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marshmallowsqoosh · 1 year

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[Sleep Token (Band) | Half Blind (WIP)]

I started this a while ago to deal with some life things but... I’m not entirely sure I’m gonna finish it? Anyways, here’s a 2k porn with plot/feels set up that I may or may not finish but I desperately wanted to say thank you to the Sleep Token fandom for being so lovely I’m just a really slow writer and life keeps Life’ing [sob]

Fandom: Sleep Token Title: Half Blind Rating: will eventually be Mature; this is mostly just 16+ CW: Concert shenanigans that lead to sex back at the hotel Lesser Warnings: Altered Physical State (Sleep gives His vessels gifts that cause mutations that they can mostly usually hide; II has multiple limbs and chelicerea (do not google that if you have arachnophobia, it’s a spider’s jaw), Sleep is chill/supportive, Sleep is an eldritch horror that exists in an alternate plane of existence and manifests as tentacles to His vessels, Vessel is Sleep’s host, Not Beta’d, Incomplete

Summary: This is 2000% just my excuse to write III being a little bit of a brat and Vessel being exasperated with him. (aka my bestest enabler sent me a video of Granite live and III yelling Give it to me! right before the breakdown and it did things to me)

extras. Status: incomplete word count. ~1997

Give it to me!

One of the simplest collection of words. They stick to Vessel for the rest of the performance—well after they've closed out and returned to the hotel. He genuinely wants nothing more than to drag III back to their room—suddenly understands why they doubled up instead of all four of them just sharing a room—but II stops him, making sleepy, half-hearted grabby hands at his back.

"Ves… sleepy kiss." II's barely standing. IV catches him by putting a hand on his shoulder when he sways and Vessel just sighs. It… was a more intense worship than usual. The crowds are growing, the stage is growing but it's still suffocating and hot in the flashing lights and too many bodies in a room.

He doesn't get a chance to confirm he hears the request, though; instead he's fighting down a pleased shudder and moan when III presses up to his back, dragging a hand up from the dip in his back to his shoulders with one hand, while his other arm hangs over Vessel's shoulder, mostly harmless.

Mostly, only because he's using it as an excuse to press his hand flat to Vessel's chest, fingers curling a little and tapping against the exposed flesh.

"Think we all earned sleepy kisses, yeah, Ves?"

He's grateful Sleep manifesting is enough to cover the small moan in his throat; the rift forming on his back always feels weird enough without III being flush against him… and then he just feels weirdly cold when the bassist backs up just enough that two of Sleep's appendages can wriggle out of their plane of existence, eagerly moving around Vessel so He can tap the tip of one tentacle, gently, to II's forehead before trailing down the the side of his face and resting on his cheek. The other one presents to IV, waiting for permission—permission eagerly granted, by IV extending the hand not keeping II steady on his feet—and coiling around the extended arm until the tip can press gently to IV's cheek in the same manner.

You all did so marvelous tonight.

Sleep's voice is always… stronger after performances. It makes Vessel's ears ring and his head pounds a little, like he's knocked back too many shots at once, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the sensation. He feels III's hands resting on his hips, thumbs tracing gentle patterns into his back to distract him without getting closer and trapping Sleep.

My apologies, Vessel. You all must be very tired; please, rest, my devoted. Rest and let your bodies and mind heal in the afterglow of worship.

It's only when he feels a gentle tap of one of Sleep's tentacles against his back that he even realises a third one had been coiled around III the entire time. II nearly falls forward, trying to follow as the tentacle withdraws and IV's turned his hand upright so that the one around his arm drags across his palm in the process of returning to Vessel. They both look pleased and more tired than they did a moment ago.

That extends to you and III, as well, Vessel. I know you wish to lavish your praise unto III, but do not neglect yourself. I would greatly prefer both of you in good health, come morning.

Not for the first time, Vessel finds himself grateful for his mask and keeping his hood drawn up, as he feels a flustered heat spread up from his neck to the tips of his ears and try to move across his cheeks. He manages to catch III by the wrist before he gets too far away, hastily clearing his throat and hoping he doesn't sound like he's in too much of a hurry.

"Sleep extends His wishes for rest once more. We'll see you both in the morning. A word, first, if you don't mind, III."

He can tell the bassist is grinning at his back and can see him waving at the other two as he's pulled along. He doesn't bother looking back to see if II and IV go to their room or even really try to remember how close the rooms are. He knows their room and simply pulls III along until the door clicks shut and locked behind them.

♥

IV blinks, slowly, and lets his attention stray down to II after a long moment of simply standing in the hallway. II sways a little on his feet, clearly already asleep and starting to lose the ability to hide his Gifts from Sleep as he yawns, wide, behind his mask and the chelicerae try to stretch out and puncture through his mask. His robe flutters a little to accommodate the manifestation of more of his arms and that's what finally gets IV to pick him up so they can relocate before they get found out.

"Ves knows we know they're fuckin', right?" Maybe he's just missed something about the pair, but it's always odd that they try to cover up what they're doing when… he's pretty sure everyone knows.

"Let him have this, IV." II slumps over his shoulder, two arms over each shoulder and a third set, along with his legs, curled around the guitarist's torso like he's trying to become a koala. He still sounds pleased and mostly asleep. "It makes Ves feel better and honestly… I think III gets off on it."

That… does actually make sense. It would definitely explain some of his behaviour on stage—not Sugar. They all talked about that before it was officially implemented; but, the… relatively new desire to engage the crowd with what should be innocent enough rallying of the audience. Except everyone else on stage knows he's doing his absolute damnedest to get a rise out of Vessel—between trying to get him to laugh and keep him from being too anxious on stage, III's also taken to being a borderline menace, sometimes.

But, that's quickly the last thing on IV's mind, as he gently kicks the door to his and II's room shut and he realises whoever goes through the process of booking them rooms made a very pointed effort to put a few rooms between them and shuffled Vessel and III off to a corner where they hopefully won't disturb anyone. ... A gratitude sadly short-lived as his entire focus is soon on trying to figure out how he gets out of the trap of II having fallen asleep with a death grip around him and resigning himself, fairly quick, to the fact this is just going to be how he ends up sleeping tonight and trying to find a comfortable way to lie down.

♥

III laughs when Vessel pushes the door shut behind them and barely waits long enough for the man to ensure the door is locked before III pushes him against the door, hands on either side of his neck and fingers tapping a gentle rhythm against his jaw beneath the edge of his mask.

"A word, huh?" He feels a shudder go up his spine when Vessel's fingers slip under the bottom of his mask, pulling the fabric to pull III's face close enough that they're barely centimeters apart. A brush of lips against his just ends in a whine building in his throat as the mask stops him from seeking out more.

"Ves—"

"Patience." Vessel's voice is low. Even pushed against the door, he doesn't buckle under the whining and friction as III tries to get his way by pressing as close as he possibly can. He pulls at III's mask again, gentlylifting it off his head and making sure it's folded into his pocket before he runs his hands back through III's hair, mindful of his rings, even as he knots his fingers in the ends. "You've been… so patient already. Just a bit longer."

III's head tilts a little to follow the hands in his hair—a gentle pull, a pleasant sensation—and swallows, hard, when it exposes his throat. Vessel's mask is cold against flushed skin and he makes a pitched keening noise when he feels teeth graze the hollow of his neck and up over his Adam's apple.

"But—"

"On the bed." Vessel releases him and makes a gesture back towards the bed. It takes III a few seconds to get his bearings, to actually process the order. Vessel waits, patiently, even when III swears he hears the man stifling a laugh as the bassist nearly trips over himself in his attempt to turn and navigate the room. He starts to turn again, so he can sit, and ends up freezing when Vessel's suddenly at his back, breath warm on his neck and eliciting another shudder of anticipation. "Lie on your front for me."

He doesn't… really have a reason to argue. A selfish one, perhaps; but, not… really. He might be able to turn over later, so for now he simply obeys and carefully toes his shoes off without untying them—nudging them under the bed in the process—and crawls onto the bed, trying to center himself, and pulls a pillow under his chest as he lies down. Low enough he can kick his feet, a little, off the end of the bed. His attention perks a little bit when he sees Vessel set his mask on the room's desk and his robe is laid across its chair. The gentle clink of all of his necklaces being taken off and set on the desk, as well, is almost enough to lull III to sleep. Always something soothing watching Vessel shed his clothes, like peeling away the layers he used to hide himself from people, even when it was something as simple as his boots or jewelry.

Almost enough. He's alert again, the second Vessel crawls onto the bed over him, leaning down to kiss his shoulders and neck. III manages to reach back, fingers curling into Vessel's hair to hold him in place, a quiet moan escaping as he resists the urge to arch up into the singer's body.

"Ffffuck… c'mon, Ves. Said yourself I been patient, yeah? C'mon… give it to me." The words come out in a purr, still hopeful he'll get his way.

"You have been remarkably patient." Vessel's hand slips around III's neck, fingers curling gently to pull his head up and back, thumb pushing at his jaw, just enough to turn his head for a kiss without their masks in the way. A gentle kiss… that ends in Vessel biting at his lower lip—still gentle, but enough to jump all of III's senses—his voice lower than before. "And an absolute menace."

Okay, III might have been a little provocative on stage. On purpose. More than usual. Even during Sugar he may have dragged Vessel's hips against his a bit harder than they normally were, desperate for even a little bit of attention that he hasn't been able to get the past few nights.

Needy.

Vessel releases him and pries, carefully, at III's hand so he releases Vessel, too, and pushes his hand flat to the bed. Both of Vessel's cover III's and he carefully rearranges himself so he's sitting across the small of III's back, pushing him into the mattress and pinning him there, in the process. III whines, desperately, and just does his best not to squirm and draw this out more than he knows it's going to be. A difficult enough task with how much he wants Vessel on a normal day… a few days of nothing but the touches on stage and just being able to feel Vessel's arousal through his jeans, just above III's waistband…

He manages to twist his fingers with Vessel's, the way his hands are covered, and tries to breathe a little slower, a little deeper, to keep from begging. He might be regretting letting his feet dangle, now that he can't get purchase to try wriggling himself free—well. He could. But it'd be easier if he were on the bed proper.

#Sleep Token #sleep token fanfic #vessel/III #sqooshy writes #vessel sleep token #iii sleep token #sleep sleep token #ii sleep token #iv sleep token #Rating: Teen #cw: sex #fic wip

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excelsiorfics · 8 days

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remind me not to let go of this home

Date: March 29 2020 Author: pymparticle, catboydogma Rating: Teen Word Count/Status: 933, complete Dynamic: Hank McCoy/Simon Williams Characters: Hank McCoy, Simon Williams Tags: Fluff, Cuddling, Mutual Pining

Summary: Just two bros taking a nap, nothing odd about that. Hell, they slept together all the time.

…not that kind of sleeping together.

They lived together! They were flatmates, or whatever you were supposed to call it. Simon got cold and sometimes Hank got uncomfortably warm and this was a middle ground they had both silently agreed on.

Besides, everyone knew it wasn’t gay if you still had socks on.

#rating: teen #uni: 616 #team: avengers #char: hank mccoy #char: simon williams #dyn: hank mccoy/simon williams #tag: cuddling #tag: fluff #tag: mutual pining #length: <1k #status: complete #category: one-shot #rel: m/m

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camelotremix · 10 months

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Title: Candere Creator: ??? Work Type: Fic Work URL:https://archiveofourown.org/works/47636359 Remixee Name: Athena (sherlock_is_actually_a_girls_name) Link to Work Remixed:https://archiveofourown.org/works/31883923 Pairings: Merlin/Arthur Length: ~8k Rating: Teen Warnings: Canon typical violence, abusive behaviour by a visiting noble Notes: Athena, I loved reading your gorgeous fics and one in particular called to me! I really hope you like what I've done and thank you for letting me play in your sandbox. Huge thanks to the mods for running this amazing fest! ❤️ Summary: Ever since that fateful night when Arthur had pulled him in for a hug, arms strong and warm around Merlin’s back, bare chest pressed against him, face all but buried in Merlin’s neck… Merlin had been lost.

But Arthur had let go. And he hadn’t touched Merlin since.

Four times Merlin attempted to get a hug from Arthur, and the one time Arthur gave it willingly

#camelot remix #camelot remix 2023 #merlin #merlin fanfic #type: fic #pairing: merlin/arthur #merthur #rating: teen

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merlinrarepairfest · 5 months

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Title: Friendless Monster Writer: I_think_he_knows | @marlenemckinnonsuppremacy Rating: Teen and up audiences Warnings: No Archive warnings apply Medium/Word Count: 4891 words Pairing/main characters: Merlin/Arthur/Gwen Up to 10 tags: Polygamy, miscomunications, Fluff, Angst, Love, Love Confessions Summary:

After years of peace in Camelot, Merlin is forced to reveal his magic to the two people he loves the most

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49932865/chapters/126062422

#bbc merlin #merlin rare pair fest #arthur x gwen x merlin #format: fic #rating: teen

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contritecactite · 10 months

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Prepare for an actual torrent of stuff from me (maybe) as I get inspired by four ship weeks in the span of three weeks, starting with:

Day 1 of Narumitsu Week, "secrets and lies."

Title: Two Lies and a Truth Rating: T Desc: 1.3k, early 7yg and a childhood memory. Somewhere between an elementary school classroom and a freezing dive bar, the world made them this way. In an elevator, on a college campus, in courtroom after courtroom, the pieces that make them up got rearranged, like little plastic heroes that, with a few tweaks, morph into devastating weapons.

#my fic #phoenix wright #ace attorney #narumitsu #nmweek23 #rating: teen #wc: <2k

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namjinreads · 6 months

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READ ON AO3

#author: drip #length: 1 to 5k words #rating: teen #au: students #strangers to lovers #drunk shenanigans #halloween #namjin #namjin au

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harrydracobang · 2 years

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Drarry Art + Fic: Fields of Gold

Title: Fields of Gold Author: @pineau-noir Artist: @digthewriter Pairing(s): Draco/Harry, brief Draco/OMC, background Pansy/Ginny, background Hermione/Ron Other Key Characters: OMC, a few owls Rating: Teen Word Count: 19.2k Art Medium: Digital Era: Post-Hogwarts, EWE Content/Warnings: temporary amnesia (Harry), panic attacks, anxiety, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy friendship, several owls, the fic in which Draco has an emotional affair with Ron’s owl, drinking, self-worth issues, emotional hurt/comfort, POV third person, POV Draco Malfoy Summary: Draco Malfoy is content with his life, post-war. He’s got a decent job, a nice flat, and good friends. When Harry Potter is involved in a mysterious accident which causes wild speculation and gossip in the wizarding world, Draco's world is forever changed. A story about shedding past perceptions, learning to embrace change, and being in love. Author's Notes: There are so many people I need to thank, but instead of sounding like I've won an award, I'm just going to say thank you to Karol, Ana, M, and Dig for being the most wonderful people in fandom. Thank you all for everything you've helped me do with this fic, I could not have put it out into the world without all of you. I love you all and I thank you all. Also, I'm the luckiest girl to not only have gotten to work with Dig and M, but we got to meet irl!!! And just a huge thank you to the mods for running my favorite type of fest! Artist's Notes: This art was created in the loopy haze of having covid in April 2022. I don't remember most of those days, haha, but I am lucky that I did this, it was accepted and the luckiest because I got a fabulous author who I also recently met in person! This is the life! Drarry is life. Enjoy

FIC AND ART POST ON AO3

ART POST ON AO3

#drarry #drarry art #drarry fic #draco x harry #harry x draco #harrydracoreversebang #2022 fest #rating: teen #pineau noir #digthewriter

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k--havok · 2 years

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I've been obsessed about monsters with a gargoyle type of anatomy. With beautiful large wings and they twitch and flutter during pleasure

100% yes to wings. I know you said gargoyle like anatomy but like... if you think about it, gargoyles are pretty romantic (or maybe i’m weird idk) Also does anyone else remember that TV show Gargoyles from Disney?? I can blame half the reasons why I'm like this on kids shows ngl

Also idk if you were expecting wing kink but here we go~

Gargoyles

Rating: T Tags: Wing play, sensuality, lore building

Gargoyles may look intimidating, but in reality such is not the case. They are protectors of the home, old warriors, and vigilant beasts who stalk the night.

During the day, their skin hardens to rock as the sunlight graces their powerful shoulders, where wings sprout from their back. The deep slumber is required to maintain their nightly activities and energy.

But as the sun falls from the sky, and night reigns the firmament, they come alive as moonlight washes across their forms. Their bodies rise, their flesh cracking from the daily disuse. As they shed their daytime sleepiness, the battle beings.

Gargoyles are fiercely loyal creatures. They have an innate sense of intuition and the uncanny ability to read the intentions of others. Those who wish to undue harm upon the home best beware. A gargoyle’s tough hide keeps them protected from both magic and blade. Their stone flesh hinders metal strikes. Powerful magic glances off their sculpted physique, leaving naught a mark behind.

A home is not just a place, however. Home can be found in others as well. And if a gargoyle chooses you as a home, they will spend all of their immortal life protecting your form. Even after death, it is not uncommon to see a gargoyle hunched over a grave, protecting their person, their livelihood, their hearth, until the end of time. Even after bones become dust.

Many see these creatures as terrifying. And in the midst of battle to protect those who they deem important, it is understandable. Gargoyles need no magic. Nor do they need weapons other than their powerful wings, tough claws, and fangs.

A gargoyles’ wings are yet another powerful tool of their disposal. As gargoyles are heavy, stone-like creatures, their wings need to be equally powerful and large to lift their bodies into the air. A gargoyle does not have organs as humans do, as they are made of stone. And although their skin is tough and impervious to most things, their insides are hollow and full of their own inner magic.

It is a myth that gargoyles cannot feel touch. They can sense the warmth of a coming dawn, the cool breeze of night, and those who dust tender fingers across their spine. As most gargoyles usually only feel the lacerations of battle, a more delicate touch is usually quite foreign to most.

Although made of stone, all gargoyles have softer spots of their body, akin to pressure points in that of a human. This is especially true around the base of their wings. The base of the wing is the most delicate part of a gargoyle and most avoid allowing enemies to get purchase or even others to touch them.

But, for someone who has befriended a gargoyle, and who has gained a gargoyle’s full trust, touching the wings is a rare gift.

When touching the base of their powerful wings, the stone is more brittle. Softer. Almost like limestone. It is often cold due to outside temperatures. The gentle dusting of a few fingers will often lead to a small, full-body shudder. The wings, usually still, lower and open wider, allowing further access to those the gargoyle trusts. A slightly stronger press, akin to the kneading of a cat, lends to further reactions. When the uncertainty and strangeness subsides, a new desire burns.

Gargoyles often show their emotions with their tail. While a quickly lashing tail may denote rage, flicks of the tip often point towards pleasure.

Some gargoyles have more sensitivities in the wings than others. For those who are extra sensitive, all it takes is a long stroke down the forelimb of the wing, from the joint of the spine toward the first finger of the wing, to induce utter wanton. A gargoyle may open their wings full to the sensation, bowing their head down and curling their limbs beneath their rock-hard bodies in a show of absolute trust and adoration.

Most who gaze upon the gargoyle do not see a creature of elegance and resignation. But those who can are graced with a sight like no other. Wings powerful enough to snap metal tremble beneath soft, fleshy fingers. The guttural moans of a gargoyle sound similar to that of crumbling stone. Their glowing, pupil-less eyes somehow roll to the back of their skull from the bliss of such machinations.

For the truly lucky and adored, such attention and care may lead to a gargoyle wrapping their powerful, stone wings around you. Although their flesh may be rough, their touch and passion are not.

#monster fucker #monster lover #gargoyles #monsters #writeblr #writers on tumblr #gargoyle lore #Here Be Monsters story #short story #flash fiction #original fiction #my writing #wing play #wing kink #Rating: Teen #yes i was thinking of that one scene in httyd when writing this lol

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lupines-slash-recs · 26 days

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Rec: Mating Rituals by Velvedere

Title: Mating Rituals Author: Velvedere Canon: Rebels | Star Wars Pairing: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb ‘Zeb’ Orrelios Rating: Teen [🍋] Word Count: 4,704 Summary: Zeb has been acting weird lately. Kallus vents to Sabine about it. Continue reading Rec: Mating Rituals by Velvedere

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smuttyandabsurd · 2 months

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Off Days (England x Greece)

Title: Off Days Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Greece; England/Greece, minor America/England Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Warnings: Implied/Referenced Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Suicidal Thoughts Summary: After Alfred's death, Arthur is left with a void in his life, and he goes to Greece to relive the memories of their last holiday together. There he meets Herakles, a young Greek man who unexpectedly guides him to a path of healing.

This fic has been in WIP hell for 10 years, but I finally found the push to finish it. Originally written as a follow-up to an even older fic The Ghost of You.

Thank you @cluster-bi and @all-turns-to-moss for your help and insight.

Read it on AO3.

The phones were ringing all around, and Arthur kneaded his forehead as he weathered through a viciously abusive barrage from an irate customer.

“Sir, please lower your voice or I will be forced to terminate this call.”

When the customer screeched at him for being a stupid script-reading monkey (“Sir, please try to keep this conversation civil...”), told him to fuck off (“…this is your second warning…”), and finally, to go kill yourself, he ended the call with a tight-voiced, “I am terminating this call. Please call again when you can hold a professional conversation. Good day.”

He hung up and punched in an idle code before the phone could ring again, then rose to his feet. Fifteen minutes, he signalled to his harried-looking team leader who gave a terse nod.

It was not as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind before. He had thought of it, repeatedly, but only as a shadow which he had never voiced aloud. He did not have to do it now that a customer had said it for him: Go kill yourself!

His walk in the bitter spitting cold brought him to his usual haunt, a pedestrian overpass stretched across a busy road at the back of the office building. He leaned against the railings, nursing a Styrofoam cup of milky tea from the vending machine. A tonne truck blared as it bounced along under the bridge. He wondered what it would feel like to fall under those wheels.

Vaguely, on an unconscious impulse, he stepped onto the bottom rung of the railings and leaned all his weight forward. All that stopped him from falling now was a thin sheet of rusting metal digging into his hips.

It felt… wrong. It felt very wrong, and a primal survival instinct screamed at him to step back!

No, no. If he was going to do it, he was going to do it right. He would do it on his own terms, which was most certainly not at the back of a dilapidated office building at the behest of some prick over the phone.

Ten minutes later, he was back at his desk filing for a two-week holiday request. His team leader would have to approve it; it was getting near the end of the business year, and holidays were not transferable over to the next.

He spent the rest of the day looking up cheap flights to Greece in between phone calls.

It was stiflingly hot when he landed in Heraklion International Airport. Mercifully, an air-conditioned coach had been arranged to shuttle him and other tourists to their lodgings for the week. They sped past brown scrubs and fields of olive trees with the sea looming to the left, lapping mutedly under a harsh afternoon sun.

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling a wave of nausea as the coach hurtled along. He imagined Alfred beside him, combing warm gentle fingers through his sweat-dampened hair and murmuring comforting endearments.

“You’re going to be alright, babe.”

There was no Alfred, but he did remember to bring his motion sickness medicine. He took them with a swallow of water before leaning back into his seat with a sigh.

After booking into his room, Arthur dumped his suitcase, stepped out of the compound, and went over to the corner shop he had spotted on the way in.

The shop was well-shaded inside from the sun and dust. He browsed a few souvenirs on display before collecting a fresh bottle of water, a Cornetto ice cream (mint-flavoured, which had been Alfred’s favourite), and a box of Paracetamol. He had to point at the last item through a glass case so the shop owner could retrieve it from behind the counter.

It took some time for the large-built and rather sleepy-eyed Greek to tot everything up on an old cash register before finally intoning, “8 euros 30 cents.”

A cat leapt onto the counter and stretched atop a stack of newspaper as Arthur peeled a tenner from his wallet and handed it over. “Keep the change,” he said.

He was leaving the shop, pulling the Cornetto out of the bag and gritting the tip in between his teeth, when he happened to glance back.

The Greek youth was picking up the cat and cradling it in the crook of a strong tanned arm.

A pleasant sea breeze picked up in the evening, but Arthur was forced to shut the windows against a cloud of mosquitoes.

He had just come out of the shower, the water tasting salty on his skin. Rubbing a towel into his hair, he padded over to the dresser and picked up a box of matches, striking one alight. He lit a few lemon-scented tea lights and spent a few minutes spacing them out around the room as further ward against the mosquitoes.

A tea light was left on the dresser, which sat with a long unflickering flame before a row of pill bottles. Most were painkillers or sleeping pills, but there was also a haphazard collection of cough and cold medicines in blister packs he had dug up from the bathroom cabinet back home. They were all over-the-counter medication he had bought from different drugstores over a period of time.

He took the box of Paracetamol from the corner shop and placed it with the rest. A grim satisfaction settled on his face as he studied the growing pile.

There was also a framed photograph of himself and Alfred leaning on the dresser which had been taken two years ago at the beach. Alfred was handsomely tanned, wearing a white shirt that clung tightly to a soldier’s physique, and his eyes were as blue as the hot Greek summer sky in the backdrop. He had his arm around Arthur as they posed, Arthur standing a little more stiffly but looking just as happy.

He picked up the frame and smiled faintly at the memory of that summer holiday, just before Alfred was dispatched. He gazed longingly at Alfred, wishing he could touch and kiss him and take in his scent – a mixture of fast-food grease and mint chewing gum, and some cheap dreadful deodorant he insisted on using.

“I love you,” Arthur whispered before he could stop himself, a verbal habit resurfacing now that he was back in Greece even though there was no Alfred to reciprocate his love.

He was seeing a lot of the young Greek man from the corner shop.

There were the morning visits for bottled waters and mosquito repellent, and lately he even took to dropping by in the afternoons for refreshments. Half a week flew past in this way. Today was a Thursday and, as evening approached, he found the youth working behind an open bar whilst he was out on a walk along the beach.

Their eyes met and lingered with a familiarity, forest into olive green. It was becoming difficult not to acknowledge him properly after all the times they have seen each other.

He went over to the bar and glanced along the row of beer pumps before deciding on one.

“I’ll have a pint, please,” he said, tapping on his choice.

The youth pulled out a fresh glass. “3 euros,” he said as he pulled him a draft.

“Cheers.”

One pint led to six as the sun dipped and extinguished itself in the ocean. A chill stole silently over the beach, and after two whiskeys and an ouzo shot (courtesy of a high-spirited bar owner), Arthur found himself doubled over a gutter at the front retching up his guts.

The vomiting had started with chunks of a half-digested fish dinner before turning into liquid bile. Shivering and heaving wretchedly, he took turns clinging to a man – young, handsome, firm muscles – and pushing him away, unable to make up his mind.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with abuse, as the stranger caught him from tripping onto the pavement and into his own vomit.

“Come with me. We will go somewhere quieter.”

He was half-walked, half-dragged out of the bar and back onto the sand, led away from the thumping, pulsing music and partying undergraduates who were drinking themselves into oblivion.

The sea air breezed over Arthur, drying the perspiration that was sticking his clothes to his skin. His head was clearing and his roiling stomach was beginning to settle. After half a minute’s walk, he felt a lot better. He leaned into the stranger’s arms, trusting him a little more.

After some time, they stopped at a piece of driftwood log and sat down. The world was spinning, and Arthur dropped his head into his hands with a low moan.

“Drink this.”

He was offered a bottle of mineral water, ice cold and dripping with condensation with the cap already twisted off. He accepted it gratefully, rinsing out his mouth of vomit and bile before drinking his fill in big greedy gulps.

“Thanks!” he gasped after he had finished.

The stranger took the bottle from him, capped it, and placed it gently in the sand before him.

A cloud cleared from the moon, and Arthur could finally focus on the stranger’s face. It was none other than the Greek youth from the shop and bar. He was still in his bar uniform, smelling of dish soap water and stale cigarettes. He had on his usual stoic face that was not unfriendly.

“What’s your name?” he asked in a deep but youthful voice, his olive-green eyes taking on a soulful solemnity. Arthur felt his heart skip a beat.

“Arthur,” he said, feeling himself flush. “And yours?” he said hurriedly.

“Herakles.”

Like the demigod, Arthur thought to himself. Or he may have thought it out loud as Herakles cracked a soft rare smile, just for him.

They sat on the log together, staring out at the ocean and the slowly lightening sky, letting the gently lapping waves to fill the silence that had formed comfortably between them.

My darling, I am sorry. I do not have the courage. I miss you dreadfully. I love you.

Arthur stared blankly at the words he had written. He was sitting in the balcony of his room and the wind was picking up, causing the corners of his journal’s pages to flap. Sighing, he closed the book and smoothed his hand over the cover.

He had purchased the journal along with a cheap blue Biro for the trip with every intention of writing his will in it. An embarrassing sentiment, in retrospect, considering that he had nothing to his name and hardly anyone that he knew or cared to leave anything to. After a moment, he tossed the journal aside and reached for a tattered paperback. He flipped through the dog-eared pages to get to where he stopped last.

He hadn’t made much headway with the book, but he had every intention of giving a good go of it now that he wasn’t planning on dying anymore.

At some point Arthur must have fallen asleep, for the next moment he awoke with a jolt to find that evening had crept up on him.

He jumped up to his feet and stretched, his body stiff from having lain in the deckchair all afternoon. Stifling a yawn, he padded over to the edge of the balcony and leaned against the railing. The wind from the day had died to a gentle caressing breeze and it felt nice on his sunburnt skin.

Down in the courtyard was a lone figure in knee-length khakis and an unbuttoned shirt circling the swimming pool with a stick. On closer inspection, Arthur made out that the stick had a net at the end which the man was dragging across the surface of the pool to fish out any debris. He watched as the man worked, slightly mesmerised by the ripples forming in the water. Slowly, he recognised the man to be Herakles, the shopkeeper slash barman slash (he supposed?) hotel pool cleaner…

Arthur dashed into his room and straight out the door before he could realise what he was doing. He took the stairs two at a time, his sandals slapping loudly on the concrete steps as he clattered down to the ground floor. He almost slipped on the last stair, his arms windmilling wildly and rather comically to any errant observer, but he righted himself at the last moment, and he continued in the direction of the pool.

His heart beat tightly in his chest as he ran.

Herakles was emptying the net of leaves and twigs when Arthur, gasping and perspiring profusely, burst into the courtyard. The young man watched curiously as Arthur rounded the pool and came to a stop in front of him, his hands on his knees as he stood doubled over and panting.

“Last night, I… I…” Arthur gasped out in between frantic gulps of air.

Gradually, as he caught his breath, and Herakles showed every sign of waiting patiently for him, Arthur pushed himself from his knees and stood up straight.

“Thank you,” he said. “Last night, when you listened to me talk- I, uh… want to thank you. I hope I didn’t come across... well.” He cleared his throat. “I just wanted… to thank you. Yeah.”

He turned and made to slink away, suddenly overcome with embarrassment – god, the boy was only helping out a drunken old fool! – but Herakles grabbed hold of his arm and held him back.

“You are welcome,” Herakles said haltingly, smiling softly. Then a little more solemnly, “Alfred seemed to be a good man. I am sorry for your loss.”

Arthur felt his lips quiver. He sniffed, trying to stave off the prickling in his eyes, but the tears came unbidden and slid noiselessly down his cheeks. He hadn’t realised it, but it had been a long time since anybody had said Alfred’s name out loud to him.

The silent tears gave way to a low keening that seemed to rise from the very depths. His shoulders began to shake. A small sob bubbled up in his throat. Then, like a dam breaking, he was crying. He dropped to his knees, dropped his face into his palms, and began crying in earnest.

Herakles joined him on the ground, his hand rubbing Arthur’s back gently, reassuringly. It was warm and comforting.

#hetalia fanfiction #gruk #usuk #aph england #hws england #aph greece #hws greece #aph america #hws america #cw: character death #cw: suicide ideation #rating: teen #filter: all fics

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remorsefulkittens · 1 year

Text

Arrested

TK Strand/Carlos Reyes (Tarlos)

Owen Strand/Original Female Character

Ratting: Teen

Status: Complete (2,001 words)

@911bingo Square: Saved From a Bad Date

Summary: TK sends Carlos to save Owen from a bad date, and Carlos does, the only way he knows how…

Read on Ao3

Owen’s current companion had been talking for an hour straight, giving Owen plenty of time to regret saying yes to the date in the first place…sure, she was attractive, blonde, busty, and well-dressed, but Owen shouldn’t have let himself be fooled, because she was also self-centered, entitled, and downright boring; things he wished he'd known before she asked him out, and long before they made it to dinner.

“Like, what would she have done if she had been promoted instead of me? Lord it over me you can bet! She claims she has more schooling than me, but what does that even mean? I know how to do the job, so why take a course? I have better things to do with my time.”

Owen nodded along, waving to the waiter to bring another drink. A strong one.

“You’re lucky to be Captain,” she continued on, while Owen scanned the restaurant hoping for an out. A small fire in the kitchen maybe, or someone to heimlich. “No one to boss you around. Like, I feel like I’m still not in charge, even though I am in charge, you know?”

“Well, being a leader is more than a title,” Owen pointed out, the first words he'd spoken since ‘hello’. “You’ve got to earn it.”

Rearing back in her seat, Owen's date was clearly offended. “What is that supposed to mean? I did earn it!”

Owen apologized, and she went back to her original monologue, oblivious to Owen's discomfort, while Owen resumed his survey of the restaurant. Tuning the chatter out, Owen started running practice drills in his mind, nodding at his date every so often, without registering what she was saying. Until…

“Hello?! Did you hear me?” she asked, snapping her fingers near his face.

“Huh? What? Oh, sorry, what was that?” He gave his best smile to placate her.

She rolled her eyes, but he could tell she was charmed. “You’re not paying attention. I asked if we should go to my place or yours after?” She winked at him, and he pretended he wasn’t horrified.

“Oh, wow…” he fumbled for something to turn her off the idea of going home together. “This is only our first date.”

She scoffed, tossing her hair, impossibly long with such body and shine, falling over her shoulders, strands brushing her neck, her cleavage…and damn it! That hair had distracted him before. He couldn’t let it happen again.

“Holy, Owen, this is the 20th century! And we are grown up's, we can do as we please.”

Another hair toss, and then she was drumming manicured fingernails on the table, waiting for his answer.

“Um, it's actually the 21st century, but good point,” he glanced over his shoulder, but the entrance door was too far to bolt. “I just have to hit the men's room, and we'll work out the details.”

Owen was up and moving before she could object, and he shut the bathroom door with a grimace. He needed an out. In New York he might have considered slinking away, having the waiter make an excuse …but Austin was smaller. He would run into Gemma again, she worked at his favorite men's wear store for Pete’s sake! Plus, he was an adult, captain of his own crew! He could tell Gemma the truth…or, he could call someone to rescue him.

He thanked God that he hadn’t left his phone at the table, yanking it from his pocket and dialing TK's number.

TK got his Dad’s call right after he told Tommy he would stay late to help Nancy with the inventory. Poor timing because he couldn’t just leave, but having been on his share of disastrous dates, TK couldn’t just abandon the man either. Obliged to think of something, he told his dad to hang tight, help was coming, at the same time he was texting Carlos to pass the buck. His boyfriend would just be getting off shift, so he could spring Owen on his way home, and maybe pick up take out too.

“Everything ok?” Nancy asked, tearing open boxes, and stacking supplies on the ambulance's bumper.

“All good, my dad just got himself stuck on a bad date,” TK shrugged, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I texted Carlos to go help out.”

Nancy snickered, picking up her clipboard to update her count. “Good that cap is putting himself out there. He's grumpy when he's lonely.”

TK climbed into the ambulance to start packing sterile dressings, gauze, gloves and masks into the cupboards.

“Yep!” TK agreed, “plus he interferes in my life a bit too much. Sounds like THIS one is definitely not THE one though,” he said grimly.

“Got distracted by pretty hair again?” Nancy snorted, and TK laughed out loud.

“Well all he could tell me is that she's blonde, and talks a lot, so sounds about right.”

Nancy picked up another box. “You know, he should just go out with Tommy. Neither of them are good at dating, maybe they'd click.”

Both TK and Nancy paused in their tasks, eyes meeting, before they cracked up.

“That'd be weird,” TK said, catching his breath.

“Yeah sure would,” Nancy agreed.

‘What? Just leaving work…how am I supposed to rescue your dad?’

‘TK? What am I doing?’

‘Are you serious about take out? That place is pricey.”

‘TK? Hello?’

‘TK you know it bugs me when you don’t answer…’

Carlos slid into his car, annoyed with TK's habit of texting, then going radio silent, without waiting for his answer. He had no idea how to extricate someone from a date, and Owen was an adult, couldn’t he just be honest with the woman? All Carlos wanted was to go home, get into sweats, and binge TV until TK joined him…and then he had some other, less PG ideas, about how to finish their evening…but first he needed to focus.

Take-out wasn’t a bad idea because he wouldn’t have to cook…plus if he did this TK would owe him and that was always fun. He thought for a second, tapping his fingers on the wheel, gaze wandering down to the uniform he was still wearing, and it hit him; he was a cop, how hard could it be to force someone out of a restaurant? He was sure his inspiration would work, and if he ordered food on his way over, he could grab it on the way out. Smiling at his own resourcefulness, Carlos put the car in gear, steered his way out of the parking lot and onto the road.

Back at the table, Owen could only pray his son would come through for him. He had stalled as long as he could in the bathroom, and now Gemma was looking pretty irritable…though it hadn’t stopped her from talking.

“My fish is dry,” she complained, glancing around for the waiter. “I’m going to let them know. This place gets such good reviews, but I’m not sure why.”

Owen managed not to groan, instead adopting an upbeat tone.

“Mine's great,” he said, stuffing a bite into his mouth, then talking while he chewed, “You should have gotten the steak.”

Gemma was clearly grossed out, and Owen figured being generally unpleasant would have to be his back-up plan if TK didn’t show soon.

“Yeah, well, red meat is terrible for you,” Gemma informed him, then shrugged. “But I guess it's a man thing. Whatever. Did you decide while you were in the bathroom?” She moved on, leaving Owen behind.

“Huh?” He blurted.

She rolled her eyes for probably the fifth time of the evening, because apparently Owen was slow.

“Your place or mine?” She prompted, giving him the same flirtatious grin that had gotten him here in the first place. Damn whatever hormonal process made him lose his common sense when pretty women looked at him that way.

“Wow, um…” he took another huge bite of his dinner to buy some time, chewing a full twenty times before swallowing. She reached over and put her hand over his, and he suddenly knew exactly how deer felt when the headlights hit them.

“I’d have to say your place,” he finally spit out, defeated. At least she wouldn’t know where he lived this way.

She smiled wide, like an extra creepy Cheshire cat, and he slumped in his chair, wishing for another drink.

“Good choice, Captain,” she drawled, leaning in closer, “At my place we can be as loud as we want.”

TK was going to an earful for this one, Owen swore, after all the things he had done for his son!

“Ha, yeah well that’s me,” he stammered, tipping his drink, hoping for a few more drops of tequila, “always making sound decisions and-"

“Owen Strand?”

Owen was startled by the commanding voice, fumbling his glass, nearly dropping it in his lap. Gemma's eyes went wide, and Owen swiveled in his seat to face Carlos Reyes, in full uniform, stone-faced, feet planted, thumbs tucked into his belt. Owen had seen Carlos in action before, but he didn’t think he'd ever seen him look quite so intimidating.

“Car-" Owen started to greet, only to be cut off by Carlos' raised hand.

“Owen Strand, you are under arrest,” Carlos stated, moving to pull the cuffs from his belt. “Stand up,” he ordered, without a hint of humor.

“Car-officer-I’m sure I have no idea-"

“You are Owen Strand correct?” Carlos questioned, eyebrow raised.

“Yes, I-well-yeah-you know that,” Owen stuttered, eyes darting from Carlos, to Gemma, to all the other faces staring at them.

“I do, and like I said, you're under arrest, so you need to stand up and come with me,” Carlos ordered, and Owen gaped.

“Easy or hard Strand! You decide,” Carlos barked, and Owen jumped to obey.

Catching Owen’s wrists, Carlos yanked them to his back, slapped on the cuffs, and spun Owen toward the door with impressive strength.

“What are the charges?” Owen managed to squeak, and without pausing the frog march, Carlos leaned in to whisper.

“TK texted me. Keep walking and I’ll tell you in the car.”

“Are you freaking serious?” TK couldn’t quite wrap his head around Carlos’ choice to arrest his father in the middle of a crowded restaurant. “You couldn’t have just said his son was sick and needed him? Or, I don’t know, anything but dragging him out in cuffs?!”

Carlos shrugged, dishing food from take out containers onto plates. “Well, I’m pretty sure there’s no chance that woman he wanted to get away from will be calling him now. Do you want salad, or just steamed vegetables?”

TK gave his head a shake, but Carlos did have a point. “Just vegetables,” he answered. “Was my dad mad?”

Carlos slid the plates aside. “No, in fact he thought it was petty funny once we got out to my car,” Carlos grinned, stepping into TK's space, kissing his forehead, cheek, and then his lips, long and slow. “I also think he was impressed.”

“Mmmmn…” TK moaned, reaching around to squeeze Carlos' ass.

“He asked me why I was wearing my uniform home,” Carlos murmured into the crook of TK's neck, “I told him it's because it makes you crazy for me.”

TK squirmed, backing up out of Carlos' hold.

“Wait-ew! Don’t tell my dad that Carlos!”

Carlos gave him a devilish grin, pulling TK back to him roughly. “It's true isn’t it?”

TK melted into Carlos' arms, shuddering as Carlos nipped at his shoulder and neck. “It's true,” he moaned, “So true!”

“Good,” Carlos said, “and now you owe me, so let’s eat fast, then take this to the bedroom. You can be the second Strand I cuff tonight.”

TK’s groaned loudly, the growing fire in his belly doused.

“That was gross Carlos! Now you ruined handcuffs for me!”

Carlos tightened his grip on TK, forgetting about dinner, and manhandling his boyfriend toward the bedroom.

“No I didn’t,” Carlos growled, and with an excited a squeal, TK agreed.

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