teaches math and science and Viviane--his wife--teaches history. You should meet them,” he laughed. “They stick out like a sore thumb. They’re both Russian, and they have the most ridiculously blonde hair; it’s almost white.”

“Kallias came here two years ago,” he continued, more serious, “and found this place, completely empty. He used what savings he had to buy it, then convinced me to teach here.”

He seemed to sense the question she wanted to ask. “No, we’re not government funded. We’re one of the few schools in Persia that allows girls to study, and the government doesn’t approve, so... we have to make ends meet. Most of the time, we’re okay, but we brought on two extra students this year. Viviane doesn’t know how to say no.” He smiled, though, not seeming mad at all.

“And all the students live here?” she asked, amazed.

He nodded. “They’re orphans,” he replied sadly. “They have nowhere else to go.”

Tears stung in her eyes. She moved forward until she was kneeling near him, then slowly put her hands on either side of his face.

“It’s amazing what you’re doing for them,” she whispered.

“I wish I could do more.”

She leaned forward and softly pressed her lips against his. It was the barest brush of a kiss, but heat shot through her entire body.

“You’re amazing, Rhys.”

His hands slid around her waist, under her shirt, resting on the bare skin of her back as he leaned in again, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.

She pulled back to look at him. To look at the man who was giving everything, and wanted to give more still.

She didn’t know where this confidence, this sureness, was coming from tonight. Feyre had never been one for one-night stands, had always believed it was better when you had a connection. But she’d also never felt a connection like this, had never wanted to bind her soul to someone else’s so bad.

Feyre crawled forward to sit in his lap, straddling his waist. She smiled at him, sliding her hands into the silky hair at his nape. Leaning forward, she made sure her lips brushed against his ear as she whispered, “Make love to me, Rhys.”

Those violet eyes pierced into her as he braced her hips with a hand, tucking her hair behind her ear with the other.

“Are you sure?” he murmured, voice scratchy, as he continued playing with the ends of her hair.

She leaned forward and bit his bottom lip softly, then nodded. She’d never been so sure of anything in her life.

________________________________________________________________

Thank you for reading! Click here for Part 4 :)

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[shachaai]

[Fic] A River to Cross and No Boat to Get Me There

Pairings/Characters: America /& f!England Rating: Teen Summary: Brussels, Belgium, July 2018. Over drinks, England and America (do not) talk politics. Really.

Notes: Written for @aph-fanficchallenges’ Shipping & Platonic Week 2019, Day 1: Old-Fashioned. It’s late. orz The way I write these two always feels like it straddles a line somewhere between platonic and strangely romantic/sexual, and I think you can choose to read this as either shippy or not - either way, there’s a kind of (resigned, exasperated) love there. Also on AO3.

   July, 2018 A bar in Haren, City of Brussels, in the Kingdom of Belgium

  The bar is all suits and badges, but, as long as a guy knows what he’s looking for, the woman sitting nursing her drink at the bar - smart, dark grey skirt suit, name and face on her badge hidden by being tucked away behind the lapel of her blazer - stands out from the other people in the room.

She’s the only Nation in the room.

Well, she’s the only Nation in the room until America sidles in, quite proud of himself for his tracking abilities in an urban landscape without the use of spy satellites. He takes himself to the bar beside his quarry and leans over its polished top to nab the bartender’s attention, body angled towards his colleague.

“An Old-Fashioned for me, sir, and -” he begins, and eyes up the drink in front of his companion: a tumbler about a third full of booze and ice, deep brown with shimmering tones of gold - someone is hitting the spirits early (earlier than him) -, “another one for the lady too, I think?”

The bartender gives him a look and America is just about to repeat his order, a bit more clearly this time, when England sighs beside him, looking up from her one-woman stare-off with her drink and repeats his request for him. In French. (America assumes it’s French. There’s a L’Old-Fashioned in there anyway, rolling off England’s tongue in the way it never does in front of France, and a rather pointed s'il vous plaît.)

The bartender nods and gets to it, leaving England to give America her trademarked suspicious look. She’s foregone pretty hairclips today so has to sweep back some of the side-fall of her sharp bob to glower at him effectively, and that sort of effort usually means business.

“This place isn’t your usual. Why are you following me?”

Blunt.

“Everyone else was busy,” says America, and tries a charming smile that hopes England won’t point out how unlikely it is that all of the Nations involved in NATO apart from England and America have found something else to do with their lunchtimes. There’s always at least one Nation at loose ends for another to pounce upon.

England’s frown deepens and her eyebrows arch for the sky, so America lets his smile drop. There’s no real point lying, though the waste of his acting talents does make him pout. (In another life, Hollywood would be just eating this up. Begging for his time.)

“Alright , I came seeking refuge in audacity?”

“I’m audacity?” England asks, sounding undecided on whether she should be offended by that or not, only to swing her legs round hastily when America goes to pull out the barstool beside her and stomp down an unladylike heel on the foot rest, preventing its movement. “Oh - no, no, no, no, no, Jones. I think you’re a blithering idiot at the moment as well.”

“Oh, come on. ” America protests, and gives the barstool another halfhearted yank. (Not a serious yank, because if he did that he might break England’s ankle, and England and the British and Washington all of the rest of NATO would eviscerate him about him with their tongues and Russia would be a smug asshole about it again, and God, England would never let him forget it if he broke her leg. Ever. ) “I’m buying you a drink!”

“Caveat emptor,” says England snippily, and doesn’t let up on the barstool. Whoever said the English were civil, gracious and polite? “I came here for some peace and quiet, for a change.”

“Yeah, well, I came to join the club.”

America had figured England had someplace to go when she’d pretended she’d not noticed the way France was deliberately ignoring her and swanned out of the NATO headquarters like she had better things to do. Without talking to any of her own people either. It usually meant England was taking herself directly to the nearest source of both dimness and decent alcohol so she could bitch-text whoever wasn’t at the latest conference with her about how much she hated everything.

A drink and getting away from everyone glaring daggers into his back or offering gentle ‘suggestions’ about his boss had sounded pretty great to America, so he’d followed her. There isn’t enough time allotted for lunch for England to get totally wasted (something the world and certainly America must be very grateful for), but some mild inebriation for the both of them would probably make the afternoon’s meetings a lot easier to get through.

America toes one of the barstool’s feet, letting the dull thud shake up through England’s heel. “We can’t be social pariahs together?”

England still looks suspicious. “Alone, together?”

“With alcohol,” says America, right as the bartender slides their drinks over to them. The guy might hate English, but he has pretty good timing, so America digs out one of what he thinks is one of the more high-value pieces of rainbow paper most of Europe calls money out of his wallet and tells him to keep the change.

England huffs at him, but she withdraws her heel so America can finally pull the barstool out to sit, distracting herself by fishing the maraschino cherry out of her Old-Fashioned to pop it between her lips. “I swear: if you try to talk shop with me right now, I’ll stab you somewhere unpleasant.”

“Didn’t know there was somewhere pleasant to stab a guy,” America comments as he finally takes a seat, holding up both hands in the universal gesture for whoa there when England grins a grin that looks entirely too mean for an elaboration to be anything America wants to hear about in public. “I’ll take your word for it; I don’t wanna know!”

“Where did your spirit of adventure disappear to?” England teases him, and finishes her first drink in one long swallow before reaching out to her new cocktail.

America picks up his own, gesturing in the vague but not explicit of England beside him as his fingers slide in the condensation on the glass, “There’s adventure, and there’s…”

“Where angels fear to tread?” America takes a swallow of his Old-Fashioned so he doesn’t have to answer, the bitters heavy on his tongue under the whiskey burn, and England snorts at him. Flicks back her hair again, but thankfully doesn’t reach out to pat his cheek. “It’s been a long time since you were a cherub, darling.”

America squints at her, because he might have to recalculate just how quickly England can get herself shitfaced when the mood strikes. (He really needs to clean his glasses.) “How many drinks have you had? ”

“Not enough,” sighs England, which is a feeling America can definitely empathise with. At least as long as England isn’t sliding sideways off her barstool. “I keep hoping the alcohol will drown out all their squabbling.”

“S’it working?”

“Like fuck is it.” England toasts him idly, takes a sip of her drink, and then grumbles, “And you don’t help.”

“Thanks,” says America with the same amount of cheer. Maybe he can drown himself in whiskey.

“I’ve my own shit to deal with without my people harping on about your shit,” England continues unnecessarily, because America, of course, could not have possibly heard any of this same spiel from any of the other Nations or their people gathered in Brussels that day already. “If your tit of a boss could just not do what he did in Canada and leave one thing unfucked for the rest of us, that’d be smashing.”

“That’s the plan,” America sighs - and then hurries on before England can harangue him further, “but what’s your strategy?”

The element of surprise works - for once - in his favour, and England is distracted. “Hm?”

“For winning over Europe,” America clarifies - and then pauses with his glass against his mouth, sweet cherry bobbing against his lower lip, realising something. “Is that why you’re wearing a new suit?”

He’d thought England’s skirt suit had been smart: it’s all crisp lines with a nipped waist, dark grey herringbone blazer against the stiff white collar of her blouse, but the straight skirt is definitely showing off a lot of her legs.

America has heard far too many people compliment England’s legs in front of him over the years, and he groans at the mental images. “It is, ain’t it?”

England has the decency to blush - or at least allow all the booze she’s imbibed so far to do it on her behalf. The colour bleeds down her throat, and America groans again into his Old-Fashioned, taking a large swig from his tumbler and tucking the cherry into his cheek. “I -”

“I don’t wanna know,” America gripes, and hopes the whiskey will burn his revelation out of his head. Europe.

Still pink, England coughs, and takes another sip from her own cocktail. For a few moments, they have quiet.

“...Probably for the best,” England admits quietly, eventually, and then shifts enough over on her stool so she can nudge her knee up against America’s. “Thanks for the drink.”

     The 2018 NATO summit was held in Brussels, Belgium, July 11-12. It took place in the (new) NATO headquarters found there, in a complex in Haren (part of the City of Brussels municipality). I don’t know if there are any good bars nearby the complex, but you’d think there would be with all the demand there must be.

The 44th G7 summit was held in La Malbaie, Quebec, Canada, in June 2018 - obviously, before the NATO summit. It received a lot of attention internationally because of (as others have more tactfully put it) ‘a significant decline of relations of members with the United States’, and was dubbed G6+1 by France and parts of the media as a result. The US withdrew in what seemed like a huff from several important international agreements, and was widely condemned by international politicians, climate change scientists, trade policy experts, foreign policy experts… etc. The US President left the summit early in order to travel to Singapore for the USA’s first summit with North Korean leader Kim Jong-un, and was dubbed ‘the democratic world’s worst nightmare’ - all of which, of course, led to a rather fraught political atmosphere for all nations going to the NATO summit the following month.

...Do I really need to make a note about Brexit?

All the titles for this ‘verse come from poetry/literature created around the time the fic is set. This one is taken from a few lines from the poem Running, by Joy Harjo, which was published in July 2018 in The New Yorker: Now I have to find my way, when there’s a river to cross and no Boat to get me there, when there appears to be no home at all.