#the contrast couldn’t be starker

[waugh-bao]

Charlie on the Stones and their roles in the band (2014/video)

[nottsbitch]

Right Here, Right Now - T.N.

Based on that one high school musical 3 scene

✩✩✩✩

As Theo Nott touched down on the pitch, the roar of the Slytherin crowd was deafening. The victory was complete: Slytherin had won the House Cup. Theo’s teammates surged towards him, lifting him high into the air in celebration. The thrill of triumph and the smell of victory filled the crisp evening air.

Hours later, the excitement had shifted from the Quidditch pitch to the Nott residence, where the grand celebration was in full swing. Music and laughter echoed through the opulent halls as students, family, and friends gathered to honor the win. The house was alive with the energy of the Slytherin spirit, with food, drinks, and a great deal of revelry.

Meanwhile, Theo and Matteo were nowhere to be seen. The two friends had found themselves in a less glamorous situation: Theo’s truck had broken down on their way to the party. The situation had quickly escalated from a minor inconvenience to a near disaster, as the truck stubbornly refused to start.

“Keep pushing. You better be pushing!” Theo yelled, his breath visible in the chilly night air as he strained against the vehicle.

“I’m pushing!” Matteo shouted back, his frustration evident. Theo’s truck was heavy and unwieldy, and the prospect of missing out on the party was adding to his exasperation.

“Push harder!” Theo urged, his voice a mix of determination and amusement. They were almost there, just a few more steps from the Nott residence.

Finally, with one last effort, they managed to roll the truck to the edge of the driveway. Theo leaned against the truck, panting and smiling with relief. “Home sweet home,” he said, grinning as he glanced at Matteo.

Matteo gave him a flat look, clearly annoyed. “I’m saving for a new one,” Theo said with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood.

“Uh-huh, save faster,” Matteo muttered before turning on his heel and heading towards the house, eager to join the festivities.

Theo watched as Matteo disappeared into the party, and with a resigned sigh, he trudged towards the entrance. The contrast between the chaotic scene outside and the lively celebration inside couldn’t have been starker. As he walked in, he was greeted by cheers and claps on the back from his friends and family.

Despite the rough start, the party was as vibrant as expected. Theo joined the crowd, accepting congratulations and high-fives. His friends, including Enzo and others, were animatedly discussing the match and their victory.

As Theo navigated through the party, searching for you amidst the sea of well-wishers, he was momentarily lost in the whirlwind of congratulations. He stopped briefly to exchange pleasantries and thank the well-meaning crowd, but his focus remained on finding you.

When he finally spotted you on the dance floor with Pansy Parkinson, he felt a surge of relief. He made his way over, a genuine smile spreading across his face. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around you in a warm embrace.

"Hey," Theo greeted, his voice filled with a mix of joy and exhaustion. "Congratulations, Mr. MVP."

You grinned up at him. "Thanks! Can I fix you a plate?" Even in the midst of the celebration, Theo's thoughtfulness shone through.

"I'll take one of everything" You smiled

"What are we celebrating something?" Theo chuckled, the warmth of your smile making the stress of the day seem almost worth it. Before he could say more, Adrian Pucey swooped in, grabbing Theo's arm.

"What's up, dude? Back-to-back champions, baby!" Pucey exclaimed, his excitement mirroring Theo's earlier exuberance.

Theo was about to respond when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. His father had arrived, ushering him towards a distinguished-looking man who introduced himself as a scout for a professional Quidditch team.

"Let me tell you, that teamwork I saw tonight and the dedication from you, Nott—that's the kind of player I’m looking for," the scout said, his tone sincere.

Theo thanked the man, his mind racing with the possibilities as he tried to process the unexpected opportunity. He turned to find you again, but the crowd had shifted, and he was momentarily disoriented.

Just as he was about to resume his search for you, Pucey stopped him once more, this time with a curious look. “Hey man, great house,” he said, then paused. “Your room? Wicked cool.”

Theo blinked, slightly taken aback. “Oh, thanks, man. Wait, you were in my room?”

"Well yeah I just took a picture... I'm doing mine the same way" He smiled like it was completely normal before pulling out his camera and taking a picture with Theo. The flash confusing him even more then he already was.

Before he could respond Pucey was talking again "Dude we should hang out tonight, Get to know each other"

"yeah sure, I just have to grab the house cup I left it in my truck." Theo thought quickly of a way that he could get away from Pucey.

"Oh dude don't worry I'm on it" And with that he ran off, leaving Theo alone once again and brininging him back to his search.

✩✩✩✩

Theo’s treehouse, tucked away in the branches of an old oak tree, was a nostalgic retreat from the bustling party below. The evening sky was awash with twilight hues, casting a gentle glow over the scene. Theo led you up the wooden ladder with a mix of excitement and nervousness, keen to share this personal space with someone special.

As you reached the top and stepped into the cozy, somewhat cluttered room, you were greeted by the familiar smell of pine and the faint scent of old books. The space was adorned with old Quidditch memorabilia, photographs, and sketches—evidence of the countless hours Theo had spent up here as a child.

“So, another top-secret hiding place,” you said, slipping your hand into his and looking around with interest.

Theo chuckled, his eyes twinkling with a mix of pride and nostalgia. “You’re the second girl I’ve ever brought up here,” he said, his voice softening as he met your gaze.

You raised an eyebrow playfully. “The first?”

“The first was my mom,” he said, pausing to see your reaction. When you elbowed him gently, he continued, “And she only climbed up here to get me down when I got stuck.”

Both of you burst into laughter, the sound echoing softly in the quiet, serene space.

“Well, I’m honored,” you said, taking in the view of the Nott estate. “This place is so cool.”

“Yeah, my dad and I built it together,” Theo said, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “It’s been a special place for me.”

You nodded, glancing over at him. “Is that the coach from the pro team who he hasn't stopped talking about in weeks?”

“The very same,” Theo said, a note of amazement in his voice. “He’s here at my house tonight. It’s surreal.”

“I bet he’s already got your name on a jersey,” you teased.

“That’s always been my dad’s dream,” Theo said, his tone filled with warmth. “He’s been so supportive and I know he's proud .”

“I’m proud of you too,” you added softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

Theo’s expression grew contemplative. “The thing about going pro is…”

He was cut off by you both speaking at once. “I’ll be 1,000 miles away.”

Theo stopped, his gaze fixed on you. “It feels like this year is flying by.”

“Yeah,” you said with a sigh, “I wish it would slow down, at least for a little while.”

Theo took a deep breath, looking around the treehouse as if trying to hold on to the moment. “Well, at least we have right now.”

“That’s true,” you agreed, leaning closer.

“And right here, right now,” Theo said, his voice soft and earnest, “I’m looking at you, and my heart loves the view.”

You laughed, the sound light and full of affection. “That was pretty cheesy.”

“I know,” Theo said, grinning sheepishly. “But I meant every word.”

You smiled back at him, feeling a sense of contentment and connection in the quiet intimacy of the treehouse. The party below seemed like a distant memory, replaced by the shared moment between the two of you.

Theo leaned in, his eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lantern hanging above. “I’m glad we could share this moment together.”

“Me too,” you said, your voice barely a whisper as you leaned in closer. “It’s been a night to remember.”

As you two leaned in and shared a slow kiss the winning fireworks were set off in the back. Perfect timing.

As the party below carried on, the sounds of celebration drifting up to the treehouse, Theo and you were content in the knowledge that, despite the uncertainties of the future, you had each other and a memory that would last long after the night was over.

✩✩✩✩

This was kind of hard to write at the end because I didn't want them breaking out into song.

[mariacallous]

One of the Western populist right’s enduring myths about President Vladimir Putin’s Russia is that it is steeped in traditional values, a bastion of virtue standing in opposition to an increasingly godless West. In the United States, the fascination with Russia as a supposed global center of conservative virtue has especially gained currency in MAGA world.

This image of Russia as a traditionalist’s paradise led former Fox News commentator Tucker Carlson to offer both Putin and Russian far-right philosopher Alexander Dugin, one of Putin’s most vicious cheerleaders for genocide in Ukraine, the opportunity to expound their views to millions of Americans in a comfortable, uncritical setting. It is the reason that MAGA-aligned U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene talks about Russia as a strong protector of Christianity. And it’s why former Trump administration National Security Advisor Michael Flynn has framed Putin as a defender of “family and God.”

The contrast between myth and reality couldn’t be starker. The truth is that Russia is one of the world’s least religious societies, with only 9 percent of Russians attending religious services at least somewhat regularly, according to a poll conducted in 2022 by the Moscow-based Levada Center. By contrast, nearly one-third of Americans are frequent churchgoers. Just 1.4 million Russians—a mere 1 percent of the population—attended the most recent Christmas services. The Russian state also persecutes Christians who do not adhere to Russian Orthodoxy, including Baptists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and, of course, anyone connected to the Orthodox Church of Ukraine.

Nor is Russia a bastion of what true conservatives would consider traditional values. Based on data calculated by the Guttmacher Institute, the Russian abortion rate from 2015 to 2019 was nearly four times higher than that of the United States and more than twice as high as that of Ukraine. Russia also has the fourth-highest divorce rate in the world—60 percent higher than in the United States and more than 50 percent higher than in Ukraine. Those among the U.S. and European far right who project their own ideals onto Russian society ignore the obvious and copious evidence.

The false image of a god-fearing Russia is hardly accidental. It is the consequence of systematic efforts by Putin and his propagandists to craft talking points for the global right—an effort that has accelerated since Russia launched its all-out war on Ukraine in 2022.

It wasn’t always so. After the Soviet collapse in 1991, a Russia shorn of most of its empire struggled with its post-communist identity. Under its first president, Boris Yeltsin, the country waded into the waters of a Russo-centric patriotism. But his chosen successor, Putin, supplanted this worldview by nostalgia for the former Soviet and Russian empires, as well as adulation of brutal autocrats such as Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin and Tsar Peter the Great.

Today, to both mobilize Russians for a bloody war and undermine support for Ukraine by appealing to the political extremes in the West, Putin and his ideologues have crafted a new mythology that depicts Russia as a bastion of traditional values rooted in religious faith.

This theme was front and center at Putin’s fifth inauguration as Russian president on May 7. In his address, he declared that “support for centuries-old family values ​​and traditions will continue to unite public and religious associations, political parties, and all levels of government.”

From their putative moral high ground, Putin and his propagandists in the Kremlin-controlled media have used the bully pulpit to rail against Western “woke-ism,” political correctness, and secularism, earning admiration among right-wing populists in the West. By projecting Russians and the Russian state as deeply religious and steeped in tradition—and by denouncing the Western establishment for its supposed attacks on traditional values—Kremlin propaganda has made serious inroads among cultural and religious conservatives in the United States and elsewhere.

This has helped create some measure of sympathy for Russia’s war against Ukraine among certain segments of the far right, which see Putin as a powerful voice on their side of the culture wars.

Margarita Simonyan, the head of Russia Today, the state media conglomerate responsible for most of Moscow’s global propaganda, crystallized the postulates and far-reaching ambitions of Russia’s traditionalist propaganda during a television appearance in February.

Speaking on the heels of Carlson’s fawning chat with Putin, Simonyan saw a major opportunity for Russia to find fellow travelers and new allies among those disgruntled by secularization in the West. Unlike Ukraine and its Western backers, which she called adepts of “satanism,” she described Russia as “the city on a hill” to which the world’s traditionalists can now flock to escape their stifling secular societies. She declared that traditionalist messaging is the “beacon of a wonderful idea” whose appeal can be likened to that of communism during the Soviet era. Russia, she continued, might even counter its severely shrinking population by attracting disgruntled traditionalists from around the world as immigrants to a new promised land of traditionalism.

To this end, the Kremlin announced a new decree on Aug. 19 that eases residency rules for refugees from countries where “traditional values” are under attack from “neoliberalism” and other supposed secular ills.

Aging Russian kleptocrats such as Putin, who formerly served in the security services of the atheist Soviet state, engage in performative religion at most. As the investigations conducted by the late Russian opposition activist Alexei Navalny documented, the Russian ruling elite, including Putin himself, is obscenely wealthy and deeply corrupt. But state media outlets diligently portray them as god-fearing believers, generous patrons of monasteries, supporters of religious media, and sponsors of newly built churches—all paid for with money they have stolen from the Russian people.

These performative good works are applauded by the security service operatives who control the upper reaches of the Russian Orthodox Church. Purged and brought under complete state control under Stalin, the church has consistently promoted the aims of Soviet and now Russian policies. It is a vocal supporter of Putin’s war against Ukraine.

At the apex of performative piety stands Putin. Russian Orthodox Patriarch Kirill, born Vladimir Gundyayev and believed to be a former security services operative, has lavished praise on Putin for being “truly the first Orthodox president” of Russia. The link between Putin’s proclaimed religiosity and something approaching a divine right to rule Russia has also become part of the new ideological canon—back to the roots, if you will, of Russian Orthodoxy as an imperial church.

“May God help you to continue to carry out the ministry that God himself has entrusted to you,” Kirill said during Putin’s inauguration in May. Given the long-standing collusion between the Kremlin and a compliant church, it is little wonder that religious leaders actively support Putin’s war and encourage Russia’s young to lay down their lives.

To mask the degradation of spiritual and religious life, Russia has built a vast Potemkin village of new churches. Around 30,000 new parishes have been added in the post-Soviet era, averaging nearly three every day since 1991. Given Russians’ negligible interest in religion, they stand largely empty.

Simonyan’s comparison of Putin’s traditionalist, pseudo-Christian posturing with the global appeal of communism is apt in ways that she did not intend. Like communism, whose façade of equality and social justice masked mass repression and the emergence of privileged, all-powerful elite, today’s Russia has little patience for moral and ethical principles. Instead, the Russian state and the Russian Orthodox Church serve the exigencies of a kleptocratic mafia that rules over a deeply damaged, militaristic, and highly unequal society.

Indeed, in time, Russia’s newest state ideology is very likely to become another God That Failed—the title of a landmark 1949 book in which six Western intellectuals broke with communism, declaring that it was just a cover for a new form of dictatorship.

For the moment, none of this matters to the Western populist right, which has blithely ignored the carnage that Putin has inflicted on Ukraine. Nor will Russia’s performative religiosity put those Westerners off; their projection of virtue onto Putin’s Russia has become too important a part of their cynical politics. If your enemy is the West’s liberal and tolerant society, then the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

[daydreaming-in-letters]

Earth & Fire

Chapter III - A guest or a queen

07/22/2023

Pairing: Hades (Hozier) x Anthea (OFC)

Word Count: 5,553

Warnings: language

Summary: Anthea is settling in in the Underworld, and while Hades is trying his best to make her stay as pleasant as possible, there are others who make the situation a lot more difficult than it already is.

A/N: Are you ready to meet some new characters? Enjoy!

Earth & Fire - Masterpost

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

If you like my story, you are very welcome to like, comment or reblog. Please don’t copy, repost or share my work on other platforms.

Stones and rocks and stones and more rocks. This place seemed to consist of nothing else. Apart from darkness and despair, and yet another river they had crossed on their way. Flames, blue as the one inside Charon’s lantern, rose from it to lick at the air and devour everyone who was foolish enough to get too close. 

The god in front of her hadn’t cared to tell her its name. In fact, he hadn’t uttered a single word since their departure from the riverbank. Not even when, at last, a massive black building had come into view. His palace, Anthea guessed, seeing that most of the other inhabitants of the Underworld probably had no need for a dwelling as big as this. Still, it wasn’t as huge as she had expected it to be. It was almost modest considering that he was one of the big three, and the ruler of this whole realm. Even on the inside it lacked the pompous furnishings and decorations Anthea had thought to find. There were mortal kings’ palaces who were more sumptuous than his. Not that Anthea had seen any, but her father had told her about a few and at least in her imagination they were more worthy of a god than this building ever could be. 

Especially since instead of using his name, many mortals used to call him Plouton, the wealthy one. As the ruler of the Underworld, all of the earth’s treasures that hid underground belonged to him. Naturally, she had assumed to find precious metals like gold or silver and the finest jewels, and not the dark obsidian he had chosen for the floors and walls, and occasionally even for the ceilings.

Above their heads, more blue flames seemed to float in the air, their cold light reflecting from the polished stone to lead their way down the indistinguishable corridors. They seemed to have walked forever, every step luring her deeper into his labyrinth of darkness, and as they finally stopped in front of a large two-winged door, Anthea was sure that, should she ever want to escape this place, it would be impossible to find her way out of it.

“These are your rooms,” he plainly stated as he pushed the door open and stepped aside to make room for her.

She didn’t know exactly what she had expected, probably a plain room, nothing better than a prison cell. It would have suited her under the circumstances of her stay here, but what her eyes found on the other side of the door was as far from a prison cell as one could possibly imagine. 

Anthea was greeted by rich hues of pink and purple. The contrast to the cool blue that the rest of this realm seemed to be drenched in couldn’t be any starker. The light radiated off a myriad of crystals that were placed in several alcoves all around the room. She had never seen anything as splendid as this before. 

“This is the ante-chamber.” Another plain statement, as if the magic of the room didn’t affect him at all. “And through there you will find the bedchamber and a bath.” He pointed to another door at the far end of the room. “I assume you must be exhausted from your journey.”

Anthea didn’t reply at first, too stunned by the splendour in front of her, when her senses suddenly caught a motion and she turned to find that he was about to leave.

“Wait!” she almost shouted at him in the panic that had befallen her and was quick to add a much softer, “Please.”

It wouldn’t have been necessary, she realised, as he had followed her request anyway and was already turning to face her again. As much as one could call it that with his hood still veiling his countenance.

“Please, my lord, will you let me see your face?”

There was a reluctance in his movement, but once again he did as she had asked of him. Slender fingers clutched the black fabric of his hood and slowly pushed it back until she could see him clearly. He was beautiful, not in the least what she had anticipated, but beautiful none the less. Wild curls, falling all the way down to his shoulders, framed his long face. Its features were well sculpted with high cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Half of the milky skin of his face was covered by a beard, a little lighter in colour as the hair on his head, with a touch of red as far as she could tell in this light. 

It was hard to imagine that this god was in any way related to Zeus, let alone that he was his brother. They seemed to be polar opposites, especially when it came to their eyes, she thought, as his gaze met hers. They were kind eyes, compassionate, reminding her so much of her father’s eyes, even though Hephaestus’ eyes were blue and not green as the pair that was observing her carefully right now.

“How…” There had been a question forming in the back of her mind, but she needed to collect her thoughts for a moment before the words finally aligned in her head. “How can you be so sure Zeus won’t find me here?”

“Because he never sets foot into the Underworld.”

“What makes you think he won’t consider it now?”

Her question had brought the tiniest hint of a smile to his lips.

“He doesn’t dare. My brothers and I draw a huge amount of our power from our realms, which in turn makes each of us more powerful than the other in our own territories.”

“Is that why you never go to Olympus?” Her father had told her that he wasn’t the only one who kept avoiding that place. Apparently, a few other gods also chose to stay away from Olympus. Hades’ name had been among those Hephaestus had listed.

“No, I choose not to go there because I don’t give much about gossip and schemes.”

His answer made her smile. “Neither do I.” But then she became serious again. “Still, you’re his brother. Poseidon’s brother as well, and everyone knows he is no different when it comes to his…appetite. How can I be sure you are not like them?”

“You can’t. And you are wise not to trust me or anyone on that matter.” He paused for a moment, leaving her to simmer in the unease his words had caused. “I take it you haven’t seen much of the world outside your home. Being careful as you get to know more of it is a wise way to start. Still I fear, my word is all I can offer. I gave it to your father and I will give it you. Choose for yourself whether that will be enough.”

Patiently he waited, giving her time to weigh his offer, a task that was harder than it seemed. How could she trust someone she had only met today? And a god at that. For all she knew there wasn’t a single god who didn’t lie or cheat to get what they wanted. And if anything, his words had only confirmed that opinion. Still, as she looked into his eyes now, she thought that for a second she might have glimpsed something deep within, something that he had kept well hidden until now. And that was all she needed.

“I will take it.”

He nodded silently before he turned to leave again. He hesitated for a moment, as if he expected her to ask another question, but when she didn’t, he began walking towards the door. 

“Rest now. I will send someone to show you around later.”

Hades kept word. However, in the everlasting gloom of the Underworld, it was impossible to tell how much time had passed since he had left her. Minutes, hours, days, it all felt the same to Anthea. All she knew was that she did not feel rested at all when the soft knock on her door woke her. It seemed to come from far away, muffled by two sets of thick doors, and just as she thought she had only imagined it, it came again, a little more determined this time. 

Anthea had already gotten up and crossed half of the distance when the knocking sounded again.

“My lady?” a voice asked, velvety, yet unable to veil the thinning patience that lay underneath, and as Anthea pulled the dark wood aside, she was greeted by an already scowling beauty, her foot tapping the ground restlessly. 

Her black hair shimmered in the blue light as she turned her head to look at Anthea, a defying stare, two catlike orbs of greenish blue eyeing the new arrival to the Underworld suspiciously. 

“Lady Anthea, I assume.” And when Anthea was too stunned by the hostile glare the other woman still sent her, the raven-haired vision rolled her stunning eyes and pressed past her. “I am Minthe, daughter of the river-god Cocytus. My king has asked me to show you around the palace.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Lady Minthe.” It wasn’t a delight really, but her father had taught her better than to be unkind to strangers who offered their help.

Minthe clearly hadn’t been as fortunate, as she just huffed, extending her arms towards Anthea, who just now realised that she was carrying something. “He also asked me to bring you this, in case you wanted to change into some clean clothes.”

Minthe’s gaze burned as she looked her up and down, signalling that even though Hades had been polite enough to leave the decision to Anthea, it was probably necessary to change after her arduous journey.

“Thank you. How very thoughtful and kind of Lord Hades.”

Anthea had already taken the peplos from Minthe and hurried back into the bedroom to put it on, when a reply came through the doors left ajar.

“I wouldn’t think too much of it. It is a customary token of hospitality, not one of sympathy.”

“Either way,” Anthea stepped into the ante-chamber again, a purple peplos, richly embroidered with golden flowers at the seams, enveloping her body, “it is the most beautiful piece of clothing I’ve ever had the pleasure of wearing.”

“Is that so? I thought I heard someone say you were the daughter of a god…”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Well, clearly he doesn’t care about you much, or he would have endowed you with some finer clothes than the colourless rag you arrived in,” Minthe sneered, obviously very pleased with herself.

“Your misjudgement is forgivable, as you obviously don’t know my father. Because if you did, you would know that he cares more about a person’s character than their looks. The eyes can easily be deceived by beauty, but the heart will always reveal a person’s true colours.”

The naiad huffed again, “A shame purple doesn’t seem to match your true colours then.”

It was also a shame her father clearly hadn’t cared more about his daughter, teaching her that beauty was worth more than manners, probably even making her believe that it was the whole point of her, the only purpose for which she was born to attract an honourable suitor. But Anthea didn’t say that. After all, what good was to come of it?

“How about we start that tour of the palace you mentioned then? That way the look of me in this mismatched peplos won’t trouble you longer than necessary.”

Minthe’s fiery red lips twitched peculiarly, to force a grin it seemed, although it could just as easily be mistaken for a baring of teeth. 

“Very well then. This way.”

The palace was much bigger than Anthea had anticipated at her arrival. Room after room, spreading across several floors, she was shown until her feet started to ache again and her head began to spin. She would need days, probably even weeks to find her way around without getting lost. So far, all she could recall was the route to her rooms and to the library. She had paid special attention here, eager to revisit the ridiculously extensive collection of books as soon as possible. 

Minthe had also shown her the throne room with its impressive dais. It wasn’t used much, she had explained, as against common believe, the ruler of the Underworld didn’t preside over the judgement of every single soul that arrived in his realm. His attendance was reserved for special cases, mostly kings or those who had angered the gods and were facing an eternity in Tartarus. The fate of all other souls lay in the hands of the three judges, Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus.

They had also come past more guest rooms, the kitchen and servant quarters, which were astonishingly small, she had noted. The only thing they hadn’t come across yet, were Lord Hades private rooms and when Anthea dared ask about them, Minthe’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Did he not tell you?”

He obviously had not. Why else would she ask?

“They are right across the floor from yours.”

That was odd. Why would there be guest rooms in such close proximity to his private quarters?

“Oh, since we are already talking about that topic…Your rooms and his happen to share a balcony. An unfortunate detail, for you, as it means you won’t be able to use it. It would be most inappropriate to disturb the king’s rare moments of privacy, would it not?”

“It certainly would.”

Inappropriate and terribly awkward. She silently vowed not to come anywhere near that balcony for the entirety of her stay. 

“I am glad we are in agreement about that.” Minthe smiled sweetly, a strange look after the hostility she had radiated from the moment of their first encounter, but it died away as soon as it had come. “Now, there is one more thing my king asked me to tell you.” One she evidently did not like too much. “You are to dine with him tonight. He will be with you shortly.”

And without a warning the nymph pushed open the door she had stopped at and shoved Anthea in. Protest was forming on her lips, but before it had the chance to be uttered, the door fell closed behind her again and she was alone.

The room was dark, like everything else in this realm, she thought, and sparsely furnished. A huge dining table with several chairs at its centre, there was only a fireplace that immediately drew Anthea’s attention. It wasn’t the mere fact that the room had a fireplace, almost every room they had been to during their tour had, but its flame that was different.

Red and yellow flames were licking silently at the logs, real logs, not their stony substitutes she had seen all day. She had never thought a fire could spark such a rush of joy, not even in the colder winter months on Lemnos had she ever felt her stomach twirl in delight upon the sight of burning wood, but now she had to hold back a squeal as she knelt down in front of the fireplace, her hands reaching out to get as close as possible to the familiar heat.

“Are you well?”

He sounded bewildered, maybe even a little concerned, but as she looked up to find him right next to her, there was also the tiniest hint of amusement on his face.

“Yes, my lord,” she answered mechanically, her cheeks burning more fervently than the fire could have ever made them. Hastily she stood, dusting off her clothes—the new clothes he had given her—before she added, “Please excuse my unseemly behaviour. I did not hear you enter the room.”

“Nothing unseemly about enjoying a fire.”

The unexpected reply made her face him again, and what she found when she really took him in for the first time since he had appeared out of nowhere beside her, was just as unexpected. He looked even taller without his cloak, and, as she had already anticipated, much leaner. The warm light of the fire suited him however, compensating the paleness of his skin and giving it a soft golden glow. He would probably look like that if he spent more time above ground, she caught herself musing for a second, but of course he couldn’t. At least not long enough for a tan to take hold. He was wearing a black chiton, falling all the way down to his ankles. It only revealed his neck and arms, void of bulging biceps or a defined chest that spoke of his divine nature. His appearance made it easy to forget that he wasn’t a mortal like herself and somehow she took comfort in that.

Wordlessly he moved, reaching for the backrest of the chair and pulling it out for her. Anthea sat down, just as wordlessly, and long after he had taken a seat at the end of the table to her left, there was still silence between them.

“I hope you find the peplos to your liking,” he finally enquired.

“Yes, thank you, my lord. It is very beautiful.”

“I wasn’t sure about the embroidery or whether the colour was to your taste.”

She averted her gaze, fingers caressing the impossibly soft fabric that covered her thighs. “As I said, it is beautiful, my lord. I’m just not used to such extravagant clothing.”

“I thought as much. Your father also never cared for fashion.”

A soft smile spread on her lips as she thought of Hephaestus and his functional clothing. “No, indeed. He still doesn’t.”

But then her heart sank again. Her father. The wound still fresh, it ripped even deeper at the thought of him so far away from her. She wouldn’t be able to see him for a very long time. And under the almost unbearable weight of this truth, silence fell over the room again.

It was only stirred by the clatter of plates being brought in by two servants. They were loaded with food, more than the two of them would ever be able to eat in one meal. While they retreated without a sound, Hades had grabbed the bulbous jug they had placed on the table first and filled the chalice next to her plate with wine. He then repeated the same with his own chalice before he set the jug down. 

She knew it was her turn now. As the laws of hospitality demanded, the guest always was to choose their food first. And it looked delicious, calling to her empty stomach until it was almost painful to resist. 

There were different kinds of meat, the juicy lamb chops with mint smelling especially mouthwatering. Anthea could also see olives and nuts, right next to her a whole plate of creamy goat cheese and fresh figs. Beside a cruet of olive oil, the servants had placed a basket with bread, fresh out of the oven, she guessed, its insides probably still warm. For dessert they had served more fruit, pomegranate, her favourite, right under her nose. The ruby flesh that housed its seeds almost seemed to burst with juice. 

“Is the food not to your liking?” His irritated tone left her in no doubt that his patience was slowly wearing thin.

“That’s not…” Before she could even finish that sentence, a loud growl from her stomach rendered any further word useless.

Now more than ever, she could feel his gaze on her, burning the guilt she felt into her skin. From the corner of her eye she saw that he was swivelling his chalice in his hand and took it as a sign of his waning composure. Soon he would set the wine down and lash out at her for the grave insult against his hospitality. But he did nothing of the sort, and when he finally spoke again his voice was soft and understanding.

“You need to eat, even though the grief your separation from your father causes you might have silenced your hunger.”

If only he knew how wrong he was. It wasn’t grief at all that made her hold back. It was her lack of trust in him. It had been Hades himself who had told her mere hours ago that she was wise not to place her confidence in him and although her father trusted him enough to leave her in Hades’ care, Anthea knew too little about him to tell whether he meant well or, like all the other gods, had merely his own interests in mind.

“Believe me, my hunger is far from silenced, my lord.”

“What keeps you from eating then?”

She hesitated again. The reason sounded foolish enough in her head already.

“There is this rumour…”

“And what is it you have heard about the food in this realm that leads you to consider starving yourself instead of touching it?”

“They say whoever swallows even a single bite of food in the Underworld is doomed to stay here forever.”

Once again, the God of the Underworld surprised her with his reaction as he began to laugh so heartily he had to set his chalice down to keep the wine from spilling all over the table. 

“And pray tell, what good would that do? Sooner or later, every single soul is bound to end up here anyway. So why punish myself with keeping more nagging and moaning creatures around me than I already have to host?”

Anthea could feel her cheeks heat up again, scorching from humiliation—caused by her own foolishness and even more so by him calling her out for it. His words stung more than they should, especially the last part. Biting her tongue, she could feel her teeth drawing blood as she forced the words back down that more than anything she wanted to shout at him right now. Did he honestly think she enjoyed being exiled, trapped here without a single beam of sunlight, without her father, the only family she had ever known? Instead she was stuck here with him, a man as confusing as there had ever been one, who played the perfect host one moment just to make her even more miserable than she already was in the next.

Anthea kept her eyes lowered. She knew if they would find his, he would see the anger rage inside them like a storm, and she was painfully aware which consequences it could have to defy a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, for being the burden I so clearly am to you.”

His laugh died away immediately to make room for a silence that weighed heavier than any silence that had existed between them before. Anthea could feel her skin prickle from the charged air in the room, making her knead the purple fabric of her peplos fervently while she awaited the thunderstorm to unleash.

“No, forgive me,” he almost whispered. “That’s not what I meant to say at all.”

In an instant her head shot up, her eyes desperately searching for his, and when they finally met, she found nothing but truth there.

“Eat, my lady, I promise it won’t bind you to this realm or harm you in any other way.”

Anthea had excused herself and gone to bed a long while ago. Shortly after, Minthe’s head had appeared in the doorway, but he had shooed her away. He didn’t want any company tonight, especially not from her. It was only him now, and Cerberus. The huge dog lay to his feet by the fire, two of its three heads fighting for a leftover bone from dinner while the third had already given up and was slowly drifting into sleep, lulled by the warmth of the flames.

He had almost forgotten how pretty they were, dancing brightly as they feasted on the remaining wood. Soon the fire would die, like everything eventually did, reduced to nothing but ash. The eternal circle of life, his daily business.

He should stick with that. Death, souls, the Underworld—those were the things he understood and knew how to handle. Unlike his guest, he thought. It had always been like that, even before he had accepted his fate and come down here. The isolation had only amplified his reticence. 

On top of that, he had never been good at talking to people, especially women. Minthe seemed to be the only exception. She had been radiating towards him ever since they had met. Why, he didn’t know. And much less did he want her to. It had only been one time, one moment of utter loneliness that had overwhelmed him in the early days after being assigned to the Underworld. Since then, all he had done was push her away, and still she refused to take no for an answer, sticking to him like a leech, always waiting for him to change his mind.

That would never happen though because as ridiculous as it sounded coming from the God of the Underworld, if ever he would settle, it would be for love, not to feel less alone. But who would willingly choose a life with him if it entailed an eternity here? 

Anthea surely wouldn’t. Not that he wanted her to, gods no. That poor girl had enough problems already. Still she was the perfect example of the reasons people had to come here at all: to safe their own lives or to beg for someone else’s. It was always the same. No sane creature would ever journey into this realm if they weren’t on the brink of despair. There usually wasn’t much he could do for them though. The Underworld had strict rules even he had to obey, and so he sent away most of the beggars without even listening to their pleas. 

Anthea was the rare exception. And he might have driven her away like all the others if it hadn’t been for the involvement of his brother. For the longest time, Hades had been growing tired of his antics, always having to deal with its consequences and cleaning up after him. There were too many examples of havoc his relentless and utterly selfish rule had wreaked, too many souls that roamed the fields of Asphodel because Zeus had decided they were disposable. He wouldn’t allow him to destroy yet another life. Not this time. Not hers.

“Dreaming about her already, uncle?” Hades jolted in his seat. “Isn’t that a bit premature, though? I hear she has only arrived today.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Not everyone is constantly thinking of any woman as their possible next conquest.” 

He had no desire to look at his nephew, knowing full well that there was a sly grin playing on his lips, very pleased with his prickish teasing.

“Maybe not everyone is. But you certainly didn’t waste any time. Giving her the queen’s chambers…”

Hades couldn’t deny that he had indeed given her the rooms he had once built himself for the queen of this realm. A long time ago, when he had been young and foolish enough to let himself believe anyone would ever share this burden with him.

“She’s my guest, Hermes.”

“Exactly. So why not put her in one of the guest rooms?”

Hades sighed, “They are not—”

“What? Fitting?”

“No. Don’t twist my words.” Hades felt the need to get up and walk away from his insolent nephew. One arm leaned against the fireplace, he tried to let its warmth soothe him. It didn’t work. “It’s just, they are pretty and they have never been used. Probably never will. So why let them go to waste?”

Behind his back he could hear Hermes help himself to some wine.

“You like her.”

“That’s not what this is about.”

Judging by the sound, he gulped down the contents of his chalice in one swig, probably eager to hit him with the next inappropriate assumption.

“But you do. And who could blame you? I mean, it’s not as if the ladies are waiting in line for you, eh? After all, she’s the first woman with a pulse to set foot into your realm since…since you took over the reigns here, I guess. And as if that wasn’t enough for you to get excited about already, she isn’t a sight for sore eyes either. That long, golden hair, like liquid rays of sunshine. And paired with those dark brown eyes…mh. They hold fire, Hades. Fire! I bet she’s an even bigger sensation between the sheets than that forest nymph I fucked during Apollo’s last orgy on Olympus. Did you even look at her properly? I mean, really look at her and those lush curves? A fertility goddess has got nothing on that mortal temptation.”

“Enough!” Hades had been feeling his hand clenching into a fist ever since the impertinent little fuck had opened his mouth again, but it was only now that it flew against the wall to silence him. “Will you listen to yourself, Hermes! No wonder that poor woman fled the mortal realm with creatures like you lurking around.”

That seemed to have done the trick. With the mischief finally wiped from his face, Hermes swallowed visibly upon the sudden outbreak, brushing one of his unruly dark curls behind his ear. When Hades spoke again, his voice was much softer.

“Anthea has been through so much, thanks to your insatiable father. She was forced to leave her home and everything she knows behind. So, to come back to your point, if there were any chambers in this realm fit to soothe her sorrow even the tiniest bit, I would give them to her. Until then, the queen’s chambers will have to do.”

“Hm,” Hermes shrugged, almost back to his old sassy self again, “it’s your palace, Hades. You can do whatever pleases you.” And then he went on in a whisper, “Even keep telling yourself that you’re not into her.”

“You’re right, Hermes. I am the ruler of this place, and as such it would very much please me if you left. But there are two matters that need to be settled first.”

“One?” Hermes asked nonchalantly while shoving an olive into his mouth.

“Did you only come here to vex me or does your visit have an actual purpose?”

“Ah, you know me too well, uncle. Actually, I was escorting a few souls to the river Styx when I ran into your little…fling.”

Honest bewilderment flitted over Hades face. “Fling?”

“Minthe.”

He couldn’t suppress the heavy roll of his eyes upon Hermes’ stupid allusion. 

“Hermes, how often do I have to tell you? She is not my fling. In fact, she is not my anything.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, she told me about the newest addition to your household. And very eagerly so. Probably needed to get it off her chest, the jealous little thing. And you know what they say: where there is smoke… So I needed to see for myself whether the rumours are true und the King of the Dead has finally chosen his bride.”

Insufferable. “As I already told you, I have not. And just to make it clear once again: I have no intention of marrying Anthea.”

“Duly noted.”

“Which leads me to the second point.”

Hermes’ eyebrows shot up. “Go on.”

“I need you to swear an unbreakable oath that you won’t mention her stay here to any soul, living or dead.”

The messenger of the gods was silent for a while, merely for the dramatic effect, Hades assumed. And to let his uncle simmer a bit.

“And what if I don’t?”

Now it was Hades turn to sneer. “If you don’t,” he stated while he took a step towards him, his voice perfectly measured, “you will not leave this realm until it is safe for her to do the same.”

“You can’t hold me hostage here. You wouldn’t dare.”

There was a sizzle in the air as Hades’ magic came to life. In an instant, Cerberus stood by his side, all three heads baring their teeth and growling at the younger god who found himself backed up against the table.

“I can. And I will.”

Hermes’ eyes went wide, his hands shooting up to appease the other god.

“All right, all right. I was just joking. I will swear that bloody oath if it means so much to you.”

As quickly as it had flared up, Hades’ magic died away. For a second, Cerberus looked up at him in confusion before he finally decided his assistance was no longer needed and returned to his cozy spot by the fireplace. 

Hades couldn’t wait to do the same, but first he would ensure Anthea’s safety here. He knew he couldn’t keep his brother from finding out about her whereabouts forever, but at least he could buy Hephaestus and her a little more time. Time they would need to figure out what to do next. And with the biggest tattler out of the way, they would have a few more days, maybe even weeks to do so.

In the morning, he would have to speak to Minthe as well. If it was true and she had told Hermes about Anthea, she would have to suffer the consequences of her actions.

Chapter 4

***

taglist:

@ashesofblackroses 🖤

[karimwebdono]

6 Days Tour from Marrakech: An Unforgettable Moroccan Journey

Embarking on this 6 days tour from Marrakech felt like stepping into another world—one where bustling cities, ancient fortresses, and serene desert landscapes all merge into an extraordinary adventure. From the very first day, leaving the vibrant streets of Marrakech behind, I knew this journey would be one I would never forget.

The drive through the High Atlas Mountains was breathtaking. The roads snaked their way through towering peaks, revealing stunning views of terraced hillsides and traditional Berber villages tucked away in the valleys. As we crossed the Tizi n’Tichka Pass, the highest in Morocco, I could already feel the magic of this 6-day tour from Marrakech unfolding. The first major stop at Ait Ben Haddou, a UNESCO World Heritage site, was like stepping into history. Walking through its ancient mud-brick structures, it was easy to imagine the centuries of stories held within its walls.

Over the next few days, the adventure only deepened. The rugged beauty of the Dades Valley and the towering cliffs of the Todra Gorges were nothing short of spectacular. The scenery changed from green valleys to dramatic rock formations, offering picture-perfect moments at every turn.

But the highlight of the tour came as we approached the Sahara. Riding camels across the golden dunes of Merzouga at sunset was a surreal experience. The vastness of the desert, with nothing but the sound of the wind and the soft padding of the camels, felt otherworldly. As the night settled in, we gathered around a campfire in a traditional Berber camp, under a sky bursting with stars. This part of the 6 days tour from Marrakech was truly unforgettable—an intimate moment with nature, culture, and history that touched my soul.

The contrast between the serenity of the desert and the vibrant life in Fes couldn’t have been starker. Fes’s medina, with its maze-like streets and bustling souks, was a sensory explosion. From the colorful tanneries to the ancient Al-Qarawiyyin University, every corner of the city whispered stories of Morocco’s deep cultural and historical roots.

Finally, reaching the blue city of Chefchaouen felt like a peaceful retreat. Nestled in the Rif Mountains, its striking blue-washed streets were a photographer’s dream. The relaxed atmosphere was the perfect way to end the 6-day tour from Marrakech, offering a calm and reflective end to what had been a whirlwind journey of discovery.This wasn’t just a tour—it was a transformative experience that showcased the best of Morocco’s landscapes, culture, and history. The 6 days tour from Marrakech provided memories that will last a lifetime, leaving me in awe of the beauty and richness of this incredible country.

[kick-the-clouds]

Kamala Harris put Donald Trump in his place. She reminded everyone that Blackness isn’t something to be questioned or justified. Her response to Trump was powerful, a clear stand against the tired, racist rhetoric. She didn't need to elaborate on her identity or heritage; her presence spoke volumes. It’s 2024, and we're still dealing with these outdated views from the right. Harris’s campaign theme song, chosen with purpose, echoes her message: she embodies strength and resilience without needing to explain herself. It’s time for conservatives to understand that their narrow-minded attacks won't hold up against such unwavering confidence. Biden and Harris are leading with dignity, and the contrast with the opposition couldn’t be starker.

[queenmelancholy]

Thanks for all the comments!! @professorcalculusstanaccount @nuttypizzabluebird373 You guys really got me interested as a Hongkonger, so I think I’d just throw in my two cents’ worth XD

Regarding where the Wang family lived and how it impacted Chang’s character, I’ve read on Tintin wiki that Mr Wang was involved in fighting the Japanese in the Mukden incident, but the bombing that triggered it happened near Shanghai in the comic (while in reality it was in Shenyang), which just showed Hergé’s intention to depict Chang as someone based around the area of Shanghai - maybe not that far north, just to stick to his real life friend’s background, and to increase the chance of Chang interacting with foreign people later on in the story (not to say that he wouldn’t have been an open-minded person if he had grown up in the north, but to make a starker contrast with his biological family).

So, apart from speculating that Chang’s biological family was in Jiangsu, when it comes to the parallel timelines, I am thinking maybe in The Blue Lotus (1930s) the Wang family was indeed in Shanghai, and only in Tintin in Tibet (1950s) had they relocated to HK considering how the political landscape had changed over the two decades.

The ‘open-port’ (開埠) of HK and Shanghai happened in 1841 and 1843 respectively because of colonisations after the first opium war. Business activities thrived in both cities, but before the communist regime (since 1949) it was Shanghai that was more prosperous (and where the Chinese had more actual power, whilst HK’s capital was basically controlled by the British in the early days), so it was reasonable that the affluent Wangs lived in Shanghai.

1930s Shanghai

As discussed, in 1950s the ‘class struggle’ under the new communist government led to land reform activities including dou dizhu (fighting against the landlords) which was quite violent and millions of people died (estimated). This was something that Hergé wouldn’t have foreseen. And Shanghai was no longer colonised since 1943 so it was also affected by the political turbulence, which left HK (British colony until 1997) and Macau (Portuguese colony until 1999) the only cities not under communist rule (also Taiwan was under KMT’s rule but it’s more complicated). Many people, rich or not, chose to settle in HK (because apparently the British was doing a slightly better job at ruling lol) and perhaps it was what the fictional Wang family did as well. They probably couldn’t have maintained their living standards at the start but it would soon become better if they knew how to invest their money because opportunities were everywhere. Furthermore, some people just used HK as a springboard to go to the west, like Chang’s adoptive uncle who went to London to open an antique shop. And perhaps, Chang himself in the end, too.

1950s Hong Kong

So there you have it! I’d say that the characterisation of Chang was quite consistent if you consider whichever city he’s lived in was the most culturally diverse place in China at that particular time.

Again, I was only here because my mutual @acewithobsessions very kindly entrusted me to help with the Chinese names. But this post has got so wild that I must take it more seriously. I’m not a history expert nor someone familiar with Tintin, so I apologise if there’s any mistake. And thank you all for reading my nonsense.

More on HK’s colonial history around 1940s-1950s: Grantham, A., & Lord Wilson of Tillyorn. (2012). Via Ports: From Hong Kong to Hong Kong. Hong Kong University Press. Written by Sir Alexander Grantham, Governor of HK (1947-1957), first published in 1965.

I'm boggled. This isn't the same thing as in the letter, is it?

Thank you so much for the ask!! Good job on spotting the difference!

Posting the letter again for reference:

So you're right, on the rock it reads 張仲仁 (Cheung Chong Yan in standard cantonese romanisation), while on the envelope the name is 張仲文 (Cheung Chong Man). Hergé’s real life Chinese friend is 張充仁 (Cheung Chong Yan), so the romanisation would be the same as the name in your ask. 

HOWEVER, those are just romanisations (which are less accurate but easier for foreigners to pronounce). Their actual pronunciations in cantonese (spoken in Hong Kong) / mandarin (spoken in mainland China including Shanghai) are different:

張充仁 = Tcheung Chong Yun* / Zhang Chongren

張仲文 = Tcheung Tchong Mun / Zhang Zhongwen

張仲仁 = Tcheung Tchong Yun / Zhang Zhongren 

* 'Tch-' is similar to J sound; '-ong' is OW-ng; '-un' as in under

As you can see, there’s a bit of a mix and match. But I think it makes sense to change the first word in his given name into 仲 given that the story says Chang is from HK, because we seldom use 充 in our names (perhaps more common in mainland China, not 100% sure). 

Another fun fact for you on the meanings of those given names~ 

充 = full of

仲 = still be (only in cantonese)

仁 = love for all beings/ benevolence

文 = cultured/ gentle

Both 仁 and 文 are commonly used here across different generations and genders. So I think both translations are pretty nice!!

Also, I just spotted that the stamps in the top right corner are of Queen Elizabeth II and King George VI:

Not so good at maintaining consistency but good attention to detail, I must say :)

[ailtrahq]

Binance’s share of spot Trading volume jumped from 38.3% in 2021 to 64.3% in 2023. Due to the SEC lawsuit, Binance’s Market depth fell from 42% in 2021 to 30.7% in 2023. For an ecosystem which pandered to the libertarian ideals of decentralization, the increasing centralization and dominance of a few crypto entities couldn’t get starker. According to Claire Medalie, Director of Research at Kaiko, liquidity in the crypto Market has become more concentrated over time, with only eight Trading platforms accounting for about 90% of global Market depth and Trading volumes. Source: Kaiko This was astonishing, considering there were hundreds of crypto exchanges operational across different countries at the time of writing, data from CoinGecko revealed. Single point of failure? Market depth is an exchange’s ability to absorb relatively large Market orders without materially affecting the asset’s Price. Trading volumes. on the other hand, represent the total amount of a digital asset traded over a certain period. Both indicators are used to assess liquidity in the markets. Highly concentrated markets meant that the liquidity was not distributed evenly across exchanges. Such a situation, as per Kaiko, could lead to higher volatility in the Market. Another issue with a disproportionate Market share was that the collapse of one entity could bring the entire Market down, something that was on show with the FTX implosion of 2022. The asymmetry becomes much more pronounced when one puts Binance, world’s largest crypto exchange, into context. Binance’s share of spot Trading volume jumped from 38.3% in 2021 to 64.3% in 2023. Interestingly, the total share of eight largest exchanges increased less dramatically, from 84.1% to 89.5%.   Source: Kaiko It became evident that Binance scooped up the majority of business from its nearest rivals and consolidated its position in the Market. The collapse of FTX, which was the third-largest exchange at that time, played to Binance’s advantage. The inference one could draw was that Binance served as a single point of failure for the industry. As a result, incidents of regulatory crackdowns and Security breaches have had a cascading effect on the Market value of Crypto Assets. Binance’s Market depth falls In contrast to Trading activity, Binance’s Market depth fell considerably, from 42% in 2021 to 30.7% in 2023. This could be attributed to the exodus of Market participants following the SEC’s lawsuit against the platform and attempts to freeze Assets at its American branch, Binance.US. The fall in Binance’s Market depth also led to a decline in the share of the top eight exchanges. Although, it still remained above 90% at press time. Source: Kaiko

[thestarkerisobvious]

The Starker Amnesia Fic

1 chapter to be posted every weekend

by myself and @von--gelmini aka @starker-stories

AMAZING art by @mrstarksbaby​

[btw this is a HARD NSFW.  This will be in the VERY USUAL style we had of lots and lots and LOTS of sex.  You’ve been warned.]

Peter didn’t know exactly how he felt, he just knew it didn’t feel right.

He was laying down now, at least.  That much was certain.  It seemed to him that he had been running before… or maybe web-slinging his way across a great distance? … and he was exhausted.  He seemed to have something very important to do, something weighty and monumental (maybe even earth-shattering) that he had to accomplish, but that was done now.  At least, he hoped it was done.  

Because he couldn’t quite remember what it was.  

But he was lying down.  That was certain.  Which meant he could rest.

His shoulders ached terribly.  On his left side he could feel the ache all the way in his fingertips.  Whatever he had been carrying, it had been a lot.  He was glad he could put it, whatever it was, down for a while.  Just for a while.  He could rest.

And if he could rest, he could sleep.  He thought he had been sleeping before, but he wasn’t sure.  He had certainly been laying down with his eyes closed, feigning sleep.  There had been discussion around him, conversations that were too far away, too muffled, to make out clearly.  And, at one point, he thought he heard somebody crying.  That had been too strange, too unpleasant, to process, so he had ignored it.  He had gone… somewhere… he wasn’t entirely sure where… but now he was back.  Back in this bed, wherever this bed was.  It wasn’t his own bed.  For one thing, he was sitting up instead of lying flat.  But it was a bed.  It was clean, at least.  It smelled clean.  In fact it smelled too-clean, in a harsh chemical-cleaned way he didn’t really like.  There was nothing to do but wait for sleep to come.

So Peter waited.

And since he was waiting, he indulged in his favorite waiting-for-sleep activity.

He daydreamed about having sex with Tony Stark.

He was asleep, just like this, but laying flat and on his tummy.  In his bed.  In their bed.  Drifting off to sleep when he was awakened by the shifting of the mattress beneath him.  

His lover was leaning over him for a kiss.

He tried to fein sleep - Tony did not sleep enough, and it was very late in the evening (early in the morning?)  Peter wanted to be a good partner.  Peter pretended to sleep in hopes Tony would lay down and do the same.

Tony didn’t.  

Tony kept kissing him.

All on the side of his face, but Tony’s hands were snaking under Peter’s body and turning him over, and soon Peter couldn’t pretend to be asleep anymore.  He smiled (as best he could, with Tony’s mouth on his) and draped his arms around Tony’s shoulders.

The kiss became very serious very quickly.  Very soon Peter realized this was not a ‘good night’’ or ‘see you tomorrow’ kiss.  This was really a ‘I wanted to start fucking you ten minutes ago’ kiss.

“To-ny, you promised you try to get some sleep tonight,” Peter argued.  Or tried to.

“But I want to make love to my sexy boyfriend,” Tony teased, and Peter found he couldn’t really argue with that.

Soon hands were massaging certain places, relieving Peter of a certain pair of pajamas.  “Someday I’ll learn not to be so greedy,” Tony was growling into Peter’s soft, yielding mouth, as one demanding hand wrapped around Peter’s cock and began stroking.

“Mmm. I hope not.” Peter replied. “I like it when you’re greedy.” He kissed back softly, contrasting his older lover’s intensity. Squirming under the covers … it’s was hard to stay still when Tony was touching him like that. “I’m greedy too. But you promised you would try to sleep tonight… I should be a good boyfriend and let you sleep…”

TO BE CONTINUED

[fieryfantasybooklover]

On The Art Of Loving And Losing - A gerrymichael fanfic for The Magnus Archives

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

It had been months. Gerry had been waiting months for Michael to return. Every day he woke with a prayer on his lips and hope in his heart, and every day his heart fell and he remained alone. As the days stretched into weeks, Gerry’s hope diminished. He had known there was something off about that trip to “Sannikov Land” - and every day Gerry cursed himself for not doing more research. After all, that place didn’t actually exist - a simple Google search told him that. His misplaced faith in Gertrude had been his demise, and Michael’s. The mantra of “You could have saved him, he could still be here, he could still be alive if it wasn’t for you” ran through Gerry’s thoughts at a constant rate. He had loved and lost, and it hurt more than anything he had ever experienced. Gerry imagined that the feeling was similar to having your soul ripped from your body and then stomped on. Repeatedly.

The first few weeks were the worst. Gerry had gone through his days like a robot, barely remembering to eat or drink. His energy and will to live had just gone, flown north with the boy who was never coming back. The wound was fresh and open Gerry sobbed whenever it resurfaced to the forefront of his consciousness. He was grieving, and it didn’t seem he was ever going to come out of it. Gertrude had tried to visit him at his flat a few times, but he didn’t open the door and just pretended he wasn’t home. All of his admittedly small friend group had also come by, but Gerry gave them the same treatment. It was both easier and simpler that way.

Gerry held onto all the memories he could, refusing to let himself forget them. Him and Michael reading poetry in the park, him and Michael watching movies at Gerry’s flat until the early hours of the morning, him and Michael laughing until they couldn’t breathe at a joke and then just stopping to admire the other. Michael had kissed his tattoos and his scars and told him how much he loved Gerry and he had meant it. Gerry had made a promise to treasure every moment he had with Michael and never take anything for granted, but now that Michael was gone Gerry realized he had never done that, not enough anyway. The small things, Michael’s gaze and his touch and his laugh and how he fit into reality so well now seemed the most unattainable thing, and so cruel for it.

It had been three months and twenty-two days now. Gerry kept a mental note in his head, rationalizing and compartmentalizing any little thing he could. He feared the day that the numbers would range into years, and then decades. If he even survived that long.

Gerry awoke suddenly, becoming aware with a jolt. He glanced at the alarm clock. 10:23. The sun shone through the window, casting his ever present eye tattoos into even starker contrast. Groaning at the prospect of chores ahead, he lay there for a while longer. He stared at the ceiling, thinking. Just letting his mind wander. It only took a little for the darker side of his brain to appear, showing him violent and unbidden images. Gerry got up then. Shaking his head jerkily to banish the thoughts before quickly moving on, he went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. After that, the trip was to the closet that held his ever present and favored black clothing.

Emerging from his bedroom about an hour later, vaguely presentable, Gerry poured himself a bowl of cereal and took about ten times the time it should have taken to eat it. Putting the bowl in the sink, Gerry began his day.

Throwing laundry into the washing machine, Gerry sighed. He had made somewhat of an effort to return to a slightly normal schedule, and today was laundry day. The schedule did very little for his mental state, but you took what you could get. Pressing all the required buttons and then leaving the laundry to do its thing, Gerry moved into the kitchen to check his to-do list. “Buy apples and milk, do laundry, mop the kitchen, dust the living room.” it read. There was a scribbled and clearly rushed “fucking call someone and socialize” added to the bottom but it was halfhearted and Gerry didn’t have the energy. He would do it tomorrow, he promised himself. Ignoring the fact he had promised that for two weeks in a row now, he checked off laundry from the list and exhaled. His hair needed a redying - it was getting worse than usual - he would either have to go to a salon or risk doing the box dye again. Weighing both options, Gerry turned from the list hanging on a cupboard and found himself facing a wall.

Gerry had a nice apartment. It was cozy but cluttered - there were posters and pictures on the walls, stacks of books that may or may not have been Leitners, and several random brooms. However, the wall that Gerry looked at had never held anything besides a massive map of London. There had certainly never been a door set into it.

____________________________________

Michael Shelley was made and he was unmade and he was made again, spiraling into colors and shapes and scents and images and sounds and everything, an innumerable amount of realities crashing into him and ripping him apart and scattering him to the stars. He was flung across the void and diluted and saturated with so much existence and so little existence to the point where he not only lost his sense of self, he lost his sense of everything. Michael sensed to be Michael, and became the supernova, the glowing arcade floor, the overwhelming amalgam of scents in a perfume shop. He became everything in the universe, and became nothing in the universe - everything and nothing so simultaneously it sliced him and tore him apart. He would scream, but he had no voice where he was - the source of the delusion of the world, all stemming through him like he was its personal conduit.

It became a rhythm soon, a predictable pattern of madness. Atleast, it did for a little while. Every time the being that was once known as Michael thought it recognized something, found a familiarity in the confusion, it was wrenched from him so painfully and he would’ve screamed until their vocal cords broke if he could’ve. The place was malicious and it loved being so, it sensed his brief and desperate hope of clarity and laughed as it was ripped from him. It relished his frustration, the pure frustration that comes from a combining lack of options, a refusal to give up, and a visceral hate for your hopelessness. It relished Michael’s fear, the deep rooted knowledge that he would never know his way ever again, and the panic that came from that.

Eventually, they gave up - surrendering themself to the tide and hoping that maybe he could close his eyes and not see anything again.

That was not the case.

Michael came to be again after what could have been a millenia, or a few seconds. The difference no longer mattered. The process was agonizingly slow, and although he did not quite recognize where he was, it felt familiar and right. A realm beyond solid existence, happily expanding into infinite planes. Soon, he realized he was not quite Michael anymore, how could that be the case. The new being had been warped and spliced into Michael from its source, and then the two had been fused together. It was a wholly uncomfortable and new sensation. They had the memories of Michael Shelley but was most certainly not the same person - he wasn’t even a person at all anymore, he thought.

Michael haunted his hallways for more time as he recalled what happened before the unmaking and remaking of himself, and gathered his thoughts. It now knew two things: the old Michael had been sacrificed to stop the becoming of them, their being, their entity, their source. This was the first thing. The second thing that he knew with absolute certainty was that there was a human Michael Shelley had loved, and that the new Michael loved this human as well. Whether this was because enough of Michael Shelley remained, or because he did not but the love he had did remain, or some combination of both, Michael did not care - they were going to find Gerry Keay.

The distance between the place that did not exist and London was far but the hallways warped the distance and time into nothing. Soon, Michael had arrived at a door he knew would open into Gerry’s apartment. Taking a deep breath that was filled with white noise and experiencing an all too human feeling of nervousness, it cracked open the door.

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

Gerry held his breath, heart pounding in his throat as his stomach dropped. He felt poised atop a roller coaster, all the while not knowing when the drop would occur or how far down it would go. The apartment all of sudden seemed oh so unreal, his vision swam and he swiped his hand in front of him for something to steady himself.

Standing, he stared at the door like it was an animal that could either hate or love him, he advanced towards it. There were very few coherent thoughts in Gerry’s head, the main thread consisting of something like: “This is a Spiral manifestation. My boyfriend was last seen on the way to a place that doesn’t even exist. This cannot be a coincidence.” Stopping a few feet in front of the door, Gerry reached his hand out to the doorknob but let it hover there. Fighting an internal battle, he was saved by the door opening by itself. What stepped out of it was a creature beyond human, but one that was glaringly familiar.

Swallowing, Gerry spoke. “Michael…?” The being seemed to center itself before raising what could pass for eyes to Gerry’s own. “That was… that was his name wasn’t it.” it paused.

"I do not think I am all of him, but it remains to be seen. How- how long has it been?” Gerry felt hot and cold all over, nausea churning in his stomach as he worked to comprehend what he had just learned. Unbidden, he laughed. It was a short and cold thing. “Three months, twenty-two days. I should know, I kept track.” His voice was bitter. “What happened? I was so worried about you - I never stopped being worried about you and now here you are. Except you’re not really him, are you? You’re not really the Michael that left me. You might have some part of him, but not everything. Whatever happened made sure of that.” Gerry was aware he was crying but couldn’t bring himself to care. Michael, or whatever it was, paused. He had the air of someone who wanted desperately to reach out or offer comfort, but knew it would not be well received. He hovered almost awkwardly just outside his door, hair floating behind him in an invisible wind. “I am not fully sure what happened either. I have the memories of Michael Shelley, but not the life. The last thing he remembered was being handed a map and told to go to the center of the building that made him feel like he could never trust his eyes again.”

The realization was a terrible thing. “So Gertrude did sacrifice him - you, whatever - to the Spiral ritual. I should have seen this coming, why did I ever trust her. I know now that Sannikov Land doesn’t actually exist of course, and that Gertrude was stopping a Spiral ritual. I don’t know why I’m surprised, maybe I had the small hope she wouldn’t use Michael of all people. Either way, I’ve been grossly disappointed. And now, we’re here.” Gerry began pacing now, walking back and forth in his living room. He thrummed with anger and nervous energy, seemingly barely holding himself back from punching the wall. “That is what happened, isn’t it. That seems right.” Michael said, daring one more step into the room. “I - he - thought of you often. Especially close to the end. You were on his mind very often as he walked to the heart of that building. You were his happiness and his home.”

“Shut up!” Gerry snapped, in a voice that could be angry but just sounded heartbreakingly tired. He clenched his fists, his breathing ragged as he attempted to steady himself. “I’m sorry, you probably didn’t deserve that. I’m lashing out again and I really wish I could care more but this is just too much to handle at once. I’ve been waiting for something, a sign of life - anything! But now that the sign is actually here I need to work it out… alone. Could you leave? Please?”

Michael drew himself up and nodded. “As you wish.” They turned to leave through the door and Gerry almost broke down and asked him to say. It was only sheer willpower that stopped him. They seemed so forlorn and Gerry had been so lonely it hurt but some deep part of him recognized he needed space. Once the door slammed shut and vanished, Gerry slid down the wall and, knotting his hands in his hair, allowed himself to sob.

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

Michael haunted its hallways and did everything he could to clear his mind. Of course, being what they were, this was easier said than done. Gerry had been crying, and Michael hated it with everything he had. It had taken everything he had to keep himself from reaching out and enveloping Gerry in a hug, and it hurt. The happy memories from before appeared again, torturing him with all that he had lost and didn’t know if he would regain. All of Gerry was beautiful, and joyful, and screamed home in a way that few things did. His smile was like the sunrise and he had held Michael close, had traced Michael’s skin with his hands and loved him with a pure truth and Michael missed Gerry so much. This was different then the missing it felt for its previous state - the time it had no human form - that was an unscratchable itch, but the longing he felt for Gerry was a painful ache. Michael could not tell which part of it missed Gerry - the remnants of Michael Shelley, the chaos that was The Twisting Deceit, or some bizarre mix. The latter seemed the most likely.

All the previous confidence they had evaporated and all of sudden Michael sensed the truth he had suppressed - he was new to this world, he was alone, in an unfamiliar form and oh so very scared. Any humanity in him was reeling and the non-human hissed at its new form. The two selves that now made up the entity Michael fought each other viciously, as they were opposites in very essence.

“Pull yourself together.” They muttered to themself, wincing at the quality of their voice. It was a chaotic thing, and Michael struggled to work out a situation in which Gerry had not been terrified of him, the creature that they were. He was unsuccessful. The likelihood seemed low that he would ever be not feared again.

"We must pull ourself together if we have any hope of salvaging the situation. What do we know? The Michael that I am not was sacrificed to stop our becoming, and in turn he was absorbed into us and now… now we have me. Us. Either option would be correct, it seems. The only thing left to do is wait, I suppose. Gerry deserves time, and I have plenty.” Michael turned another corner, the hallways stared back at it - their infinite sameness all at once mocking and inviting. A crack grew in Michael’s chest - he raised a hand in front of his face and stared at it. It was much too jointed, spindly and terrifying. The thought that Gerry might not call for them again rose, and the strange crack grew wider. Wallowing only for a minute, Michael pulled himself from the edge and then quashed the thought with no small effort. He then ordered whatever fractal their brain was to shut up. “He will call us back. He has too. I will prepare what to say.”

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

Gerry closed his eyes and breathed deeply for several seconds. Any slice of confidence he could gain in the next few moments would be a blessing. It had been a few days. A few days of mental breakdowns, identity crises, contemplation, and a loneliness that seemed to only be renewed as of recent events. It had been a difficult decision, but Gerry decided to not call anyone. While he didn’t doubt his friends wanted to help, this was a decision he had to make himself. The decision had not been particularly difficult, when it came down to it. He was not scared of this new Michael, nor did Gerry consider them unfamiliar. He could still see Michael, the old Michael, peeking through. What the new Michael truly was hurt his brain, but the best fit seemed to be “Michael Shelley but weird and wacky and also with a chunk of the Spiral surrounding him so not really Michael.”

It hadn’t been a hard decision because, at the core of it, nothing had changed in Gerry’s heart. He still loved Michael utterly and completely, even with the earth shattering changes. He knew that this wasn’t really the old Michael, but he didn’t care. Gerry was willing to stick with them, and he knew with a bone deep certainty he would fall in love all over again, for this new Michael. After all, this was the world Gerry was in and he’d faced more awful prospects. Much more awful.

Gerry mustered all the courage he had gathered, and knocked on the wall. For a few seconds, he felt crazy, but then the wall began to warp. A bright yellow door appeared, and Gerry knocked on that in turn. It opened, and Michael stood in the doorway. “I’ve been thinking.” both said at the same time, pausing in surprise. “No, you go first.” both continued, jinxing the other once again. Gerry laughed, and though it was a small sound Michael broke into a grin at the sight of it - a wide, sharp grin that took up his whole face, but a grin nonetheless. “You go.” Gerry said, steeling himself. “I have been thinking, and I have come to several conclusions.” Gerry nodded for them to continue. “I have come to the conclusion that you owe me nothing, for I am not the same Michael who made a promise to come back to you safely. No matter what I feel or want - I am not even sure what I am - you should not be shackled. I will, of course, always wait for you, but I do not expect anything in return and I have made peace with that possibility. I do not wish to bring the mess that is us into your life.” Michael finished, smiling ruefully. Gerry’s eyes widened a fraction, the implications registering. “I don’t want that.” Gerry said in a rush, averting all possible eye contact. “I’ve also been thinking, and you’re right. You’re not the same person who left me. I don’t think I care though - you are not Michael Shelley but you are part of him and I loved him more than life.s A part of him is still within you, and so I think I love you as well, all of you and your inhumanity. I don’t really know you, but I want to. So, I want… I want to be with you. I know it won’t be easy at first but I’m not a quitter, especially when it comes to important things.”

The room was quiet then as Gerry soaked in the words that had been spoken to him and what he said to Michael. The selflessness from Michael was more than Gerry could have asked for, and he was by extension struggling to believe it. “I do not think I deserve such a wonderful person as you in my life, but I agree. I agree very very much actually.” Michael said after another few seconds. Gerry eyed him from their positions standing a few feet apart, eyebrows lifting a fraction. Was Michael...blushing? He was! Gerry grinned, and he felt like the sun had emerged from behind the clouds.

Gerry flopped onto the couch, giddy with adrenaline and exhausted simultaneously. Michael hovered in front of the door, his hands hanging at their side as he seemed to debate over what to do. “Could you come and sit with me, please? Only if you want to though-” Michael cut him off mid sentence by striding over and curling up beside Gerry on the couch. Michael raised his arm and circled it around Gerry, waiting with bated breath. Gerry nodded and the arm settled into place. It fit around Gerry perfectly. They sat there in the quiet, and then Gerry spoke again. “Can you tell me something? Anything. I don’t care what it is but, I just -” Gerry cut off then, struggling for words. Michael’s arm tightened around Gerry as he spoke. “I understand. I think I have a wonderful story, one that you would love to hear.” Gerry settled in then, closing his eyes as Michael began to tell the story.

[starkwub]

Calm by the Pool

So I was looking through Pinterest at liminal space photos and realized I had different starker ideas to accompany them—so I decided to write this quick one-shot instead of sleeping last night for fun :) 

Title: Calm by the Pool

Word Count: 2,901

Tags: No powers, Serial K*ller Tony, Precious Peter, ambiguous/open ending

Description:

Normal 19 year old Peter meets a Stranger named Tony by the side of a hotel pool and conversation ensues

(Tw: mention of death (not of Tony or Peter))

Also as you read this, if you do, just know Tony doesn’t hurt Peter :) he’s safe

Posted on AO3: Liminal Spaces (And Whatever Happens in Them)

Hope you enjoy!

Peter had been staying at a hotel with May, Ned, and his family for a few days now when he decided to take a walk and go down to the inside pool to scope it out, and.. kind of escape everyone.

As he sat there, listening to his music on blast—he didn’t take notice of the man who was walking towards him, and eventually standing right in front of him.

Peter felt something nudge his chair and jumped, scurrying back into the chair a bit as the man in front of him tsked and shook his head as Peter took one of his headphones out.

“I’m not gonna hurt you kid. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t dead or something.”

Peter wondered if the stranger had ever happened upon a dead man before.

He proceeded to remove both ear buds and let the wire fall to tangle on his lap as he sat up a bit—causing the chair to scoot against the concrete.

The man just so happens to sit in one of the chairs two spots away from him so he figured he could give it a shot.

What’s the worst that could happen? The Stranger getting annoyed and making him get up and leave?

Peter swallowed thickly before speaking,

“Have you ever seen a dead person before sir?”

His voice was stark in contrast to the silent buzz of the room and the lapping of the water in front of him, but he watched only as the older man threw up a hand with the number five.

“You’ve seen five dead people??”

The stranger laughed and shook his head as the back of his head rubbed against the fading white plastic.

“Fifty kid, not five.”

Peter’s eyes widened as the other man continued to rest his eyes to the right of him. A mere two chairs away like a man that had seen 50 dead people.

Peter couldn’t help but feel morbidly curious as to how. So he asked.

“How-um.. how’d you do that?”

Peter heard his own heart beat a few times as he sat waiting.

“With my eyes.”

Ha ha. Very funny.

Peter furrowed his brows and turned away from the man then, huffing a bit.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Yeah well,” the stranger cleared his throat, “ I don’t know how smart it is to tell a kid like you things like that. How old are you anyways?”

Peter’s chest puffed a bit at the questionnaire and turned to answer—only surprised to see that the other man was looking at him with those same dead amber eyes.

“I’m 19 sir, almost 20.”

Tsking, the greying man sat up a bit in his chair to adjust himself—skin sticking a bit to the plastic on accident.

“Alright, fine. I’ve never had very good impulse control anyways..” Peter watched with grand intent—eyes wide and curious as always.

He couldn’t help it.

He’d never met a man like the one lounging in front of him.

“The first dead person I saw was my mother. Lying beside me in a car that was slowly beginning to sink lower and lower into the river off the bridge. “The man stopped suddenly, moving his hand to scratch his goatee.

“I think she wanted to get away from my dad more than anything, so I don’t blame her. She told me she loved me before the bridge and then whoosh!— over the side and into the water.

“I wasn’t one to get too emotional though.. so all I did was watch and stare at my mother as her seatbelt just-, well. You get the picture. She couldn’t breathe.”

Peter couldn’t believe it. Sure his own parents weren’t around but..he had May and..and his friends! And all of these people in his life.

Did the mystery man have anyone?

The next words from him were followed by a hard sigh out, “After that, death seemed to cling to me like a fly to a light..

“Nasty thing, death. Can’t seem to escape it no matter where you hide. Closed closets and crawling under the bed won’t ever help that.”

Peter heard blood in his ears and couldn’t help but tilt his head at the man’s side profile.

After a long moment of silence, he spoke.

“What can I call you sir?”

The stranger laughed, hitting his head softly against the plastic before glancing back over at Peter and speaking in a tone softer than before.

“Tony. You can call me Tony.” And back his gaze went to the pool. “I’m surprised that’s all you got to say..usually when I tell people that story they get unsettled.”

“You have experience with death, kid?”

Peter nodded, noting how Tony’s tone was born of curiosity over sarcasm.

“Yeah my um.. my parents. Never saw what they looked like and was probably too young to remember now, anyways..”

Sometimes he remembered his mom and dad. Mom making Kraft Mac N Cheese over the stove and dad reading the paper, smelling distinctly of dark, black coffee.

Those thoughts where fleeting though. And Peter never wished to dwell.

“Damn. Sorry to hear that.”

But Tony for some reason didn’t sound too sad. He didn’t really sound like anything to Peter besides a lull, or maybe a dream.

“My name’s Peter.” He announced—probably too loud for the room and their proximity, but Peter didn’t much care.

Tony scoffed, drumming his fingers across the plastic arm of his chair from what Peter could see, “ Alright, Peter, it’s nice to meet you.”

Peter nodded resolutely.

“It’s nice to meet you too Tony.”

After that the room fell into a soft silence once more—only now there was no music in his ears and only the sound of the buzz, lapping of water, and Tony’s breathing. It lasted for about 20 minutes before his muscles started to ache.

Peter couldn’t stand it. It was too quiet. Too many things racing through his mind—and wishing for it all to go away, he spoke again.

“Do you kill people Tony?”

The question was blunt, and probably stupid on Peter’s part. Tony seemed like the kind of guy that would find it funny if he hadn’t, and would be honest if he had.

The way he was feeling in this moment though..he didn’t feel scared—regardless of the answer.

He felt safe with Tony. A stranger beside him.

“And if I said I do?” Came Tony’s voice, groggy from lack of use.

Peter shrugged, letting his eyes wander over the tiles on the walls and the blaring neon of the vending machines in the other room.

“Then you do. And if you say you don’t, you don’t.”

There came another silence, but this one was broken by the sound of plastic creaking and a sandal hitting the ground with a smack right in front of him, which gained Peter’s attention.

“Pick that up and bring it to me Peter.”

Huh?

Peter blinked down at it and eventually sat up, leaning over and picking up the used but not horrible looking shoe before taking a glance back over at the other man. His eyes were shut and his hands were lax.

So he did the only logical thing he could think of. He got up.

He always did have a thing for following his gut.

The trip was short, and as he now stood closer to Tony, he couldn’t help but notice the man’s faint greying at his temples and the age spots on his forehead. Or the crows feet near his eyes.

The goatee he sported was sharp and clean—edges so sharp it could cut.

Or burn—but Peter probably shouldn’t be thinking about that right now.

“Here,” Peter stuck it out a bit for Tony to grab, “ your shoe.”

Tony’s eye peaked out from behind the lid and lashes and reached out, gently taking his sandal back.

“You’re funny.” Tony said with a chuckle as he stuck his shoe back on from where it had been crossed over his leg—no doubt to keep it from touching the ground.

Peter stood complexed, and scrunched his face a bit,

“I am?”

Tony nodded, smiling up at him with what appeared to be one of the most charming, white toothed grins Peter had ever seen. Not even the movie men looked as good as Tony did in that moment. No one.

“Yes, very.” Tony reached over and pushed Peter aside with a soft hand to his hip before grabbing a chair.

Peter was about to ask but noticed Tony standing up.

“Come on, let’s get you a drink.”

A..A drink?

Tony must’ve noticed his confusion because he was turning back around and snapping his fingers in front of Peter’s face,

“From the vending machine dummy.”

Peter’s cheeks flushed as he ran to catch up with Tony.

“Oh- um.. I didn’t bring any cash with me.”

Tony waved that off quicker than a horse does a fly, “oh hush it. I offered, so I pay.”

Since when was Tony so..flamboyant? Those eyes still held death like a lover but Peter couldn’t help but feel like Tony had a sudden pep in his step.

“Okay Tony.”

Tony hummed, and motioned for Peter to close closer.

“What do you want, kid?”

Peter took a few steps closer, looking over the brands and pointed.

“I’ll just take a water. Never been a huge fan of Pepsi.”

Peter watched as Tony smirked to himself and clicked twice for two waters.

“Good answer. Coke is definitely the way to go.”

Peter could also get behind Mountain Dew but..that wasn’t there so he figured he’d just go for the next best option.

“And for food they have..nuts—chocolate..some chips.” Tony motioned for Peter to take a look with a hand leading him to go around Tony’s back.

The both of them ended up getting small packets of peanut butter crackers, and once they made their way back to the chairs (which now were directed to face closer to each other, courtesy of Tony) Peter couldn’t help but giggle.

Tony quirked a brow at him which made Peter try to compose himself, but clearly didn’t work as Peter giggled more.

“What’s this? I buy you water and sustenance and all I get are a pack of giggles?”

Peter shrugged but continued on to do so as he opened up his crackers.

“Unbelievable.” Tony scoffed while rolling his eyes playfully. “I nearly wish I could revoke my order but it doesn’t seem like that is a possibility.”

Tony reached down to do the same as Peter did, and while he watched the older man’s hands work over the plastic—his ears burned pink.

Tony was a good looking man from up close.

Peter knew he liked guys, but.. it never occurred to him that he would see a man as good looking as Tony was. Like.. ever.

When Peter looked up again, he could nearly feel Tony’s..well..anticipation of talking to him. It made his chest tight and his stomach feel filled to the brim with butterflies.

When Tony’s amber eyes met him after finally opening the pack of crackers, he spoke.

“So—”

And the phone rang at the same time. Peter’s own.

He took a glance down at  his ringing phone after watching Tony’s anticipation bleed from his features, and noticed it was May.

“Crap..hold on.” He clicked accept and brought his old Android up to his ear.

“Peter? Where are you? Ned’s been trying to contact you but he said you weren’t picking up.”

Oh. Whoops.

“Oh I um.. I had my phone on silent! Sorry about that..'' he looked down at the now detached pair of headphones on his lap alongside the open peanut butter crackers.

“What do you need me for?”

Turns out May had agreed to getting dinner with Ned and his family this evening even though May had said the rest of their day was going to be freed up—which was frustrating.

He didn’t want to leave Tony.

He didn’t..he hadn’t..

Peter took a quick and heartfelt glance up at Tony who’s eyes shone dark but his brows were knitted before looking away again and continuing to talk with May.

“You need to come back and get ready—we’re leaving in 15 minutes and I know how long you tend to get ready!”

Peter swallowed away his own snarky remark and put a smile to his tone. He didn’t feel like getting into an argument with her right now—for a plethora of reasons.

“Yeah of course! I’ll be up in a moment.” And with that they said their love you’s and goodbyes before the call was over.

Again, the room fell into the comfortable buzzing silence. But Peter knew it wouldn’t last.

Peter couldn’t help but feel cheated in some way. How..what was he supposed to do now huh? He can’t be the weirdo and ask for Tony’s number, he can’t skip the dinner and keep talking to him.

He couldn’t do anything but get up and leave. This time though, he didn’t. Not immediately anyway. 

“Peter..” Tony’s tone was filled with something new to Peter’s ears. A hand came up to rest over his bicep, squeezing softly till it snaked its way up and over Peter’s back.

Peter watched as Tony scooted a bit closer, plastic jumping across the tiles till he had Tony’s bare knee touching his own jean covered one.

Peter was surprised to feel his body being enveloped in a hug. He wasn’t ready but he sure as hell wasn’t letting go either.

His arms wrapped tightly around Tony’s broad back and after a few seconds passing, fisted Tony’s shirt in his hands and let out a breaking sob.

God why did he feel this way? This weird feeling of.. loss. Or more so the expression of loss. Usually it just got pent up in a tight little corner of Peter’s brain till the only thing he saw was a small blob of darkened memories and heartache.

Tony didn’t say anything, didn’t really do anything either, other than hold him–and rub his back..running soft fingers through the nape of Peter's curls that made his body shiver and the hair on his arms stand up. Peter didn’t figure he needed anything more than that.

When he eventually pulled away on his own accord, eyes red rimmed and nose a bit stuffy, Peter looked up into Tony’s own that was without any notion of feeling. But he knew Tony was upset..in his own way.

Peter sniffled, “ what were you going to say?”

Tony quirked a brow, “hm? Say what? When?”

Peter shook his head, smiling a bit and noting Tony’s own quirked lip.

“Before my Aunt called. What were you going to say?”

Peter watched as Tony’s eyes bore into his own, dominating and room clearing as always but Peter couldn’t help but notice how detailed they were. They were eyes that kissed death’s soft, sweet skin. Amber as old aged whiskey comes mixed with flecks of gold.

How beautiful.

“I think it’s best I don’t—say it now.”

Or ever Peter filled, but didn’t say. Didn’t have the gaul to.

Tony let out a heavy sigh through his nose and stood up, water and crackers in one hand as the other pat Peter’s shoulder, squeezing it tighter than it needed to.

“You’re a good boy Peter.” And after a few moments more of eye contact, Tony leans down and pressed his soft lips against Peter’s forehead.

Forehead? Why not the lips Tony? Please on the lips!

But Peter only blinked away his tears and watched at Tony once again loomed beside him. Not looking at Peter as if it’d hurt if he did.

“Stay that way.” A beat hit then, and was soon closely followed, “For me.”

Peter couldn’t help but watch him go. Wishing to reach out–yearning to cry for the man that was walking away from him with such heavy sandal-clad steps.

He hadn’t ever felt so close with another human being before and it had only been a moment before he was gone.

His soulmate, if those where to exist, walking out the doors never to be seen again–if not on a headline for murder charges across the television screen.

He hoped Tony never got caught for his own sanity’s sake. But Peter selfishly wished for it. So he could go and visit him. See him. Talk to him about all of the thoughts he had going on inside of him.

To hear about Tony’s life and everything that came along with it.

A few moments of silence passed after the soft let down of a door that originally would make noise had passed, and Peter slowly began to collect his things—shoving them in his pockets.

Peter stared down at their chairs, and placed a hand where Tony’s had been on the plastic to feel it still warmed.

How cruel this world had to be to give him what he wanted most in life, and Tony the same–only for it to take it away so easily.

Peter guessed on his ride up the elevator that death didn’t get to pick and choose who left. But people did.

Tony did.

Does that make Tony worse than death?

Peter figured that if Tony was worse than death itself, a devil in some regards, then he wished to be his bride.

[chaoticgardenbread]

How Kleptomaniacs Do

Hi @geekinthecorner ! Here's my gift for you for the @quicksilver-events. Thank you for organizing this fun event and I hope you like it ❤️

Rating: T

Words: 5369

Cross-posted on Ao3

By the twenty-eighth year of his life, Peter can say with confidence that he’s used to people not taking him seriously. He figures it's only natural when he doesn’t take life itself too seriously. So he plays along, makes preposterous claims with nothing to show for it, and his self-deprecating bursts on occasion surely doesn’t help; but it wasn’t a problem, not really, since he hardly bothered himself with how others might perceive him.

Peter’s carefree outlook had probably been in the making since the age of six when he literally tripped his powers. One minute he was running— nothing unusual, just another one of his valiant attempts to quell his hyperactive mind and limbs— when the next, he was falling, and there was almost like a ‘snap,’ and all of a sudden, Peter’s world spun in slow motion. Very consciously and very contemplatively, Peter placed his right foot in front of his left. Drew back the arm he had instinctively thrown out in front of him to break his fall. And huh. His feet found their purchase on the ground anew. His six-year-old brain correctly registered that falling would hardly be a problem anymore. What it had failed to grasp, however, was that newfound speed was not the only thing he gained.

The moment was an awakening. One which led him to understand a little more about the world and everything in it. Conversely, the world began to understand him a little less. The more time passed, the starker the contrast, and the lonelier it became. Peter shrugged off the unwanted emotion on principle, burying it deep, because he was enough of a mess the way he already was. Besides, as a mutant with ADHD and a healthy dose of kleptomania, he was partial to giving in to his impulses rather than ruminating on his feelings.

But sometimes, the loneliness got too much too heavy, like a huge ball of lead in the pit of his stomach he couldn’t quite push aside.

Peter sighs, frustration thrumming in his veins as he throws his head back and kicks his legs out carelessly on the ergonomic chair in his room; his pick of choice in the X-Mansion that had since been improved with furnishings and decorations– clunky paperweights, posters, torn at the edges, and a ton of pillows. Currently, Peter’s shins were pressed against the study table that was slapdashed with swashes of silver– in a way strongly reminiscent of its owner. He tucks one leg neatly beneath him, pushes himself backward and swivels the chair, worn at its cuffs, crossing his legs once there was sufficient traction. Scott, Jean, Kurt, Ororo, Raven, and the other mutant kids he’s come to know flash by in his mind, bright and loud, in sync with the white lights overhead and the sounds of Queen blaring over the headphones affixed haphazardly over his head. He loved them, but they would eventually realize he didn’t age quite the same.

Charles and his d–Erik blink by next. They looked at him as if they knew, sometimes. The secrets he kept like dead weight in his chest. Charles was the type of authoritative figure that Peter appreciated; strict where it counted, yet allowed him to get away with more than he lawfully should have. And Erik, well, Peter was way too preoccupied with worrying about Erik finding out about a different secret altogether. He worried every time his father– who didn’t actually know he was his father– caught his eyes for anything more than a second. Or said to him anything beyond a perfunctory greeting.

As the oscillations eased and the world slowed to its usual crawl, Peter runs a hand through his silvery locks, causing them to fall naturally over his forehead. The feeling in the pit of his stomach remained, present and tangible. He catches a glint of red in his mind’s eye, and trains his focus on it, laser-sharp, holding his breath in reflex because it was Wanda. His spitfire of a sister with her matching auburn hair that cascaded in waves to her waist, her fondness for red, sharp hazel eyes, and quick wit.

On most occasions, Peter tries to keep his thoughts away from Wanda. It was hard, knowing she was miles away with her goals, hopes, and dreams– and not by his side, just existing with him on the same pane. She would if he asked, he knew. But it wouldn’t be fair to Wanda, and Peter couldn’t do that to someone whom he loved more than anything else in the world. Making up his mind, Peter fumbles and grabs his phone from the mess of items (or stolen knick-knacks, but who needs to know?) on his table, and shoots off a text to his twin sister. His phone immediately pings in response.

It read: ‘fancy a call dear brother mine?’

Peter grins. It made perfect sense that they were perceptive of each other’s moods even with the distance between them. His grin only extends when Wanda’s voice starts to filter over his headphones, unmistakable fondness lacing her constant quips. By the time they said their good nights, Peter doesn’t care to relocate to the bed. He clutches his phone like a lifeline, basking in the feeling of a sudden warmth blooming in his belly. As he closes his eyes, Wanda’s fond exasperation of “just tell him already!” echoes in his ears. He settles in a comfortable spot that finds him sprawled across the breadth of the chair in a way that would (probably) cause Charles or Erik to frown disapprovingly if they had the pleasure of chancing upon him.

When sleep finally overwhelms him and psychedelic rock tunes from Pink Floyd fill the room, the last thought that flits into the forefront of his mind was that Wanda in all her infinite wisdom was right– putting off things he was scared of only extended the torture.

-

A side effect of Peter’s psyche is that he doesn’t sleep much. He still makes a gallant effort; as evidenced by the sight he wakes up to– soft rays of the morning sun peeking through the windows and reflecting off the floorboards in his room. It had actually been close to morning when he had fallen asleep but meh, tomahto-tomayto.

With his erratic sleep patterns, it was pure irony that his father stuck to his like clockwork. Peter spares a glance at the clock on the table which read ‘6:30 AM FRIDAY' in blinding white LED and speedily washes up, shrugging on one of his freshly washed silver jackets. He leaves the room with an audible swoosh.

Peter speeds down three flights of stairs, to the kitchen on the far left corner and stumbles upon Charles and Erik. More accurately, he intentionally finds them; having already memorized their schedules by cataloging their whereabouts each time he ran into them since Erik’s return. Peter had tried– was trying– to make the most of the opportunity which had fallen into his lap; by connecting with the metalbender whenever possible without being too obvious about it. Admittedly, the raised eyebrows that graced Erik’s usually stoic demeanor every time tell him that he’s not doing a very good job.

This particular morning, Charles is the one standing in front of the stove cooking breakfast, the smell of sizzling bacon quickly filling the air. In contrast, Charles is idly turning the strips of glistening bacon. Erik’s already seated at the dining table, attention focused on the morning paper in his hand. A stack of plates, cutlery, jugs of coffee and water was present on the dining table, well within an arm’s reach.

Peter fights down the feeling of something that he can’t quite put a finger on at the fairly domestic sight.

He could get used to this, he thinks, even if Charles is again without his usual mop of curly dark hair Peter’s gotten so used to. Having dined with Charles and Erik on several occasions where he’d chanced upon them at 6:30 am in the morning– rather unintentionally in the first couple of instances– Peter works out that breakfast was a quiet time the duo shared every morning before getting swept up in the whirlwind of the day. Erik usually didn’t look too thrilled whenever he crashed their strange morning ritual, but Charles always insisted, and Peter, with his bottomless pit for a stomach, had always been obliged to accept.

“Good morning, Peter. You’re up early today. Would you like to join us?” the professor, as if on cue, greets cheerily. Without waiting for Peter’s response, Charles wheels over to the refrigerator, taking out two additional eggs and strips of bacon.

In contrast, Erik only inclines his head in acknowledgment, but the right side of his mouth lifts in a poor attempt of a smile– which by Erik’s standards, was in reality, a warm welcome. Erik refocuses his attention on the paper a second later, but his smile lingers.

“‘Sup Charles, Erik, don’t mind if I do,” Peter blurts a little too quickly, flopping in place opposite Erik and promptly pretends to busy himself with a glass of water that Erik’s nudged over to him. Erik had instinctively reached for the jug of coffee in reflex before the implications of giving Peter a caffeine boost hit him and his hand had swerved off its initial course and for the jug of water instead.

“Thanks, man,” Peter says to be polite, taking a large chug of water which empties the glass, actively willing himself not to act like a creepy stalker and resisting the urge to check whether Erik’s still smiling that not-quite smile of his.

Erik arches a single eyebrow at the display, considering the young man in front of him; whose face was partially obscured by a nest of silver, and, who was resolutely not meeting his eyes. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Peter was constantly twitchy in his presence, which made it all the more a mystery why he continued to create these opportunities for interaction when said interactions did nothing but reduce him to a bundle of nerves.

Strangely, the clumsy attempts by the speedster were almost endearing, brightening his somewhat aimless days. Back on the road, he had been plagued by a strong sense that something was missing, and his feet had brought him back to the X-Mansion. Oddly enough, it appeared that the almost silver bundle in front of him was at least one of the reasons why he had decided to return.

“My pleasure,” Erik decides on and almost has to bite his lip to keep from chuckling when the unexpected reply has the very expected (but desired) result of Peter snapping up to meet his gaze, dark brown eyes blown wide in surprise. Not for the first time, Erik finds himself absently wondering what the world looked like through those dark orbs, all kind and soulful and alive.

“Here” Erik makes use of the way Peter’s hands had loosened around the empty glass to snag it back for a refill of water– the only thing Erik decided he was comfortable with the speedster drinking– and pushes it back to him.

Jumpiness and rather questionable fashion choices aside, Erik also held an appreciation for Peter’s powers since he had demonstrated firsthand his handiness and durability while aiding in Erik’s escape from the Pentagon. Peter had almost been like a burst of fresh air then, his mischievous and curious eyes twinkling at Erik from the opposite side of the glass prison awakening something within him. A hope, a passion, exceedingly rare and precious after having not interacted with his kind for the extended time that he was in captivity. Never mind that he was a little noisy. A side effect of the nature of his powers, Erik had concluded then. Loud and flashy and showy, and never quite in one place.

It might make the air between them a little less awkward, Erik muses, if Peter would talk about what was eating at him. Since the start, their encounters suggested that he held no hard feelings against Erik about his views towards humankind, nor did he resent Erik for his failure to step in and deescalate things during his skirmish with Apocalypse. So if Erik was so lucky, perhaps it was something trivial. Recalling the shift in Peter’s demeanor when he had brought up his family, Erik blinks.

“How are things with your family?” Erik finds himself asking, certain he was on the right track with his line of inquiry when Peter, in the midst of draining yet another glass of water, stills. He folds his morning paper neatly and sets it to the side, giving the speedster his undivided attention.

The question and attention, however, have the unfortunate ripple effect of Peter choking on the mouthful of water he’s just inhaled.

Erik resists a sigh. He really should work on his timing.

“Mrs Maximoff checks in regularly. She seems to be doing well every time I see her,” Charles, on his way over with two plates of food in hand and a third balanced precariously on his forearm, replies primly.

Peter Maximoff.

The family name rings in his ears, stirring a faint memory of an equally mischievous set of dark eyes that licks the edges of his mind. Erik brushes it aside with rising panic. Because, no, surely not. Peter frantically signaling to Charles with his hands in a vague pantomime of ‘stop’ not helping the direction his thoughts were heading.

“How about his father, and siblings?” Erik pushes, unrepentant, watching as Charles furrows his brows in concentration as he transfers the plates on his person onto the dining table. Peter observes their exchange with wide eyes, but he’s no longer coughing nor flailing his hands, so Erik tries not to pay him any attention and focuses instead on Charles’ facial cues.

“Peter’s never told me about them,” Charles says as he takes a seat beside Erik, confusion warring on his face. He flicks his gaze between Erik’s look of concentration and Peter’s look of barely concealed alarm and asks: “Why are you so interested in my student all of a sudden?”

Oh crap.

With Wanda’s encouragement, Peter had been absolutely certain he was ready to tell Erik. But facing Erik and Charles, who had collectively turned their frowns upon him in scrutiny, suddenly he wasn’t quite so sure anymore.

After a brief moment’s hesitation, Peter decides to listen to the alarms that were blaring, sharp and loud, from his chest all the way to his throat. He inhales his breakfast at superspeed and makes a strategic retreat with “Thanks Prof, Erik, the eggs were awesome.”

Peter wills himself not to turn back. If he had, he would have caught the look of shock and comprehension slowly dawning on both their faces.

-

“You’re a wuss,” Raven declares dryly, her yellow eyes narrowing as they appraise him impassively.

Peter bites back the protest that was already forming on the tip of his tongue, accepting the admonishment when he comes to the realization that there was no way he could possibly win this one. He throws Raven a hurt gaze instead, hoping she would go easy on him.

“Don’t give me that,” Raven shuts him down, but she looks relatively less cross and Peter could work out the faint hint of a smile on her lips.

“if you insist on dragging this out any longer, he’ll be long gone before you even know it. Again. We don’t need you moping around, skiving on your classes and missions.”

And knowing Erik, there’s a good chance he’s already thinking about it. Raven doesn’t say, but the sentiment hangs in the air between them anyway, thick and heavy.

“We’ll come back to this when you return. In the meantime, don’t let it distract you,” Raven continues and Peter snorts. He had managed to get Erik of all people, out of the Pentagon of all places, and Raven was worried about them breaking a single mutant out of a dingy bar, really?

And if Raven wanted to berate him for taking it lightly, Scott and Jean were surely worse off. They had already made post-mission plans, which Peter was totally crashing together with Kurt because it involved lots and lots of ice cream. Jean was cool with it, so Peter didn’t know why Scott had been acting like such a prick about it. Jean pops to mind, all freckles and sunshine smiles and bright easy agreement– and okay, so maybe Peter did know– but it still didn’t change his mind about the ice cream.

As if sensing his wandering thoughts, Raven waves her hand in annoyance. Peter immediately schools the expression on his face, rapt and attentive all at once, and Raven is the one who snorts this time.

“Look, all I’m saying is that there’s an equal chance of things going to hell during an easy mission, as things going perfectly fine during a hard one,” Raven says with an air of finality that held no space for argument. Not that Peter would argue with Raven anyway. He didn’t have a death wish, and she had always made a frightening amount of sense.

“I’m counting on you to keep an eye out for them,” Raven leaves him with.

“Yes ma'am,” Peter replies to her retreating back and sets his mind to do just that, snickering when she flips him off good-naturedly for his choice of honorifics and makes his way over to Scott, Jean, and Kurt.

–

Peter was never, ever, not taking Raven seriously.

Well, he never actually made that mistake before, but if there was any chance of him doing so in the future, the present situation ought to remind him why he shouldn’t.

As an X-Men, Peter had already been on several missions and this one hadn’t seemed that different. On paper, they weren’t even supposed to break a sweat. Rescuing mutants who were being held against their will had since become something of a commonplace with the X-Men. But not– as it was becoming increasingly apparent– when the mutant in question was Archangel.

To be fair, none of them had known what they were getting into when they stealthily entered the basement of the still closed bar in bright daylight. Peter doubted that Raven’s sources had any malicious intent– because who in their right mind would double-cross Raven– so presumably they didn’t know any better either; that the mutant chained up in the basement of the shabby, rundown bar was Archangel (or was he Angel now?), whom dangerous people seemingly kept tabs on, and, which led to their current predicament.

A paramilitary trooper armed to the teeth in kevlar takes his place amongst the dozen that were surrounding them, encasing the five mutants in an ironclad circle. Scott had been caught unawares while they were working to release Angel from the overhead chains he had been suspended from and was currently being held by one of the troopers; an arm around his throat, his back pressed against a kevlar vest, and a handgun to his head. With the way Kurt was supporting Angel’s weight and how the feathered mutant was leaning heavily against him, at present, only Peter and Jean were ready for combat.

Peter flexes his fingers experimentally, considering their situation. Something that everyone, sans Wanda, did not know, was that Peter could control the flow of time. His powers weren't just all– speed. Speed was a big part of it, but Peter had discovered that he could also bend time, and gravity, to his will. By the time he figured it out, he had already been speeding time up for himself by default, so the world wasn’t so terribly, unbearably, slow. It was a conscious effort, like a muscle he always kept flexed. But doing so was a double-edged sword, which sometimes caused him to be unable to react quickly enough.

Because of his promise to Raven, Peter had intentionally kept his control lax during their mission and spun time slower, allowing him to instinctively catch and hold the flow of time at the most crucial moment. Too bad it wasn’t before their current hostage situation; which had also, unfortunately, resulted in his arm taking a bullet meant for Scott.

Peter wasn’t too worried, because he had been practicing– slowing time till he could walk a couple of laps leisurely around the X-mansion before the professor uttered his next word in class, then steadily increasing the number of laps in tandem as he slowed time even more. He could stop time for a whole hour instead of the five minutes he had started with, before it started to resume, slowly trickling by as his control waned.

Deciding that his left arm; the one with the bullet still in it, retained its finer motor functions even though it hurt like a bitch, Peter moves decisively, dismissing the way Scott, Jean, Kurt, and Angel were currently looking at him being shot in horror.

First, he disarms the trooper who shot him because, rude. Then he gets rid of the gun aimed at Scott’s head. Eventually, all thirteen guns were scattered in different places around the vicinity. It didn’t matter if their adversaries or anyone else got ahold of them because they’d realize that none of the guns were loaded anymore. More importantly, the X-Men would be long gone.

With his speed, it had taken Peter only a few seconds to dispose of the guns and scan the area for backup. There was nothing immediate, but Peter figures the two police cars that appeared to be en route 10 miles away were mighty suspicious.

There was still plenty of time left on the one-hour window so Peter opts not to release his hold just yet. He makes two trips back to the X-Mansion starting with Scott and Jean, then with Kurt and Angel. Only after ensuring Angel was lying comfortably on one of the beds in the med bay where both Raven and Hank were conveniently at does he release his hold.

“Peter!” Scott immediately lets out a blood-curdling scream which shocks every unlucky mutant patient in the med bay awake, and pauses in confusion the next moment at the notable change of environment.

“I’m okay man, no need to shout about it,” Peter quickly reassures, placing himself in Scott’s line of sight and tries not to grimace. He really should have considered where they left off before bringing them directly to the med bay although it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“How did you…” Angel croaks from the bed, his voice strained from general disuse and a lack of liquids.

“I’m fast remember? Really fast. Supersonic levels of fast.” Peter smiles in what he hopes was a comforting manner– thank goodness he hadn't inherited those shark-like smiles of Erik’s–, appearing in front of Angel with a ‘swip’ and manhandling a cup of water into his hands.

“You can thank me now guys,” Peter suggests when the numerous unflinching gazes made his skin prickle uncomfortably.

“What happened?” Raven demands, breaking the silence as she stalks over to him. Immediately, everyone who wasn’t Peter, Jean, Scott, Kurt, Angel, or Bruce pretends to mind their own business.

“Thank you,” Scott beats Raven in getting to him, flinging himself upon Peter in what Peter decides was a poor attempt at a hug. Maybe because it hurt, or maybe because it made him see stars, but whatever it was that made the hug inadequate, he was too late to stop the gasp of pain that left him.

“Scheiße, du bist erschossen!” Kurt hisses.

Peter’s German left something to be desired, but he thinks he can guess the sentiment.

Trying to blink away the dark spots from his eyes, Peter catches Jean’s gaze. Expending the final dredges of his steadily dwindling consciousness, he slows time down and telepathically yells at her a string of alphanumeric characters complete with visual imagery.

–

The next time Peter opens his eyes, he’s on one of the beds in the med bay. Groaning, he wills himself to sit up, gingerly shifting some of his weight to his left hand. The searing pain that flares up his left arm makes him regret his decision. Frowning, he prods at the bandage that was wrapped around his left arm with his right hand, trying to figure out what went wrong.

“Hank says it's infected,” Erik helpfully supplies from his right.

That actually made a whole lot of sense.

Wait wait wait.

Peter turns his gaze, almost worriedly, to the right. Yup, his ears had not deceived him. The words had indeed come from the metalbender seated on the bedside chair and looking at him with what seemed like a mix between concern and distress.

That didn’t make sense at all. Why was Erik looking after Peter while he was out, instead of someone like Scott, for example? Peter’s drug-addled brain was definitely hallucinating, because why would Erik be distressed? And although Peter figures Erik might like him better than most other mutants in the mansion, their level of friendship didn’t warrant Erik hovering around, all concerned like.

Erik must have misunderstood the worry behind Peter’s eyes because he elaborates: “the bullet was lodged too deep for your enhanced healing to dispel, and the wound closed with the non-organic matter still in your body. It's out now, so it shouldn't be long till your body clears the infection.”

“Since when do you know so much about my powers and aftercare for gunshot wounds?” Peter says and immediately regrets his slip of mouth. The last thing he needed was for Erik to think he was just some dumb kid who shot off his mouth without taking what Erik’s life had been like into context, and yet somehow, that seemed to be the only thing Peter was able to do.

“Since I had the hardest time wrangling a bullet out of my son’s arm,” Erik says matter of factly.

A pin-drop silence fills the room.

“Uh.” Peter manages rather intelligibly as his brain struggles to catch up with the loaded implications of that statement.

Drugs. He was totally putting all of the blame on Hank’s drugs.

“I presume that’s what you’ve been skirting around?” Erik asks, dark eyes locked onto Peter’s for confirmation.

Since the speedster had regained consciousness, his expression had shifted from worry to guilt to contrite. Erik thinks he rather prefers the way Peter was currently blinking up at him owlishly.

The contemplation, as with most things, didn’t last long with Peter.

“You knew?! Since when? And you’re cool with it man? I was totally gonna tell you- but it never seemed like a good time, and it was important to catch you at a good time, because I’m y’know, me. Already giving you problems.” Peter finishes with a sheepish shrug.

Erik’s brows furrow as he tries, with some effort, to digest Peter’s barrage of questions and statements. Eventually seeming to find a suitable answer he says hesitantly: “Since breakfast yesterday. Charles and I worked it out. The name, your age, and how you act around me set off a couple of alarms. Also, no child of mine can possibly give me problems I’m not happy to have.”

If Peter wasn’t so completely overwhelmed by the fuzzy feeling that had taken root in his heart at that moment, he would’ve internally cheered at Erik’s phrasing. Wanda and himself probably desperately needed the immunity from Erik.

“That’s… that’s cool. You’re cool. Maybe enough to let me out of this place kind of cool? We could grab ice cream if that’s your thing. Both the ice cream and bonding I mean. Talking about bonding, do I get to call you dad now?”

Peter almost thrums in clear anticipation of his response.

Erik wasn’t sure what it was that caused his body to move, maybe it was the uncertainty his son was radiating, or the need to reaffirm himself that it was really his son– who didn’t mind that he was his son– in front of him, alive and wanting, but his parental instincts kicked in and he leaned in to scoop the speedster up in a hug, like how he had itched to do since he’d first gotten rid of the offending bullet in Peter’s arm. Erik’s instincts had always served him well because with the way Peter immediately returns the hug, his arms looping around Erik’s back, his hands finding themselves a deathly tight purchase on Erik’s plaid outercoat, it was something they both needed to get out of their system.

“A day of bed rest, doctor’s orders. We can get ice cream outside the following day, as long as it's dessert on top of a proper meal,” ignoring Peter's muffled protests, Erik continues, undeterred. “and I would like it if you called me dad.” Erik thinks he doesn’t need to reassure, but he still does it anyway.

He fleetingly laments the loss of Peter’s silver hair softly trickling his cheek as his son pulls back. “You sound just like Hank,“ the speedster says in mock offence, but he’s all smiles and teeth, and just like that, Erik’s caught up in the realization that he wouldn’t have things any other way.

Erik huffs, capturing Peter’s left wrist and turning his arm slowly. The expressions flitting across Peter’s face indicate that the inspection was causing him no major discomfort, making the bed rest Hank had insisted upon rather unnecessary. But his son could do with some time to recharge, especially if the entire school will soon be flocking around their new hero, so Erik immediately perishes the thought of getting him out of the med bay earlier.

Speaking of which.

“You did good,” Erik says, and at Peter’s slightly perplexed head tilt continues, “though the mission went awry, everyone’s safe thanks to you. Because of an anonymous tip, the state also caught all the paramilitary troopers. Every mutant in here knows it came from you.”

Ah, the telepathic screaming actually worked then. Peter makes a mental note to ask Jean how it translated for her later. Best not to assume that everyone took to the way his thoughts presented just like Wanda. Outwardly, he tries for a deflection, “I’m the best, aren’t I?”

Erik nods his agreement.

Peter squints, certain that his newfound dad was messing with him now.

“I meant it,” Erik reiterates as if sensing his distrust. “You’re a powerful mutant. Don’t let anyone else make you feel otherwise.”

“Thanks, dad,” Peter finally says, and Erik finally smiles. Not one of those not-smiles, but a proper smile. The one he usually only rarely wears for Charles; with the shark teeth.

There’s some movement on the opposite side of the cubicle curtain and the telltale sound of rubber-coated wheels skidding on the floor. Charles, because he’s Charles, pauses in typical Professor X fashion before inviting himself into their cubicle. He smiles knowingly the moment he sees the two of them huddled together in close proximity.

“Told you it’ll be fine my friend,” Charles directs to Erik, “and I find it necessary to warn you, once again, that you’ll probably get more than what you’re asking for with this one.”

“As you said before, it’ll be fine,” Erik retorts with unwavering confidence.

Peter only hesitates for a moment before he decides he can’t bear not knowing and asks, “does this mean you’re staying?”

“Yes,” Erik says simply.

The confirmation is absolutely perfect and Peter doesn’t care that he’s grinning like a lunatic because his dad– who finally knew he was his dad– and Charles are smiling at him like they’d gladly have him only as he already is.

Charles holds up two fingers to his temple and there’s an incoming scuffle and commotion of his friends raring to see him, and Peter can't help but think it's a shared sentiment.

Besides, it’s way past due that his wandering heart finally, finally felt complete.

… He’s probably going to have to introduce Wanda to Erik at some point though, Peter thinks fleetingly before he's swept up in the chaos of the hodgepodge of mutants in the med bay.

[thegreenmetblue]

Daddy’s boy

Part 1 of the Starker Asylum discussions turned out as OS cause I felt like it needed to be shared

Those beautiful ideas come from @itfeelssogoodmrstark, @starkly and me 🥰

Tw : incest, underage Peter

read on ao3

This morning, Peter played sick. He felt like a little kid doing it but he had a good reasons for it. Because then his dad takes care of him so well. He’s super tender and sweet. Not that he usually isn’t, but he’s extra tender and sweet when his little boy is sick.

Peter’s lying to himself if he says it’s not also because then it’s much easier to persuade his dad into some sexy times. And Peter can’t help it. When his dad comes to check if he’s doing alright, he can’t help the small whines asking his dad to make him feels good. Much to Peter’s happiness and Tony’s despair, the man can’t resist his son anymore. He tried to. Everyday he tried to resist him. Since they had this discussion about Peter dreaming his dad touched him. But when Peter’s like this, all weak, fragile and practically begging him to pleasure him, using such cute words as « make me feel good dad, please. », he just can’t resist.

So Tony lets go. He fucks Peter in between thighs, and it seems like the boy can only handle one of his dad's fingers. That’s one of the things that makes Tony just loses control. Peter’s body is just so tiny, he’s so sensible too, reacting to every little things Tony does to him with cute high pitched moans. And they drives Tony crazy. So Tony turns Peter over, the boy laying on his stomach and Tony just has to slide his finger between his son’s ass cheeks, making sure he isn’t uncomfortable. Just to give him a nice orgasm afterwards, one finger in his hole as he does.

The thing Tony doesn’t know is that’s Peter’s first orgasm. Not his first orgasm from his dad but his first orgasm ever. For some reason, Peter never touched himself. That’s something that never really attracted him. Peter was almost scared of it. That until he dreamed his dad was the one doing it. Then he couldn’t stop thinking about it. But still refused to touch himself, that should be his dad’s responsibility to make his little boy feels that good. So he never experienced it. And now Tony is making him cum for the first time, his finger in between the boy’s thighs, the other hand going back and forth on his left nipple and his cock. Tony’s sucking hickeys into his son’s neck. And Peter, desperately discovering that intense and exploding pleasure for the first time. His dad making him feel so good and special. That totally breaks him. He never ever felt so good in his whole life. The pleasure was so intense, he can’t even clearly remember it. He just remember how good his dad’s big finger felt inside him, and how of a crying mess he was. So Peter’s sure going to come back for it at night. But Tony denies him. The man feels so bad. He just fingered his son. No, worse even : he just fingered his underage son. He can’t do it again, never.

After that, Peter finally start jerking off, asking himself what was he even scared of. But only to realize it’s nothing compared to when his dad’s hands were on his cock. He even tries with someone else, one of his friend, because he thought that maybe the issue was doing it alone. But no, it’s the same thing : the sensations are nothing alike, it does not burn so good as much. Even when Peter pictures his dad doing it. It helps for sure but this still isn’t enough. So one day he just can’t stop himself : he comes right back to Tony, almost begging him to touch him.

In the meantime, Tony dropped his will to fight this again. The two first days after the incident, the only thing running in his head was that he should never ever touch his son like that again. But the more the days passed, the more he became almost obsessed with wants to hear Peter’s beautiful sounds when he gets close, to have Peter’s body against him, to make his son feels good again. But he can’t ask for it. Peter needs to do it, so he waits. And when the boy finally comes to him, desperate for more. Tony can’t help it. « I wonder how long it’d take for you to come back at me, baby boy. I have to say lm impressed with how long you waited. Now c’m’here baby. Dad’s gonna make you feel good, just how you deserve it. ». Peter practically just moans at that. At his dad’s low voice and at the anticipation if it. And Tony is praising him, telling his baby how perfect he is. And he should have known Peter had a praise kink. But it feels so good to see the way Peter blushes every time Tony tells him how beautiful he is. But then, Peter starts to act a bit impatient. He really needs his dad’s hands and cock. But Tony has another plan for today. A dad has to make sure he’s a good teacher for his children.

That’s how Peter ends up getting a lecture from his dad about how to suck a cock. Tony starts with blowing him, blowing his brain out at the same time. Peter doesn’t last long. But that’s not his fault : the man’s mouth feels so warm and wet around his little cock. And he has waited for it for a long time. Peter can’t understand why Tony makes him feel that way, he must be a magician because what Peter feels right now is far from natural, it’s magic. So when he comes, it’s with little choked crying sounds, repainting « dad » over and over again. After that, Tony asks him to do the same. On him. He asks his own son to blow him and he swears between his teeth with horniness when Peter’s just instantly drops on his knees and starts blowing him. And Tony’s not surprised, but still so pleased, to see Peter is doing the exact same moves he did on him, the same little twist with his tongue around his cock, the same licking teasing part, even the same deep throating even though Peter never sucked on a cock before. But the sounds the boy makes while chocking on his dad’s cock almost sends Tony into heaven. Jeez my boy is so eager to learn and to be so good, the man thinks. He even places his hands on the same places Tony placed on him. Peter’s being all sloppy but yet so enthusiastic. But Tony doesn’t mind the sloppiness, he likes it. His son is so inexperienced and Tony shouldn’t love the contrast between them that much. But at the same time, he shouldn’t fuck his own son either.

Tony feels like he’s the dirtiest man alive but he just can’t stop. And now, every single time his boy comes to him, puppy eyed, asking for some good times between them, Tony just can’t help himself. This kid is a sin, the best sin ever. How could he ever say no to those pretty eye ? So they keep doing it. And Tony isn’t just doing it, he’s keeping memories of it. He’s taking picture of him and his little boy, pretty much naked. « D... Dad what are you doing ? D-Don’t take pictures of me like this! Im- ah! Im- Im not pretty, I- oh that- that’s so good ah », Peter argues.

And Tony is almost shocked his son thinks he’s not pretty. So from now on, he starts murmuring into the boy’s ear that he’s the prettiest thing Tony ever saw in his life. That he deserves to be worshipped. That he’s just sweet and sugar and Tony can’t resist him anymore. And he wants Peter to feel special. He’s gonna make sure that precious boy knows how perfect he is. And Tony just loves the way he can make Peter squirm just by calling him pet names. And Peter is just so receptive. To everything Tony says, to everything Tony does. So after praising him with a low voices that sends shivers down Peter’s spine, Tony just rubs his fingers against his sweet hole. Peter’s already moaning quietly. And then, when he sees Peter’s becoming too needy, he just inserts a first finger deep inside his son’s ass. Peter’s almost crying. And Tony has this dark pleasure inside him, he just wants Peter to beg, he wants the boy to be really desperate for it. That’s how the edging starts. His fingers inside Peter’s hole and the other hand just playing with that sweet body in front of him. He’s not touching Peter’s cock yet. But Tony’s working on pinching his nipples, burying the hand on his curly hair. And Peter’s moans become higher and higher. Tony can feels it. He’s gonna make his son cum just like this, just from his fingers only, without having to touch his aching cock. So he keeps curling his fingers deeper and deeper to touch the boy’s prostate again. And when he feels the boy is too close, he just stops. Peter is crying because he feels so empty, and he needs to cum so bad. Tony shushes him again and tells him he was so good for him. That he deserves a reward. That’s how Tony fucks his son for the first time. And it’s almost a torture. The boy’s ass is so tight around his cock. And the noises he makes, fuck. This is so good. Almost too good. He knows he only has a few thrust before Peter reaches his orgasm. And Tony was expecting Peter to cum, hard. He’s been edging him for 15 minutes, he’s been giving the boy his cock. However he didn’t expect Peter to pass out from this. But Peter does. And that just does it for Tony, he cums hard into his son’s ass. When Peter’s eyes start to flutter, sign that he’s coming back to himself, Tony just pets him, murmuring he’s okay. But when Peter realizes what just happened, he apologizes, almost crying in shame. And Tony shushes him : his son can’t even understand how an ego boost it was.

But then, he needs to train that recently-not-virgin-anymore hole to be able to take his dick. « Baby we can’t have you passing out every time I pound that sweet ass, can’t we ? », he teases, loving the way Peter’s cheeks goes red from both shame and wants. « We have to make sure you can handle those orgasms without passing out. And the only way to do that, is to make you come baby. Many times. ». Peter’s so eager, he just nods his head almost furiously, he wants his dad to teach him, he wanna be able to take his dad’s cock without passing out. They both know it’s wrong. Even Peter knows it, but hell he doesn’t care. It can’t be that wrong if it’s so good. And all his dad does is to take care of him, so where’s the bad in that ? Tony’s guilt sometimes hits him hard, saying him how wrong and dirty he’s being. But Tony tried to resist for so many years. Peter has always been his perfect boy. And now that he let himself touches his son, he knows there’s no going back. And still, even if he didn’t want it. Peter is just begging for it half of the time anyway. What a bad dad he’d be to deny his baby what makes him feels so good ?

The next day, Peter is in Tony’s strong arms, fucking into his fist. He’s so desperate he doesn’t even wait for the man to even jerk him off. He just needs it now. And seeing his son acting so desperate for his hand is such a turn on for Tony. So he doesn’t move his hand at all, letting Peter doing all the job on his own. « You wanna get off baby? Just show your dad how you do this. Show me how desperate you are, Peter. », he growls, making his son whine. The only moves Tony does is softly tighten his hand around the boy’s cock only to hear Peter’s moans going higher and higher. It’s so good that the only words coming from Peter’s mouth are some chocked « dad »s. He’s not able to say something else.

And seeing Tony’s big warm hands around Peter’s cock makes them both realize that size difference between them. Peter’s dick is so small compared to Tony’s. And Peter hopes one day, when he finishes his puberty, his cock is gonna look as big and as thick as his dad’s. But Peter’s still so young, so in the meantime, he worships the man’s big cock. It makes him feel so good. And Tony is a bad bad man but seeing Peter’s little cocklet next to his adult cock is making is whole body burns with wants. So then, as soon as the boy came, his whole body jerking with the orgasm, he uses Peter’s hands to jerk himself off. Those delicate and soft hands are so tiny compared to his own, the boy can’t even hold his dad’s whole cock. And Peter’s hand is burning just because it’s touching Tony there. His own cock already getting so hard again, Peter knows he’ll also cum untouched when the man’s gonna cum.

« Am I doing this right, daddy ? », Peter asks, his voice so weak and breathless, but so eager to please, to jerk his dad off just nice. « Fuck, baby, you're doing perfect. You're making daddy feel very good right now. So, so perfect for me. », Tony answers, his jaw clenching with how good Peter’s hand feels. And Peter’s stomach just ignite from the praise, he could cry from those. So he can’t help but ask if he’s doing good every minute. Tony could ask him anything, Peter would do it eagerly. His desire to be good is too strong for him to hold it in and every time Tony answers him he’s doing so good, it just sends sparkles all over his body, the warm feeling in his belly getting bigger and bigger. And Peter can’t help the high cry coming out of his mouth when his dad calls him a good boy.

Tony is just in awe with what he has in front of him. He doesn’t even understand how he could have had sex with so many people, people as much experienced as him and still… this, the sex with Peter, this is way higher, way better than anything he ever experienced. The way Peter’s just so new at this, the way he’s so sensitive from all Tony is giving him, the way he discovers it all because of Tony- that’s the biggest turn on ever. Sex never felt this good and intense before. Peter’s is such a good son, the best one.

[kick-the-clouds]

Celebrity Obsession Exposed

Donald J. Trump, in his usual flair for drama, confided in an entertainment journalist during the grim aftermath of the January 6 attack. Surprise, surprise, he revealed his deep fixation with celebrity status and the relentless need for acceptance. This obsession stems, of course, from his time on the TV show that skyrocketed him to fame.

It’s almost touching how a man who once held the highest office in the land craves the superficial validation of Hollywood elites. It's just what you'd expect from someone who turned the presidency into a reality TV spectacle. While the country grappled with the chaos he left behind, Trump’s primary concern was, apparently, his star power and popularity.

President Biden, on the other hand, has been busy rebuilding the nation with a focus on substance over spectacle. It's refreshing to have a leader who prioritizes policy and progress over personal glory. The contrast couldn’t be starker: Biden works tirelessly to mend a fractured nation, while Trump clings to his reality TV persona, desperate for the spotlight.

In these times, the choice between celebrity obsession and genuine leadership has never been clearer. Thank goodness for Biden’s commitment to real issues, steering us away from the theatrics of the Trump era.

[whoiwanttoday]

One of the strangest things about this pandemic is how do we hold people to account? I don't really know what the answer is there. I know personally I am an elephant and never forget anything and my perception of people will forever be colored by this. I see you and I see how you have handled it and I will forever remember the people who either directly or indirectly told me I just needed to get my shit together with my mental illness over the years, who would do nothing but make me feel bad when I couldn't get out of bed and just needed a day off. I will remember every single one of them who after a month of staying home started to break rule because they had to for their, "mental health". Guys, I have been to so many doctors and none of them every wrote out a little prescription that said, "Kill 2 people and yell Yolo". And I have been to some bad doctors, too, so I think it's advice that just doesn't exist. So that will always be in my head, how many people who have never suffered through real want or real deprivation felt that the slightest inconvenience is the end of the world. Not to downplay how hard some of this has been, I get it. I went from February of last year until Christmas without touching another human being. Not in a sexual way but at all. It's tough. But how you handle it says a lot about you. And so I know in my personal life it will impact how I see people. But what to do with celebrities? Well... it impacts things there, too. I think we always knew how ridiculous celebrity culture was but this has but it in even starker contrast. Can you imagine? I can. Aside from that though it definitely means I have lost respect for a good number. A small number make me smile as they appear to do the right thing and try their hardest to use their influence for good when they can. I saw who posted black squares and I saw who did real work. But what if I see someone and am attracted to them but am like, "Boy, they have not handled this well". Well... I dunno. Am I going to not post Rita Ora cause she is someone who has indeed not done a great job during this. No, I guess that isn't going to stop me. The trouble with boycotts is if they work or not I suppose. Economically they do not. Socially they do. In that economists say the economic impact is almost never enough to change a companies behaviors but people run companies and the social pressure of loud voices point out you are an asshole tends to work. On an individual level I am not sure what it does though because in the end even if it changes behavior I don't think it changes the person. They will probably be resentful more than anything if they were already acting selfishly. So the question becomes will Rita Ora be hurt if I don't mention I want to have sex with her? Um.... probably not. I mean maybe. Maybe she has my sight bookmarked and checks every day to see if I have posted her. Must have been a rough 8 years of hitting refresh before I finally did. I mean that seems unlikely but maybe it happens. If so, Rita, I am flattered. Look, I know you're good friends with Charli XCX so maybe put in a good word for me? I know you're wondering what's in it for you but you know, sometimes that's what you do when you care about someone. We've all seen Casablanca, sometimes you have to sacrifice for the greater good. And yes, in this scenario I am Ingrid Bergman and Charli is Paul Henreid but that's the good news, you get to be Humphrey Bogart if you do this and science has proven over and over again that that's the coolest thing you can be. Look, I don't know who your Claude Rains will be and I don't have a good analog here for beating the Nazis so let's just say the real beating the Nazis will be the friends we make along the way. Think about it. Anyway, back to my point, she is not going to read any of that, it was a waste of my time. So do I deny the fact that her carrying a coffee cup down some stairs in Australia did it for me? That would be weird to me. My loins apparently have fewer qualms about character that I do. Which is fine. It's an issue if I am dating, less so if I am writing a post about sexual desire. I guess it feels important to note. Also to clear up the coffee and the Australia thing are not a factor that. That's not a new weird thing I'm into. It's the boobs, the coffee just happens to be there and you know, it's in Australia and details are important. Today I want to fuck Rita Ora.