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[tail-of-peter-blog]

C-C-C-Combo Breaker OOC

Guys! 

I need help. 

I gotta smut a blowjob and I'm just like an explosion of awkward when writing smut. Doesn't help that I know the girl has a kid and is married so every time I try to write my brain is going "dude, woah, she's married, think of the children." And I freak out. Now she's pressuring me. I'M BEING PRESSURED FOR SMUT! THIS NEVER HAPPENS! WHAT IS GOING ON?! 

So now we return to your scheduled program of fwb, 

This is Ben signing off.

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It was as simple as that? Just go up an talk to Greta? Peter took a deep breath, mind racing with ways it could go wrong. He could say the wrong word. The wrong way. In the wrong order. He could just do everything wrong. Odds are, he would do everything wrong. He was Peter Pettigrew, it was a guarantee. At least he could try. So many people told him that ‘it was the thought that counted’, maybe it was true. He’d never tested it out. He never had to test it out. A part of him wanted to test it out. Poking his fingers through the holes of his sleeve, Peter shifted his weight from foot to foot. He was seriously thinking about this? About talking to Greta. About trying to be happy. About changing? Would he change for her? Could he change for her? Lifting his fingers to his lip, Peter recalled the feelings. Not the shame or the guilt. But the happiness, the bliss that came right after the kiss. She did that. She gave him that. That moment. Did he make her feel like that? Was he able to do that to her? If he could make her happy for a moment, would he be able to make her happy for more then a moment? What if he could? What if he could be that man? There were too many what ifs. Too many things that could happen. Maybe he could test them out. Maybe he could be that man. Maybe he could do that for Greta. He wanted to smile. She made him want to smile. That was enough of a reason. Looking up at Mary, the corners of his mouth twitched. “Thank you.” Peter reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze as he maneuvered around her. With a wave, he ran up the stairs towards the boy’s common room. Now he had something to think, to plan. But he really could use a nap first.

Couch Combat // Mary & Peter

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Every moment of silence sent more panic through his system, eventually flooding his mind with one urge. Run. But his body refused to move. He just stood there, stunned, with his eyes wide and his breath coming in short, quiet gasps. Frozen, not daring to disrupt anything around him in fear of sending it spiraling into chaos. He didn't know how to react to nothing. He felt his center start to quiver, mind begging for something, anything to happen. Something to react to. Something to run from. 

Then Mary spoke, and the tense taught of his muscles faded as her anger washed over him. He could deal with anger. He could react to it. Anger was familiar. Not that it didn't stop the sickening twist of his gut or the tendril of regret from seeping in. Hanging his head, Peter began mulling over her words, analyzing the meaning and implications of every statement. 

Of course he would keep running. It was what he was good at. What he knew how to do. Running was familiar, safe, reliable. It kept him out of as much trouble as it could. It kept him alive. When he did get hurt, it was because he didn't run fast enough. All he knew was running. There was no way he could do different. It was unnatural. Alien.

"All I can do is run." saying it more for himself then her. Peter's teeth began gnawing on his bottom lip, breaking open the chapped skin. He tasted bits of rusty blood on the tip of his tongue, but kept biting. 

"How?" Looking up, Peter realized that he never felt more vulnerable then making eye contact with someone. But she needed to see the confusion, the fear. Even if he couldn't say it out loud, admit it to himself. In a way, she was finding out more about him by looking him in the eye. Words didn't mean anything to him. "I don't know how to be that man." 

Couch Combat // Mary & Peter

Her incessant shrilling in his ear was grating on his nerves. Anger swelled from his chest and seeped into his bones, simmering just under his skin. It wasn’t Mary’s fault. It was his. He knew that. That didn’t make the reminders any easier to swallow. He needed this though. Feeling someone else’s anger usually drove him to action. Then she was yelling at him again. His muscles tensed and he felt his organs aching to shift, compact, and he’d be on his way. Stopping himself was more difficult then normal. Finding no other option, he snapped.

  “I can’t talk to her! Everytime I see her in the hallway or the Great Hall, I’m filled with guilt. Shame. Regret. She’s better off with me out of her life. I’m better off alone. Then I won’t get these … feelings. This pain. I hurt when I’m around her. I just keep remembering. Being happy. And it hurts.” Taking a moment to breath, Peter became frantic. No longer fueled by anger, he kept rambling until he sizzled out, “She’s worth more then me. I don’t deserve her. She deserves a man that can protect her. One who doesn’t run away. One that makes her happy. I can’t do that. I can barely protect myself. I can’t make myself happy. How could I make her? I want to talk to her. But it hurts. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I … I’m scared.” Everything felt still. Peter had never said that much to anyone in his entire life. He froze. Terrified about the consequences of showing his true colours.

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Her incessant shrilling in his ear was grating on his nerves. Anger swelled from his chest and seeped into his bones, simmering just under his skin. It wasn’t Mary’s fault. It was his. He knew that. That didn’t make the reminders any easier to swallow. He needed this though. Feeling someone else’s anger usually drove him to action. Then she was yelling at him again. His muscles tensed and he felt his organs aching to shift, compact, and he’d be on his way. Stopping himself was more difficult then normal. Finding no other option, he snapped. “I can’t talk to her! Everytime I see her in the hallway or the Great Hall, I’m filled with guilt. Shame. Regret. She’s better off with me out of her life. I’m better off alone. Then I won’t get these … feelings. This pain. I hurt when I’m around her. I just keep remembering. Being happy. And it hurts.” Taking a moment to breath, Peter became frantic. No longer fueled by anger, he kept rambling until he sizzled out, “She’s worth more then me. I don’t deserve her. She deserves a man that can protect her. One who doesn’t run away. One that makes her happy. I can’t do that. I can barely protect myself. I can’t make myself happy. How could I make her? I want to talk to her. But it hurts. I can’t think. I can’t speak. I … I’m scared.” Everything felt still. Peter had never said that much to anyone in his entire life. He froze. Terrified about the consequences of showing his true colours.

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Patience was wearing thing, then again it was never that thick to begin with. Of course he was running. That’s what he did. That’s what he always will do. Running is the only thing that made and figment of sense at the moment. Running was familiar, safe, emotionless, natural, understandable. The tingles and electric shocks and the jabs inside his stomach were benign, unsettling, scary. Peter didn’t know how to deal with scary. He knew how to deal with running. “What are you talking about?” James would never run from his problems, that was just like a bird meowing. Sirius only ran as padfoot, usually after a stick. And Remus; had he ever seen Remus run? That was the very moment Peter realised that he would never understand women. Maybe someone mistook Regulus for Sirius again. That seemed like the only possible solution. “What do you want from me? I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. If I did, it would’ve already been done.” It hurt again. Everything hurt. The jabs were back. The ache in his chest. The trouble breathing. The tightness in his throat. Dammit. Greta wasn’t even in the room. “Can I go now?”

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“Well, can you really blame me?” Peter’s eyes trailed the floating linens, distracted by the bustling magical activity. He picked up where Sirius left off, not as fantastically of course. The side he completed was sagging a bit, shoddy if you will. At least it was completed and they could actually enjoy it, and maybe take it down in the process. Wiggling his brow, Peter flicked his head towards the fort before diving in. There was no way he was being the troll in the first round. He could barely manage to reach the top of Sirius’ head, he had to jump, taking down the boy would be damn near impossible.

Sirius rolled off the bed, landing on the floor with a thump and taking the duvet with him. Disentangling himself slightly, he jumped up, wearing the thick cover like some kind of snug cloak. Pointing at Peter accusingly, he drew his own wand and waved it, cushions flying over his head. One smacked him in the face but he waved it off and it floated over to James’ bed. “I knew you were only using me for my body!” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as if Peter had just caught him in the act of changing. He slung the duvet from his shoulders and draped it over the back of a chair, shuffling it over and magicking it to float up and make one of the walls of their fort. Cushions and pillows settled around it, making up part of another wall and the floor, and Sirius flung Remus’ duvet over the low cushions, enchanting it to hover as a roof. Damn, it already looked cosy. Sirius left a small opening between the duvets, sort of like a curtain door, and decided to let Peter put the rest up. He kicked back against the pillows and tucked his hands behind his head. It wasn’t a huge fort, but it was sill better than the piddly, unstable things they’d made in their first to fourth years

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“That’s none of your business.” Peter snapped while returning the glare. Could a man not mentally beat himself up in peace? Everyone he turned to offered advice, their take on things, their opinion. The only one who hadn’t was Sirius, but it seemed like he was a bit preoccupied with his own problems. It was frustrating. He didn’t need anyone’s opinions, or take, or advice, he needed a solution. Preferable one that involved being on good terms with Greta, not getting yelled at by Mary bloody MacDonald. Standing up, Peter tried to get past her but the little imp was blocking the way. His nostrils flared as he continued to find her presence irritating. He needed to get out of here before something bad happened. Something very bad. Like having to explain himself, or enduring a lecture, or an argument. Flooding the Slytherin Common Room was looking really good right now, at least he wouldn’t be hurting anyone important.

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Peter Pettigrew after a Marauder dare, 1976

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Not many people got to see this side of him, usually Pads or Prongs were the ones making everyone laugh, but it felt good to crack a joke now and again. Peter had to stop before his back got stuck that way, and as nice as his bum was, he didn’t like it sticking out, “He makes it hard not to though. Wiggling it about all the time.” Whipping his torso around, his spine let out a good pop before he sat down. Not that he would ever admit it, but sometimes he did think about James' bum, wondering if it had any mystical qualities. “I’ve got a theory. If you take James’ bum and Sirius’ bum and put em together, you get the Philosophers Stone.”

Doe laughed loudly, extinguishing the butt of her cig and propping herself up on her elbows. Normally James and Sirius were the joksters, but it seemed like Peter could hold his own pretty well. Doe liked that in a friend - the ability to know when a topic was stale. The ability to know when someone was done with a certain thought, and to change it around. He was an alright guy, that Peter Pettigrew. “Peter, you look ridiculous! Does he really do that?” she asked, making sure to mentally file it away so that she could bring it up sometime just to make fun of the poor bloke. “Wait, of course he does. If that’s how he walks, the he’d also be doing it just to make people stare at his arse. Blimey, does he get fixated on that thing. He’s convinced it’s the best arse in all of the world and that we all just spend our spare time thinking about it.”

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Peter shrugged, “It sounded like something James would say after stealing Sirius’ pipe.” Sitting up, he wrinkled his nose while scratching his head, “It’s kinda annoying actually. Pretends he’s this bloke, Shelly Lock or something. Walks all funny too.” Figuring it was a good time for a laugh, Peter stood up. Making his back as flat as a washboard required him to stick out his bum a little and purse his lips. It was a rather spot in impression. He waddled around Doe, pretending to twirl a moustache and adjust a spectacle, “Elementary my dear Wasty.”

Doe’s brow fell, causing a crease to form. That was out of the blue. She’d been lamenting about matters of attraction and so-called love. Where had that wise “be a teenager” shite come from? Was he reading her mind? 

“Well, yeah… I never actually said anything about not being a teenager, Petey. Why? Is that what’s eating you? Trying to be older beyond your years? Did you have to grow up too fast?”

Doe could think she was mature all she wanted. But she hated it when someone got self-righteous with her. She hated it when they treated her like a child. Maybe she acted like one from time to time, but odds were, she always knew the right thing to do. The responsible thing to do. She just liked to ignore it.

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Peter rolled his eyes slightly as Sirius attempted to explain the nose rule, "I like my way better." 

Crawling off Sirius' lap, while being careful to avoid any tender bits, he reached under his pillow and pulled out his wand. Muggle forts were great and all, but there was a reason castles were still around and it wasn't because they were made of stone. Magic was just better then blood, sweat, and elbow grease. Where ever Muggles bought that stuff, it needed to be returned, it sounded like it would smell anyway.

"I knew we were friends for a reason. Other then your good looks." 

Sirius brightened up, wrinkling his nose at the touch. He felt a small laugh bubble out of him as he raised his eyebrows.

“It’ll make us both feel better,” he corrected, batting Peter’s hand away. “And you’re meant to put your finger on your own nose.” Sirius demonstrated, grinning. He felt like a five year old again, and not in the annoying way, but in the way he felt such a pure, childish delight in this game and hanging out with Peter. Thoughtfully, and finger still attached to his nose, Sirius grinned.

“We should built a fort.”

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Peter lifted his gaze and probably did something that got a lot of men slapped. He stared at Doe, intently. Analyzing every minute muscle movement and change in tone, he attempted to figure out what she wanted to hear. There was a reason he flew under the radar, for the most part. 

"You're allowed to be a teenager." Returning his focus back to the ground, he continued to doodle, "In fact, it's recommended." There wasn't really more he could say. The odds of him putting his figurative foot in his figurative mouth were extremely high. and he was pretty sure his figurative foot would taste bad. 

Doe smiled a little sadly. Boy, she was a real downer these days. She really needed to just forget it all and move on already. She needed to get over herself. But what was one more conversation? One more day of moping? She could always pretend that nothing was wrong tomorrow. For now, she could just talk about this utter bullshit with someone who may just put up with it. After all ...

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"Wh-" Then it dawned on him. Matter of the heart, the fruit tarts, Mary sitting down and pestering him. She knew. There was no way these were all just coincidences. Peter's guard reflexively rose and his shoulders tenses slightly. His flight instincts were kicking in and he would've listened to them if this roundabout manipulation wasn't so tedious.

"You already know the answer to that." Tone wise, it wasn't the best choice. But he really didn't give a damn about suppressing himself at the moment. Sure, Mary could hex him to oblivion before he even drew out his wand. Sure, being mean to Greta's friend wasn't going to help him at all. Sure, he was being a moron. But Peter never admitted that he was smart in the first place. 

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A young Peter Pettigrew learning to dive.

“Okay, now just push off and dive into the water. It’s simple.”

“If I die, tell Remus to keep his hands off my chocolate.”

“Will do, Pete.”

Taken by James Potter, 1974.

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Peter waved off the offer of food. The last thing he needed was a fruit tart. A reminder. Not that everything couldn’t be considered a reminder. Everything, from the colour of the fire to Sirius’ boxers found a way to remind him. It was probably his mind just twisting things. He knew it was his mind twisting things to punish him. “I know you’re trying to figure me out.” Everyone was these days. It was unsettling. “But I really don’t want to talk about it.” Peter was frazzled. Lack of sleep, nutrition, and sanity tended to do that. His fingers ran through his hair, reminding him to be calm. Right now wasn’t the time to be snippy. Right now, he wanted to mope and be with his friends. Do something stupid and teenager that didn’t involve getting hurt, like flooding the Slytherin Common Room.

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Peter nodded, at least Doe wasn’t trying to blackmail him. Then again, that would require him to be worthy of blackmail. Which is why he worked on being the ‘boring’ marauder so much. People left charmed Valentines chocolates for James and Sirius, but not Peter. And that how it was supposed to be. And that’s how he liked it. Talk of the war always made him feel uncomfortable. It reminded him that these stone walls can’t protect him forever. There was a open, dangerous world out there, and right now it was in turmoil. “I try not to think about it.” Propping himself up on an elbow, Peter began doodling a dragon in the dust patch. It was a pretty badass dragon, “But you shouldn’t worry about that. Guys are falling over themselves for you.” Most people thought that he was talking out of his bum when he said bold statements like that. He wished he was sometimes. The things you hear while navigating through the walls of Hogwarts.

Doe nodded at his very brief explanation of the talk. She didn’t really want any details. She was sure that James and Sirius would never call her names (unless, maybe, they were angry with her, which was rare. Normally she was angry at them. But it’d happened from time to time all the same), but she still didn’t want to know what people were thinking of her. Ignorance was bliss. She could have laughed at the way Peter quite literally fell over at her question. Twitchy boy, that Peter. Always good for a laugh. She was a little sad that they didn’t spend more time together. Clearly that would have to change. “Yeah, me too…” she admitted. Despite what may have happened that summer, it had never escalated. Why had she asked? “No reason… just a curious Ravenclaw.” She was silent for a moment as she took a short drag. Doe removed the fag from her mouth and stared at it. Something so simple, but so deadly. At least, to the muggles at any rate. It was so small… “With this whole war business, and people dying left and right it seems… you ever worry that you’re gonna die like that? Never knowing about what it’s like to be loved? Never having that physical expresion of a gag-worthy emotion?”