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notalotgoingonatthisinstant · 1 year ago

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May I offer you all some Wilmon in these AO3-is-down trying times? We'll get through this withdrawal 😭

Growing up, Simon didn’t stop to think much if he wanted kids or not. He loved his family, loved his sister, loved his mum, (loved his dad,) loved getting to see his little cousins grow over videocalls from South America – but he never stopped to think about himself.

He remembers a fleeting thought he had once, when he was very young, around twelve or thirteen, and figured out he was definitely gay, that it would take some extra steps to have children. He would never have them on accident. He couldn’t decide overnight, talk to his partner, and start trying the next day with a real possibility of making a baby on that very same day.

Then he put that thought inside a mental folder and left it there for the longest time.

He believes that it’s a natural progression to start thinking about it again once you’re in a committed relationship, even if it’s to decide it’s not for you. But he is aware that his thought process wasn’t the same as everyone else’s.

It started with random mental images, when he and Wille got out of school and into the world – well, the world and the military. Back when Simon was studying and working to afford his own flat in Stockholm and, some nights, he would have Wille there on his couch, in his small living room, laughing over a stupid series they’d put on, or pouring coffee for him the next morning.

He would watch Wille shrug on a suit jacket, looking very dapper for the morning meeting, and accept his goodbye kiss. Then Simon would finish gulping down breakfast, put on his flannel shirt, and leave his flat fifteen minutes later. He would lock the door behind him and wonder how earlier he would have to wake up if he had to drop kids with someone, or would they have a nanny? Or maybe Wille would take them?

The thoughts assaulted him without warning and were gone just as quickly. During Wille’s trips, how would Simon manage alone? What if they were both travelling? Could Wille’s children even travel with him? He remembered something about how two heirs straight in line for the throne couldn’t take the same mean of transportation, for safety reasons, which is why Wille didn’t travel with his mother, but did that apply to a toddler?

Simon didn’t ask for the longest time as well, because he didn’t want to open that discussion. He wanted to know if Erik had travelled with his mother when he was a baby; his fingers itched to google it, find pictures or articles, just so he could know.

But he didn’t ask, because back then he wasn’t even sure if he could take the pressure of marrying Wille, even though he was doing nothing to stop that natural progression.

The thoughts would come and go. Sometimes, they disappeared for months on end and Simon would just live his life and worry about more pressing matters, like his uni finals or Sara’s recent breakup. Other times, they would come in the form of his children having panic attacks over being in line for the throne.

Moving into the palace with Wille drew a line in his life, which is why he didn’t do it lightly. It definitely took longer than it would if Wille weren’t the fucking Crown Prince, because Simon felt ready to move in with him straight out of school. But he had spent his years weighting the pros and cons and decided Wille was worth everything and that they could figure it out together.

Living with him in one of the royal palaces, and therefore having more money to spare, brought a wave of baby thoughts to Simon’s mind. They had all this space, all this money, all this support. Surely it wouldn’t be too hard? He knew, rationally, that money would never be a problem, but Simon would have a hand in supporting his own children, and now he was feeling like he could reach that point.

He began to understand, then, how rich people’s minds work. Simon was working, but with a better job and a better salary, and he didn’t have to pay rent. He didn’t have to pay for cleaning supplies or spend one day a week scrubbing his flat. He spent a lot less on groceries, because food simply appeared in the kitchen cabinets and in the fridge. He didn’t have to pay water or electricity bills.

He had all this money monthly deposited into his account and he didn’t have to spend even half of it, which meant it only grew, even with taxes. It got to a point when Wille told him he should have a talk with the royal accountant, to learn how to put it in better funds and investments. To learn how much he had to spare for his own enjoyment.

It turned out to be a ridiculous amount. Nothing compared to the numbers he had pried from Wille about the royal accounts, but a ridiculous amount for a twenty-three-year-old working-class man from Bjärstad just beginning his career. Probably enough, if he braved into that line of thinking, to raise a kid.

One day, almost a year later, Queen Kristina nonchalantly talked about the Act of Succession over brunch, when they were discussing the christening of the daughter of one of Wille’s second cousins. Simon had never bothered to read the Act of Succession, because that had felt too big, so he learnt it for the first time in her voice while buttering a piece of toast.

She started by saying that the heirs have to belong to the Church of Sweden and profess “pure evangelical faith”, whatever that means. Wille doesn’t exactly do that apart from his cross necklace, but Simon didn’t point that out.

The heirs must be born in wedlock from a marriage approved by the monarch, and they must be brought up in Sweden. It’s an absolute primogeniture.

By then, Simon knew he was going to marry Wille. He had known from the moment he had moved into the palace, because why would he make that decision if he didn’t plan to marry him? And he knew Wille wanted to marry him, too. And he figured that Kristina approved, otherwise she wouldn’t even let Simon into her palace.

Simon also figured that she didn’t give that talk because she was afraid of illegitimate heirs – because, honestly, Wille wasn’t going to run around cheating on him and getting people pregnant. No, Simon was pretty sure that she was saying that to remind them that they needed to get engaged. Simon knew she was getting restless after seven years; Sweden was getting restless, if the tabloids and tweets were anything to go by.

So, when he was twenty-four and Wille had just turned twenty-five, Wille made a show of proposing and giving him his grandfather’s ring. Simon cried, even though he had been expecting it. From then on, his mind was pretty preoccupied with the wedding and everything it entailed.

A wedding and a marriage, in their situation, very much entailed future children, but neither of them focused on that.

They had one conversation the summer after they got engaged. Kristina had been particularly generous with the talk about grandchildren that day, like she couldn’t wait to have them, which was the same thing she spewed every time since her 60th birthday earlier that year.

“I don’t know why she’s so insistent now,” Wille said when they climbed into bed. “She had Erik at thirty-one. That’s enough time away for us.”

Simon didn’t answer immediately because, for one of the first and only times, he could see her point of view clearly and didn’t disagree with it.

She had to ensure heirs, sure, and turning sixty probably put life into perspective for her. But also, the monarchy had never done this, the whole gay Crown Prince couple. Were there any laws that needed changing? Would the kids need to be biologically Wille’s or would adoption be just as valid? And who knew how long that process would take. Maybe they did need to start thinking about it then so they could have a legitimate kid by thirty-one.

Simon was quiet for too long, lost in thought, and Wille pushed up against the pillows so he was more vertical. He spoke softly, “Hey, I know you’ve… mentioned it before, but… do you really want kids? I mean, I– I don’t really have much of a choice, but you do.”

Simon raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Who else would you have them with?”

“I don’t want them with anyone but you,” he shrugged. “But it’s too big of a thing to push on you on top of everything else.”

Sensing Wille’s anxiety spiking, Simon also rearranged his pillows to face him better in a more sat up position. “Wille. I knew I would have to have kids if I married you.”

“Still…”

“I was fully aware of it.”

“I don’t want to force you.”

“You’re not forcing me to do anything,” he scooted closer and took his hand. “Do you feel forced?”

Wille shrugged again, taking some time to choose his words. “In a way. Mamma always drilled it into our heads that we needed to produce heirs. After Erik died… the last remaining chance I had to refuse went with him. She doesn’t want to pass on the lineage to her sister’s side, so I guess I just grew up always knowing I was going to have children. I never stopped to think in any other way.”

“You should, though.”

“No,” Wille shook his head. “I promise it’s okay. I do want children, so it’s okay. Still don’t know how to go about it, but… I want them. Do you?” he finished, a hint of nerves in his voice.

“I do,” Simon answered honestly, “I’m not going to lie and say that the fact that I want a life with you, the fucking heir to a country, doesn’t come into play, because that’s too big to ignore. But I think it’d be cool to have a few babies with you,” he smiled. “Just a few, though. No more than three, for fuck’s sake.”

It got Wille laughing, which is Simon’s goal in conversations with him ninety-nine percent of the time, and the subject was mostly dropped.

It was dropped between the two of them for the time being, but their parents didn’t have the same idea. Cousins started having kids occasionally. Simon has a distant cousin on his dad’s side and news somehow travelled to his mum about his baby being born. Apart from Wille’s second cousin who had the christening, his first cousin Eleonora gave birth to a bubbly baby boy as well.

The comparison was even worse because they are mostly “older cousins” in their families, born from the eldest sibling. In their generation, Simon is only second to Sara on his mum’s side, and Sara had barely even started another relationship, nowhere near ready for children. Wille is also the second, since Erik died, behind only Eleonora in age. That, in their parents’ minds, automatically meant that they were supposed to start the new generation before everyone else, and they were already late.

And they were responsible for the country’s next leader, so no pressure.

Their initial deal, as a couple, was to revisit the conversation when they felt like it. Apart from outside pressure, the two of them didn’t have the urge, the need for children right away. It was always something for some day. Something for eventually. Something for when we’re not drowning in royal adulthood.

Simon doesn’t know what triggers it. Maybe he isn’t as immune to the passage of time as he thought, or maybe the comments start getting to him. Either way, those assaulting mental images have been building up in frequency and complexity, until one day Simon finds himself slowly pacing one of their spare bedrooms in Haga Palace, a week before his twenty-ninth birthday.

That is how Wille finds him near dinnertime, after calling out for him a couple of times. “Hey, what’re you doing hiding in here?”

Simon doesn’t answer immediately. Wille is still dressed in his daily formal clothes, having just come home, and Simon’s eyes automatically pan up and down his body, even with his head kilometres away. He sees Wille stepping closer to greet him, but lets his eyes lose focus. He interrupts Wille’s leaning in when he finally speaks. “Do you think this is too far away from our room?”

At Wille’s head tilt that he catches with the corner of his eyes, Simon meets his gaze. Wille asks, “What do you mean?”

Simon knows what he himself means, although he finds it hard to say out loud. Sure, they don’t have a solid plan laid out, but he recalls Wille talking about how his mum had Erik at thirty-one and also how Simon himself rolled his eyes at Queen Kristina’s half-playful remark about giving them five years to have children since their wedding. It has only been half that long.

(Linda had Sara at twenty-three.)

“I mean,” he picks his words carefully, feeling restless and needing to continue walking around and gesticulating, “this room’s got one of the prettiest views of the garden, with the cherry tree, and it faces south, so it’s got sunlight year-round. And I know there are, like, three more guest rooms like this along the corridor, but they’re all so big, no matter how much stuff we try to put in them, but also, is this too far away from our room? And it would be weird to have a few guest bedrooms and random rooms between ours and…” his voice trails off.

Slowly, an amused smile grows on Wille’s face. “You’re asking if this is too far away to walk in the middle of the night every two hours? Because yes.” Wille steps closer to him again, drawing Simon to a stop so he can comb a hand through his curls. “You’ve been worrying your pretty mind about this all day?”

“No, not just today,” Simon confesses, and then bites his lip briefly. “And I’m not… worrying, I’m… brainstorming.”

“Brainstorming.”

“Yes.”

“Simon,” Wille says with the same amused smile, “we’ve got another four potential bedrooms by our room, if you’d be willing to turn the music room and the gaming room. It even beats your limit of three kids. Why are you pacing the tiniest guest bedroom we have?”

Wille’s idea of tiny has never been the same as Simon’s.

Simon sighs and lets his shoulders drop. “Because… I don’t know,” he mutters, averting his gaze. “This room is… cosy. It’s…” He looks around. “Can you imagine a baby in one of those rooms? It’s ridiculous. They’re way too big for a baby. But then, what if when they grow up they resent us for not putting them in a bigger room? Do we just– Do we move their bedrooms? Is that what happened with you and Erik? Did you guys have smaller bedrooms closer to your parents when you were super young? Is that how this works? Because it would be weird to change their bedrooms. Wouldn’t it? I feel like it would. But I can’t think of a single room in this godforsaken palace that is appropriate for both a tiny baby and a rebellious teenager.”

Simon has lived in five bedrooms in his almost thirty years of life, but they changed when he changed houses. First, his childhood room in his parents’ flat, before his mum had saved enough money to move them out. Then in the house where his mum still lives. Then his Stockholm flat. Then the Drottningholm apartments. And now Haga (before he eventually moves back to Drottningholm someday). He can’t really picture moving inside the same place.

During the speech, Wille doesn’t lose his playful air, and Simon has no idea how. Maybe he is being ridiculous and there is a simple solution right in front of him, but he feels like, whatever he chooses, it will somehow be wrong, both from a parenting point of view and a royal point of view. He can’t say he is the best prince Sweden has ever had.

“Simon,” Wille says his name again, in that endearing way only he can, “why would it be weird to change their bedrooms as they grow? We’ve moved houses before and it wasn’t weird. People do that.”

“We’re adults, Wille, and we didn’t move inside the same house.”

“I did,” he shrugs. “I mean, I don’t remember much but, back when we lived at the Royal Palace, before my grandfather died, I know I had a room closer to my parents and then, at some point, I was moved closer to Erik. Then we were put in an adjacent wing to them when we moved to Drottningholm when I was seven, and I moved again when you came to live with me.”

All he is saying makes sense in a practical sort of way, and Simon knows Wille moved inside Drottningholm. Of course, if your house is a literal palace with hundreds of different apartments and available rooms, you can just… move from one side to the other and it will be like moving houses. You don’t keep the new-born in the same place as the sixteen-year-old heir. It makes sense. However, Simon grew up with the notion of His Room. People rent, buy, and build regular houses with those things in mind.

Simon frowns. “You were moved to that different wing when you were seven?”

Wille mirrors him. “Yes…?”

“You were a little kid and, when you guys moved, your parents put you in a completely different wing?”

“It’s not a different wing – it’s within the same apartments, just in a different portion of them, but it’s honestly not that far.”

Simon thinks back to sharing a thin wall with his sister and his parents’ room. “I’ve been there. It’s very fucking far.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It’s very far for a seven-year-old child to be from his parents.” Simon sighs, frustrated, and looks around. “And this is definitely too far as well. I just… This is smaller. It’s more fit for a baby.”

Now, Wille has dropped the playfulness and is instead searching Simon’s face with a more serious expression. He raises a hand and caresses his cheek, in an attempt to calm down his rambles, and it works, taking away a bit of concern with each swipe.

Simon knows how he sounds like right now, so he crosses his arms and doesn’t meet his eyes. “I’m just… I’m brainstorming.”

Wille raises his eyebrows. “You weren’t brainstorming a few months ago.”

Simon shrugs, unsure of what he wants to say, unsure if he wants to start that discussion. To be honest, fucking terrified of opening up that line of discussion. Terrified of what they will tell him about how to raise his kids. Terrified of having to fight on every decision, even as small as wanting his children’s bedroom close to his.

“Hey.”

The whisper startles him into meeting Wille’s eyes.

“How about we talk over dinner? I’m starving, and I know you get cranky when you don’t eat,” he finishes with a slight upturn of his lips.

Simon wants to be petty and argue that he isn’t cranky right now, even though he very much is, although not because of hunger, but he finally lets himself register the fact that his husband is home with him after busy days for them both and how amazing that feels. How their guards aren’t inside with them and they can put on pyjamas and make a mess in the kitchen if they feel like it. And Simon feels like it.

An involuntary smile tries to creep up on Simon’s lips. He fights it, shoving Wille’s shoulder for good measure, and he is drawn back into a bone-crushing hug, which makes it really hard not to smile.

They do eventually talk very seriously about it later that night. Simon confesses that something in him is growing space and that that space is starting to feel empty. It’s not like he feels his life is empty – he is extremely happy to be living with someone he loves and being able to use the privilege of the royal name to do charitable work that is important to him –, but maybe, in a little while, he will crave more.

Wille watches him talk, and Simon realises he has got a dreamy expression on his face by the end of it. When questioned, Wille simply says that hearing him go on about having kids with him makes his heart burst and that it awakens something in him as well. There is definitely something about seeing your significant other around kids or talking about kids; Simon can verify. He knows he very nearly had a heart attack when he had to see, with his own two eyes, Wille playing with Eleonora’s son and glowing while doing it. So, he gets what Wille is saying.

With all the excitement of it, there is the downside. Simon knows he would be feeling uneasy even if he hadn’t entered the Royal Family, because his own dad wasn’t the best at being a dad. Plus, how does one even go about being a parent? How much will he actually sleep? How do you not fuck up a child?

He had entered the Royal Family, though, and married the heir apparent. Just his luck that it means he needs to have A Meeting™ with his mother-in-law/boss to say he wants to have kids.

He and Wille have a gameplay sort of ready, because they know they need to present a united front in this. Part of that involves having the meeting on their own turf, with their own rules about the attendees and level of formality.

#young royals #my fics #wilmon #it's a little taste for you guys okay #i'm going through withdrawal right now and thought we could have one (01) happy thing #even if i can never write them 100% happy oops-

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jtl-fics · 1 year ago

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*theres only one request still in my hand*

*the others have blown away*

*you've been following the trail the whole time*

*I am surprised to see you behind me*

*I know I can't make a bigger fool out of myself anymore so I smile*

"I just can't decide," I say, handing over a Dealer's Choice. "I love them all."

*I do not think about the repercussions in asking you for five wips until just now*

DEALER'S CHOICE: Pretty Boy | WIP Wednesday - Closed (9/20/23)

The first time Andrew has an inkling that something isn't quite right he was a little busy.

"Neil, sit still." Andrew says and Neil is usually much better at following Andrew's orders but the blond figures he has to give Neil some grace. Neil's got itchy feet on a good day, let alone when he's very drunk, has a bleeding head wound that isn't his fault, and is concussed.

"Sorry." Neil apologizes fidgeting on the crinkling paper of the hospital exam bed. "Is Kevin okay?" he asks for the fourth time.

FIRST | NEXT >

#Fic: Pretty Boy #AFTG #AFTG fic #Andreil #Kevin Day #WIP Wednesday Ask Game #9-20-23 WIP Wednesday #Pretty Boy - Chapter 1 - 01 #13 #For you my dear I write a lil something I've been working on

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singsweetmelodies · 1 year ago

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AKA: angst, miscommunication and a/b/o, feat. brief/mentioned maxierre with piarles endgame (+ implied maxiel.) happy birthday @boxboxbrioche my love

"Hello, Charles," Max smiles when Charles runs into him (literally) in the Budapest paddock on Thursday. He's wearing the same Red Bull team shirt and jeans as ever, naturally, but something about him looks unusually relaxed and content. Sated, even.

Probably because he's been winning practically every race this season, Charles thinks. That's enough reason for anyone to be looking relaxed and content.

Still, when he steps in a little closer to fist-bump Max's proffered hand, he can't help but notice it. Max's scent is... more than just content. He smells like he's only just come out of heat, and whoever was taking care of him did a very good job of it. He doesn't smell like sex, precisely, but he smells like what Charles would imagine afterglow would, if it had a scent. Golden and lazy and sated.

Oh, he's got blockers on, of course, but Charles has always been blessed (or cursed, depending how you look at it) with a very good nose. So. He knows immediately.

Some too-perceptive instinct is telling him that the timing of this heat has something to do with Daniel's return to racing this weekend. Almost like Max... wanted to get his heat over with before he saw Daniel again?

...That's a big stretch, of course, and Charles would never dare say it out loud. (Except to Pierre, maybe, because Pierre loves theorising about the latest paddock gossip just as much as Charles does.)

So he just smiles politely at Max, and says "Hello" back, and wishes for Pierre to appear out of some corner of the paddock somewhere. It isn't that Charles hates Max, or whatever the media likes to spin, but it's also true that Max isn't Charles' most favourite person in the paddock. (Obviously, that honour goes to Pierre.)

No, Charles' and Max's relationship is simply that of colleagues - good enough, if a little bland.

Which is why Charles is not expecting it at all when Max leans a little closer with something that looks almost like a conspiratorial grin. Charles has no idea what Max might want to be conspiratorial about with him - it's not as though he's leaving Ferrari anytime soon, despite what everyone likes to speculate.

Surprisingly, what Max says to him is not racing or incident-related at all. "Do you know where Pierre is?" he asks, as though Charles is the most reliable source of the Alpine driver's whereabouts. (Charles shouldn't be, but he's very flattered.) "I still need to thank him."

"Thank him?" Charles echoes, a little puzzled. "For what?"

And then Max says the one thing that blows apart Charles' world and turns his day upside-down immediately. "For agreeing to spend my heat with me so last-minute."

He says it so casually, too, and Charles...

Well. Charles knows that many of the other unbonded omegas on the grid like to spend their heats with other drivers. This might seem contradictory at first, but the thing is - while they might not necessarily trust each other on track, you can always rely on the fact that another driver, at least, won't reveal details of that hook-up to the press anymore than you will. Most of the alpha drivers on the current grid are decent enough people off-track that you can trust you'd be taken good care of, too.

It's something that Charles has done himself, too, once or twice - mostly with Alex, who is always incredibly kind about it, and makes sure Charles is comfortable and well-hydrated afterwards.

But mostly, Charles spends his heats alone. He schedules them carefully so they won't interfere with races, and then he bears them on his own, teeth gritted as he works himself open over and over again and clings to whatever article of Pierre's clothing he can find nearby.

It's never good enough, never, but Charles has never really wanted another alpha. He only goes to Alex if his body genuinely cannot go without it anymore, and then it's purely a case of friend helping out a friend.

So, really, Charles has no reason to be this shocked that Max apparently spent his most recent heat with Pierre. The two of them are friends, aren't they? Much better than Charles and Max have ever pretended to be. There's no reason why they wouldn't spend a heat together, really.

Except...

Charles grits his teeth, and it's only years of media training that enables him to still pass it off as a smile. "He did?" he asks, tightly.

Max laughs, still happily unaware that he's taken Charles' day and shattered it like a glass breaking into unrecognisable shards. "Yes," he confirms, and then he bumps Charles' shoulder, almost unbearably conspiratorial again. "You, of course, would know why I now need to thank him."

No amount of media training in the world could have helped Charles keep up his smile in response to that. Max notices - how could he not - and his own smile falls. "You two have not...?" His voice rises up in the end, like he almost can't believe he even has to ask the question.

Charles tastes something sour in his mouth, and by the way Max flinches back, he's sure it must be all over his scent as well, blockers be damned. "No," is all Charles says, brusquely.

Max opens and closes his mouth for a moment, and then he reaches for Charles' shoulder. He hesitates, though, hand hovering awkwardly in the space between them. "I'm sorry," he says, and it sounds sincere. "For assuming. The two of you are so..." He makes a face. "You are good friends, so I thought if he would do it for me, he would of course do it for you too."

"No," Charles says again, and the word tastes acrid in his mouth. "We have never."

Not for lack of trying, Charles thinks bitterly, and then he forces himself to think of something else. Some excuse that Max will accept.

Fortunately, a little gaggle of people in bright Ferrari red are passing by, and Charles latches onto them with almost too much relief. "Ah, my team," he says, pointing. "I need to go."

It's stupidly obvious, as excuses go, but Max has the grace not to mention it. He just watches Charles go, biting his lip.

Charles wants to hate him. He wants to hate him more than anything else - for having a race-winning car, and a team that supports him properly, and championships, but more importantly than any of that, Charles wants to hate him for having Pierre.

It's not that Charles thinks Max is actually in love with Pierre, or even that they're courting. No, it was clearly just a case of friend-helping-out-friend. But even that is...

Unbearable. It is unbearable, because Charles hasn't had even that much.

Charles had only asked once, and only because he'd been stupid with pre-heat already and not thinking straight. Pierre's long, long silence before he'd said, very gently, "Charles... I don't think that's a good idea" had told him all he'd needed to know, anyway.

After that heat, though, Pierre had called Charles and made sure he was okay, and that he knew it wasn't personal, Pierre just didn't think it was a good idea to get that involved with another driver. Especially one who's also a friend.

Charles had accepted it at the time, and he's never had any reason to think that Pierre has changed his mind in any way.

Except now here Pierre is, apparently spending heats with Max fucking Verstappen, of all people. And, really. Out of everyone on the grid - every goddamn omega - it had to be Max, didn't it?

A part of Charles wants to fall to the floor in devastation, wants to tear at his hair and shake and cry to anyone who will listen, why doesn't he want me, why doesn't he want me?

But Charles remains standing, because even more than he's heartbroken, he's furious.

Pierre did not help Max through his heat because they're in love, or because they're courting. So, he must have done it as a favour to a friend.

Then why the hell would he not do the same for Charles?

Charles also asked him as a favour to a friend (and yes, maybe Charles wanted more, but he wasn't stupid enough to ask for that. He'd just asked for a favour, the way every unbonded omega on the goddamned grid asks their alpha friends for favours every once in a while.)

Pierre had said no, and that he doesn't do that. But he'd forgotten to mention the part where he apparently does do that.

If he were here, Charles might slap him clean through the face. It's not an urge he's often had when it comes to Pierre (or ever, really) but today...

Today. It's just. What the hell does Max have that he doesn't? Max and Pierre are friends? Charles and Pierre are better friends. Max is an omega? So is Charles, and he's better at that, too.

It's obviously not even about looks! Because Charles doesn't want to be rude, but he is definitely better-looking than Max. It's just a fact, as true as "the grass is green" or "Charles is Monégasque" or "Charles is in love with Pierre."

No. Fuck that. None of this makes sense.

If Pierre is willing to spend a heat with Max, then there's no reason why he can't help Charles through one, too. It's not like Charles is asking Pierre to love him back - no, he's long since made his peace with the fact that that, at least, is impossible.

Charles has always wanted too much, though, and if he sees even the faintest chance of getting what he wants, even if it is just in the form of a favour to a friend -- well. He will never not go for the gap.

So Charles waits, increasingly impatient, for his media and team obligations to be done for the day. As soon as they are, he heads for Alpine, because there is no way Pierre will have left already - he is far too dedicated to them, staying behind extra hours to learn as many names as he can and give as much feedback as possible and help with everything that needs helping.

Right, because isn't Pierre just so incredibly helpful. Normally, this would make Charles smile, fond - but today, it makes him want to snarl.

Helpful, yes. Except to him, apparently.

No. Charles will not accept that.

Various team members glance up when Charles storms into the Alpine hospitality, freezing with coffees half-way to their lips and tracking him like the spectators to a tennis match as he storms across their building and towards the driver's rooms. One particularly brave soul ventures an "Er..." but Charles is already across the room before he's even finished saying it.

Charles knows the way to Pierre's driver's room as easily as he knows the way to his own (incidentally, it's on the same side of the building) and it's mere seconds later that he's bursting through the door of Pierre's driver's room.

Pierre freezes when the door slams open, mouth caught in a comically surprised expression, but it relaxes quickly into a fond (if still somewhat surprised) smile. "Charlito!" he says, standing up and reaching a hand in Charles' general direction. "This is a nice surprise."

But Charles is not in any mood for pleasantries. "Did you spend a heat with Max," he asks, but it's not really a question as much as it is an accusation, pointed and sharp.

Pierre freezes again, the smile slowly dropping off his face. His scent goes bitter with unpleasant surprise. "I -"

"If you lie to me, I am going to slap you," Charles says, injecting the words with just enough of a snarl that Pierre will know he's not messing around.

Pierre's expression goes from shocked to hurt to angry almost faster than Charles can process. "I wasn't going to lie to you, Charlo. I would never. Not with you."

He sounds sincere enough about it that Charles almost feels guilty, but then Pierre adds, "He's just a friend who needed a favour" and Charles is right back to furious.

"I was a friend, and I needed a favour," Charles says bitingly. He doesn't have to say anything more, because he knows Pierre will understand exactly what he means.

Pierre's face shutters, closing off completely. Even his scent goes blank, like Pierre is deliberately shutting off every part of himself. "That's different."

"How?" Charles hisses at him, and Pierre obviously wasn't expecting the vehemence of it, because he stumbles a step back. "How the hell is it different, huh?"

Pierre's expression does something complicated, and he makes a rough noise, low in the back of his throat. "It just is," he says, and refuses to elaborate.

Charles is livid. "It just is?!" he explodes. "Tell me how it just is, Pierrot, because I sure as fuck don't get it. I am your friend - non, I am your best friend - but when I ask for this favour, you say no. Then when it is Max, you say yes?"

"It's different," Pierre says again, sharply, as though sharpness alone will make Charles drop the subject.

He really doesn't know Charles if he thinks that will work. "It is not different. Not at all. What, unless you are trying to say that you don't want me?"

"Of course I-" Pierre starts, then cuts himself off with a groan, dragging a hand down his face. "I don't want to do this with you, Charles."

"Well, I want to do this with you," Charles retorts, unfazed and as fuming as ever. "What is it, huh, Pierre? You prefer Max over me?"

"Of course not," Pierre says, and he has the audacity to sound almost offended.

"But you must, if you fucked him and not me," Charles snaps. He's not entirely sure what he's trying to accomplish here, but he knows - he knows that he's furious, and Pierre is being a fucking asshole, and he needs Pierre to admit that much. At least.

Pierre, however, seems determined to continue being a stubborn asshole. "It wasn't like that," he insists, and Charles sees red.

"It's exactly like that! I asked you to fuck me, to help me through my heat, and you said no because you do not want me."

And that, somehow, is the last straw.

"Shut up, Charles," Pierre growls - actually growls - at him. "Just, shut up. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I don't?" Charles snaps right back, goading. "Why don't you tell me, then?"

Pierre snarls again, guttural and furious, and Charles knows that he should be terrified. But right now, he's far too furious to care.

"Tell me," Charles goads again, because he knows that nothing will ever compel Pierre as much as a challenge will.

Pierre is breathing hard, his fists clenched, his shoulders rising and falling rapidly. "You think you know what happened with Max, huh?" he asks, and Charles has never heard him sound like that. Despite himself, it sends a thrill through Charles' whole body. "You think you know what I want and don't want?"

Charles lets his belligerent silence do the talking for him, and Pierre's eyes flash. "Well, do you know that none of it is true? Do you know that none of the rumours of me with all those omegas are true?"

"What do you--" Charles begins, but Pierre cuts him off with a single hand held up, raised as sharply as a slap.

"Do you know, Charlito," he says, almost viciously, "that I've never been able to date any other omega for longer than a few months because I was always comparing them to you?"

Charles jolts where he stands, all the breath wrenched from him. "What--"

But Pierre doesn't give him a moment to process that. "Do you know that I only agreed to spend this heat with Max because he was desperate and out of options?"

"Do you know," Pierre continues, dangerously soft, "that I had to think of you just to be able to come at all?" He stalks a single step closer to Charles. "Do you know that I had to pretend it was you all the time just so that my knot wouldn't go down?" Another step, and Charles is shaking all over, but he can't move. Pierre has him pinned down, completely rooted to the spot with his scorching gaze and world-ending words.

"Do you know," Pierre concludes, softest of all, "why I really said I wouldn't spend a heat with you?"

Charles isn't sure how he even manages to form the word. "Why?"

Pierre's eyes are so, so dark as he stops just in front of Charles, raising one hand to ghost just millimetres above Charles' collarbone. "Because," he says, and his voice is rough. "I knew that if I did, Charles, if I fucked you even just once, I wouldn't be able to hold back. I would bite you, then and there, and I would make you mine."

All the while that he's been speaking, Pierre has been tracing his fingers upwards, a slow, slow torturous slide mere centimetres above Charles' skin. Charles can almost feel the heat of his touch, almost but not quite, and when Pierre stops just below Charles' mating gland - Charles whines and shudders forward, the combination of Pierre's hand there and that word mine too much for him to resist.

Pierre's fingers touch the overheated skin of Charles' mating gland, and the world explodes.

Charles' knees buckle, and his head spins, and he has to press his thighs together in a desperate effort to ease the sudden and burning need there. He's wet, he can feel it, leaking slick all over the place just from that one touch.

Pierre jerks his hand back, of course, but even that split-second of contact was enough to destroy Charles perfectly.

Pierre is panting, and he looks about as wrecked as Charles feels. "So do not stand there and tell me that I don't want you, Charles," he says, and his voice shakes - anger or desperation, Charles can't tell. "Not when I have done nothing but want you for as long as I have known how to want."

Charles shudders, the full weight of Pierre's words sinking in on him all at once. As Charles stands there, processing, he watches as the world rearranges itself entirely.

Charles breathes in, and then he breathes out. "Fuck you, Pear," he says, only a little shakily. "No, seriously, fuck you. How obvious do you need me to be? I literally asked you to spend my heat with me!"

For a moment, Pierre looks so indignant that he forgets to be angry. "You asked it as a favour to a friend!" he protests. "I just said, I can't do that! Not if it's you."

"Yeah, well," Charles says waspishly, "I only asked it like that because I thought you would say no otherwise."

And all at once, Pierre's expression transforms as he comes to the same sudden and brilliant realisation Charles just had.

"Charles," he says, shell-shocked. "If you're saying what I think you're saying..."

He glances down at his hands, clenches them tightly into fists again, then looks back up at Charles, his gaze burning. "You have to know, you can't take it back. I'm not going to let you take it back. Not if you mean it."

"God, Pierre, you are so fucking stupid," Charles says, and alright, maybe he is still a little angry about the whole situation, after all. (He thinks he has the right to be, though.) "Why do you think I was so angry that you went for Max?"

When Pierre doesn't say anything immediately, Charles snaps off a sharp step into Pierre's space, flicking his fingers against Pierre's forehead. "Yeah, it's because I wanted you to choose me. Only me."

Pierre's hand comes up, grabbing Charles' wrist in a bruise-tight hold. He draws Charles' hand away from his face, but then he doesn't let go, just keeps holding on, fingers circling Charles' wrist like they're meant to fit there. "Only you?" he echoes, and it sounds like a question.

Charles nods, because there was never any other answer, and he's about to say it, too, but then Pierre kisses the words right off his mouth.

If Charles' world hadn't already exploded so thoroughly earlier, then it would now.

It's a good kiss. No, it's better than a good kiss - it's a fucking incredible kiss; Pierre's one hand still wrapped around Charles' wrist while the other finds its way to his waist, like it belongs there. Pierre kisses him like he's still a little angry, but also like he's never meant anything more, pouring every part of his soul into it. Pierre kisses him like he's already imagining the night they're going to spend together after this, and he kisses Charles like how he's planning to fuck him later.

Charles has no objections to that. None at all.

Well. Except the one.

He pulls away from the kiss, pressing his palm hard to the side of Pierre's face. "You're going to spend my next heat with me," he says, orders more like, and it's far too possessive, but he can't bring himself to care. Not one goddamned bit.

Pierre growls, low in his throat, and pulls Charles even closer to him. "No, chéri," he says, too-softly. "I'm going to spend every single heat with you from now on. Forever."

"Forever," Charles breathes, and then he kisses Pierre again, hard, making it a promise. "Forever."

#posted this at 01:16 which is not QUITE 1016 but as close as i could get on this fine evening #HAPPY BIRTHDAY BRIONYYYY #myfic #piarles fic #10 x 16 #maxierre #(technically)#(they're really only there as a plot device to get us to piarles endgame)#in other news WHOA MY GOD THIS GOT LONG #(who's surprised....)#but i SWEAR the intention was just to write you something short and sweet for your birthday today since #since we'll only be releasing the main fic later #(well; i say short and sweet; but i don't think SWEETNESS was ever the intention. i wanted to write possessiveness)#(and also miscommunication and misunderstanding and all them GLORIOUS angsty tropes)#and since i have absolutely no self-control to speak of... here we are #BRIONY. my love. i love you so much #please accept this humble offering of my first ever publicly posted a/b/o on the occasion of your birthday #sorry for making the boys angry at each other but i unfortunately think it's very hot to make them scream confessions at each other #hot angry confessions... CHEF'S KISS #and i really hope you like this too!! and go as insane as i did over certain lines #because by God... i fear that you have created a monster #now that i have discovered a/b/o i am NEVER LOOKING BACK #this was so fucking fun to write oh my god. JEEZ #but anyways!! getting distracted here #HAPPY BIRTHDAY AGAIN MY LOVE #and before you say this is too much.... NO. we can never celebrate your birthday too much #this is just more proof to that end #LOVE YOU ENDLESSLY ❤️❤️❤️#briony's birthday bonanza 😘

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hakaiart · 2 years ago

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f to my parasite mu dreams </3 i thought i may as well finish this right now since otherwise id never post it

#kusunoki muu #muu kusunoki #mu kusunoki #kusunoki mu #milgram #milgram fanart #my art #i started this (checks file) oh god half a year ago #and got like 70% done and then never got around to finishing #so i just fixed the lines and cleaned it up a little in about 2 hours #when i first drew this i intended this to be a lot cleaner but if i did that i would never finish #it doesnt need to be perfect it just needs to be done etc #especially since i have uni now so im going to drop off the face of the earth #im. planning to focus on fic writing too so uh. <33 see you guys in a year i guess #rip to the mountains of 01 and 03 fanart i will never get around to cleaning up enough for posting #i love doodling them but finishing proper art is pain #its 1am. i ignored homework for this.#anyway i dont care what canon says i will continue to listen to parasite and imagine mu amvs to it

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the-sparkling-diamond-satine · 1 month ago

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New Moulin Rouge! fic alert!

Angstober 2024 (10/1/24) @angstober

Hello and welcome to Angstober 2024! I'm going to try and write a prompt each day, we'll see how I do! I wanted to write drabbles but the more realistic goal I have set for myself is 1k or less per fic (we know how wordy I am)!

happy (or not) reading!! :) angtober prompts + links to fics below the cut:

not again: Something awful has happened to Satine again. She tries to make sense of it in the aftermath.

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starchaserdreams · 1 year ago

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Me at 10:00pm: I'll just write for ten minutes before bed

Ten minutes later: MIDNIGHT

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stellarspecter · 7 months ago

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I've Been Trying to Figure You Out

Summary: Steve has never really liked his name. Steve is like the default name for a washed-up owner of a used car dealership. Steve is like a weird uncle you see twice a year and have weird, polite conversation with until you find an excuse to leave. Steve is like the guy in your office who talks nonstop about “the ol’ ball and chain” and doesn’t get that no one likes him.

Steve doesn’t want to grow up to be a Steve.

12.7k, Transfeminine Genderqueer Steve, Platonic Soulmates Stobin

Read on AO3

#stranger things #stranger things fic #steve harrington #robin buckley #stobin #happy tdov! trans fic be upon you!#shhh don't worry about ao3 making it say 4-01 instead of 3-31 it's 9:30pm where i am its still tdov #*writes

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blorboazula · 1 month ago

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Azula Week 2024 – Day 01. Lost

Warnings: mentioned burns // dragon!Azula. The Ciano Dragon

This was far from her plans. She should be at home, training by tyis time of the morning. Then go bother Zuzu (he was always annoyed, but at least seemed to take the hint every now and then). Train some more, most of her practice was focused in keeping her fire in a regula human color but still show progress. Then, maybe, spend time with Mom. It usually was just some meditating together, it was more peaceful when they were quiet together and connected with each other's inner fire.

Then Father had to ruin everything (wasn't him making enough damage to her Zuzu?) And Mom didn't help. Azula's mouth was still full of blisters and burns, it was annoying how she couldn't stop poking at them with her tongue. The rough texture made them take longer to heal.

Right, because she was a full dragon.

(That explained a lot, actually.)

She was a full dragon in the middle of nowhere Earth Kingdom. Sure, that was better than anywhere near Caldera City or other military towns. The head of a dragon was worthy of the Firelord's personal approval. Azula was very much interested in staying alive, thank you very much.

At least there were woods where she could navigate in this patch of the kingdom, she wasn't a large creature but was still not in a proper color for cammuflage. Nazy green against the browns of the earth, she was a perfect target in that scenario. Even if hunting dragons wasn't an earth peasant's daydream, she was still an eatable animal.

Again, she was very much interested in staying alive.

She didn't know where she was or where she was going. Azula had to get the furthest away from Caldera City as possible and ideally also have a a satisfactory distance between her and Mom. (At least until she had time to deal with the whole manhandling Azula away from the palace and leaving Zuzu alone in there.)

Living like a lost animal in the woods was her best option at the moment.

#azula week 2024 #day 01. lost #dragon azula au #the ciano dragon #pre-canon #child azula #(forgive me I can't write kids to save my life)#the burns are caused by her trying to spit fire while having her mouth covered by Ursa btw #i promise that's less bad than it sounds #hurt no comfort #azula whump #(kinda)#atla fic #atla au #azula fic

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fragilelovelythings · 8 months ago

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“Nice hook Marty” okay yeah but HE DIDN’T HAVE ANY REASON TO SAY IT THAT WAY, SO SOFTLY ALMOST LIKE A WHISPER AAAHHHHHH DAMN

Imagine breaking up with your partner, your colleague, your friend and the only person ever to take up your shit, bc you let his wife take advantage of you. Imagine you feel so shitty about yourself that you take it all, the betrayal, the punches and you added it all up to quitting your job AND STILL find something nice and flattery to say for the last time to the man whose heart you just broke.

I’M LIKE—

And then the first time you see him after 10 years he mentions your hair, like first thing he feels he can say to you is about your hair. Like the symbolism of it it’s everything: “Hair has been used symbolically to humiliate, enable sacrifice, terrify, endow strength, and profess love”

PROFESS LOVE.

What if Rust growing his hair is a bow to his undying love? What if Marty right away pointing it out a decade later it’s his response to it? His clear statement of his own never spoken feelings?

#true detective season 01 #true detective #rust cohle #marty hart #I’m losing my shit over these two #i need to write #probably I’ll take these ideas into a fic

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bphantom01 · 5 months ago

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Appleship fic! I forgot to post it here lmao

Snow, a Snowmobile, and Skates (3187 words) by SomeGu3st

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! ARC-V

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Rin/Yugo (Yu-Gi-Oh)

Characters: Rin (Yu-Gi-Oh), Yugo (Yu-Gi-Oh), Hiiragi Shuuzou

Additional Tags: Snow, Ice Skating, there r mentioned characters, Fluff

Summary:

On a modified D-wheel, the Synchro duo drives off to a frozen lake to skate.

#appleshipping #arc v #yugioh arc v #rin arc v #yugo arc v #yugorin #fanfic #oneshot #this is 1 out of 2 finished lolololol #i had lotsa fun writing this #take note of that btw cuz i had no self-control (except when i proofread it) while writing XDD #01 makes a fic #(ehm 1 out of 2 appleship fics*)

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actofgraaaaaaaaace · 1 year ago

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Chapters: 2/2 Fandom: Our Flag Means Death (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Blackbeard | Edward Teach/Stede Bonnet Characters: Blackbeard | Edward Teach, Stede Bonnet, Frenchie (Our Flag Means Death) Additional Tags: appearing in a very minor role is Izzy, Canon-Typical Violence, Talking It Through As a Crew (Our Flag Means Death), Inspired by the season 2 teaser, Praise Kink, Spit Kink, Oral Sex, Mirror Sex, Frottage, Ed gives himself the pearls in this one, since it looks like he raids them from one of the weddings, but that doesn't mean it isn't still devastatingly romantic, oh and then really fucking filthy, no beta we die like the flag that means death

Summary:

Ed has a new strand of pearls when Stede finds him again.

#our flag means death #ofmd #ofmd fic #ed/stede #gentlebeard #my writing #my fic #this second chapter is like....... 99% filth #and the remaining 1% is feelings #okay and there's an extra .01% that is Izzy getting shat on by a bird named Karl Jr.#<3 happy trailer day friends

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pollylynn · 2 years ago

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Title: Discomfiture WC: 800

“Please, he didn't get to me.” —Kate Beckett, Flowers for Your Grave (1 x 01)

The fury deserts her with alarming swiftness once she’s out in the world again.

Oh, it had powered a fairly spectacular show back at the precinct. Without raising her voice, she’s certain she rattled the glass in Montgomery’s fish-bowl office just about hard enough to dissuade even Javier “Shark-Week Enthusiast” Esposito from pressing his nose up to it. And she’s pretty sure that the deadly stage whisper that sent Richard “Research Enthusiast" Castle scampering backward down the precinct’s darkest hallway actually rattled the decaying acoustic tiles in the ceiling hard enough to get a few faux snow drifts going back there.

Even after she’d chased her new shadow back to Neverland, however temporarily, she’d continued to vibrate on such a high, fury-fueled frequency that a blast radius had opened up. After a brief flurry of hushed warnings traveled around the bullpen, a blessed peace born of abject fear had fallen. She’d gotten a nearly unprecedented—even for her—amount of work done.

But it’s gone now, that fury that had served her like a faithful friend, all day long. She’d like to blame the bitter March wind for that. Or the fact that she’s starving and the smell of food trucks and over-eager restaurants with their silver forest of patio heaters have shivering servers weaving in and out of cafe tables with trays of mouth-watering entrees has drawn her attention to more pressing needs.

But it has nothing to do with the chill or hunger. The fury is absolutely gone and inside, she is all hollow places and unpleasant echoes. No. Worse than unpleasant. Uncomfortable. He—Richard “Never a Scout” Castle—has somehow left her, Kate “Tough, but Savvy” Beckett feeling . . . uncomfortable.

Not in the way she’s sure he’d like to. Not like that at all.

Whatever this unsettled feeling is all about, it has nothing to do with his transparent, junior-high lechery. She is entirely safe from his waggling eyebrows and talk of safe words and spanking, because it may have been a while (and—Lord—has it been a while), but he truly has no idea.

It’s not even the fact that his stunt with the advanced copy, with the swift, awkward kiss that oh-so-carefully just missed the corner of her mouth, has her cheeks glowing pink again even out here on the street in the predictably seasonable chill of an early spring evening in New York. Her insides flutter at the memory even as her eyes roll in self-disgust, but Teen Beat feelings about a dizzying series of unexpected encounters with her one-time celebrity crush isn’t what has her stilettos meeting the pavement with a force she’ll likely regret long before she makes it home.

The uneasy feeling he’s left her with is not at all personal. Well. Okay. Between her and the lamppost, it’s not entirely personal. It’s all too professional.

Why are you here?

The question she’d hurled at him over his hazardous fan mail comes sailing back at her in appropriately juvenile I’m rubber, and you’re glue fashion. He’s left her wondering. Not with his bullshit cold read about the socially acceptable options available to a good-looking, moneyed woman such as herself, but with his childlike faith in The Story.

She hears herself scoffing at him about serial killers and psychopaths sans motive, about guilty guys standing over bodies with guns. She hears the desperation, the defensiveness in her own voice as she insists that somebody had to know something about Alison Tisdale, as she insists there was never a reason to interview the woman’s brother. Worst of all, maybe, she hears herself delivering her trademark speech about the weird ones and the revelations—the insights into the dark crevices of the human psyche—they alone can offer. She hears it all and wonders if any of it is, was, ever has been true.

Because she knows full well there are victims that no one, least of all her, ever knows anything about.

She knows full well that a year ago—or has it been two or three?—she wouldn’t have needed a reason to interview a victim’s father, her brother beyond compassion, beyond the meager comfort that the full force of her assurance that they’d get the person who’d done this to their loved one might provide.

She knows full well, or she did once, that every victim’s life is filled with stories that intersect and diverge, that obscure and shed light.

She knows full well that the freaky ones weren’t always a draw for their Saturday-crossword-level demands on her intellect. They weren’t always. But are they now?

Why are you here?

She has always known the answer to that question. Always. And now he’s left her with the uncomfortable feeling she might not know any more. She might not know at all.

A/N: IDK. Am I doing this again? Yikes.

image via homeofthenutty

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