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oumaheroes · 2 years

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Christmas Drabble (3)

Summary: In which Canada makes a foolish decision

Word Count: 920

Characters: America, Canada, Sealand

Parts 1, 2

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‘What do you mean “where is he”?’

Canada’s voice had a note of stressed panic to it that made America turn down the volume on the TV ever so slightly in interest. Immediately, Sealand voiced his disapproval and America shushed him, trying to hear more.

‘No, he’s not here,’ the creaking of floorboards as Canada began walking down the hallway, ‘just me, Alfred and Peter.’

Sealand raised an eyebrow and mouthed ‘Dad’. America shrugged and paused their game completely. Sealand didn’t complain.

‘He’s not been here all night, from what I know. He was in London to finish bits off- he was supposed to pick you up?’

America made a low noise of pleasure. It wasn’t even Christmas yet and things were already interesting.

More floorboards creaking closer and then Canada was in the doorway to the fancy living room, the one England did not like any of them using when he wasn’t around to supervise. The good Christmas tree was there, along with all of the presents carefully wrapped underneath and it was exactly for this Christmassy atmosphere that America and Sealand had wanted to settle there. Canada caught sight of them both, new PS5 hooked up to the TV and squatted on the floor in a mound of sofa cushions, and frowned, ‘Yeah,’ he said into his phone, flapping a free hand frantically at America, ‘Yeah no, I’m not sure.’

He put his hand over the speaker and hissed at them quietly, ‘Put this away!’

‘What?’ Alfred mouthed, pointing to his ear. Sealand giggled, ‘I can’t hear you?’

Quicker than should be possible for someone so lanky, Canada crossed the room and swatted him on the back of the head, continuing his conversation at the same time, ‘Of course, don’t worry about it. I’ll come down.’

‘Shit mate, that’ll be a right help. You know there’s no public transport all the way out there, he’s in the middle of fucking nowhere.’ Australia’s tinny voice could just about be heard from this close and America settled back against the cushions, feeling somewhat satisfied Canada wouldn’t keep attacking him now that he had a task to do.

‘No problem. I’ll text you when I’m on my way.’ Canada said his goodbyes and hung up the phone before looking at it in concern.

‘Why didn’t he call me?’

Canada blinked, ‘What?’

America nodded at the phone in his hand, ‘Why didn’t Jack call me? He knows I’m here too.’ America already knew the answer but it was fun to watch Canada squirm against the truth of it sometimes.

‘I don’t know,’ Canada looked away uncomfortably, ‘but we need to go.’

‘Woah woah, wait,’ America sat up again, ‘we?’

‘Yeah, why we?’ Sealand peered around him to getting a better look at Canada.

‘You can’t both stay here.’

‘Erm…’ America looked about the living room as if searching for something dangerous that might explain his misgivings, like a deadly weapon or a house fire. There was nothing but a decorative skull on the mantlepiece, fairy light in the eye sockets twinkling cheerfully, ‘Why not?’

Canada gave him a flat look that spoke volumes, ‘I’m not leaving you two here alone with the presents.’

‘Hang on, wait a sec,’ America placed a hand on his chest and feigned a look of hurt, ‘you really think we’re so bad that we can’t wait till Christmas?’

‘Either of you on your own? No. Together? Yes.’ Canada walked behind the sofa and gently tugged on the back of Sealand’s collar, ‘Come on, up.’

‘This infringes upon my independent rights,’ Sealand huffed but stood up regardless, throwing his controller on the sofa, ‘Also, I’m nowhere near as bad as Alfred.’

‘Ouch, double whammy? I’m getting attacked from both sides here.’

‘Al, please…’

‘Look,’ America stood up, ‘The old man probably got distracted at work and will be home at any minute all stressed out. Me and Peter can stay here and clean up, get the place all nice and ready, and put the kettle on. And we promise that we won’t open anything.’

Canada looked extremely unconvinced and America continued before he could say anything else, ‘It makes no sense for us all to go: Jack and Alex will have all of their stuff with them and it’s wasted space just because you might not trust-‘

‘I don’t trust you.’

‘-because you don’t trust us. It works better if we stay here and help out.’

Canada’s eyes narrowed, ‘You promise you won’t open anything?’

America crossed his heart, ‘By the time you get back, the living room will be tidy and the presents will all be wrapped.’

‘God damn it,’ Canada shook his head but looked away in defeat, flipping his phone over in one hand, ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘Well…’

‘Don’t push it, Al.’

America held up his hands placatingly, ‘Just joking. Go on, and stop worrying. This is supposed to be a holiday. That means you need to enjoy yourself.’

‘Try to get a hold of Dad and see where he is,’ Canada ignored him but gave America a warm pat on the arm.

‘Yeah, I will. Drive safe, okay?’

‘Will do,’ Canada waved a hand in farewell and disappeared back into the hallway. America watched him go in silence, waiting until the creak of the floorboards told him that Canada was moving back through the house and towards the door that led out to the garage.

‘We’re gonna open the presents now, right?’ Sealand asked in a whisper.

'After all of that? Hell yeah.'

Part 4

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AN:

I headcanon that many of the Commonwealth like to head over to England’s for Christmas, who’s hosted a yearly get together for his family and friends for centuries in his big fancy countryside house. The people who go changes each year but the UK bros are a constant, (their once a year attempt at 'friendly family time') as is Canada, usually. To help me keep these drabbles under 1000 words though, I’m restricting the attendees like a cruel overlord.

#aph canada #aph america #hws canada #hws america #aph sealand #hws sealand #hws #aph #hetalia #My writing

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jointhearumanati · 2 years

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HETALIA NORDIC TATTOO HEADCANNONS

ALL: all of them have a cross tattoo on their inner right wrist

DENMARK: He got a heart shaped Norwegian Flag on his heart after he got remarried to Norway with the marriage date under it, he has an entire left sleeve and pectoral of traditional Viking Symbols only the flag is colored

NORWAY: He has a heart shaped danish flag over his heart after he got remarried to Denmark with the marriage date under it, he has a entire left sleeve of traditional Viking Symbols, a entire right sleeve with Norwegian magical creatures in a forest setting, he has Viking stripes along his collarbones, and a Aegishjalmur symbol on his left pectoral Norway loves tattoos and only the flag is colored

ICELAND: he only has the cross tattoo he doesn't like tattoos much Norway keeps pestering him to get an Aegishjalmur tattoo Iceland's argument I've never been in battle nor am I going into battle anytime soon Norway's argument you might be you don't know etc

SWEDEN: He has a heart shaped Finnish flag over his heart with their marriage date under it with little heart shaped Ladonia and Sealand flags beside it, he has a entire right sleeve of traditional Viking Symbols, he also has an ABBA tattoo on his inner left wrist only the flags are colored

FINLAND: This bi*ch is the tattoo King every Finnish metal band you can think of he has it somewhere sleeves, left pectoral, back, neck, and thighs He also has over his heart a heart shaped Swedish flag with their marriage date under it with little heart shaped Ladonia and Sealand flags beside it, he has sprig of holly behind his right ear, and a 2 candy canes crossed with a skull wearing a Christmas hat on his right ankle only the flags, Holly, and candy canes are colored

#hetalia #aph nordics #dennor #sufin #tattoo

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melaninnmagixc · 2 years

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bates--boy · 4 years

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One would think that in such a restaurant bar such as this, -- a branch-off of a four-star tourist-trap hotel, a hub of travel-weary businesspeople and high school socialites with fake IDs, all in top-brand suits and casuals and shoes -- the drinks would be the nectar milked from the teats of whatever deities represented alcoholic drinks.

But they’re shit. They’re absolute shit.

Still, Peter sat hunched over his glass of gin, musing without amusement how it would be no different if he just went to any old convenience store with a medical shelf, buy a bottle of rubbing alcohol with a high isopropyl content and down that, instead. No, there would be one difference: it wouldn’t taste as watered-down.

He planted the slice of lemon in his mouth, nibbling it to mitigate some of the taste of disappointment, scrolling through his home feed to stave off the awful mood of being wrung dry by the bearded, buff barbarian in a sleek black button-up, and the faceless corporation that he worked for. But some part of him was looking to feed his foul mood, or maybe he was feeling adventurous, because he mulled over whether or not he should order a glass of champagne and keep the train of minor bad decisions going. It was the weekend, after all, and he wouldn’t need to be back to work for another week.

When he forced another sip of the gin down his throat, Peter was ready to decide against it when a flute appeared before him, anyhow. “Er...” Peter said, reaching for the waiter’s arm to stop him from popping open the bottle. “I didn’t order this.”

The waiter across the room. “Courtesy of the gentleman over there.”

Furrowing his brow, Peter turned his stool in the direction the server pointed out, ignoring the gentle pop of the undone cork and the hiss of bubbles.

Immediately, a hand rose above the crowd, the crystal whiskey glass capturing what light it could in this dimly-lit cave and twinkling many colors like a beacon in a gray sea.

Either the distance and the low lights must be to blame, or Peter must be forgiven for being mean, but the guy looked like a bore.

Average rectangular frame, his receding and lackluster dark hair snipped into a budget hair style, slacks that were reminiscent of the private high schools of every wild child’s nightmare. Only thing about the man that stood out (at least from across the room) was the well-worn leather jacket with its tarnished buckles, a vintage beauty that spoke to Peter’s tendency for nostalgia.

But a jacket ain’t enough to impress, so Peter turned back to the server to order him to take the drink back, only to find that the man had already disappeared, leaving the filled flute and the open bottle on the bar table.

“Ah, shit...” Peter mumbled. He picked up the flute and lifted it, lips curled in a half-assed grin to the “gentleman”, whose own face seemed to brightened. And then...

“Ah, shit!” Peter hissed under his breath as he watched the other man rise out of his seat god fucking damn it. And despite his attempt to look casual, the guy sure was legging it, a quarter of the way to Peter’s table by the time Peter had drained half the flute. And maybe the bubbles were getting to Peter’s head, because in the blink of an eye, the gentleman was easing himself onto the seat next to Peter, resting his elbows on the table, giving an oozing, schmoozing smile as Peter hurried to refill his glass.

“I had a feeling you’d like the top-quality stuff,” the gentleman said.

The “top-quality” stuff tasted like diet off-brand grape soda two years past its expiration date, but still... “Thank you,” Peter murmured. His gratitude was genuine; at least he wouldn’t have to waste money on what he knew was going to be an awful drink thanks to the generosity of the other man. That didn’t change the fact that he kept his head down, eyes on his phone screen, his voice soft from immediate withdrawal of this conversation.

Of course, the gentleman took it as modesty, and leaned in a bit closer. “You know, it’s been pretty hard finding a lady so refined around here.”

Peter almost choked on the drink, barely catching himself. He cleared his throat, reaching for the folded napkin left with the bottle to dab away the drops on his lips. Thank god for Vice lipstick.

Peter knew he could never hope for the rich baritone of James Earl Jones or Vin Diesel, but he had something, so he used it when he lifted his head and returned the gentleman’s grin. “Why, thank you, sir.” Then, he waited for the not-all-that-feminine deep voice to register on the other man’s voice, for the man’s eyes to go clear and see all the subtle masculine traits hidden underneath the fashion, like the beginnings of an angular jaw despite the youthful plump and rosiness of Peter’s cheeks, or the broadness of Peter’s lean shoulders to make up for the lack of bodybuilder muscles, or a chest that was flat beyond bee-sting A cups. He waited for...

Well, Peter didn’t know what reaction he was waiting for -- confused, maybe over-the-top like the man apologizing profusely or toppling from his chair to get away, or red in the face and foamy at the mouth, as if Peter’s mere existence in a dress was to cheat him out of an unrequested drink -- but he didn’t expect the heat in the man’s eyes to burn brighter, or the flash of white teeth as the man briefly nibbled his bottom lip.

For a moment, Peter froze, his mouth cinching close, his jaw locking, something besides the cheap grape juice curdling in his gut. He lowered the glass and tried to wade through the conflicting storms of his hunger for attention and the electrical fright that made him want to zap right out of the room. He gazed around, telepathically calling for an adult, any adult, to come intervene.

The man curled his fingers around Peter’s chin and tilted his head back to him, taking in Peter’s wider eyes and, once more, mistaking it for whatever Peter didn’t even want to know. The man’s brow quirked. He lowered his hand to Peter’s forearm. How can a hand be so dry yet so clammy? “I guess you don’t really do this often, do you?”

When Peter slowly and silently shook his head, something alit even brighter in the man’s eyes. “Wait... would I be the first?”

Peter would have answered, would have said “no”, not because he had experience with this before, but because he had no experience with this before and he wasn’t planning on doing so ever. But he was frozen further with shock, stunned at the eager in the question, as if the gentleman wanted a resounding “yes”. He swallowed against the tightness of his throat.

The gentleman chuckled before Peter could say anything. “Wow.... well, alright, then! Don’t worry, I can make your first time here splendid, so you know how to do this right. Do you want to name your price here, or over dinner, or in the room?”

Peter shook his head. “I don’t want--” He blinked, feeling his mouth fall open. “Wait, what?”

The gentleman reached over Peter to get the napkin. He flicked it open, and both of them watched as the plastic card with the hotel’s blue and lavender logo landed on the surface. The man picked up the key card, and the gleam on the man’s wrist finally caught Peter’s eyes. A large, silver watch studded with diamonds around the face. What also hadn’t passed Peter’s notice was the twinkle of the golden band around the other man’s finger.

The storm in Peter’s head brewed more violently, as fire burned under his skin and spread all over his face. He wondered what part of his ensemble -- a brown cashmere jacket, a baby blue skater dress, and black boots no taller than his ankles (wait, was it the fishnet stockings?!) -- gave this guy the idea that Peter was in that part of the field. He imagined that somewhere out there, a wife and two and a half kids were tucked away in a picket fence property, waiting for the return of this piece of shit. And enthralled by the fury that the last thought wrought, Peter developed an urge to throw the drink into this man’s face, followed by a fist with the full force of four tons of steel and concrete.

And centered in the wild storm, still and resolute like a shelter promising protection from the lethal weather, was another bad idea.

Peter kept his eyes wide, holding on to some semblance of his dissipating shock and confusion to help sell the act. He took another tentative sip of his drink. “Oh, well, okay. We can just go to your room, if you want. We can also make it a party if we have another one of these...” He picked up the open bottle and slowly swirled it, tilting his head.

The man nodded and raised a hand to grab the waiter’s attention.

---

Excitement set Peter’s fingertips tingling.

It came not from the bottle of champagne passed between himself and John (not really the guy’s name), nor from the smacking wet lips and the pawing hands John pressed against whatever part of Peter’s body he could reach (at least he had enough decency to not try to kiss Peter’s mouth). It came from the idea taking root within Peter’s skull. Through the buzz, Peter realized that the idea was a fuzzy picture that needed further development. So, he sharpened the image, turning it over as the two men stumbled arm-in-arm out the elevator and down the hall. A familiar stoicism settled in his chest as he tried to work out all the kinks, thought over the many ways this could go wrong and how to prevent them or weasel his way out of them. He felt like he was on the battlefield again in trying to make this foolproof.

That stony, removed feeling crumbled to dust when John stopped in front of a door and fumbled to stick his keycard in the slot with drunk hands. Oh shit, came the sobering thought once again. I’m really going to do this.

The door beeped and John reached behind him to grab Peter’s wrist. Peter let out a series of yelps as John tugged him inside, slammed the door shut, shoved Peter against the door, and locked him in place by tangling his legs with Peter’s legs and wrapping an arm around the small of Peter’s back. And then, to the Sealander’s utter, stomach-dropping horror, came the humping.

It shouldn’t have surprised Peter, since he knew what John was after, but to so suddenly be thumping against the wooden door while some drunkard ground...pound...rubbed? What was John even thinking he was doing? He was doing something with his pulsing ere..ction against Peters pelvis, and whatever it was, Peter’s body was stunned, the lights above them blinding his eyes as he tried to turn his head away, with a thought ringing loud:

I can’t do this.

Ican’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothisIcan’tdothis

And his fort called to him, ready to put some force in his fight whenever he was ready, reminding him that he had no need to succumb to the sickening, sinking terror and regret. And, oh, how much easier it would make things, to just bash John’s nose in or throat punch him, watch him struggle to breath until he fell unconscious, or punch him in the chest and hope that it was the right moment, the split second between heartbeats...

Then John’s other hand slid up the wall, and Peter caught the shine of his wedding band before John tangled his fingers into Peter’s hair, tugging to angle his head and expose his neck. The fear rot into anger, the anger into dogged and vengeful determination, as Peter felt John reach down to tug at his skirt, and slobber against his neck, “So, how much?”

Peter grabbed onto that moment of clarity, calmed himself with it to think clearly, and began wriggling and shifting his body until John was dry humping Peter’s outer thigh. He let out a flat p.or.n star moan, louder and more strained than John’s muffled grunting, and tugged at the shell of John’s ear with his teeth. “That depends, sweetheart: what do you want, and how long you can go.” And because he was feeling silly, he dropped one of the bottles -- it was mostly empty, anyway -- and used his free hand to smack the tragically tiny bump through John’s slacks that must have to pass for John’s ass cheek. It felt like hitting a brick wall.

But it worked. John backed off enough for Peter to guide them away from the door and to sit his gentleman caller on a nearby chair. He then mounted John’s lap with enough space between them that Peter wouldn’t feel John’s enthusiasm between his legs again, and wrenched the cork out of the second bottle with his teeth. John laid out his demands in a tone that sounded like suggestions, snaking a hand up Peter’s skirt. Peter tossed out some high bullshit numbers to demands he forgot the moment they were spoken, putting the bottle to John’s lips and taking John’s hand off his thigh to suck on one of his fingers (and hoping that the bathroom had complementary mouthwash). With the deal made and already forgotten on Peter’s part, Peter slid off John’s lap and unlaced his boots.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Peter said, toeing his footwear off and shrugging out of his jacket, “I’d like to get freshened up for you. Get the stuff ready for us?” When John tugged out a condom and packet of lube from his pocket with a nod, Peter skipped off to the bathroom.

He closed the door and went to the sink. He turned the water on, and then began the shakes. With trembling fingers and unsteady hands, Peter tried to splash cold water on his face, multiple times, and only stopped once the temperature made his teeth chatter worse and after getting water all over the sink top, the floor, and some of his hair that fell to his face. He straightened, yanking a hand towel from the rack and patting his face dry, then wetting a corner of it to wipe down his neck and collarbone and legs, not caring that it was wetting his stockings as long as the feeling can be scrubbed off.

The towel dropped to the floor; Peter searched frantically for the mouthwash and, finding it, guzzled half the tiny bottle and swishing it until it burned into his gums. He spat, and felt so awful for the housekeeper who will have to come in and clean his mess, but when he straightened from the bowl and looked at the mess reflected in the mirror, Peter’s focused was on one thing:

He was going to do this.

He was already nauseous, still stunned by the feel of another man’s erection to the point of being dizzy, but he was in a foul enough mood to want to go through with it.

So, he left the bathroom, finding John standing in the middle of the room, holding a phone to his ear.

“--sweetie, I’ll be home in a couple days, then we can take that vacation.”

Peter approached John’s back, feeling a twinge of satisfaction as he pressed himself against John’s jacket, nestled his chin on John’s shoulder, and ran his palms up and down John’s thighs (not exactly touching anywhere near the pitch tent) then his hips, and then the brick wall that was his ass. It felt mechanical, like Peter playing airport security, but the grazing hands were enough to draw out a sharp gasp from his... client.

“Listen, I’ll have to call you tomorrow, I need to get some rest for tomorrow’s meeting. Love you, bye!”

John tossed the phone on the bed. He gave a shiver as Peter’s hands roamed higher and massage his chest through his shirt.

Peter kissed John’s shoulder through the jacket. “Hey, you promised me that you’ll make my first time doing this splendid, right?” he murmured.

“Mhm,” John moaned.

Peter nuzzled his nose along the back of John’s neck, breathed on it, whispering, “Well... what if I don’t want splendid? What if I want real? What if I want...” he disguised the chuckle over this utter bullshit as a breathy, needy moan. “Wild?”

John furrowed his eyebrows. “Wild?”

Peter grabbed the jacket’s lapels and yanked them back, wrenching the fabric down until it bunched messily around John’s wrist and bound them behind his back. This could have gone south quickly; maybe John wasn’t into bondage, maybe he was repulsed by it. Maybe he found the idea infuriating, that some fresh-faced streetwalker new to the game and too stupid to ask for money upfront thinks he’s so special, thinks he’s so cute, that he can just change up the terms and, worse, dominate? And maybe Peter was hoping for that, hoping that John would be so turned off that he’d throw Peter out.

But then Peter grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and yanked his head back. The man let out a choked whimper, his hips twitching forward.

“How much would you cough up to make this unforgettable for me?” Peter grunted, toying with John’s belt and holding in a shudder as he felt the cock push against the fabric.

John opened his eyes, and Peter could see them rolled to the back of his head. “You can clear out my bank account.”

It would be a lie to say that Peter wasn’t tempted, to reverse course and make this a real transaction. Why the fuck should he care about some faceless woman far away, it wasn’t Peter’s marriage in the ruins. And maybe a night of getting laid would do his foul mood some good; probably not a good lay, but how the hell would Peter know the difference?

Plus, who wouldn’t want to be swimming in coin for a night of feigned passion?

Then the phone started to buzz, and the groan John howled out wasn’t pleasure. “God, I hope that bitch isn’t calling me, again.”

Peter pressed his tongue to his cheek. Nope, none of that was worth it.

He unfastened the belt and trailed enticing kisses along John’s shoulder, up to behind his ear as he worked the button and fly. He tugged the pants down to the ankles, ordering John to step out of them. He led John to the bed and pushed him facedown on the mattress, and went back to take out the belt from the discarded pants. When he returned to the bed, Peter looked down on the sprawling figure with his ass in the air. If he pulled down John’s unremarkable undies down to his ankles, Peter could just leave him like that, since by the time John hobbled his way to the door and managed to get it open, Peter would be long gone. But Peter had to be careful, see how far and how much he could take this.

Standing beside the bed, Peter freed John from his temporary restraints and flipped him onto his back. A hip jutting out, with his teeth biting on his bottom lip, Peter wound one end of the belt around a hand and yanked, snapping the belt. He’d think that with all the times he’s posed like this in front of the camera, it would come easily to him now, but maybe it’s too different when the viewer was right there, and could see his face. Yet, for all the awkwardness Peter felt, John didn’t seem to sense it, gazing up at Peter with glazed-over eyes.

Peter moved John’s hands up to the bed post. Once the watch and ring came off and were set on the bedside table, muscle memory took over, and Peter could almost smell the salt of the sea and the rust of his fort as he looped the belt around the wrists and the wooden post like the many times he secured items to his platform. One final tug, and the leather was biting into John’s limb, already rubbing the skin red as John squirmed to get comfortable. Peter’s hands trailed down John’s arm, down his torso, going to his lap and digging fingernails into the flesh, feeling nothing when John’s breath hitch and came out in a low hiss, still feeling removed when he released John’s thigh and left nail marks.

‘Oh, god,” John rasped, his head lolling to the side. “Oh, please fuck me, Mistress.”

Peter wanted him to shut up, so he stepped back, hiking his skirt up to tug off his boxer briefs and stockings, overly aware of John watching him. He separated the garments, balling the underwear up in his fist. “Open your mouth. Now.”

John’s mouth dropped open, his eyes rolled back once more at the taste of Peter’s fabric being stuffed inside. Surreptitiously, Peter tucked his skirt between his thighs to add another layer of barrier between his own exposure and John as he half-straddled the man’s lap. He hooked his finger through John’s neck tie and undid it, forcing his shaking hands to steady so tying the accessory around John’s eyes wouldn’t be sloppy. He leaned down until he was cheek to cheek with John.

“I’m going to make the next few hours worth every cent, my filthy little slut.” Oh, how Peter was glad John couldn’t see his face twist with self-degrading disgust. He sent out an apology to all the stars of his old favorite stag films for failing them. “Let me get the lube warmed up and the condom ready, then you can make me cum as many times as you can before I even let you.”

He swung his leg back over John, leaving the bastard shivering with glee as he backed away from the bed.

The timer was set.

Peter skipped over to the pants, crouching and digging out the wallet he felt in the back pocket. He pulled out the pink wads of kronor and shoved it in his pocket. He stared at the corners of the credit cards poking out of their sleeves, and looked towards the panting, writhing mess on the bed.

You can clear out my bank account.

But he shook his head clear of the temptation and stood up, returning to the bedside; might as well minimize the potential jail time as much as possible. With great care, Peter picked up the watch and ring and placed them in the pocket so they wouldn’t clink. He stared at his client, taking a deep, quiet breath.

And finally: insurance.

He hooked his fingers in John’s waistband, his face twisting up once more. Do it like a band-aid... like a band-aid... Pursing his lips against the rising bile, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away, Peter whipped the underwear down. He filled his lungs again, holding it in as he cracked an eyelid open and pulled his phone out.

It’s the same equipment that you have, Peter. The reminder did next to nothing to help quell the screech as his eyes met the swollen and stiff member, uncomfortably pink against the pallor of John’s legs, oozing precum.

“Holy fucking shit,” Peter cringed. He tapped on the camera, made sure that the shutter feature and the flash were both off, and aimed at the sad view that made his skin crawled. He bent down to plant a couple more kisses along John’s calf. It was an odd place to show affection to, but as long as John thought it was still leading to something, and Peter didn’t have to touch his genitals, it would do. He rose from the bed and swiped the leather jacket, draping it over his arm and picking up his own jacket and boots.

In the next breath, Peter was out the door, feeling the coldness within him snap and fall into pieces when it clicked closed behind him.

He did it.

He turned and walked off, leaving behind the muffled noise from John as it turned from confusion to protestation to outright fury, but growing ever softer as Peter legged it. His free hand patted the bulge in his dress pocket as he rounded the corner, and the shakes returned, making the air coming into his lungs shallow, making his skin prickle and his vision tunnel and sway.

When something pushed up his throat, Peter feared it was vomit, or a scream, or a cry. It definitely had to be a cry, as the sensation of John’s dick between his legs burned all over. But it was a laugh. He laughed. Because it shouldn’t have been that easy, but he did it! And --

He stumbled to the nearest trash can, knocking the top off and emptying his stomach in the refuse.

When it was over and Peter came up for air, he wiped his mouth and looked around, feeling so separated from this plane. This called for a celebration.

He rummaged through his jacket pocket, the cashmere one he came in, and pulled out the shades. Then he clipped on the watch and pulled out the wad of cash, setting the jackets and boots down on the floor next to his feet. Raising the phone up, he tilted his head and stuck his little tongue out.

#life thus far ( story )#droid noodles ( writing )#ain't safe for lookin'#er...#long post #vomit tw #ask me to tag because uuuh #sinday #alcoholism tw #e-boy

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monabela · 4 years

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I'm back! well I guess on this blog it's not odd that I don't post for a while but still. I'm back! and since it's @aphrarepairweek2020 and I made best friends with a little girl on my mail round when she followed me through two streets and helped me put mail in mailboxes, this is the perfect time to indulge this ship that I'm not sure is actually a thing or I made up myself, and some kidfic (sort of)! this is for day 2, thunderstorm :0

~~~

(rain’s a part of) how life goes

pairings/characters: Poland (Feliks)/Sweden (Berwald), Sealand (Peter), Ladonia (Lars)

word count: 2419

summary:

Even if Feliks is still unsure of how he fits into the lives of Berwald’s sons, there is only one thing he can do when one of them is afraid of a thunderstorm.

~~~

Feliks is just about to put in his earbuds to listen to a podcast, when he hears a small, unfamiliar sound over the rain clattering against the windows, crashing into the sea somewhere near. He puts his phone down next to his crossed legs. Listens.

He can still hear the shower, barely, so it can’t be Berwald already. Maybe he dropped something, in there. His depth perception is awful without his glasses; Feliks wouldn’t be surprised. Hopefully, he’s almost done cleaning by now, anyway. Taking a shower during a thunderstorm isn’t the best idea, and Feliks feels a little guilty, since he was the one who dropped his drink on Berwald.

Thankfully, they’ve been dating long enough now that he doesn’t feel the terrible embarrassment he’s sure would have overwhelmed him in the beginning.

It seems to be silent now, or relatively so, given the downpour outside.

A clap of thunder, and another noise just out in the hall. Feliks half-turns to look over the back of the couch as the living room door opens, and a small, pale face peers through the gap, single blue eye wide. Ah, of course.

“Dad?” comes the usually so loud voice of Berwald’s eldest son, now just above a whisper. Feliks laces his fingers together in his lap, and takes a deep breath.

“Your dad’s taking a shower, Peter,” he says, smiling in what he hopes is a reassuring way when the boy spots him. Both Peter and his younger brother Lars know him well enough by now—he’s spent enough time around their father lately—but Feliks can’t deny that being around the boys still makes him a little nervous, if only because he knows they mean the world to Berwald and he’s terrified of somehow doing wrong by them. Having kids was never something he seriously thought about, because he just didn’t think he would be any good with them. The little Oxenstierna family is doing their best to prove him wrong.

“Oh,” Peter is saying, and he is already closing the door when the thunder rolls again, and he practically sprints into the living room instead, halting next to the couch. He’s clutching the hem of his pajama shirt with his small fingers, knuckles whitening. Feliks shakes his thin hair out of his face, meeting Peter’s eyes.

“Are you…” He tilts his head, assessing how Peter appears to be trying to control his fear. “Did you want to check on your dad, Peter?”

Peter nods vigorously, grateful, and Feliks can’t help but smile.

“Is he afraid of the thunder?”

Nodding again, Peter shuffles a little closer. His pajama shirt has a pirate ship on it, and the pants are printed with tiny rapiers and skulls, but he is no longer wearing the eyepatch and hat he had on this evening, when he insisted the trampoline in the backyard was his pirate ship and tried to get his brother to walk the plank multiple times, in increasingly loud pirate brogue. Lars kept refusing, of course, and Feliks had been tasked with distracting Peter. He could probably do so again, even if there’s no way he’ll go out and try to do tricks on the trampoline again like he’s seventeen and still dreaming of a career in gymnastics. Not in this weather.

More thunder.

Peter winces, hands wringing into his shirt. Feliks’s heart clenches. With how boisterous he is, it’s easy to forget that Peter is still just a six-year-old boy, who wants his father to comfort him during a storm even if he’s too proud to admit it.

“I’m afraid of thunder, too, you know,” Feliks tells him, which isn’t true—thunder is one of the few loud noises he actually doesn’t mind—but that doesn’t matter.

“I’m not!” Peter insists, even as he climbs on to the couch next to Feliks, who grasps his shoulder to steady him. “I’m a pirate, an’ pirates are never afraid!”

“Yeah? You must be worried about your ship, like, with all this rain, right? The waves must be huge.” Feliks holds his breath while Peter sits close to him, pulling his legs up on the couch and wrapping his arms around his knees.

“My ship is undestroyable,” he declares. “It’s called—it’s called Storm Dee-mise!”

That one’s Feliks’s fault; he inadvertently taught Peter the word demise just this afternoon as he tried to think of a name for his trampoline ship, and the boy has used it in all the names he’s come up with since then, of which there have been about twenty. He’s got a very vivid imagination.

“An’ it’s got cannons that’re louder than the thunder, an’ the sails—” He cuts himself off at a particularly loud roll of thunder that seems to shake the house and follows the lightning almost immediately. He scoots closer to Feliks, who tentatively holds out his arm at just the right height for the boy to duck underneath it. After a second, he does so, nestling himself against Feliks’s side.

God, if his twenty-year-old self could see him now, Feliks thinks. Or even his thirty-four-year-old self of two years ago, when he’d first been introduced to Berwald through mutual friends, most of whom had been as surprised as Feliks himself when they started dating. Partly because Berwald had children, and Feliks supposes he’s never been known for his great social skills, whether with children or adults, and partly because everyone still remembered that he had been very intimidated by the tall man when they’d first met. And Feliks says strange things when he’s intimidated.

There’s only so much time you can spend awkwardly standing next to each other not knowing what to say while your friends blather on, though. And once they started, it proved difficult to stop.

“Hey, Pete,” he says, softly, and he thinks it’s the first time he’s called the boy that, the first time it’s felt appropriate.

Peter looks up at him from underneath his arm, blue eyes mirroring his father’s. Feliks has no idea where those dark eyebrows he’s currently drawn into a frown have come from, though.

“Are you still scared?” Peter asks manfully.

“A little.” Feliks shakes his hair away again. “Do you think I could come onto the Storm’s Demise?”

“’Course.” He burrows further into his side and the couch cushions at another clap of thunder, following the lightning flashes ever closer now.

“I bet you can’t even, like, hear the thunder belowdecks, right?”

Peter nods against his ribs. Still cautious, Feliks reaches for the mop of blond hair hiding his face, and cards his fingers through it. It’s all sticking up even more than usual. He must have spent some time tossing and turning in bed before this. For a young boy, it’s far too late to be up, especially after all that trampoline excitement. It’s not something Feliks thinks he would have even known a year ago, but he’s concerned about it now.

“Your dad would like to be on the ship too, I bet.”

“Lars can come too,” Peter mumbles through a yawn, and he glances up with half-lidded eyes when Feliks can’t help but chuckle at that.

“Good! That’s good, Pete. You look after your little brother.”

“He’s only five. He’s a baby.” The words are mumbled into his hoodie. Well, Berwald’s hoodie. Maybe Peter finds the fact that it smells like laundry and wood as comforting as Feliks does. “I’m six years old.”

“Yeah, you are. Do you know how many years old I am?”

Peter looks up appraisingly, silent for a long moment save for the rain pounding against the glass like an unwanted stranger. The sound of the shower has stopped, but Feliks couldn’t say how long ago that happened.

“Dad’s forty years old,” Peter eventually says, thoughtful. Berwald is thirty-nine, but it’s almost his birthday, so that’s fair. “You must also be forty.”

Fair enough.

“Almost,” Feliks replies, and Peter smiles proudly, probably glad to have worked out that puzzle, and he still winces when there’s more thunder, but is still smiling when it’s over.

“Uncle Søren is thirty-seven,” he starts recounting, “an’ Ashleigh is six also and Refik is seven an’…”

Feliks tunes him mostly out while he lists the ages of all the neighborhood children, his grandparents—which he’s pretty sure are wrong, because he’s met Berwald’s parents and doesn’t think either of them looked anywhere near a hundred-and-twenty—and then who knows who else. He just ruffles the boy’s hair every once in a while, when there’s more thunder, even though Peter barely seems to notice at this point, caught up as he is.

Not for the first time, Feliks catches himself thinking that Peter has inherited his father’s logical mind, to be so fascinated with numbers, and then, definitely for the first time, he thinks, well, there’s something I can help him with when he’s older, because Feliks likes numbers too. They’re nice and straightforward, don’t change values depending on context. He thinks about helping Peter or Lars with math homework in a house he designed, at a kitchen table Berwald has built, and it’s a bit of a terrifying thought, but not so scary that he refuses to think it. Not so scary that it can’t be a silent hope.

He would have locked it away, not so long ago. The Oxenstiernas are teaching him things in more than one way. Or maybe he’s just finally growing up as he nears forty.

“Feliks?” A heavy hand on his shoulder. Feliks startles out of his daydream. Looks down at Peter, who is silent now, and—oh, he has fallen asleep tucked against him, one hand grasping the hoodie.

Swallowing heavily, Feliks shifts his gaze up, to where Berwald is smiling down at him. His eyes are bright in that way that Feliks has realized by now suggests warmth. It’s easy to mistake it for judgment, or indifference, but he knows now that Berwald cares deeply about many things, his sons above all. You just have to know to look for it.

“Everything okay here?” he’s asking now. He reaches over to where Feliks is still absently stroking Peter’s hair and pushes it out of the boy’s closed eyes. “Pete couldn’t sleep?”

“I convinced him I was the one who was scared of the thunder,” Feliks whispers, briefly wondering if maybe that was the wrong thing to do—because surely, it’s important for Peter to learn that it’s okay to be afraid of things himself—but Berwald smiles, familiar laugh lines forming around his eyes.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, sure, like…” He doesn’t know what to say, so he just looks down at the boy peacefully sleeping against his side. “Of course. He’s… Of course.”

Berwald walks around the couch silently and gazes down at the two of them, seemingly similarly lost for words. He has already changed into his pajamas. Quite unexpectedly, Feliks is out of breath at how quaint this all is, and how much he wants to keep it. He blinks rapidly as Berwald crouches down. The man rests one hand on Feliks’s leg while he gently touches his son’s forehead with the other, callused thumb smoothing away a frown as it appears. Peter doesn’t wake. Berwald looks up at Feliks, who chews on his lip until he reaches up and cups his jaw.

“Okay?” Berwald asks, his voice deeper than the rolling thunder but infinitely more soothing.

In response, Feliks smiles, and untangles his fingers from Peter’s hair, careful not to jostle him, to run both hands through Berwald’s short hair instead until he’s cupping the back of his head and Berwald is leaning up with his leg as leverage to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He smells like shampoo now. Feliks smiles, ruffling his hair this time.

“Alright,” Berwald mumbles, pushing himself to his feet, dropping a kiss on top of Feliks’s head as he goes, “let’s get him back to bed. ‘S too late to be up.”

Nodding, Feliks shifts so Berwald can gather his son into those strong arms of his. He could probably pick Feliks up with the same ease, but it’s never come up. Peter sniffles and curls into his father’s broad chest, but doesn’t wake even as thunder rolls again.

As Berwald moves towards the stairs, Feliks decides to follow, turning off the lights in the living room and carefully closing the door so it doesn’t rattle in the wind that will inevitably creep in. While Berwald tucks his son back into bed, Feliks brushes his teeth, changes into his pajamas, and uses the bathroom, and they meet again on the landing in front of Berwald’s bedroom, where Feliks smiles softly and starts to whisper something about Peter, when Berwald leans over and kisses him, grasping his face with those big hands.

Feliks hooks his fingers into the man’s old T-shirt, smiling into the closemouthed kisses pressed against his lips.

“Thank you,” Berwald mutters, again.

“It’s nothing.”

“’S not, Feliks.” His gaze is intense in the low light coming from his bedroom, blue eyes nearly transparent behind his glasses. “You know it’s not.”

Of course it’s not, but…

Not sure what to say, Feliks just presses his face into Berwald’s warm neck, standing on his tiptoes, breathing in his clean scent and listening to his steady heartbeat. The man rests his chin on top of his head, folding him into his arms. It feels secure, in a way that few things have done in Feliks’s life, and he think he might understand how Peter felt, safe from the thunderstorm. He isn’t the boy’s father and will never be, but maybe, maybe, Feliks could mean something similar to him.

Thunder rolls. Feliks swallows.

“You’re doing great,” Berwald says softly.

He wants to muffle words into the man’s neck, wants to tell him he loves him, and may very well love his sons too, but Feliks can’t bring himself to say it quite yet. It’s a truth he didn’t think he’d ever get to say, so it can wait a while longer. Just a while.

It won’t be long.

A small noise, down the hall. They both look at the wide blue eyes underneath a mop of ginger hair, peering around the bedroom door with Lars painted on it in a child’s clumsy hand, the s backwards.

“Dad?”

Berwald kisses Feliks’s forehead and trails his fingers down his arm as he walks over to his youngest son. Feliks smiles, and wanders after him.

#aphrarepairweek2020 #svepol #Hetalia #aph poland #aph sweden #aph sealand #fin #w: 2500 #u: human #I was gonna go with a different name for sweden #but i think for now i'll only do that when he's a background #character #maybe #is this named after the only vienna teng song i know?#maybe.#u: rpw

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bleepbloopbee · 7 years

Text

achievement hunter fic rec

thanks to @miss-ingno i’ve created a big ole fic list of fics i’ve loved since joining the ah community a few years ago! It’s a mix of mulitchaptered fics and oneshots.

Freewood:

Flight Cancelled - RJ_Hastings

More Than Just a Crew Member - Nattiebug (warning - rape/noncon)

So Break Your Back and Take a Chance - transvav

Take You Home - amongtheives

Jerevin:

Forces Like Gravity - xspiritofthemapleleaf

The King of this Hologram - wreckingball

Mavin:

Hunting Free - BloodstainedBlonde

He Loves You, He Loves You Not - Redlipped (warning - torture)

Bend the Rules - heytheregisela

Everything Can Change - creeper_gavin (warning - major character injury)

Micheoff:

Ten Steps to Planning a Successful Wedding (and How to Ignore Every Single One of Them) - anarchetypal

The Aftermath - mightbeanasshole

Michael had a Little Ram - MissGillette

AHot6:

Song of the Sea - Hoodedscarlet

Trust - whalehuntingboyfriends

Gravity - coolasdicks

Innamoramento - ignite

The Loverboy Diet - gala_apples

This Was Definitely A Bad Idea. - tinypeckers

The Great Sealand Takeover - whalehuntingboyfriends

Long Live The Mad King - purplelly

Ramwood:

dadwood AU - tinypi, vulpesvortex

flowerless - MissChevalier

diary of a service werewolf - edgarpattillo

Risingwood:

Reporters and a Black Skull Mask - GeoffsEightGreatestMistakes

there are worse muses - vype

Code Forty-Three (Breathe With Me) - montes-carpatus (warning - kidnapping)

Hey, the Librarian is Cute - HotelJulietCharlie

Jerevinwood:

Mistaken Identity - gaywoods, Manickmondays

Jeremwood:

Baked - jackiestolz

Turnfreewood:

A Tangled Web - MagicMeg

Geovinwood:

Getting Comfy Is What I Live For - tinypi

Miles Luna / Jon Risinger:

the general specific - starlight_sugar

this wild life - starlight_sugar

Miles Luna / Kyle Taylor:

your heart in mine - starlight_sugar

#fic rec #achievement hunter fic rec #long post #ragehappy

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emilskrivertrivia · 7 years

Text

Trivia XXVII: Sealand

eller

Världens minsta land vs Tyskland, 1-0

Sealand är enligt dess furste, kung Michael I of Sealand, världens minsta land. Hans rike består av en liten konstgjord plattform utanför den engelska kusten. Trots sin pyttestorlek och sin marginella relevans har Sealand lyckats dra till sig en hel del uppmärksamhet genom åren. Men låt oss börja i början.

Under andra världskriget anlade Storbritannien ett gäng små plattformar några kilometer ut till havs, för att från dem tidigt kunna bekämpa inkommande flygattacker. Den plattform som skulle komma att bli Sealand heter, enligt britterna, HM Roughs Tower, och anlades 1943. Under kriget hade den ständig bemanning, men efter kriget blev den genast ganska irrelevant. Från och med mitten på 50-talet fanns det inte längre heltidspersonal på plattformen.

Tio år därefter togs plattformen i besittning av två britter som ville sända piratradio från internationellt vatten. Två år senare, på julafton 1966, ockuperades dock plattformen istället av Roy Bates, som hade för avsikt att sända sin piratradiokanal Radio Essex därifrån. Trots att han hade utrustningen började han aldrig sända radio, men utropade plattformen som det självständiga landet Furstendömet Sealand (Principality of Sealand).

Året därpå skulle ett par brittiska arbetare utföra underhåll på en navigationsboj i närheten av Sealand. Bates, numera kung över sitt furstendöme, ansåg att dessa utan vidare hade tagit sig in på hans suveräna territorialvatten, och avfyrade därför varningsskott mot dem. Det hela ledde till att Bates, som brittisk medborgare, kallades till domstol anklagad för vapenbrott, men eftersom Sealand låg utanför vad som då var brittiskt territorialvatten fann domstolen inte att den kunde gå vidare med fallet och lade ned det.

År 1975, tjugo år efter att britterna övergivit plattformen och sju år efter att Bates utropat den som självständig såg Bates till att skriva en konstitution för landet, designa en flagga, skriva en nationalsång, introducera ny valuta (Sealand Dollar) och börja utfärda pass.

Tre år senare hände det som skulle bli det mest dramatiska i Sealands historia, när man vann ett krig (såsom Sealand ser det). En tysk man vid namn Alexander Achenbach hyrde några nederländska och tyska legosoldater med målet att ta över Sealand medan Bates och hans fru befann sig i England. De stormade plattformen från vattnet med motorbåtar och vattenskotrar samt med helikopter från ovan, och tog Bates son Michael (kronprins Michael) till fånga. Med de vapen som fanns förvarade på plattformen lyckades Michael dock vända på steken, och tog Achenbach och hans sällskap till fånga istället. En rätt kass kupp alltså.

Eftersom Achenbach hade ett Sealand-pass anklagades han av kungafamiljen för förräderi, och med sitt sällskap hölls han mot lösen på 75 000 västtyska D-mark. (Vilket jag fått till motsvarande ca 350 000 kr i dag.) Regeringarna i Tyskland, Nederländerna och Österrike (av någon anledning) bad regeringen i Storbritannien att lösa situationen gällande de fångna. Storbritannien hänvisade dock till 1968 års domstolsbeslut gällande Sealand, och lade ner med hänvisning till att det ligger utanför landets territorium. Sealand tog detta som ett erkännande av dess suveränitet. Följaktligen skickade Tyskland därför en diplomat från ambassaden i London till Sealand, och efter några veckors förhandling släpptes fångarna. Att Sealand på detta vis faktiskt förhandlat med en främmande makt tog Kung Roy I som ännu ett erkännande.

Efter hemkomsten till Tyskland grundade Achenbach och en av de andra, Gernot Pütz, en exilregering som kallar sig Sealands Rebellregering (Sealand Rebel Government). Achenbachs efterträdare, Johannes Seiger, hävdar än i dag att det är han som är Sealands rättmätiga härskare.

Frånsett “kriget” med Tyskland har andra länders förhållande till Sealand präglats av likgiltighet. Från Sealands sida har man dock fortsatt hävda sin självständighet och levt på att sälja pass. År 1997 fanns det ca 150 000 pass i omlopp, varpå kung Roy I beslutade att dra in alla tidigare utfärdade pass och börja om på nytt. Sealand fick också visst svenskt nyhetsvärde när The Pirate Bay år 2007 undersökte möjligheterna att köpa plattformen och basera sina servrar där.

År 2012, vid 91 års ålder, avled kung Roy I av Sealand och efterträddes av sin son som då blev kung Michael I av Sealand. År 2016 avled också änkedrottningen Joan av Sealand.

Ni som läst min trivia om torskkrigen kanske minns att Storbritannien utökade sitt territorialvatten under denna tid. När det utökades år 1987 från tre till tolv sjömil hamnade Sealand plötsligt på brittiskt territorium. Givet att konstgjorda öar och byggnader till havs inte får räknas som öar enligt FN:s havsrättskonvention, ställde detta till problem för Sealand. Britterna har dock fortsatt vara till synes ointresserade av frågan.

Enligt kungafamiljen själva är Sealand dock fortsatt ett självständigt furstendöme, där kungamakten går i arv inom familjen. Sealand är en konstitutionell monarki, och konstitutionen finns att läsa online för den som är intresserad. Än i dag hävdar kung Michael I att han styr Sealand, och dess tronföljare är hans son kronprins James av Sealand.

#emilskrivertrivia

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bluerayvioletflame · 4 years

Video

youtube

THE SEALAND ISLAND SKULL

In 2007, on an island off the coast of Denmark, a strange skull with large eye sockets was discovered by workers digging a sewer pipe. The skull, 1.5x larger than that of Earth Humans, had large canine teeth and is estimated to by 800 years old. It has become known as The Sealand Island Skull. Using standard artistic forensic reconstruction methods, artist Su Walker has done a step by step recreation of what the individual may have looked like.

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unexplainedmysteriesx-blog · 6 years

Video

Does The Sealand Skull Prove Aliens Visited Earth

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bates--boy · 4 years

Text

[Splitting into 2 parts because why there is no read more feature in the app, I will never know.]

He kept the bandages off this time. They were useless, anyway; one minute they were clean, the next they were soaked through the gauze and tape, sticky and soggy and thoroughly disgusting because -- and Peter knew this -- the souls didn’t let his injuries heal. For all the skulls and heat and chanting he could ever use, it was Peter who was the biggest, most important component of the beacon, and it was his blood that kept the channel between the planes whole. He should have realized that the first moment he broke his skin with his teeth, driven to primal self-destruction when initial contact with the other plane was made.

It was why this time, he left the other two human skulls in the closet and simply lit a match, holding it under one of his palms until a drop of blood fell from the torn web between his thumb and index finger, and into the flame.

He felt himself collapse in the living plane, but here, Peter rose high, his face hardened and upturned. It seemed he had made it just in time for the feeding, as a ghostly ringing had spread throughout the space closest to the Black Hole and there was the gentlest tug on his body as the ugly entity began to swallow.

In their desperation and urgent need to escape, the souls closest to him, ones who have not resigned themselves to their fate, latched onto him like many had did before -- the beacon! The one to take them away, the one who can bring them back to the realm of the living! Their second chance!

Peter tethered them to his existence, sensing their relief and joy in the back of his head. He was a little sad that this part of the plan came too easily.

He reached away from the growing mass of sentient energy hanging onto him, combing through the space with his fingers until he found what he needed and drew it out. Peter didn't know what to expect when he found it (he almost expected to not find it at all, and having to resort to a new plan or go straight back to trying to claw into the Void's core and hope he succeeds the second time) but the thing settled into his palm, with his fingers closed around it, felt like Nothing. As if a tiny dot of existence was carved away and left this speck of emptiness.

The antiparticle.

Enough of the souls had merged themselves to him, many of them becoming impatient in their wait, and frightened that the Black Hole's consumption grew hungrier, yet they were still there. Holding the antiparticle tight and jealously, Peter tightened his connection to his crowd of escapees and

(For Marion, some part of his mind not infected with a thirst for blood and exhaustion and, honestly, a whole lot of grandeur spoke softly. He lost that unpleasant conversation--

Do you think it will fix how I died?! IT WON'T!!

"...You don't want to come back."

I love you, baby blue. Go home.

-- in a white, fuzzy haze until it was no more.)

fell up.

Too late, the souls realized that Peter had no intention of returning to the living plane, and try as they might to wrench themselves free of Peter's grasp, they were soon pulled into the Black Hole, trapped as soon as they all breached the corona. Peter ground his teeth against the stretching of his atoms, feeling his eardrums burst against the wailing of the souls and the sucking of the imploded and hungry star.

The mass of souls, with Peter as its core, fazed into the surface.

He remembered how he had frozen in the nonsubstance of the Black Hole from when he first flung himself into it, so he knew that he had to act quickly before he was trapped and couldn't moved at all. He pushed the souls away from his body and into the surface, willing them to feel his sorrow at what he had to do-- it's the trolley dilemma all over again. And still, they weren't enough; this big ball of crushing density must eat millions of metric tons of stars in one space- dilated hour in the living realm, and right then, millions more of souls failed to escape the event horizon, thus making the Black Hole swell even more than its usual girth. So, Peter reached into himself, hoping that yet another quantum physics theory will prove true, and pulled.

And, as always, Peter screamed.

He was splitting into halves, then quarters, feeling himself becoming fractals, becoming a point where realities crack like the surface of a weak and impure diamond and reflect nothing but grotesqueness and impossibility of his angry multiversal self. His will reached into the burning cold hole that is himself, searching and grasping, and his screams, his howls of agony that seeped through the cracks of other realities (and the Sealands and Peter Kirklands -- ones who survived the great floodings, became whole great nations, or settled into a quiet contentedness of being a small and unassuming speck in the North Sea; or ones bouncing their grandchild on their knees despite the joint pain and swelling, or doing pre-calc homework at the dinner table or just being born-- whipped their heads toward the skies or in the empty space in front of them, collectively wondering what the hell was that?!) morphed into a laugh, another sound the Black Hole drank in with ease. This, of Peter's entire life, this is when he felt the most in control, ripping himself apart to find--

He finally pulled it free, with a great huff and gulping relief he can feel his physical body doing. The Higgs boson. His very own God Particle.

Peter had no time to admire the barest make-up of himself, though he wished he could commit it to memory and share what it is and what it looked and felt like to physicists in the decades to come. Instead, he pushed it into the Black Hole.

The corona flickered, and the wild spinning and sucking slowed, and Peter snapped back into his normal shape, almost losing himself into the awe of watching the Black Hole shut down. It was one thing to read about it in a science journal, it was another to cause it by his own hand, to rip the power away from it until it was, at the moment, just a globe of light-eating shadow.

And why not keep the luck going? Peter reached his other hand back, vaguely hearing someone call out Peter?! What are you doing?! STOP!

And, in the silence of the Black Hole that was currently knocked out, Peter's voice rang loud and true:

"Fuck you!"

And he forced the antiparticle into the Black Hole's surface.

Peter didn't get farther into the articles about Black Hole deaths than his much-needed confirmation black holes can die, so he didn't learn that as black holes evaporate into nonexistence, they burst with radiation so powerful that whole galaxies can be destroyed with the brush of a gamma ray. Even more, he didn't parse that the bursts of energy would not only be the particles of consumed stars and light, but the imprisoned and eroded souls. As arbitrary as which souls get to be born again and which will be trapped in a black hole for the rest of the universe's time, this shrinking black hole's rays tilted away from the solar system that Earth inhabited, and sliced through asteroid belts and the rings of moons of a planet not yet born.

Then, it was nothing. When the great pulsating light stopped blinding Peter, he saw absence in the Black Hole's wake, an eerie yet beautiful coldness that soothed Peter's aching presence like a dip in an ice bath. He started to drift. They all did, with no Black Hole to hold them in place with its gravity.

He closes his eyes for a moment's calm, but felt a tug and popped his eyes back open again. Another one, dancing its way over to fill the vacancy of its fallen sibling. "Son of a bitch," Peter grumbled as it started to pull everyone close to it. His curse came out with less fury and irritation, though, because he knew that it wasn't just going to be just the one point of infinite density, he just didn't think it would come so soon, the goddamn vulture.

He swung his body until he straightened, reaching out for another antiparticle, reaching in for another God Particle. Already, the cluster of souls pressed themselves into Peter, surprising him-- did they not see what he did to the last batch of the hopeless escapees? But he wasn't complaining, not when they made his job easier.

He curled his lip at the new Black Hole; one down, tens of millions to go in this universe--

You need to stop, a gentle and familiar voice echoed in his ear.

And then they dragged him.

#droid noodles ( writing )#rage against the singularity saga #;;- ... huh. [eats my hat]#long post #sci fi

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